The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  “I know how to eat it, sir,” Frances answered, mimicking Meg’s saucy language and quickly ushering them forward.

  Robert glanced quickly at Garnet, but he was muttering prayers and seemed not to hear this exchange.

  “Come to the dining hall, Master Robert. It be good to see ye again.” She curtsied like a good servant. “Ye, too, sir,” she said to Garnet. “Warm yersels while I fetch mulled wine and a pease pottage. It be a cold night for all it be August.”

  “Wine will do for now, girl.” Though Robert did not smile, he appreciated her acting skill. The Christmastide play had scarce tested her.

  Garnet’s gaze followed the maid from the room. “You are known in this house, sir,” the priest said in a questioning tone.

  “Aye, Father, I have been here often in my mistress’s company, though this house is seldom used. Walsingham does not come here, yet he keeps the maid and a day cook on hand to serve guests.”

  Garnet looked at him as if not knowing what to think. Robert decided it was time to move ahead before the priest’s suspicions grew.

  “I know a faithful barber-surgeon nearby who will treat your shoulders. It will cause you pain.”

  “Sir, I am no stranger to hurt. You see me in my own country, despised and hunted. What could be more wounding?”

  Perhaps a brand to carry to your grave. “I will send the maid for the surgeon. He is but one street over, nearby Bakers’ Hall.”

  Garnet nodded, his upper body held stiff.

  Robert left for the kitchen below. The pain of his cheek was now almost a part of him. He could scarce remember when it had not been there.

  Frances stood in the kitchen, tears tracking down her rather dirty face.

  “Why are you here?” he said, taking hold of her shoulders and shaking her in his frustration.

  Her chin went up, her attitude as defiant as ever. “There was no one for Phelippes to send who is not known.”

  “Phelippes sent you? He is begging for dismissal, if not banishment to the continent.”

  “Phelippes does not know.”

  “More measles?”

  “Nay, an aching belly this time. I took my maid’s clothes and the message from Phelippes’s writing table and came with Will, then sent him back. Her Majesty will not miss me. She has another throbbing head and cannot bear light or noise…or her ladies.”

  In his frustration at her stubbornness, Robert shook her slightly again. “But you are known, Frances. Why must you be so—”

  “…much an intelligencer!” she said, bold as ever. “You must trust me once again with your life.” She moved closer, her eyes wide at the sight of the swollen, seeping red wound on his face, and, standing tall, she kissed the cheek that was whole. “I must help you, be with you…while I can. Don’t you know that?”

  He turned his head away, then back again to see the truth of her answer. He motioned to his face. “You do not find me hideous?”

  “I find you as I always have, brave and handsome and…and foolhardy.”

  “You name yourself, my lady.”

  “Dearest Robert, we are as alike as gloves. I need you, and you need me. Confess it again, as you did at the Falcon and Dove.”

  Robert held her tighter. “The priest needs a barber-surgeon to put his arms back into their proper place. Yet I dare not send you out on the dark streets, or leave the priest.”

  “The priest…yes, and I must tend your burn,” she said, and she stroked his chest in a tender gesture he recognized well. “You have no choice but to let me go, Robert. We are coming to the end of our time together and of my days as an intelligencer. Do not deny me this. It must last me my life through.”

  He bowed his head. “I cannot argue further with you, but have great care. Wear your hooded cloak. If you are not back in a short time, on my oath I will come for you.”

  “There will be no need.” She raised her skirt and pulled a folded paper from her hosen knotted above the knee.

  He shook his head in dismay. “Will you never change?”

  “When I am forced to it, and then reluctantly.”

  He knew she was right, but he did not wish to speak of it, or think of it. Opening the message, he read the lines:

  Babington and his men are watching from the house across the lane. The Jesuit priest John Ballard is one of them in disguise as a soldier named Captain Fortescue. We must know his plan. He is an assassin.

  P.

  She nodded. “All true. While waiting for you, I have observed Sir Anthony and the captain at a window across the way. I will go through the garden and to the apothecary through the rear of Bakers’ Hall. There is a narrow way around.” She smiled at a memory. “I went there often as a child for sweet buns. The old night watch may remember me.”

