To Kill A Queen

by Valerie Wilding

  “He is brave indeed,” laughed Richard, and we sat together by the window for a while, watching snowflakes fall and listening to the others chatting. When Joseph went to refill their jug, Tichborne turned to Sir Anthony and murmured, “Shall we see Ballard tonight?”

  Sir Anthony hushed him, and they talked of other things. But I felt Richard sit up slightly.

  Later

  Richard spoke quietly to Father this evening (not quietly enough for Kitty Lumsden!) and said he’d heard Ballard’s name mentioned. “He’s the priest from France, isn’t he? The one who plots with the Spanish?” asked Richard. “He must be in England.”

  “He is in London, in disguise, but is being watched,” said Father. “By the way, the lady has asked the ambassador in France to send all the letters he holds for her! She trusts the brewer’s delivery service completely!”

  I was sitting, writing, with my back to them, but Richard must have glanced at me, because Father said, “Don’t worry. Kitty’s absorbed in her diary or some such.”

  Kitty was absorbed in writing down all she heard! I have copied it into my diary, and must make my knots very secure.

  28th February 1586

  Father has broken his arm and his foot! It’s all my fault and I have not stopped sobbing since. He only went away yesterday, and I had no idea he would be back home today. I rounded the corner by the stable and came upon him, just as he dismounted. I shrieked in delight, and the horse took fright. Father still had one foot in the stirrup, and his other foot went from beneath him. He fell heavily, and I swear I heard the arm crack.

  He’s now in bed asleep, after drinking some horrible potion that Uncle William brought. In the morning, I will tell him how truly sorry I am.

  1st March 1586

  Father swears the accident was not my fault. I’ve vowed to be at his side constantly, and to do anything he asks of me. Today I read the Bible to him.

  2nd March 1586

  I offered to read to Father again, but he does not want to wear me out. All he needed was his pillow fluffed up. I shall make pottage for him today with my own hands, if the cook will let me.

  Later

  My pottage is on the fire, smelling delicious. The cook gave me some bones, and I’ve put all the vegetables I could find into it. Father will enjoy it.

  3rd March 1586

  Father said my pottage was very tasty, and asked for more. Harry said he was just being polite.

  4th March 1586

  Father asked me to write a letter for him today, telling someone I’ve never heard of that he’s indisposed. He managed to sign his name with his poor arm. My handwriting is neat and well-formed, he says, and he has promised more work for me.

  12th March 1586

  Today Father asked me to write in reply to a letter from Sir Francis Walsingham. His words seemed very mysterious (at first) and, after he’d signed it, he asked me to add, “Dictated to Catherine Lumsden by the above named”. Then, when Ann had taken the letter downstairs, Father asked me to take Sir Francis’s own letter and lock it in his chest in the library.

  I could not resist glancing at the letter. Well, actually, I read it but, to be fair, no one said I could not. I learned that Mary Stuart writes her letters in code, and that Master Phelippes found it extremely easy to break her cipher. He got hold of 21 letters sent to her from France and copied them. Now they are being forwarded to her in the next beer barrel. Imagine how excited she’ll be to receive them.

  I almost feel sorry for the lady. She happily sends letters off in a beer barrel. They are read and copied before being sent onwards. Any replies are treated in the same way, then put into the barrel and sent to Mary.

  Sir Francis Walsingham knows everything she is thinking. And he also knows a great deal of what her supporters think.

  2nd May 1586

  Yesterday was a perfect May Day. We took a boat to the fair near Westminster. The river was busier than ever, and it was difficult to find somewhere to moor. We had quite a walk to Tothill Fields. Lucy took charge of Beeba and George, Harry stayed with Father, and I walked with Mother.

  Every stall was decorated with garlands of flowers. There was much to buy, and games to play, like bowling to win a pig. A tall pink-and-green maypole stood in the middle, waiting for the dancers.

