Elizabeth I

by Elizabeth George

  He was evenly matched, though, by our homegrown spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. Did Mendoza have hundreds of informants? Walsingham had at least five hundred, even as far away as Constantinople. Was he a devoted, even fanatical, Catholic? Walsingham was equally passionate about Protestantism. Did he have no scruples? Walsingham’s motto was “Knowledge is never too dear”—and he was willing to pay anything. Both men felt they were waging spiritual battle rather than just political war.

  And the great clash, the long-postponed Armageddon between England and Spain, was imminent. I had done all within my power to deflect it. Nothing was too base or lowly to be employed: marriage negotiations, subterfuge, obfuscation, outright lies, as when I assured Philip I was only a Protestant by political necessity but not by conviction. Anything to buy us time, to let us get strong enough to withstand the blow when it finally came. But I had run out of ruses, and Philip had run out of patience—yes, even he, the man about whom it was said, “If death came from Spain, we would all live a very long time.”

  The dawn had finally come. I could arise now.

  My astrologer John Dee puts much stock in dreams and omens. In this case he was correct. I had barely dressed when I was informed that William Cecil, Lord Burghley, my chief minister, wished to see me on urgent business.

  It must be urgent. He knew I did not conduct business before noon.

  I welcomed him, while dreading his news. He was dear to me; if anyone must bring bad tidings, I wished it to be Burghley.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing as low as his rheumatic spine would permit. “But it was imperative that you see this.” He thrust a rolled-up scroll into my hand. “It’s from Philip.”

  “Addressed to me? How thoughtful!” I clutched the parchment in my hand, feeling its importance in its very weight.

  “Hardly, Your Majesty.”

  “He used the best vellum,” I said, trying to joke.

  Burghley did not smile.

  “I meant to be witty,” I said. “Have I lost my touch?”

  He forced the corners of his mouth up. “No, Your Majesty. I marvel that you can find humor even in such as this.” He took the scroll from me. “Hundreds of them, loaded in the holds of the Armada. Like seeds of evil, to be sown here in England.”

  “Unlike dandelion down that floats by itself in the wind, these cannot be planted unless Spanish boots walk the land. And they will not.”

  “Secretary Walsingham’s agents managed to steal this one, and also a copy of a letter drawn up by one of King Philip’s advisers. It almost seems there is nothing he can’t procure, or uncover.”

  I took the letter. It was in Spanish, of course, but that was no problem for me. As I read it, however, I almost wished I could not have understood. It was a carefully thought-out memorandum and recommendation to the Spanish king about what should be done once they had conquered England. I was to be taken alive and conveyed to the pope.

  “I do not need to guess what His Holiness would decree,” I said. “The Bull states that”—I twitched my fingers, signaling Burghley to hand it back to me, and my eyes found the quote—“that my deeds and shortcomings are such that ‘some of them make her unable to reign, others declare her unworthy to live.’ He pronounces that he deprives me of all authority and princely dignity, declaring me to be illegitimate and absolving my subjects from obedience to me. So, His Holiness—the former Grand Inquisitor of Venice—would prepare a fine bonfire for me.” I shuddered. It was no joking matter. It went on to order everyone to ally with the “Catholic army” of the Duke of Parma and of the “King Catholic”—that is, Philip II of Spain. He concluded by promising a plenary indulgence for all those who helped to overthrow me.

  At the last, I did laugh. “Indulgences! Now there’s something the world still wants!” It was the abuse of indulgences that had led Martin Luther to start his rebellion against the Catholic Church. “They are not very creative in finding new rewards, are they?” I flung the Bull down.

  “He has also offered a million ducats to the Spanish as an incentive for invading England.”

  I stared at Burghley. “He is putting a bounty on us?”

  Burghley gave a dismissive cock of the head. “The Peasant Pope, as he likes to be known, is a clever haggler. The money will not be awarded until the Spanish actually set foot here. There is no payment in advance.”

