The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  Frances did the same, glad that her father would never know. She looked up at the high windows for somewhere to direct her gaze. Sunlight flooded across the ceiling, but did not reach so far below, leaving the lower chamber in dim light. Though the windows were high in the timbered wall, they were yet barred.

  The Scots queen’s gaze followed hers. She smiled. “Sir Amyas is determined I will not escape him.”

  A nearby lady laughed. “Her Majesty once let herself down the side of Hardwick Manor, almost escaping the Earl of Shrewsbury. She was close held after…though never so close as now with Sir Amyas.”

  “The rope was too short,” Mary said wryly, “or I was.”

  All Mary’s ladies smiled sadly at the memory, though the queen turned her attention back to Frances.

  “You have traveled from Burton?”

  Frances thought to keep her answers short. “Aye, Majesty.”

  “Since the early hours?”

  “Aye, Majesty.”

  “You have not heard matins? I am sorry. They have taken away my priest.”

  Frances did not look up.

  “Then you will join us in our devotions.” It was not a question.

  And be damned forever, Frances knew her father would think, if he ever heard of it.

  She bent her head forward, for a confidence. “Majesty, I dare not stay so long as will arouse Sir Amyas’s interest.” Frances lowered her voice even further. “There is a new cipher for you in the keg. The men at Plough Inn fear…” Her voice trailed away; she was aware that she could say too much and expose herself as knowing more than an apprentice lad should.

  Mary’s eyes opened wide, a torrent of hope filling her face before it disappeared. “But the keg is full of ale.” Mary tapped the keg with her foot.

  “Inside the bung, Majesty,” Frances murmured. “It has a hidey-hole.”

  The queen looked about, alarmed. “Quietly, lad, these walls could hide spies’ ears.” She motioned to her ladies. “Empty the ale into our stone jars.”

  When the keg was returned, Frances leaned in to hold it up to the queen, who eagerly removed the bung and with a long finger reached in and up to retrieve the tiny roll of tightly wound paper wrapped in sealskin.

  “Boy, how often will my ale be replenished?”

  “Twice weekly, Majesty.”

  One of Mary’s women brought a candle. Before she read, Mary stopped to look at Frances. “Here we have a lad pretty as any lass and we do not see to his thirst.” She ordered another lady to pour Frances a cup.

  “Many thanks, Your Majesty.” Mary had recognized in Frances a thirst that she herself had forgotten. Gratefully, she accepted the pewter cup.

  It would be difficult for Frances to hate this queen, no matter her papist practice. She had been warned against the queen’s wiles, but she saw none, only kindness to a dirty-faced apprentice. Not for the first time, she had some regret for her part in this entrapment; nor would she ever forgive herself, at least never completely. Torn between two queens—perhaps the Plough Inn men had similar feelings.

  Mary called for pen and paper and had no sooner secreted a response into the secret bunghole than the outer door banged open and Sir Amyas rushed in, through the chamber and to the dais. He did not kneel, or even bow.

  “Boy, are you being kept here against your will?”

  “Nay, Sir Am—”

  “For shame. A lad seduced to popery by…”

  Mary stood. “Sir Amyas, the boy was tired and thirsty. In Christian duty, I could not turn him back to the road with no rest or drink.”

  “Madam, you have offended propriety!”

  “Not a whit, Sir Amyas,” Mary said. “As a sinner I am truly conscious of having often offended my Creator, and I beg him to forgive me, but as a queen and sovereign, I am aware of no fault or offense for which I have to render account to anyone here below.”

  “Madam, you twist words to suit your purpose. Make peace with your God. You will soon needs make peace with our Queen Elizabeth.”

  Mary’s face lit with hope. “Will she see me? Is she coming? If only we sister queens could meet…”

  Her keeper made a growling sound deep in his throat and yanked Frances toward the door. “Listen no more to the Scots witch, boy, lest you find yourself amidst the fires of hell.”

  Just able to get out an agreement, she said, “Aye, sir.”

  “Hold, Sir Amyas!” A lady came up fast with the keg. “Her Majesty will need this to be refilled.”

