The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  Frances bowed her head to hide her flaming face. Was the queen confessing something to her, which in itself was dangerous? Confessors always regretted their honesty. What was the queen intending with this?

  Elizabeth rested her nervous fan in her lap. “I have heard of your work on the latest cipher from the Scots queen. Dr. Dee tells me your mind is quick and your desire strong. I do not tell secrets to those whose faith and silence I have not already tested. I would test yours, Frances Sidney.”

  Frances held her breath, not knowing what would come next.

  “My lady, you have lost me my partner at cards. You shall take his place tonight for Primera. Come to me with a full purse, ready to fill mine.”

  “I am but a poor player at cards.”

  “Good!”

  “I will come to you with pleasure, Majesty,” Frances replied, forcing a smile. She curtsied, backed to the outer chamber, and made haste to her own.

  Robert Pauley stepped from the shadows of her anteroom.

  “Robert!” She was suddenly breathless.

  “I am not here, but gone to Plymouth these two hours past.”

  “The queen said…”

  “Aye, she could not punish an earl without placing a harsher sentence on me. Bless Jesu, I am too valuable to send to the Tower, so I am for Plymouth, but I will haste to return for Twelfth Night. You will not suffer that alone.”

  “Suffer?”

  “Lady Rich will be playing a part with you.”

  Stella! “Lady Rich…with me?”

  “The queen is not truly cruel, but she was persuaded to this by Essex as a great jest on the baroness. You must keep your wits about you.”

  “But I will need you.”

  “No, mistress, you will not. You are brave and quick-witted. You do not need me. But I will ride hard to return in time.” He took her by the arms and held them tight for a moment, his face unreadable; then he was gone, quickly, into the shadows of the corridor.

  Frances knew instantly that Robert was wrong this time. She did need him, more than she had ever realized.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “He cannot love; No no, let him alone….

  They love indeed who quake to say they love.”

  —Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

  Twelfth Night, January 6

  No no, let him alone. That line from her husband’s sonnet could have been meant for her.

  Yet she knew that she could not and did not truly desire to let Robert alone.

  He had promised to return from the south coast by this day. Where was he? She felt her anger rise and her heels strike the stone floors a little too hard.

  Wouldn’t a good servant do as he had promised?

  She straightened her shoulders and almost laughed aloud at her own counterfeit reasoning, her own clinging to that obsolete mistress/servant bond that had long ceased to be. Exactly when it had gone she could not remember; nor did she want to remember.

  When had it happened that she, a married woman, Queen Elizabeth’s lady of the presence chamber, and the daughter of one of the queen’s most trusted and powerful advisors, had become dependent on a serving man? And more than dependent, she admitted, her breath quickening, wondering whether every courtier she passed could guess why her eyes shone so bright. She herself could scarce understand how such feeling had grown and why Robert so rarely was absent from her thoughts, though of late he seemed to stay more often from her presence.

  Was she a fool? Did Robert dare harbor such emotions for her? Sometimes she thought there was more in his eyes than duty and admiration, but was this just a lonely woman’s wishful fantasy?

  Yea, he was kind and cared for her comfort and safety, but weren’t those also the acts of a good serving man? What else could she want from him? She dared to answer that question only in the silence of her most secret self, and then to immediately lower her gaze lest it be read and understood.

  She tightened her lips and clenched her fists, her nails pressing through her gloves, railing against this constant self-questioning. She knew she was drawing curious stares, even as a group of courtiers bowed and she curtsied in return. “I am on my way to practice for the Twelfth Night masque,” she said in a light voice to explain her agitation, smiling for the curious.

  Was the Baroness Rich forced to wait for her? Good! Let her wait, as once Frances had waited for Philip’s return, carrying the woman’s scent on his doublet and shirt.

  The queen had kept her ladies about her long past the usual hour, though there was no formal audience this day. Her Majesty called for endless distractions to ease her mind, playing the lute, reading aloud, dancing a country jig, singing in six-part harmony as she played upon her glass virginals, a wonder of the age.