  “So either way, he wins.” Shrewd old bird. Did he hope to make England into carrion he could scavenge? Never! “Call Secretary Walsingham and the Earl of Leicester to a meeting. We should discuss the situation before the full Privy Council meets. You three are the mainsprings of the government.”

  Burghley shook his head.

  “No false modesty. You know it is true. You are my Spirit, Leicester my Eyes, and Walsingham my vigilant Moor. Call the meeting for this afternoon.”

  I rose, signaling that our talk was ended. I carefully put the damning papers in my correspondence box and turned the key.

  It was time for the midday dinner. Ordinarily I ate in the withdrawing chamber with a few attendants, although a ceremonial table was always set in the Great Hall. The lower-ranking courtiers and household servants ate there, but my place remained empty. I wondered, fleetingly, if I should put in a public appearance today. It had been a fortnight since I had done so. But I decided against it. I did not want to be on display now. The Papal Bull and call to arms against me had rattled me more than I wanted to admit.

  “We shall eat together in here,” I told my ladies of the bedchamber.

  Three were closest to me: Catherine Carey, my cousin; Marjorie Norris, a friend since the days of my youth; and Blanche Parry, my nurse from even longer ago.

  “Open the windows,” I asked Catherine. It was a light, fine day, the sort to make butterflies dance. Some Mays were just green winters, but this one was fresh and perfumed. As the windows cranked open, the outside world came in in a puff.

  The small table was set in the middle of the chamber, and here we dispensed with the ceremonial trappings, except that we always had a taster. The servers presented the dishes in quick order, and we made our selections with no ado.

  I had no appetite. The Papal Bull had quite taken it away. But I usually did not eat much, and so today’s almost untouched plate did not attract any attention.

  Marjorie, a strapping country woman from Oxfordshire, always ate heartily. Today she was attacking a mound of pork stew and washing it down with a beaker of ale. Catherine, who was small and plump, never went beyond nibbling, so it was a mystery why she had such a round face. Marjorie was some fifteen years my senior, Catherine fifteen years my junior. Old Blanche Parry had seen eighty years. However, she saw them no more, as she had lost her eyesight recently and had to turn her duty as keeper of the royal jewels over to the younger Catherine. She sat now at the table, eating only by habit and feel, her filmed eyes staring at nothing.

  Suddenly I had the urge to lean over and pat her hand. It startled her.

  “I did not mean to frighten you,” I said. But the touch of her calming hand was soothing to me.

  “You should be ashamed, to scare an old lady so!” she scolded me.

  “Blanche, you are not an old lady,” I said.

  “If eighty isn’t old, when does it start?” she retorted.

  “A few years beyond whatever one’s age is,” I said. “Obviously, ninety.” Was there anyone still at court at ninety? I could not think of any. It was a safe age to target, then.

  “Well, my lady, there are some who say you are old,” she shot back.

  “Nonsense!” I said. “Since when is fifty-five old?”

  “It ceased being old when you reached it,” said Catherine.

  “I shall have to appoint you to an ambassadorship,” I said. “Such a diplomat! But, dear cousin, I couldn’t bear to lose you. And would you really want to live with the French or the Danes?”

  “The French for fashion, the Danes for pastries,” said Marjorie. “Not a bad choi
ce.”

  I barely heard her. “The Armada is going to sail,” I blurted out. “It will bear down on us soon.”

  Marjorie and Catherine laid down their spoons and their faces grew rigid.

  “I knew it!” said Blanche. “I saw this coming. Long ago. I told you. Like King Arthur.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marjorie demanded. “Is it more of your Welsh mumbles? And don’t give me the nonsense about the second sight.”

  Blanche drew herself up. “I just knew King Arthur’s legacy would come round. The queen is descended from him. We all know that. My cousin Dr. Dee has proved it. Arthur left unfinished business. A final battle. A great test of England’s survival.”

