Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  “I am not acting as a fool,” he muttered.

  “You are.” I stared at him. His face was turned from mine. I took his chin and gently turned him to me. “Do you not see, Robin?” I said. “There is a darkness within me, at times so deep I think I will never find my way from it. There are many stars of court, but stars cannot banish darkness, for they are part of the night. They hold the weight of darkness at bay, but they cannot vanquish it. You are no star, my Eyes, you are the sun. When you shine, impenetrable darkness is made but scattered shadow. When you turn your face on me, I can see, and I know I am no longer alone. There is no other who has that power, that strength.” I stared at him, my soul naked before his eyes.

  “What is this darkness?” His expression had softened.

  “That of loneliness.”

  “How could you be lonely?” he asked. “Surrounded by adoring people, with men dancing at your heel… You laugh and are merry each day, even in the face of danger.”

  “Those who seem the merriest are often the best at hiding their woes,” I said. “For we know the day we surrender to the darkness within, is the day we die.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Windsor Castle

  Summer 1571

  As we prepared for progress, Mary Grey was supposed to be shifting house as well. Gresham had been delighted to hear that his requests had finally borne fruit, but was sharply disappointed a short while later when I sent word that Mary was to stay where she was.

  This came about because a new twist in the Ridolfi scheme was unmasked. Lord Cobham had opened letters arriving at England’s docks as part of his role as Warden of the Cinque Ports. They were from Ridolfi to Phillip, and outlined a part of the plot we had not heard of from our supposed agent.

  I was to be captured whilst on progress.

  Perhaps we should have seen it coming. On progress I stayed at many houses, usually less well-defended than my palaces. Sometimes I had fewer guards, and rode out with only a few favourites. I was therefore more vulnerable. Walsingham warned about this some time ago, I thought. It was unsettling how sagacious he could be.

  Cobham had held reservations about sending on the letters. His brother had told him to keep them quiet, knowing they would spell Norfolk’s undoing, for the Duke’s name was all over them. But Cobham understood that no matter how this would affect Norfolk, this information could not be kept quiet. Upon receiving them, Cecil instructed Cobham not to tell anyone else of their existence. Spirit was still gathering evidence to incriminate Norfolk and Mary.

  I wanted Mary Grey kept where she was to reduce options for the plotters. My Grey cousin, however unlikely as a successor, could become a figurehead if plotting rebels failed to gain control of Mary of Scots.

  When I thought about their plan to capture me, I became incensed. That my enemies would use my royal progress, the only time I was granted to enjoy myself, against me, seemed almost more personal than the plot to take my throne. I exploded at Fenelon when he suggested I should keep my cousin of Scots in better living, and lectured him on the many ills Mary had inflicted upon me. I went on, perhaps unwisely, to shout long and harsh about Norfolk. At the climax of my lecture, the whole palace could hear me.

  “I am sorry, Cecil,” I said later. “I lost my temper.”

  “You did, Majesty,” he replied. “But it makes no matter. We are so close now that this will not harm our cause. Hawkins and FitzWilliam are poised to lay the plot bare.”

  John Hawkins and George FitzWilliam were supposedly working for Spain, passing on plans of ships’ routes and my personal movements too. They had told Philip they would assemble English ships to join Alba’s, but the King of Spain had been deceived.

  They, like Ridolfi, were double agents. Whilst pretending to work for Phillip, they had gathered information on Spanish plans and fleets for Cecil. FitzWilliam should have been a curious turncoat in any case, seeing as he was related to Cecil and Robin, and Hawkins was virulently against Spain.

  “The question remains, Cecil, as to whether Ridolfi is your agent or that of our enemies.”

  “He forewarned us of the plot, and sent the cipher to Walsingham.”

  “Yet failed to inform us of the most important part of the plan,” I reminded him. “Ridolfi already knew we understood he was involved. Perhaps all of this was done to play us along, until the time came to strike.”

  The question of precisely which side Ridolfi was on remained, but at least we were prepared. Cecil wanted to cancel progress, but I refused.

  “Do that, and all your hard work comes undone,” I said. “Norfolk cannot know the extent of our knowledge. If we cancel progress, he and others may flee. I will not suffer traitors abroad, working ill. They must face justice.”

  “We have put you in enough danger,” said my old friend.

  My heart tore. There were many times I wanted to shake Cecil, or throw books at him, but many more were the times I knew myself fortunate to have him. He was worried, not only because England would fall if I did, but because I was his friend. He did not want to lose me.

  “A little more peril will have to be risked if we are to capture these men.” I smiled. “Let us make another gesture. Send word to Norfolk. I will stay at his house in Saffron Walden in August.”

  Cecil looked so appalled that I snorted with amusement. “Come, Spirit,” I said. “Do you not desire one last chance to rummage through Norfolk’s belongings before we send him to the Tower?”

  The expression of horror on my friend’s face was replaced by a grin.

  *

  “I will not hear you, Spirit,” I said in an airy voice.

  A desperate Cecil was attempting to persuade me to allow Anjou to hear Mass when we married, but I would not budge. Fortunately, neither would my reluctant suitor. Slowly, everyone began to realise marriage was not about to happen.

