by G Lawrence
Transposing letters was no new invention. The Old Testament held obvious uses of ciphers, and the writings of Julius Caesar demonstrated many variations. Caesar would replace a letter with another which lay three spaces further down in the alphabet. This was known as the Caesar cipher, and had been used by Mary of Scots.
Ciphers were cracked by regarding the frequency of certain letters. In English, e is the most commonly used letter, followed by t and a. Cecil’s men could easily break fairly simple ciphers by studying the frequency of the letters. If n was the most common, it was being used in place of e. If the second most common was y, it was being used in place of t. Once e was found, h could follow swiftly, as h is often followed by e, but only rarely stands after it.
Slightly more complex was the next step; vowels and consonants. If a ciphered symbol appeared before and after most of the other symbols, this should indicate that symbol was a vowel. Consonants follow a different pattern, avoiding many of the other letters. Then one would have to work out which vowels they represented. Double letters helped here. If e had already been uncovered, then a different ciphered letter, say k, if repeated, was likely to represent o.
Letters that stood alone were quite easy to recognise as either I or a. Again, frequency was used to determine which was which. To confound unwanted readers, writers sometimes left no gap between words, but more often they did, bound as slaves to the order of language. They also sometimes deliberately misspelled words, but Cecil’s men could deal quite easily with a little confusion.
Once o was established, b could be found. B appears before o many times, but rarely after it. Q is fairly easy to find, too. As a rarely used letter, its frequency would not be great, and it is always followed by u. Finding a symbol in the ciphered text which was rare, and always followed by the same symbol would suggest this was q followed by u.
What one comes to learn is that language and letters have established relationships; regarding how sociable letters are reveals their identity.
After a few letters were found, the process of stripping away the cipher could progress rapidly. Partially identified words could be at least supposed. Guesswork could take over at this stage, but it was sometimes safer to continue working the message out. If the cryptographer wrote up the ciphered alphabet alongside the normal alphabet, the cipher could be cracked open. It might be a simple transposition of letters, or it could be a keyword, or phrase, used as the basis of the cipher key.
This is not to say that all ciphers were easy or simple. Some were entirely unfathomable.
A good cipher breaker had to be fluent in all commonly-used languages and familiar enough with them to note deliberate spelling mistakes, as well as ‘nulls’, characters inserted on purpose to confound an enemy attempting to break the code. Unsurprisingly, such men were hard to find, and when they were, they were taken into Cecil’s employment swiftly, held like the most precious jewels.
Codes, on the other hand, were symbols used in place either of letters of the alphabet, or whole words. Creating a whole new alphabet or new symbols for words is hard to remember, and therein lay the weakness of codes.
Codes required a code book to be written, detailing the symbols used for each letter or word. This posed a risk. Code books were often large and unwieldy, making them obvious and hard to hide. Codes were practically unbreakable if the key was unknown, but if the code book was found, they were as easy to read as a normal letter. The worst of it was, the two exchanging secret missives might well remain unaware that their code book had been found, and would continue writing, revealing all to their enemies. If they did become aware, a new code would have to be devised, set into a code book, and sent out. If this happened to someone like me, the code book would have to be shipped to every foreign ambassador in the courts of the world, offering plenty of opportunities for theft to occur. If a cipher key was found, however, it was fairly simple for a new one to be swiftly devised, then sent by word of mouth to anyone who needed it.
Advantages and disadvantages to both, there were, but I thought we had chosen correctly in this instance. Only two copies of the code book I gave to Robin existed, the other being in Cecil’s hands. I felt we were safe from discovery.
“And if there is danger?” Robin asked, taking the book and tucking it into his doublet.
“You will inform us, and we will deal with it,” I said. “Norfolk will come to understand who is master in this kingdom.”
When they left me, I went to my window, thinking of Catherine.
Snow was falling; a blanket of white layering upon frozen ground. I thought of a time at Hatfield, when we were young. Denied the chance to play in the snow, we had gone to the long gallery, whooping and laughing as we raced each other, two little girls, two lots of hair lit with Tudor fire.
“You will never catch me!” I had crowed to my cousin. “I am far ahead of you!”
But now Catherine had gone ahead.
“One day we will play again,” I whispered to the ghostly reflection in the window. “One day we will laugh together.”
I stared into the misted window. Snow fell in the darkness; tiny, prancing specks of white; burning silver against velvet black. It was as though the stars had taken leave of the immortal heavens and had come to dance in memory of Catherine’s soul.
I watched, feeling my sorrows, like the snowflakes, falling and mounting, covering the world, covering my heart.
“I am alone, without you,” I whispered.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hampton Court
Winter 1569
At the end of January, Mary reached Tutbury in Staffordshire. It had taken her party ten days to reach the castle. The roads were muddy, wet, steep and frequently impassable, so alternative routes had to be nervously undertaken. Tutbury was in the heart of England, far enough from the borders to make Mary escaping into Scotland unlikely, and also far enough from the Catholic north to allow Cecil to take a little slumber.