  We were wandering round when, from the far side of the green, we heard great cheers! Father crouched down so George could climb on his shoulders.

  “Who can you see?” Father asked.

  “Gentlemen and ladies,” said George.

  “Is that all?” Father asked.

  “Gentlemen bowing,” he said. “Bowing to a lady.”

  Someone cried, “’Tis the Queen!” I didn’t believe it, but suddenly the people in front of us parted and made way for a group of handsomely dressed ladies and gentlemen, who walked slowly towards us. And there, in the middle – I could not mistake her, for she glittered and shone in the sunshine – was Queen Elizabeth herself! She nodded and smiled to either side, but she didn’t stop.

  As she passed us, she caught sight of Father. “Good morrow, Sir Nicholas,” she said. “Are you enjoying the celebrations?”

  He bowed deeply. “I am, Your Majesty, I thank you,” he replied, and she moved on. I stared at her (with my mouth open, as Harry told me later) and completely forgot to curtsy. Mother said it didn’t matter, as Her Majesty would not notice.

  “She didn’t notice you, either, Madam,” I said.

  Mother smiled. “She remembers me every year on our birthday. Come, the dancers are beginning.”

  Father said the Queen gave a May Ball at Whitehall in the evening. I expect she wanted some fresh air before she got ready.

  On the way home I said, “The Queen is brave to walk among the people. Suppose someone wanted to kill her? Nothing would be easier.”

  Father nodded towards the boatmen, and whispered to me to hold my tongue. “The Queen is guarded constantly,” he said. “There were expert swordsmen about her today, who would die protecting her. She is safe.”

  From what Edmund says, that’s not true. The Tower’s full of people who believe otherwise.

  I think the Queen very grand. Her dress sparkled with silver thread and pearls, and her leather shoes were embroidered in gold. But she is not beautiful. In truth, she is old. I worked out that she is 52, which is a great age.

  14th May 1586

  I left a note (in cipher) for Edmund today, asking him to come when he was free. Just after midday, he slipped through the back gate.

  “I got your message,” he said. “I cannot stay long. . .” He saw my expression. “What is it?”

  “Someone else got the message, too,” I said. “Unless she followed you.”

  He turned and groaned. Kathryn! “She could not have followed me,” he said. “I’ve just come from Eastcheap.”

  “Where’s my note?” I asked.

  “At home,” he said. “But she could not read it. It’s in code.”

  This happens time and again. How does she do it?

  Mother called from the house, “Good day Kathryn. Come and advise me where to hang my new picture.” From her nose, would be my suggestion.

  Edmund couldn’t stay, but I wasn’t alone for long. There was a commotion as Joseph arrived with a whole group of acquaintances, including, of course, Sir Anthony. I tidied myself, and went to see if there was anything they wanted, but they’d already sent for wine. It was a moment before I realized that Kathryn was close behind me.

  Joseph asked teasingly, “What have you been doing, Kitty? Writing your diary?”

  “No,” I said. “Talking to Edmund.”

  Sir Anthony smiled. “What do you write in your diary, Kitty?”

  Anything of interest that anyone says, I thought. Including you. Aloud, I said, “Just things that make up my day.”

  “Come, tell me,” h
e said. “What does pretty Kitty do? What will you write today?”

  “Let me see,” I replied. “I’ll write about the new stitch I’m learning . . . and how I taught a song to Beeba . . . and played ball with Pawpaw . . . and about Mother’s new songbird. . .”

  There, I thought! That’s the sort of thing “pretty Kitty” might write. I didn’t mention quarrelling with Harry, or the trouble I had persuading (or bullying) Sal to mend the new dress I tore exploring a broken-down building in the Tower yesterday.

  Kathryn began to simper. “My own diary, Sir Anthony,” she said, “might interest you. I have a full and interesting life.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you do.”