  Lord Burghley had brought the queen distressing news of the war in the Low Countries. Leicester’s army was ill fed and unpaid, many deserting because the Dutch refused to contribute their promised taxes or grant the agreed-upon supplies.

  “As I knew it!” Elizabeth fumed. “They will beggar my treasury to save their own wealth.” She stomped up and down her privy chamber, herbs and lavender crushed and scattered beneath her furious feet, her ladies staying well out of the way.

  The queen sent a secretary to Burghley’s quarters repeatedly to see whether a letter to her from Leicester had been mislaid, then stomped about some more, waiting for Burghley’s answers that were never to her liking.

  Frances had been gladdened to escape the queen’s whirling fury, though she found no ease of mind in any place. Now, as she hurried to the entrance of the great hall, Dr. Dee stood in her path, his face troubled, both hands clutching a chart.

  “My lady,” he said, somewhat breathless, “I was making my way to your chambers.”

  “Good doctor, may we talk tomorrow? I am late now to practice for the masque at tonight’s revels.”

  He reached for her hand and she gave it to him, allowing him to draw her aside.

  “I must get immediate word to Philip, and your father will forward a letter from you faster than I can send it. I hear Walter Williams, Mr. Secretary’s diplomatic messenger, is to leave for the coast of Holland later this very day.”

  The doctor’s voice was urgent.

  “Of a certainty, I will assist you as I can, but what troubles you so, Doctor?” As if she needed a cartload of other troubles.

  His voice grew softer. “I have drawn up a star chart for Philip—”

  “Aye, Doctor,” Frances interrupted, a bit impatient. “Philip showed me the chart you drew for him in his student years.”

  Dr. Dee put a hand on her arm, his voice low and urgent. “Yes, yes, my lady, but this is a new chart, made just last night. He must know that he faces mortal danger at age thirty-one.”

  “But that—”

  “—is his age now, aye. And the very reason he must be warned to take all care in battle. Like most soldiers, he is too eager for glory.”

  Frances could see that Dee was distressed, unusually so. “You mean the stars were wrong before?”

  “The stars are never wrong,” he answered, his white pointed beard lifting and falling with each urgent word, “but mortal man does not read the stars clearly at an early age.” He looked about and lowered his voice even more. “I have talked to my angel, Oriel, and received this warning.” Dee pressed the chart into her hands.

  Frances nodded, knowing Dr. Dee could speak no more in public about the angel he called through an incantation with a candle before a scrying mirror. Many called it witchcraft, and he had faced harsh questioning once before, barely escaping death in Mary Tudor’s reign for the burning offense. Still, Elizabeth often consulted the doctor with worrisome problems and when she wished to know the outcome of a difficult decision. No one dared accuse Her Majesty’s astrologer outright, though some muttered against his ways.

  “Promise you will get word to Philip in today’s dispatches. With a good ship and an easterly gale, he could have it in short days.”

&nb
sp; Dee was so obviously distressed and in earnest that Frances could not ignore his request. “I promise you, good doctor, your new chart will be in the dispatches before the Twelfth Night feast hour. Worry no longer. Philip is not foolhardy.” Perhaps in love, she thought, but surely not in battle.

  “Pray it is so, since I can do no more,” Dee said, bowing, then walking quickly away, his long tattered-edged robe swirling about his legs, dragging rushes along with it.

  Moving into the great hall where tables were being set for the Twelfth Night feast, Frances saw a raised dais upon which the actors in Robert Greene’s Pandosto, or, The History of Dorastus and Fawnia were milling about.

  The play was about jealousy. Essex had obviously thought it a great joke and, just perhaps, a proper lesson for a lady who was unwilling to yield to his charms. The queen must have been easily persuaded, since she, too, loved to watch a pot boil as long as its heat did not reach her. Even a little vulgarity, as long as it was witty, was tolerated in this most perfect of courts.

  Looking without appearing to look, Frances saw that the lady Rich was not yet on the stage. Was she ill? Or…more like, did she intend to make an entrance suitable for a baroness and the love idol of Sir Philip Sidney, the captivating Stella?