Shrewsbury escorted her. He was unpaid, for he was a wealthy man, and could afford to keep her, but he was permitted to claim expenses twice a year. I had also granted Mary a personal allowance, which I resented. Moray should have offered, I thought irritably. She is his prisoner in truth, I am merely holding her.
Shrewsbury was Protestant, but held Catholic sympathies and was not rigid in his faith. He had drifted easily in the wind of religion from my sister’s reign to mine, converting to whichever faith held sway to preserve his life, just as I had. I was certain of his loyalty, and knew he was grateful I had not followed the harsher path my Council wanted me to tread on religion, but his Catholic sympathies would make him more acceptable to Mary, and might allow her to trust him, possibly revealing if she was up to anything untoward.
Shrewsbury had been warned, not only by me but my Council, about watching Mary. Bess, too, had been publicly cautioned, but I had sent her secret instructions, too, and she followed them diligently. She had selected a woman to serve Mary, so we might have a spy in her household.
Tutbury was Shrewsbury’s castle, owned by lease from the Duchy of Lancaster. It had a problem with drainage, which I had ordered fixed, and in addition to the comforts Bess had stripped from Sheffield Castle, I had sent bedding, cloth and material for gowns. Despite all of these careful preparations, however, within a week of arriving, Mary was sick with inflamed joints.
I sent doctors armed with expensive frankincense and dittany of Crete, cedar to purify the castle, and juniper for her joints and digestive problems, but I was also faintly suspicious. Illness, as I knew from the perilous adventures of my youth, could be used to mask darker designs. My cousin was equally suspicious, but for other reasons. Mary complained of pains in her side, and would only take medicine made by her own man, fearing poison. After two weeks of taking the pills this apothecary prescribed, Mary swooned and had to be brought to her senses with whisky. Two permanent doctors were sent swiftly, and they told me they thought her ailments honest. She suffered from pains in the he
ad and belly, they reported, which brought about swelling in her legs, and digestive problems. It was also likely, they said, that some of her suffering was due to the emotional anguish she was enduring, which made me immediately think that they, like everyone else in the world, had fallen for the Queen of Scots.
What is her magic? I asked myself. What was this power Mary had? But she is a Tudor, in blood if not in name, I reminded myself. My father, like the glaring sun, had dazzled. My sister, too, had possessed some measure of that charm. Even my brother, a young, poor, pale stick of a boy, had managed to bewitch people. Robin told me I did the same. Whatever this magic was, it was strong in the Tudor line.
Mary took to declaring that I was the only one who could cure her, meaning of course that to be set at liberty would do so. This was one remedy I was not willing to brew.
In addition to physical problems, Mary had many complaints about Tutbury. The garden, she declared, was a vegetable patch, only fit for pigs, and the house stank. It was true Tutbury had a problem with its drains. Servants had to empty them each week, and Mary complained this brought such a stench to her nose that she could find no rest. Would you prefer that I or the Scots had taken your head, cousin? I thought. Then you would smell nothing at all…
She wrote, with my permission, to the French ambassador, telling him she was housed in a sorry walled enclosure on top of a hill, exposed to all the elements. She said the plaster was crumbling and the walls were cracked. The sun did not shine on Tutbury, she moaned, and “the greater part of it is rather like a dungeon for base and abject criminals, than the habitation fit for a person of my quality.” She went on to say that her women were also ill, “scarcely one has escaped without fluxation, cold or some disorder,” she wrote.
Tutbury was not quite that vile, but Mary was disposed to make it sound as though I were a cruel, callous keeper. It was to her benefit to do so.
She also complained about her allowance. Forty-five shillings a week would not buy all the food she needed, she wailed, and did not allow for her to keep her stables in good order.
“She should be grateful I allow her to ride at all!” I exclaimed to Hatton. “I could revoke the privilege, and none would think me unwise or unkind for doing so!”
Indeed, many of my men thought me moon-mad for allowing her to ride in the first place. There was always the possibility one of Mary’s Catholic supporters would take the opportunity to free her, but I would not allow her to grow sicker from lack of beneficial exercise. My morning walks and daily rides were my greatest sources of comfort. I remembered what it was to be trapped inside a castle. Woodstock, when I was housed there as my sister’s prisoner, had been a cage to me, and I would not have inflicted that upon my cousin… however tempting it was.
Despite her complaints, Mary was not badly kept. It would have been an affront to the dignity of the throne to do so. In addition to her sumptuous furniture and cloth, she had two main rooms, which she quickly arranged into a privy chamber and an audience chamber, maintaining the myth she was still a queen. Mary was allowed to embroider, read, ride and hunt, as well as gamble and hear Catholic Mass. She sat with Bess often, and seemed to enjoy her company. Bess had been instructed to get close to Mary, assure her that if she were ever in danger, Bess would help her, and Mary was soon writing to me to declare “had I been her own Queen, she could not do more for me,” which told me Bess had done well.