  Sir Amyas scowled but took the keg and looked it over carefully, shaking, then smelling it. Satisfied that it was hollow, he handed it to Frances.

  She tried to look back, offer with her eyes some small thanks to the proud woman on the dais who had touched her heart, but Sir Amyas pushed her through the open door and the guards slammed it shut on Mary’s lonely imprisonment.

  “Boy, tell your master that I am off to Greenwich tomorrow with the tally for the Scots queen’s care. He will get his payment when I get mine.”

  “Aye, Sir Paulet.”

  In the great hall below, Frances followed the waiting guard out to the bailey. Her first sight was of Robert pacing beside the dray, his pronounced limp indicating his tiredness. He kept his face expressionless, but she could see the relief in his shoulders as they relaxed.

  “Boy, is all accomplished?”

  “Aye.”

  “Let us away. We have long hours back to Burton.” He took the keg and placed it under the seat.

  “Come, lad,” he said, loudly for other ears.

  They drove through the gate and turned onto the main road before he removed the sealskin-wrapped message from the keg and put it safely in the pocket tied about his waist.

  Frances looked ahead through the swirling dust. “The queen of Scots is well betrayed.”

  He slapped the reins to speed the lead horses. “I sense your sympathy, but the fault is hers, not yours. Many before you have said she weaved a spell on them.” He slapped the reins again. “It is a hard business to be an intelligencer, Frances, and now you know it. I would have spared you, but you would not be spared.”

  “Will she be spared?” Frances asked, looking up at him.

  “No, she will not. There can be only one queen for England. Which would you have?”

  She did not hesitate to name her, though speaking at all was difficult. “Elizabeth.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Oh make in me those civil wars to cease;

  I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.”

  —Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

  August

  ON THE ROAD TO GREENWICH PALACE

  While her husband was away in the Low Countries, Frances had hoped to draw this year over her like a large feather blanket that would warm her for the rest of her life. She wanted to remember it as a time in her youth when she was herself. Her plan had succeeded and more. But now she had a bigger problem: Robert Pauley.

  She stole a glance at Robert, who was hunched over the reins beside her, sometimes calling encouragement to the horses plodding furlong upon furlong back toward Greenwich. He no longer sang cheerful tunes. They spoke little, each deep in their own exhausted thoughts.

  Slowly Frances threw off the spell that the Scots queen had cast on her, for spell it was to feel such compassion for one who meant to take the English throne from Elizabeth, send her father and Frances herself to the Tower to rot or to lose their heads. Powerful enemies gone, Mary would quickly turn the realm back to the days of the Protestant burnings at Smithfield. At first, it was difficult to think that the lady with such kind eyes could bring such terror, but Frances knew that the Scots queen would believe she was saving souls and that the fires on earth were no hotter than those in hell.

  As a young girl, Frances had read John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and knew what horrors had been visited upon Protestants by Elizabeth’s Catholic sister, Mary Tudor. Her father had also read the book aloud for the education of all his household
. Every evening, the tales of tortures and hideous deaths at the stake of all who questioned Catholic doctrine had left low and high alike terrified at Barn Elms. For many a night, a sudden scream would speak of nightmares in the servants’ quarters.

  As they drove on, darkness came slowly, and when the night settled it was complete. A quarter moon gave little light, less when clouds drifted across it.

  “We will stop for the night…when we reach the Falcon and Dove,” Robert said, breaking his silence. “These horses need a good rest, water, and feed. And we could use a hot meat pie with turnips and gravy in our bellies.”

  “And cheese? And good bread of the last baking?”

  “Aye”—he nodded, a smile starting—“as much as you can hold, if the innkeeper has a meat pie that has not gone bad and any fresh bread beyond crumbs remaining.” He looked full into her face. “You must be hungry, Frances.”

  “Never as much as when you speak of such a supper.”

  His smile widened. “I had not noticed my words had effect ere now.”

  In the dark, under the shadowy trees, this was dangerous speech, and she did not answer, though she thought of another hunger of which she dared not speak.