  Frances took a deep breath and advanced on the stage, composing her face into a proud mask as she went, aware that all in the room were awaiting some interesting reaction. She would tolerate neither sympathy nor derision, nor give them more to gossip about. Nor would she have it reported to Essex that his scheme had succeeded. He would get no satisfaction from Frances Sidney this Twelfth Night.

  The Baroness Rich was to play Bellaria, the chaste wife of Pandosto, the king of Bohemia, falsely accused by her jealous husband of unfaithfulness with his best friend, Egistus, the king of Sicilia.

  Frances, knowing how Essex had delighted in casting these roles, was assigned the part of Pandosto’s faithful handmaiden, Helen, who was ordered by the king to poison Egistus and Bellaria. It was a sympathetic part, because Helen could not bring herself to do the deed, a miscalculation on Essex’s part, surely.

  The playwright welcomed Frances onstage and gave her a copy of the handmaiden’s part writ large, a smaller role, and that sure to please the lady Rich.

  They began the rehearsal without her.

  “Lady Sidney,” Robert Greene told her, “you have a low, projecting, and yet agreeable voice, and it pleases me for you to read the introduction and scene changes, enhancing your small part.” He held out a half quire of paper inked with words.

  “Exactly so! Give the charming Lady Sidney more speeches, or she is ill used by this play,” exclaimed a loud female voice.

  Baroness Rich paused at the double carved doors, twitching at her jewels so that no one would miss them. At last she entered between bowing servants, her silver gown gold edged and hanging full about her, the gold exactly matching the shining blond of her hair. Her glowing eyes swept the great hall with slight interest until they rested on Frances. Her small smiling mouth, red against pale and perfect skin, opened in recognition. “Ah,” she said, her smile widening to show straight white teeth.

  The lady’s beauty was all of England’s ideal of perfection. Half the women in court used every known cosmetic pigment and ass’s milk to approach Stella’s flawless perfection, without touching it.

  Frances determined anew to stubbornly keep her black hair, even if she stood out as a crow amongst a flock of doves. If she were not herself, she was everybody and nobody.

  Although Frances had seen Philip’s Stella at court in earlier times, Penelope Rich’s radiant face and form seemed enhanced by the babes she had birthed almost every year since then. Was she charmed, beloved of the ancient gods as well as of men?

  Frances was sore-tempted to believe the woman a witch, especially since the baroness approached her deliberately, softly smiling, ignoring everyone but Frances.

  “My lady Sidney, how agreeable that we meet this Twelfth Night and entertain the court together.”

  Without so far uttering a word of our parts, Frances thought. Yet it would be unthinkable to turn away from the baroness. Frances dipped a curtsy and took her outstretched hand, no doubt disappointing the onlookers, who were leaning forward eagerly, expecting delightful female combat. Frances would never give them that satisfaction.

  The rehearsal was over by two of the clock, and Frances escaped, claiming urgent business with her father.

  “We will meet again for the masque,” the Baroness Rich called after her.

  “We will, Baroness,” Frances replied, making a hasty curtsy. She was determined to keep her mind closed to everything but her part in the play. If Lady Rich would do the same all could be well. If not…

  Frances hurried away to deliver Dr. Dee’s chart to her father’s office before his courier departed for the coast.

  Her father, finally returned from attending his hounds at Barn Elms, denied Frances entry to his office. She dared not ask for Phelippes lest she raise her father’s curiosity. With Robert gone, she knew nothing of what the intelligencers were finding at the Plough Inn. She passed Dee’s chart to a halberdier with instructions that it was to be included in the next diplomatic pouch.

  Once back at her chambers, she opened the door, hoping to see Robert returned. Her hope proved empty. Aunt Jennet sat by the fireplace, her body rocking to and fro, her head in her hands.

  “Jenney,” Frances called, and rushed to her side. “What is wrong? Are you ill? Come lie down with a cold compress.”

  “A compress will not cure this ache,” Jennet said without looking up.

  “Come, Aunt, what can be wrong?”

  “I am accused!”