Although Bess had been commanded to get close to Mary, I understood there was a possibility she might fall for the Queen, or, more reasonably, might understand that if anything happened to me, there was a distinct possibility Mary would be called to my throne. With this in mind, Bess and Shrewsbury were hardly likely to risk offending Mary. There was also the ever-present danger that Bess and her husband, in light of this knowledge, might offer to do services for Mary unbeknownst to me. With that dangerous possibility in mind, Cecil had secretly placed two men in the lower ranks of the Shrewsburys’ household. It does not do for a queen to trust implicitly.
One of the privileges Shrewsbury allowed, that I became nervous of, was that Mary was allowed to wander freely about the castle. Shrewsbury wrote, asking for an increase in Mary’s allowance, and I ignored his request, but complained about this instead. Shrewsbury protested that the only way he could keep Mary in her room was to lock the door, and then she would indeed be a prisoner. He said Mary was well-guarded, and so were his walls, but preventing her from walking through the castle would only make her sicker and more resentful. With chagrin, I allowed this, and when he asked if they might move soon to Wingfield Manor, another of his houses and one where the air was better, I agreed.
But if I complained about Mary’s wanderings, I allowed much that was to her comfort without question. Mary ate in state at her table, was served two courses, the same as me, at dinner and supper, and each course was of sixteen dishes accompanied by wine, bread, sallats, cheese and fruit. She washed her hands in scented water, borne in a silver bowl, and was allowed to appoint her own pantry and kitchen staff. Her ladies had nine dishes per meal, and her secretaries eight. Thread, pins and cloth were provided for embroidery, her favourite pastime, and books were sent to her. She was permitted to write to her family in France, as well as to ambassadors and me, and she did so… with alarming frequency.
Mary bombarded me with letters, all bemoaning her lot, and criticising me. At one stage I lost my temper. “In your letter I note a heap of confused, troubled thoughts, earnestly and curiously uttered to express your great fear and to require of me comfort. That if I had not consideration that the same did proceed from a troubled mind, I might rather take occasion to be offended with you than to relent to your passions.”
I told her I was the principal cause of her life being spared, and she should be content with her lot and my protection.
She seemed to think that the reason I would not see her was due to her many charms. “Alas! Do not as the serpent that stops his hearing, for I am no enchanter, but your sister and natural cousin,” she wrote.
I wondered, at times, if I was afraid to meet her in case I fell for her too. I was glad to have the excuse I could not see her whilst her part in Darnley’s death was unknown. At least that gave me a reason not to test the theory she could bewitch anyone.
Mary set out to charm her captors. She presented embroidery to Bess, and a shirt to Shrewsbury. Mary was talented at needlework and her gifts, although she excused them as poor things, given that she had so little to call her own, were beautiful. These were the first of many she offered the Shrewsburys, and she sent presents to me, hoping to lull me into thinking her a good-natured, docile prisoner. Mary made good use of her gifts. She sent me sweet treats, candied nuts, sweetmeats and preserved fruits, knowing my taste for such fare. To those close to her she presented personal items, like Shrewsbury’s shirt, knowing intimate gifts often bring one into confidence with another.
Mary also continued to protest that I had no right to keep her like a common criminal. Poor chit! Did she think castles and tapestry, carpets and generous allowances were how the common man was housed when he entered gaol? Hers were the complaints of a pampered princess, and I ignored them.
Bess wrote that she thought the Queen not quite the helpless victim she liked to play, and said that Mary spoke of regaining her throne, and the joy that would come when she held her son again. That hit me hard. The Scots would not permit Mary to write to her son, and I told her not to attempt it. If there was ever to be a chance of reconciling her to her people, we had to play Moray’s game. Mary, naturally, thought the command came only from me, not understanding, even after the trial, that Moray was never going to allow her near her son again.
There was just cause to keep Mary prisoner, but knowing I was keeping a mother from her child was hard to bear. It made me think of my mother, of the last day we had spent together, beside a pond. I remembered her holding me up to the window where my father stood glowering, as though I were a shield that might fend off the dar
k storms coming for her. In vain did I attempt not to think this way about Mary. I tried to see her as a political prisoner rather than a mother stolen from her only child.
It also brought me closer to young James, my godson. Unlike me, he had no father left living to protect him. I understood his situation only too well. He was being raised by his mother’s enemies, and they would not hesitate to defame her in his eyes. Oftentimes, when I was growing up, people had done the same to me, using my mother as a weapon to harm, or to control me.
I hoped James would take comfort, as I had, in loyal and kind people. I hoped he had a Kat, a Parry, a Cecil… people he could turn to when darkness fell.
As our letters continued their dance of diplomacy and deceit, ten Spanish ships on their way to the Netherlands were blown into the Plymouth Sound. One of my captains sailed out, and informed them that due to Phillip’s embargo and my orders of retaliation, they would have to submit to arrest. When he had them, my captain revealed had been issued letters of marque by the Prince de Conde, which meant he could legally capture their ships and goods. My Vice-Admiral seized half the ships for Conde and the other half for me. Conde’s share was sent to La Rochelle, mine was dispatched to London.