  “It has nothing to do with King Arthur,” said Catherine. “The astrologers long ago predicted 1588 would be a year of great moment. All Dee has done is confirm it.”

  “The prediction, made two hundred years ago by Regiomontanas, said that 1588 would be a year of complete catastrophe for the entire world,” said Blanche calmly. The exact wording was ‘Empires will crumble, and on all sides there will be great lamentation.’”

  “Yes, but which empires?” I replied. “Didn’t the oracle at Delphi tell King Croesus that if he invaded Persia, a great empire would be destroyed? It turned out to be Croesus’s, not the Persians’.”

  “There are supposed to be three eclipses this year,” said Blanche, undeterred. “One of the sun and two of the moon. We have already had the one of the sun, in February.”

  “Let them come,” I said. As if I could do anything to stop them.

  I needed to be alone. Even my faithful trio did not soothe me. After dinner was over, I went out into the Queen’s garden. Whitehall was an enormous, sprawling palace that had grown from a riverside mansion into a near-city of its own that even boasted a street running through it and two gatehouses. With its tiltyards, cockpits, tennis courts, and pheasant yards, it was difficult to find a secluded spot. But the garden, folded between the brick walls of other buildings, shielded me from curious eyes.

  Grass walkways, bordered by low white and green striped railings, made geometric patterns, crisscrossing the plot. Everything neat and within its own boundaries. God’s death, if only the world were like that! If only Spain would stay within its boundaries. I had never had any territorial ambitions. Unlike my father and his vainglorious attempts at warfare abroad, I have been content within my own realm. They murmur that it’s because I am a woman. They ought better to say it is because I am sensible. War is a sinkhole that sucks money and men into it and is never filled.

  I took a sharp turn as one path dead-ended into another. A painted pole marked the corner, with a carved heraldic beast, flying a standard, atop it. This was the red Welsh dragon, its beak open wide, its wings spread, its talons gripping the pole. The Tudors were a Welsh family, supposedly descended from King Cadwalader. Blanche had filled my childish ears with tales of Wales, and even taught me the language. But I had never been there. Staring at the carved wooden dragon was as close as I had ever come. Someday ...

  But that day was not now. Now I must make sure that England herself survived, and that included Wales.

  I knew one thing: We could not withstand the Spanish army. It was the most finely honed fighting force in the world. We did not even have an army, just armed citizen militias, and whatever private retainers could be mustered by the wealthy on an ad hoc basis.

  So the Spanish must not be allowed to land. Our ships would have to protect us and prevent it. The ships, not the soldiers, must be our salvation.

  The three most powerful men in the realm stood before me—William Cecil, Lord Burghley, lord treasurer; Sir Francis Walsingham, principal secretary and head of the intelligence service; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, most recently supreme commander of the English forces sent to help the Protestant rebels in the Netherlands as they fought to free themselves from Spain—using English money, of course.

  It would be a long session. “I pray you, sit,” I told them. I myself remained standing. Behind me was the massive Holbein mural that covered one entire wall, depicting my father and grandfather. In it, my father crowded the forefront of the painting, making his own father look as if he were cowering in his shadow. Now I stood in front of him. Did I draw strength from him, or was I telling him I now dominated the monarchy?

  Instead of obeying, Robert Dudley stepped forward and handed me a lily, unfurling on its long stalk. “An unspotted lily for an unspotted lily,” he said, bowing.

  Both Burghley and Walsingham looked long-suffering, shaking their heads.

  “Thank you, Robert,” I said. Instead of calling for a vase, I pointedly laid it on a table behind me, where it would quickly wilt. “Now you may sit.”

  Burghley said, “I trust everyone has seen the ‘Declaration of the Sentence and Deposition of Elizabeth’ document? If not, I have copies here.”

  I clenched my teeth. The very thought of it! “God’s feet! Must the Spaniard plague me from hell?”

  “Your Majesty, it’s old news,” sniffed Walsingham. “The wording is little changed from the first two—the one in 1570 by Pius V, and then the follow-up in 1580 by Gregory XIII. Another pope, another Bull.”