  Robert worried still. “But Babington has seen you at Whitehall!”

  “He has seen a lady of the presence chamber, not an ashy-faced apron-clad maid.”

  “I have no choice…. You are my mistress again.” He frowned. “God’s grace be with you, Frances. The streets are unsafe for a man, much less a woman, but I cannot leave lest I arouse suspicion in the priest and he flee.”

  “Pauley!”

  They both heard the priest’s faint, anguished call from the dining hall.

  She pulled on a soiled cloak and picked up a blade from the table, slipping it into an inside pocket. When Robert’s hand on her arm delayed her still, she said, “Please, sweet Robert, you took the hot iron for me—do not deny it—now I will chance this for you.”

  “Then I will not cease to worry for your daring all my days,” he whispered, kissing the tip of her artfully smudged nose.

  With a sob trapped in her throat, she whirled out the door.

  “Wait!” he whispered hoarsely. “Do you know the surgeon’s house?”

  “Aye, Robert. Delay me no more.”

  “I would delay you for life.”

  She looked back at him, a tall figure outlined by lantern light, a most dear figure, then slipped into the narrow lane, her hand clutching the knife, her chest tight, her heart thundering.

  Staying to the shadows, Frances hurried toward Bakers’ Hall, stopping every few steps to listen for footsteps behind or ahead of her. When she came to dark places where no light penetrated, she moved to the center of the lane, straddling the gutter, lifting her gown to keep it free of the sluggish sewer waiting for a heavier rain to send it flowing toward the Thames.

  Hearing a rustling ahead, she pulled the small cleaver from her pocket and held it before her, keeping her hand steadier with the other one. She had killed one man; she did not wish to kill another unless she had to.

  She moved forward, looking from side to side and once, very quickly, behind her; then she stopped. A scraping, as of wool against stone, sounded to her left. She whirled, cleaver ready to kill, telling herself she could hit out again as she had plunged the knife on the road from Chartley. Her chest ached, crying for air. She breathed deep so her words would not squeak. “Come out!” Her voice was not at its usual lower note. “Out with you, or I will raise the watch!” She gulped, bile rising in her throat.

  A large cat, its ribs showing through matted fur and carrying a kitten in its mouth, scuttled from the dark, and Frances laughed aloud in relief. “Stay well, little mother,” she whispered.

  At last, near Bakers’ Hall, inching along the wall, she reached the rear door. God’s grace! It was locked.

  Renewing her grip on the knife, she rounded the corner and found the barber-surgeon’s lantern yet lit. She pounded on the door, praying that all surgeons were not in their cups at night. The door opened. A young man dressed in well-brushed livery, shaved and freshly barbered, looked out.

  “I be maid at Sir Walsingham’s house on Seething Lane, sir. Ye be needed, quickly.”

  “Can it wait, girl? I am this hour to my guild’s annual dinner on Monkwell Street.”

  “Nay, sir, a bad injured man…two of them.”

  “Two?”

>   “Aye, sir.”

  “Sir Walsingham sent you?”

  She nodded dumbly, not giving voice to a partial truth, though she would if needs be. Let him think her an idiot servant.

  “Wait,” he ordered, and disappeared inside.

  He returned quickly with an oiled sealskin-wrapped bag, which he slung over his shoulder.

  “Lead the way.”

  “It be close, sir, but mayhap there be thieves about.”

  “I treat their wounds. They will not bother me.”

  This time Frances walked faster and without fear. Soon they reached the garden gate. “Come this way, sir.” She did not bother to hide herself or the doctor. Let Babington or his men see them to increase their curiosity.

  He followed closely, and Frances quickly led him through the side door and into the great hall. For a moment, she thought Robert would rush to her, but he clenched his hands together on the edge of the settle and nodded.

  “What have we here, sirs? Ah, a cruel burn.” His brows rose with a question, but he did not ask it. A surgeon must be known for his lack of meddling in his patients’ affairs.