  Some were slower than others. Catherine de Medici refused to abandon her ambitions, and sent a new ambassador, Paul de Foix, to try to make me see sense on religion. He failed.

  We set out for progress, riding out of London and into a land of fields, forests and farms, spread out like a patchwork blanket made by a careful widow. In the distance, if one could stretch one’s ears past the noise of the grand snake of court wending its way through England, the sound of men chopping wood could be heard, echoing from the patchy forests. The weather was clement and sweet. Larks sung in the skies and swifts flung themselves through the air, catching insects. We passed farms where geese pecked at cleavers, and passed fields where red poppies lined the field boundaries, flanking wafting, shimmering, golden wheat.

  Despite the fears in my heart, there was a lightness there too. It was a strange time. I was half excited and half terrified. There is energy in fear, a restless, boundless spirit which claims control of one’s actions. Everything was coming to a head.

  As promised, we stopped at Norfolk’s house. Audley End was a pretty place in the midst of Essex, and Norfolk greeted us with singing choirs and processions of dancers. But his unease was plain to see.

  Cecil was delighted to sense his fear, even more so because the Ridolfi plot was dying a death. Without Alba, and with growing understanding there would be less support than previously thought from English Catholics, the plot was floundering upon the rocks of my shores. But we had taken sensible precautions.

  Apparently as part of her summer schedule, Mary of Scots had been sent to Sheffield Castle. I had actually sent her there as it was a defensible position, and Shrewsbury had been forewarned to keep a close eye on her and her people. Since she had stayed there before, I thought it would not arouse suspicion, and I was right. Had I sent her to Coventry, as Cecil suggested, alarm bells might have pealed.

  We did not want anyone getting wind of what we were up to, not yet. With that in mind, I went out hunting with Norfolk and insisted his household come too. As we rode through the countryside, chasing deer and hare, Cecil’s men carefully ransacked Norfolk’s chambers.

  �
�Did you find much?” I asked.

  “More ciphered letters. I have sent copies to London.”

  After five days with Norfolk, we departed Audley End, and on that last day he swore allegiance to me again. He petitioned me not to believe anything ill I heard of him. “I am your man, Your Majesty,” he said.

  I wish I could believe you, cousin, I thought as he walked away.

  *

  Two days after we left Essex, a courier officially reported Ridolfi for sending letters in cipher as well as money to Mary’s supporters in Scotland. Thomas Browne, a draper of Shrewsbury, had been granted the commission by two of Norfolk’s servants, but had become suspicious, and opened the purse to find the mighty sum of six hundred pounds inside, along with letters in code. Knowing Norfolk was under suspicion, he sent hasty word to Cecil that something of great magnitude was about to erupt, and we should act against Norfolk.

  This was unplanned, but provided the impetus for Cecil to put the last of his preparations in motion. It became more valuable still, as it allowed us to appear as though we had uncovered the plot by accident, and therefore did not have to risk revealing Ridolfi. That meant we could use him again in the future.

  And Cecil had a great deal to use. Charles Bailly, still in the Tower, was providing information, and Cecil had money and ciphered letters from Norfolk to Mary, as well as all the evidence collected by Ridolfi, Hawkins, FitzWilliam and a dozen other agents on the Continent. Although we had nothing firm to use against Mary, we had all we needed to arrest Norfolk.

  The snare was loaded. It was time.

  Chapter Fifty

  Theobalds

  Autumn 1571

  “I do so admire your house, Spirit,” I said as we wandered in his gardens at Theobalds. “Although I still think my chambers too small.”

  Cecil smiled, for he knew I was partially teasing him. The rooms at Theobalds were small, but it was a beautiful spot. Just a bare twenty miles from London, it had once been a mere manor house, but Cecil was transforming it. He had plans to restore and renovate, build two more wings, and make the gardens even more beautiful with sprawling orchards, glittering ponds and ornate water features. He was also building a hot house, where he could grow exotic plants, and was importing seeds. Cecil wanted groves of lemon and orange trees on his land, as well as pomegranate.

  I often visited Theobalds. It was like another home, and perhaps it was fitting I came that year, for it was a time I felt I needed something secure.

  There is something deeply horrifying in finding so many willing to work against one. For many years, although there had been tests and trials, I had thought of my people as loyal. With Ridolfi’s plot tumbling to an ungainly end, and the conspirators fast realising they were in great danger, I needed a home to go to, some stability to cling to. Cecil granted me this. Theobalds was a boon to my battered heart. It made me feel safe, caught in the bonds of friendship, so I could not be alone.

  But if conspirators were fast realising they were in danger, they did not realise swiftly enough. This was what Cecil had intended, so he was vastly pleased with himself. Forewarned had indeed proved forearmed. Were it not for Walsingham and Cecil, I might be without a kingdom.

  Cecil had received news about the ciphered letters found in Norfolk’s house. With Ridolfi’s code in hand, they were easy to break and it became swiftly clear that many more letters had gone from Norfolk to Mary than we had thought. Not only had Norfolk been plotting with my royal cousin, but he had also sent her advice on how to handle me. The letters were less than flattering. They called me vain and capricious, and implied I was fickle.