  “A shipload of them is a new twist,” said Burghley. “It’s disgusting.”

  “For them it’s a religious crusade,” said Walsingham. “All their ships are named after a saint or an angel. The standard of the flagship, featuring the Virgin and the Crucifixion, has been blessed by the Archbishop of Lisbon. Why not Bulls in the holds? Oh, and you’ll appreciate this. I have the list of their passwords. On Sunday it’s ‘Jesus,’ on Monday ‘Holy Ghost,’ on Tuesday, ‘Most Holy Trinity,’ on Wednesday ‘St. James,’ on Thursday ‘the Angels,’ on Friday ‘All Saints,’ and on Saturday ‘Our Lady.’ ”

  Leicester gave a snort of laughter. “With the likes of Drake and Hawkins, I’d not like to guess what our passwords are,” he said.

  “Oh, and all the men on board have been confessed and carry a little certificate to prove it,” finished Walsingham.

  He continued to amaze me. Where did he get this information? “You must have corrupted a priest, to supply you with such details,” I said.

  His silence proved that I was right. Finally he said, “And there are those here in England, yes, in London itself, who pray for the success of the mission.”

  “If you claim this, you must know their names,” I said. “Tell them.” To anyone else it would have been a challenge, but I knew he had the facts. I merely wanted to have them, too.

  “Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel,” he said. “Even in the Tower, he managed to gather adherents and get a priest to say a Mass for the Armada and for the Englishmen who are aboard. And yes, I can supply the names of all who were present.”

  “Englishmen aboard!” said Leicester. “The shame of it!”

  Walsingham shrugged. “Lucifer and all his legions recruit far and wide. And Arundel is Philip’s godson. What can you expect?”

  “When did the Armada sail?” asked Burghley. “Has it sailed?”

  “It is still in Lisbon. My reports say there are some hundred and fifty ships in it. Not all, of course, are fighting ships. Many are merchantmen and supply ships.”

  “It will be the largest such fleet ever to sail,” said Leicester. “If it manages to sail. Losing their commander two months ago”—he mockingly crossed himself—“set them back. Santa Cruz knew what he was doing. This replacement, this Medina-Sidonia, does not know much. He even gets seasick. Some admiral!”

  “Getting their hands on Portugal eight years ago, with her ships and her harbor at Lisbon, was the best stroke of fortune they could have had, and the worst for us,” said Burghley. “The wonder is it has taken them so long to organize. Of course, they kept hoping that someone would put Mary Queen of Scots, on the throne here for them, and make England Catholic without their lifting a finger.”

  “We have you to thank for ending that,” I said to Walsingham.


  He allowed his saturnine features to soften a bit. He always looked so dour, my spymaster. Even in victory he could not celebrate. He merely nodded. “She ended it. I only exposed her plots and lies.”

  “Today England remains the greatest threat to the triumph of the Counter-Reformation. Rome has turned the tide elsewhere and begun rolling back the Protestant victories, retaking territories. But we have emerged as the one country where someone opposing Rome can be safe and pursue a career and a life. For that reason, they need to eliminate us. It’s religious, but it’s also political,” said Burghley.

  “Is there any difference?” asked Leicester.

  “How long do you think we have before they strike?” I asked Walsingham. “How long do we have to prepare?”

  “They may sail any day,” he said.

  “We’ve been readying the beacons and repairing the coastal fortifications all winter,” said Burghley.

  “But we all know—and we can speak freely here with one another—that we have virtually no castles that can withstand Spanish siege artillery. They would most likely land in Kent, just across from Flanders. Kent is open country and easy to traverse. We don’t have enough weapons, and those we have are outdated. And then there is the great unknown—what about the English Catholics? Will they rally to the Spanish? Where does their primary loyalty lie? For that reason, my good councillors, our only hope of victory lies in preventing the Spanish from landing to begin with,” I said.