  Robert pointed to Garnet, who had fallen insensible from pain. “This man needs your help more.”

  “Ah,” the surgeon said, probably knowing very well what he was seeing. “And you are Sir Walsingham’s men, are you?”

  Robert answered for both. “Aye, sir, Robert Pauley by name, and Lady Sidney’s man.” He smiled, though Frances saw it become a grimace of pain. “You will be well paid for your skill and your silence. We are on the queen’s secret business.”

  The surgeon bowed. “Thomas Vickery, sir, namesake to the barber-surgeon who gained a livery for our guild from Her Majesty’s father.”

  “Then we are indeed fortunate, sir, to have one skilled by reputation and forebear. If you please, Doctor, to your work.”

  With light fingers, the surgeon stripped the shirt from Garnet and felt the priest’s shoulders, causing the man to rouse. “I advise, sir,” he said, “that you take some laudanum to quiet the pain, for as much as the dislocations hurt, they will pain you more when they are reversed.”

  “I will bear it, sir, to keep my wits,” Garnet said, his eyes wide in fearful anticipation.

  The surgeon shrugged, and Frances thought him well used to patients ignoring his advice.

  Gently, Robert helped Garnet to the long refectory table used for dining.

  Vickery pulled back the green velvet cover that protected the turkey carpet ’neath and bade Garnet lie upon it. Robert grasped his waist and helped him atop the table.

  “Now, sir, I bid you again to take something for the pain,” the doctor cautioned.

  “Thank you, sir, but I have my own cure for all the hurts I suffer. I but think of Christ’s suffering on the cross.”

  Vickery nodded grimly. “Then think hard, sir.” The surgeon inserted a bandage roll between the priest’s teeth. “To save your tongue, bite on this.” He grasped his patient’s right shoulder and upper arm and swiveled them quickly and sharply.

  Garnet gasped, screamed, his body arching; then he fell back in a faint.

  The surgeon nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “Prayer is often healing, but for such pain, laudanum works much better. Now, Master Pauley, hold him while I work on the other shoulder.”

  It was quickly done. This time Robert heard the dull snap. Garnet groaned but did not scream, though green bile ran out the side of his mouth.

  “Good that he does not have a full stomach, or yon maid would have foul work.” Thoughtfully, Vickery added, “Tell him to keep his arms as quiet as possible and strap them when he sleeps, although he will always be troubled by the injury.” Vickery looked up. “Now to you, sir, and I will be gone to my guildhall.

  “Girl,” he said to Frances, standing as close as she dared, her nails biting into her hands, “bring an onion and some salt from your kitchen.”

  She searched the kitchen until she found a moldy, sprouting onion in the back corner of a drawer, forgotten by the cook. After cutting away the bad parts, Frances ran back with it to the pewter salt dish sitting above the hearth. She scooped out a handful and moved to where Robert sat braced in her father’s great chair.

  Vickery salted the onion and placed it over Robert’s burn, pressing a bandage across it and, withdrawing an evil-smelling glue from his oilskin, secured it. “It will not blister or pucker if you keep it in place until the morrow. I warn you, do not be shaved for a fortnight, Master Pauley.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Vickery began to roll his sealskin together.

  Robert opened the street door, bowing. “Send your reckoning to Sir Walsingham at Whitehall.”

  “No bill for service. It is an honor to provide for his household.”

  “I will tell him of your skill and goodness,” Robert replied, and bowed him from the front door, glancing quickly up at the windows across Seething Lane. They were dark, but a shadow moved by the opposing door. He opened his own door wider for a moment only, on the pretense of waving the doctor down the street, but giving a clear view of the priest on the table, who was stirring from his faint.

  Robert quickly walked to where Frances stood, and pulled her into the dark under the gallery stairs. “Do you like onions?” he questioned.

  Knowing he jested, she answered in kind. “As a stuffing for my Christmas goose,” she whispered against his neck. “But I like my gingered bread even more.”

  He bent and kissed her earlobe.