  He turned his face back to the road. “Tomorrow we’ll drive on until we reach Greenwich, or this adventure will count for naught.”

  “Aye, we must get this message from Queen Mary to Phelippes. I do not know what she wrote, but she was smiling as her pen scratched the words.”

  “She sees the end of her imprisonment, Spanish or French troops landing on our coast, and perhaps a seat upon the throne of England. She pictures herself riding down Cheapside in Elizabeth’s open carriage and being hailed by all the Catholics she thinks still yearn for the old faith…and her. That would make her smile.” Robert turned once again to Frances. “You have thrown off the effects of her charm at last?”

  Frances nodded. “I felt great sorrow for her as a woman locked away from all she was, but no sadness for her as an enemy of our queen.”

  “You are good, Frances.”

  She stole a sideways glance at him, but he was not looking at her. “I am an intelligencer and an Englishwoman,” she said, pride in her voice.

  “The most beautiful,” Robert muttered.

  She knew not how to respond to such an extravagant compliment. A thank-you seemed lacking, but more might invite what she both feared and desired now with all her body’s force. She was walking the way of betrayal of her family and of her husband. Was this the path to all forbidden love, yearning and fear until the heart was exhausted and flesh won out? For love had taken root in her heart and spread throughout her body, feeding on her until she had no thought, no emotion except that which began and ended with Robert. So thinking, she said nothing, and dared not look at him with her thoughts so clear on her face.

  They drove on, slowing for the next sharp bend in the road.

  From a wide bush, several nesting quail rose up, wings flapping, feathers flying.

  Robert looked hard at the place and grabbed his whip, ready to lash the horses into a gallop.

  Too late.

  From both sides, shouting, leaping men rushed from behind trees covered in darkness. One grabbed the horses’ lines and hauled on them. The big beasts tossed their heads, flared their nostrils, and snorted.

  By Frances’s hasty count, there were eight or nine ragged men. She gripped Robert’s arm.

  “Still yourself. Show no fear,” he ordered in a low voice.

  The nearest man, obviously the leader, burly and dressed in a stained yellow satin shirt meant for covering a more full-bodied man, pointed a pistol at Robert’s head. “Give up your ale, brewer. We men of the road be of great thirst, and ye have too much for one man and his pretty boy.”

  Frances felt Robert’s muscles tense under her hand.

  “You and your men would be welcome, sir, but the barrels are empty of all my ale, just today delivered to Chartley.” He looked about quickly for some advantage, one arm now extended in front of Frances.

  The man turned his leering face to his men. “Aye, the lords suck up all the ale in the land, don’t they, lads…while taking our few acres and cots for their sheep runs?”

  Their faces twisted with anger, the men shouted their encouragement. “Take the pisspot’s purse!”

  The leader grinned, his teeth black where they were not missing. “All the better if yer barrels be empty,” the leader of the footpads said. “Yer purse be thet full, eh, lads?” He came up alongside, a cocked and primed pistol pointed at Robert’s heart. “That keg there ’neath yer seat be yet full, I wager. It be slakin’ our thirst for now. Yer purse of Sir Paulet’s coin will buy us all the ale we can pour down our gullets for a fortnight.”

  The men, a ragged, dirty, starved lot, grumbled agreement, looking unhappy, thirsty, and tired.

  Frances gulped air until she grew dizzy. A bend of the road, and everything had changed.

  The leader brandished his pistol, a flintlock of fine make, the moonlight glinting off its brass fittings and striker plate. “I be takin’ that keg under yer legs, brewer. Ye’re trying to hide it, and that be good sign it be the best.”

  Robert did not move.

  “Quickly now, ere I put a ball through your pretty lad there, or use his arse to ease my prick!”

  Robert grasped the reins tighter. “Frances, jump into the back…now,” he muttered.

  The man jammed the pistol into Frances’s side. “Do not think to jest with me, good sir,” the man growled. “I took this fine pistola from a gentleman who told me it was of the best Flemish make, though that did not save him when he tried to cheat us of an emerald ring hidden in his boot, eh, lads?”