  By now, it was clear that the plot would have never have succeeded anyway. All these secret agents working for Spain, Mary, and Norfolk, were not astoundingly secretive. Everyone in Europe seemed to know of it. One of Phillip’s councillors had leaked the plot to a merchant, who, as it transpired, was one of Walsingham’s agents. The Caliph of Tuscany had sent word of warning, and Dee’s friends had sent more.

  Contemplating this phenomenal lack of secrecy, I had to question something. Was Phillip truly so blind, or had he sent his man to Walsingham’s on purpose? Was he trying to dismantle his own plot? Alba had refused to send men, and Phillip must have known Mary remained a risk. I wondered if he had decided to sabotage his scheme before it had a chance to blossom, thus possibly saving Mary for use in the future.

  But Phillip had also continued to play the game. Mary had sent a request to suggest marriage between her son and one of Phillip’s daughters. It was Mary’s right as a queen and mother to make arrangements for her son, and I had not interfered, primarily because I knew it would go nowhere. The Scots were always more comfortable with France as their ally and were unlikely to support Mary’s plan. Phillip had been enthused, and responded warmly. It was clear to me that my good brother of Spain was as happy as I to dip his toes into different streams of schemes, checking each so he might know which was likely to be better for him to bathe in.

  “You have the warrant ready?” I asked Cecil as we turned to stand under a glorious oak in his pleasure park. The plot was falling apart.

  It was time to arrest Norfolk.

  “It is ready, Majesty, as are the men to arrest Norfolk and the letter for Shrewsbury.”

  “Make sure Shrewsbury’s letter gets there quickly. I want no one taking control of Mary. The list of conspirators could be longer than we know.”

  Cecil took me a little too seriously. The letter to Shrewsbury was marked “haste, post haste, haste, haste, for life, life, life,” making it perhaps the most urgent document ever penned.

  In the first days of September, Norfolk was arrested. When my men came for him, he had obviously received word of their arrival, as smoking in his fire was a code book. My men could salvage nothing of it, but it mattered not, since we already had a copy. Perhaps understanding he was in mortal danger and would need my mercy, the Duke did not attempt escape, but went quietly to the Tower. The day after his arrest, Cecil sent men to search his houses, and the letters we had found during progress were officially discovered along with others hidden under roof tiles at Norfolk’s Charterhouse in London.

  Norfolk’s servants, along with the Bishop of Ross and his household, were arrested. Lords implicated in the plot were placed under house arrest and questioned. Mary was interrogated, and responded by weeping, saying she had done nothing to warrant such treatment.

  “When will you be ready to form charges?” I asked Cecil.

  “Soon, Majesty. We must get Norfolk’s men to talk. They may grant us what we need against the Queen of Scots.” He smiled. “At least, with Norfolk in prison and Mary in fright of her life, you may rest easy again, madam.”

  I turned my face away. Rest easy? Perhaps in terms of my personal safety, but I was worried for my soul. When Norfolk’s men talked, as they eventually would, I would have a choice before me. It was not one I welcomed.

  *

  A great deal of ill came for my many cousins that autumn.

  Mary was busy denying ever having contacted Norfolk, but a fresh discovery showed this to be an outright lie. Cecil’s urgent letter to Shrewsbury brought about searches of the property, and Mary’s secret message channel was unmasked. Shrewsbury pounced on the letters and sent copies to Cecil. Not wanting everyone to know we already had Ridolfi’s cipher, Cecil thanked Shrewsbury and said the letters were still in the process of being decoded, but we had already read them.

  “There is still nothing certain here,” I said. Mary’s caution was admirable, if irritating. She had not named me, and had kept her intentions vague.

  “But she did lie about writing to Norfolk.”

  “That is not enough, Cecil.”

  Shrewsbury cut Mary’s household to a bare ten persons. The Queen of Scots was only permitted to walk on the roof, or in the enclosed courtyard, and Bess or Shrewsbury were with her continuously. Mary complained she was in danger of ill health due to a lack of fresh air, and descended into melancholy,
but she would not admit culpability. Bess informed me that my royal cousin’s only comfort was her few remaining servants, and those of Bess. Three of Bess’ pages were a particular delight of Mary’s; Anthony Barlow, Thomas Morgan and the ten-year-old Anthony Babington.

  There was a time, much later, when I came to know that second Anthony only too well.

  I wrote to Shrewsbury, commanding him to ignore Mary’s complaints. My cousin deserved some punishment.

  But if one cousin deserved ill treatment, others did not. Two pieces of inauspicious news came as Norfolk entered the Tower. The first concerned Mary Grey. Her husband, Thomas Keys, had died.

  “What did he die of?” I asked Cecil.

  I was grieved. Although I could not allow Mary Grey to be with her husband, I knew she had loved him. She had never ceased to sign herself Mary Keys, and had been hoping that some day I would relent.

  Cecil looked uncomfortable. “It is likely, madam, that due to his long imprisonment in the Fleet, his health was compromised.”