  She shivered and desire drove her to press herself against him until the priest groaned and tried to sit up.

  “I must help him,” Robert muttered reluctantly, and thrust space between them.

  The priest was struggling to sit when Robert grasped him about the waist.

  “I do not see the surgeon. Is it over?” Garnet asked.

  “Aye, Father, but you must to bed and be strapped in until your shoulders are stronger.”

  “Get me to that big chair and I will rest there, but you must help me away from this place before morn.”

  “Such escape must be carefully planned. Every gate out of the city is guarded. Nothing hasty, lest you fall into Topcliffe’s hands again.”

  “And you, Pauley. Since you are traitor to him, Walsingham must be most eager to take you.”

  Robert nodded, though somehow he knew he must get Frances away and back to Whitehall.

  She approached with a wine cup. “Sir,” she said, holding it for Garnet, “this will help you sleep.”

  “My thanks, girl.” He took the cup and drank it thirstily, then lifted his head. “This wine is bitter, almost gone to vinegar.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but my master does not use these cellars often.” She ducked her head like a maid fearing a blow.

  Robert looked a question and she nodded.

  In a very few minutes, the priest was soundly sleeping. Robert strapped his shoulders with a heavy cord cut from an old tapestry. They both watched to see whether Garnet would awake, but he was deep in dreams.

  “How much did you give him?” Robert asked.

  From her pocket, Frances produced a small vial of dark liquid. “Near all of it. I pray the good surgeon does not need his laudanum this night.”

  “So you add pick-a-pocket to your many skills.”

  “I would add anything to get you from this dangerous game.”

  He enclosed her in his arms and her body trembled against his. “I cannot leave until I draw the plotters—”

  A screech of hinges sounded from the rear entrance.

  They jumped apart a moment too late. Sir Anthony Babington walked in, a pistola drawn and pointed at them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Dear, therefore be not jealous over me,

  If you hear that they seem my heart to move:

  Not them, oh, no, but you in them I love.”

  —Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

  Late August

  SEETHING LANE
AND WHITEHALL PALACE

  Babington’s handsome face held a smirk. “Enjoying the dusty charms of your pretty young maidservant, Master Pauley?”

  Pulling Frances behind him, Robert bowed. “Whilst waiting for you, Sir Anthony, a man must take his pleasures as he can.”

  “Ah, I see a practical man before me, and you have our priest. However did you get him from the Tower and yourself as well? Topcliffe is not renowned for his mercy.”

  “A hundred gold nobles always serves to inspire clemency.”

  “I have heard so.” Babington nodded, though he continued to swing his pistola about, his gaze darting to the darker corners. “Where would you gain such fortune…more than my yearly estate income?”

  Robert leered. “There are many ways to gain wealth in the Tudor court, as you yourself must know, especially in the service of the spymaster’s daughter.”

  Babington lowered the pistola. “So you are a rogue whose loyalty can be bought for gold.”

  “Every man must set a price on his worth and work, Sir Babington, or be no man.”

  Losing his bravado in the face of Robert’s boldness, Babington nodded, since this was his truth as well.

  Robert spoke slowly and earnestly. “I beg you, call your men, sir. There is much to plan if we are to free Queen Mary from Chartley before Walsingham finds a way to persuade the heretic Elizabeth to sign the rightful queen’s death warrant.” Robert took a step forward and lowered his voice. “I have heard the same from Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, who has promised sixty thousand troops if we free Mary.”

  Babington nodded. “You are unusually well informed, Pauley.”

  “That is my business, sir.”

  Babington stepped closer. “All the English Catholics must rise up in Mary Stuart’s favor or the Spaniards will not risk their own men and ships from the armada.”

  Pauley nodded and baited his trap. “Englishmen of the true faith will not rise unless Elizabeth is taken down.”

  “Her death is our mission, blessed by the Holy Father in Rome.”

  Frances’s breath trembled in her throat, as she busied herself playing the slovenly maidservant, sweeping about the hearth while Robert gave Babington much-needed surety as to where his loyalty lay.