  The men crowding around the dray growled their response, each laughing and jabbing his mate with an elbow. It was a game they had played before, and perhaps was their only pleasure. They were like a pack of dogs at a bear garden, baiting, taunting, growling, and circling their prey.

  “Now, sirs, ye have only to trade some ale and yer purses for yer lives. I warrant they be worth all ye have, come to it.”

  Tiring of talk, he waved the pistol first at Robert, then at Frances. “The keg!” he yelled, impatient.

  Several men swarmed the dray, dragging Robert and Frances down to the ground. The leader snatched up the keg and shook it. “Swine turds! It be empty. Where be the gold ye were paid for yer ale? By the great Harry, search them, lads. They be hiding something precious. I can see it in their faces.”

  As hands seized Robert, Frances saw his pocket of coins ripped from about his waist and his doublet searched for other valuables. “Run!” he yelled to Frances, while two men now held his arms fast.

  A man with foul breath and rank body pushed Frances to the road and pressed against her, hands searching under her doublet for a purse. He grunted, slavering over his find. “Ah, Rowley,” he called to the leader, his hand cupping one breast, “’tis not a lad I have, but a lass, a right nice, clean one by the smell on her. No poxy two-a-penny whore from the Southwark stews, that be certain. If the barrels be empty, then we will have good sport without drink.”

  “Hold!” Rowley shouted. “Ye used my name, pig turd!”

  Frances felt the arms of the man above her become rigid. “Ye’ll hang before me. Twice piss on ye!”

  Rowley walked to the man sitting on Frances and shouted, “Thrice turds on ye!” The big man lifted his fellow off Frances by his tattered jerkin and threw him into the ditch at the roadside. “I have first right,” he growled. “Any of you horse farts deny me?” He stood spread-legged, holding the pistola, menacing them.

  The horses, already nervous, tossed their heads and strained against the lines, almost breaking free.

  The man who’d discovered Frances’s sex stood and slunk back into the dark, growling, “Draw lots; that be the rule we all put our marks to.”

  Frances scrambled to her feet.

  Rowley started for her.

  The hands holding Rober
t had loosened as the men watched the merriment. Robert broke free and leaped on Rowley’s back. “Frances…run to the woods!” he yelled.

  Rowley twisted about like a wolf in a trap, weakening Robert’s hold. The thief raised the pistola and fired.

  In that instant, Robert staggered back, a red stain blossoming on his shoulder, spreading down his doublet. He slowly collapsed to his knees onto the road. “Frances…”

  She saw blood run down his fingers and drop into the dirt. Full of fear for Robert and fury that she was treated so, she yelled, “No, Rowley! Leave be and I will see you well paid…!”

  Rowley swung round on her once again, lusting for more than gold. He grabbed her, pushed her into the dirt. Climbing on her, he seized her breast. Laying down his pistol near her head, he grabbed her other breast and she screamed, pushing against him with all her strength as he sought to rip away her trunk hose.

  She could not scream again; his weight was too much for her. She could not draw breath; his reeking body brought bile to her mouth.

  Jesu, help me! She must not be defiled before Robert. She must not be the cause of his death. He was trying to crawl toward her, pulling himself along with one arm, his face twisted with agony and fear, his open mouth groaning words that she could not understand.

  The footpads stood like groundlings at the theater, their eyes bright with what they would see, mouths gaping at the scene in front of them.

  “Help me!” she pleaded.

  But not one of them expressed anything but envy and lust as they looked on, grinning.

  Frances pushed at Rowley with all her strength. “Stop!” she ordered, but he was beyond stopping. Satan could not have ordered him.

  His club of a fist hit the side of her head. Pain ripped through her, and sparks exploded behind her eyes. She battled for consciousness, knowing what she would wake to if she did not fight him.

  Rowley sat back on his heels, his hand tugging out his erect prick, his eyes glassy with excitement, far beyond seeing. She kicked and twisted without moving him. She pushed once more with all her strength. This time her hand slid to a bone handle sheathed at Rowley’s side.