  “Accused? How? Of what?”

  “I do not know. Your father will not speak to me, but commands that I keep to these chambers.”

  “What have you—”

  “Nothing! I have done nothing against my conscience.”

  That answered none of Frances’s questions. It raised another. “But have you stood against the queen’s law?”

  Jennet stubbornly kept her silence. “Jesu help you!” Frances murmured, realizing the prayer was earnest, her first in months.

  Jennet took a deep, trembling breath. “I have sent a note to a man who will help me to leave Whitehall and flee to France.”

  Frances dropped to the settle beside the hearth as if an unexpected blow had deprived her lungs of breath. Her eyes closed tight in pain. Pieces of her life seemed to be crumbling away.

  Jennet searched for Frances’s hand and lifted it to her lap. “My child, I have loved you like a mother for all these years, but I cannot forswear the true faith. Don’t ask it of me. I fear the devils in the Tower may tempt me beyond my body’s endurance soon enough.”

  “It cannot come to that, Aunt.” The words were almost another prayer. “Who is this man who will help you?”

  “I have never met him. A gentleman gave me the name if I was ever in danger of being accused.”

  Frances pulled at Jennet’s oversleeve. “A gentleman…by the name of Sir Anthony Babington?”

  Jennet’s body jerked upright, her eyes wide and staring into Frances’s face. “How do you know that name? Is he suspected?”

  “A guess only. His family is known Catholic, though they pay the fine for not attending the English church.” Frances rose quickly and went to Jennet’s bedchamber, lifting a small chest from under the bedstead and throwing in gowns and cloaks and night shifts. “You must leave for Barn Elms at once. I will speak with the queen, beg her—”

  “Never! It must not be known that you helped me…or know anything of this.” When they heard a faint knock, Jennet turned her face toward the outer door. Fiercely, she clasped Frances to her, then grabbed up the small chest and disappeared into the darkened corridor, where a man in Babington livery waited to take her to safety before Frances could object further.

  She sat down upon the bed, clutching at the bolster, her body shaking with so
bs.

  Robert found her thus short minutes later.

  “What has happened, Frances?” he asked, kneeling before her.

  “Jennet…is accused.”

  He looked about him. “Did she run?”

  “Yes,” Frances said as if with her last breath, “but where?”

  “To a safe house, but running is an admission of guilt,” Robert said, his face tired and dirt stained from hard riding.

  She began to shake and clutch at Robert’s sealskin cloak, which had shed much of the rain that was falling hard outside. “What can be done? What will my father do?”

  He bit down on his lower lip. “There will be a hue and cry.” He took a deep breath. “I must report what news I have from Plymouth and the south coast. We must keep a closer eye on Spain. Word comes from Cádiz that the harbor is full of shipping and provisioning. They will attack us when they have finished with Holland.” His voice softened. “When I speak to Mr. Secretary, I will try to discover what I can about this sad business with your aunt.”

  “You came to me first?” She dared not make it a statement.

  “I promised you to return this day.”

  “Did you? I had forgotten.”

  He laughed. “For an intelligencer, you are not a great pretender, my lady.”

  She smiled at being discovered…and changed the subject before she revealed how happy she was to have him close again. “I must play in the masque within a few hours and be at my best. Essex’s sister…”

  “Yes, Lady Rich will be there, but you will play your part well, as difficult as I know it to be.”

  His hands were warm on hers, and she believed him, lifting her chin.

  Robert had never seen a more fearless woman. She was full of worry for her aunt and yet was forced to face the woman who had her husband’s heart in front of the entire mocking court. Still, she went on with the tasks before her. When other women would have fallen in a faint, Frances remained strong.

  For a single moment, he did not cast blame on Essex. What man could not love her…beautiful, stubborn, and resourceful? And married, he forced his mind to add another truth to the silent tribute. Yet he didn’t blame himself for this hopeless love. He was a man and no saint. And she would never know from him how deep she had burrowed into his heart. He wouldn’t heap his torment on her slender shoulders. He did not want her pity. Or would it be dismay?