  Ha! If she keeps a diary, it’s probably full of things like, “I told tales about Kitty” or “My embroidery is far better than anything Kitty will ever do” (which is true). I went to sit in my favourite corner by the window. Kathryn joined me, and sat so Sir Anthony would see her profile. She has a turned-up nose that she thinks is pretty. I think it’s like that of a piglet.

  The men droned on. I think most of them are Sir Anthony’s friends. Poor Joseph was not much in their conversation. They are too quick and witty.

  After a while, Kathryn announced, “I must go home now.”

  The men rose.

  “It is not far,” she said.

  I know she hoped Sir Anthony would escort her, but Joseph offered instead. I expect she was furious.

  I stayed where I was, snuggled in behind a wall-hanging, cuddling Pawpaw and gazing through the window. I drifted into a dream where I was walking beside a high wall, when I heard a voice cry, “Will no one help me?” I climbed over the wall (ripping my bodice as I did so) and, when I leapt lightly down, I found a prince bound to a tree. I knew he was a prince because he had a crown on. I was struggling to free him before his evil captor appeared, when I heard someone say, “Ballard”.

  “We’ve all been visited by Ballard,” murmured Robert Barnwell. “Babington, you must be our leader.”

  “Why are you so troubled?” asked Thomas Salisbury. “In four months it will all be over. Ballard promised. He’s in touch with our country’s friends abroad – and is trusted by them.”

  “Sh!” said Sir Anthony. “This is not the time.”

  They went quiet, and I guessed he was pointing at the bulge in the curtain that was me. But then Joseph came in. “Where’s Kitty?” he asked. “There you are. Mother wants you in your bedchamber.” That meant she wanted to scold me for the mess it’s in.

  I said goodbye to Joseph’s so-called friends. I don’t know what they were discussing, but it was something Catholic, that’s for sure. They mentioned the priest, Ballard.

  I’m frightened. I fear they are persuading Joseph to become a Catholic. Why else would they come here so often?

  Later

  I asked Joseph what he thinks of Roman Catholics. “I do not think of them at all,” he said. “If you speak of my friends, I enjoy their company, and they enjoy mine. They break no laws.”

  18th May 1586

  Kathryn did it again! Edmund left me a message in our special cipher, telling me when and where to meet. Minutes after I arrived with Pawpaw, there she was! I had to find out how she knew where we would be.

  “Kathryn, you keep coming upon us by accident.”

  “’Tis not by accident,” she said.

  “It must be,” I said. “No one can have such knowledge – unless she is a witch! You do not want to be tried as a witch, do you?”

  That scared her. “I know nothing of witchcraft,” she said.

  “Then how do you know where we meet?” demanded Edmund.

  She smirked. “I deciphered your silly code.”

  I did not believe her, and said so.

  “Kitty, my dear,” she said, as if I were three and she were 33, “your very first message was addressed to Edmund and signed ‘Kitty’. That gave me nine letters without any effort. You see, the letter ‘x’ was substituted for ‘k’, and—”

  How stupid we have been! Of course she might guess those words.

  “—as soon as I had those, I recognized the words ‘Minories’, ‘afternoon’ and ‘the’, which gave me five more letters.” She laughed. “That was over half the alphabet already. The rest was a simple matter.”

  Edmund and I had nothing to say. But as we followed her home, our eyes burned holes in her bodice.

  10th June 1586

  Joseph looked downcast when he brought Harry home from school this evening.

  “What is it, brother?” I asked.

  He would say nothing at first, but gradually I drew it from him. He is being ignored again by Sir Anthony and his friends.

  “I do not understand,” he said. “I’m never invited to join them these days, or dine with them. They happily accept my hospitality – indeed I sometimes feel they treat this house as a meeting place, a change from taverns and rented rooms.” He put his arm round me. “The worst thing is that Babington has arranged to have a portrait painted of himself with all his friends – and I am not included.”

  What could I say? Poor simple, trusting Joseph.

  16th June 1586

  I am fearful for Joseph. Today I asked him to take me riding. We talked – my pony side-by-side with his horse – of how hard he finds his studies. He doesn’t want to be a lawyer, but would like perhaps to help Father in his work.

  Dear Joseph, not only does he not have the sharp mind that’s needed for whatever Father does, but he also has no natural suspicion of others. He thinks everyone is good and that only circumstances make them do bad things.

  Eventually I brought up the subject of Sir Anthony, the Catholics and the Queen.

  “I am afraid, Joseph,” I said. “Something bad is happening. I fear they are involved.”

  He was silent, and in that moment, a dreadful thought struck me.

  “Joseph!” I cried. “Please tell me you are not involved. Please tell me you’re not planning to harm the Queen. Please. . .”

  He reined in his horse and stared at me with a dreadful look on his face. “Kitty, how can you even think such a thing?”

  I burst into tears. He dismounted and lifted me down. We sat on a stile and I poured out my fears. Joseph is unable to believe ill of his friends, so I said, “If they are innocent, there can be no harm in telling Father, can there?”

  But Joseph made me swear not to. “You say that Sir Francis knows all that’s going on?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knows about this Ballard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” said Joseph, “Sir Francis has everything well in hand. So swear you will say nothing.”

  “I will say nothing if you promise not to see Sir Anthony again.”

  “I will make no attempt to see him, Kitty. I promise.”

  Slowly, we rode home.

  27th June 1586

  Sir Francis called to see Father today, on his way home from Greenwich, and I have felt sick ever since. I was supposed to be keeping Beeba and George quiet while Mother visits the Middletons, but I told a maid to do it instead. She protested that she was supposed to be scraping old rushes off the kitchen floor, and picking herbs to mix with new ones. “They stink,” she said. “Mrs Sal will kill me if I don’t do it.”

  “I’ll pick the herbs,” I said. “Now go.” I slipped into the little parlour and wedged a stool against the door, so no one would catch me eavesdropping.

  I learned that Mary Stuart is very unwell. She is 43 now, and often sickly. What surprised me – no, what shocked me – was to hear Sir Anthony’s name.

  “Babington contacted Robert Poley who, as you know, Nick, has served me for some while,” said Sir Francis. “He tends to encourage Catholics as acquaintances, so he can discover what they are up to. Babington asked Poley to arrange a licence for him and his
friend Salisbury to travel abroad.”

  I was relieved. If Anthony Babington wants to go abroad, he cannot, I thought, be planning trouble here. But my heart fluttered when Father spoke.

  “It’s likely he wishes to stir up the lady’s supporters abroad, and to have an escape route in case his plans go wrong.”

  “He shall not,” said Sir Francis firmly. “I saw Babington myself today, and refused the licence. The man was nervous, and did not take my refusal well. He will be back.”

  “And is there news from the Continent?”

  “There is. Gifford has been to Paris – on my orders – and he reports that the French will not invade unless Her Majesty is dead, and only if the rescue of Mary Stuart is absolutely certain. But the Spanish are less cautious. Gifford believes they could invade before the end of September and attempt to put the devil woman on the throne.”

  “And if Babington goes ahead with his plan to have John Savage kill the Queen,” said Father thoughtfully, “and to ride to Mary’s rescue himself. . .”

  Sir Francis laughed. “He will not, Nick. We watch him as a hawk watches a shrew. We know his every move. And we read every scrap of correspondence that goes in and out of Chartley.”

  I crept back upstairs. They know his every move. That means they know he is friendly – was friendly – with Joseph. My one thought was to tell my brother. But then he might warn Sir Anthony that he is in danger. Oh, what to do?

  1st July 1586

  We were breaking our fast this morning, when Mother said to Joseph, “We haven’t seen Sir Anthony lately. Why not invite him to dine? We might ask the Middletons. Kathryn would be delighted!”

  I am confused. Father talks to my mother. She must know that Sir Anthony is under suspicion. Why does she want Joseph to stay close to him?