The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  Frances caught her breath at sight of Philip’s casket before her. She stopped by her chair, feeling some faintness. Always when in need she looked for Robert, but this time she did not see him.

  Now the endless procession of public mourners began. First came thirty-two poor men, one for each year of Philip’s life; then nobles carrying Philip’s sword, spurs, and armor; then high men of the guilds, the lord mayor, and many other dignitaries.

  Amongst the nobles walked Lord and Lady Rich…. Stella, as Frances had known, would not ever miss the prospect of excited notice. Or was she truly mourning the man who had made her immortal? Frances would never know.

  Frances sat, her head erect, unable to wish Stella gone. All who loved Philip, all whom Philip had loved, should be with him now, though his soul had long since departed for heaven.

  She heard little of the service, the long praise of Philip’s worth as a courageous soldier of England, his bravery in giving his leg armor to another, his generous act having made him vulnerable to the bullet that smashed his thigh and eventually killed him. She saw him again as he rode away from Barn Elms, hoping in vain to have left a son behind to keep his name alive.

  She had lived so many emotions of late that she felt numb to more when she should have felt most. Her gaze wandered across the tombs of ancient kings along the far walls and lifted to follow the jackdaws and pigeons as they flew near the high crevices that held their nests.

  Eulogy followed eulogy until, finally, the service was over and Frances moved toward her husband’s casket to kneel, her hand on the crypt.

  As her fingers came to rest on the cold stone, her discarded faith flooded back into her soul. Now that she loved Robert, she understood Philip’s love, and her love of God was no longer blocked. The moment she forgave Philip, God restored her faith. She whispered what was in her heart, what she could never have said if Philip had lived. “I know now, sweet husband, what you suffered married to a woman you did not love and leaving your true heart elsewhere. Rest, brave Philip, at last.” She rose, her legs trembling. “Astrophel, dear star lover, I will bring your star to you at last.”

  Retracing her steps down the nave aisle, Frances stopped next to Lady Rich, whose lovely face glowed even in the dim light. Frances held out her hand to Stella, who hesitated but took it, linking her arm with Frances’s and returning with her to the casket. Frances had no words, so, placing Stella’s hand on the casket, she gave Philip over to her, leaving her there. Returning to Paul’s courtyard, she stepped into her father’s carriage…where Essex was waiting.

  He was magnificent in a silver breastplate and helm and held a sword across his lap. “Philip’s sword,” he said, caressing it. “He gave it to me…as he gave you to me, dear Frances.”

  She said nothing.

  “The queen has called me to her,” he went on, his mouth set. “I will tell her that I will marry you immediately. If we wait, she will work her will on your father. I have seen it too many a time. My stepfather, Leicester, advises that she would forgive me quick enough…and you, though it will take her longer and she’ll never accept you back in her service.”

  Frances could scarce breathe at such news. “Yet, the queen…Her Majesty may send us both to the Tower.”

  He laughed. “I know her well. She loves me and cannot have me from her. She keeps her youth in me.” He was still smiling. “She may threaten, but one tear from me…” His low voice trailed away, suggesting he was not as certain as he wanted Frances to think, as he himself wanted to think.

  Frances knew that would mean all would be done in haste.

  Robert was at the door when Meg opened it to a knock. Frances sat before her sea-coal fireplace, yet was bone-chilled from the penetrating cold of London and St. Paul’s.

  Meg answered with the haughty air of a countess’s maid. “I will ask whether my lady may see you, since this is her husband’s funeral day.”

  Frances called out, trying to make her tone normal, as her heart beat against her bodice. “Of course I will see Master Pauley.”

  He was swiftly there, kneeling before her. “Robert,” she said softly. “I could hope for no better end to this day than to see you.”

  “You may hope for better, sweetest.”

  She saw then that he was dressed in a newly cut suit, richly embroidered, and wore a single earring. She gave a small, tremulous smile. “I have never thought to see you play the fine courtier.”

  “Think it then, Frances. By the queen’s order and own hand this very hour, I am made Sir Robert Pauley by Henry the Eighth’s own sword of state, to honor my distinctive service.” He put a hand to his burned cheek. “It is the real reason I suffered this, in hopes of having the right to claim you as my wife.”

  “You could not have known….”

  “I hoped…always hoped. It was my only path to you.”

  “But I am asked for and promised—”

  “I know Essex has sought your father’s agreement, but the queen does not look kindly upon the match. In fact, she forbids it outright.” He took in a deep breath. “Her Majesty also kindly provided me with a small estate once belonging to a Catholic traitor. She has decided that I am more suitable than she once thought.” He grinned.

  “An estate—”

  His eyes shone and his scar nearly disappeared in his proud smile. “It will bring me an income that, while not large, is enough to care for a wife with the simple needs of a former brewer’s apprentice.” He stood and held out his hand to lift her up, his eyes shining brighter yet.

  Frances was in his arms, her head quickly on his shoulder, his mouth hard on hers. She half cried, half laughed, while he yet hungrily kissed her. “This cannot be happening,” she murmured.

  “It can and it is, sweetheart.” His entire face smiled. “Come, we will haste to your father before Essex can escape Her Majesty’s close attention. Walsingham will want your happiness on this day of all days.”

  She was swept along the corridors, her hand in his, avoiding the shadows, seeking the light. Within minutes, they were passing the halberdiers and walking swiftly down the long office, lanterns aglow, past openmouthed secretaries toward her father’s writing table. Walsingham pretended not to see her, and spoke only to Robert.

  “Yes, sir knight, I have heard.” He handed Robert a pouch with a red seal hanging from it. “Here is the queen’s appointment for one Sir Robert Pauley as secretary to her ambassador in Paris. You are to depart immediately…and alone.”

  “No!” Frances cried out before she could stop the word. Elizabeth had worked her will after all. No lady of her court was to find the happiness that had been denied the sovereign.

  Walsingham was not finished. “Here are also orders from me to report on the ambassador, who may be in the pay of Spain and France.”

  “Sir Walsingham, I cannot accept the appointment—”

  “It is not yours to accept. It is yours to obey, or rest in the Tower for your life long.” His voice softened. “I value you, Robert, but I value my family’s good name more. Go now, before I call my guards and your skills are lost to me and to the queen.”

  Robert half turned to Frances….

  “Now,” Walsingham said, with real menace. “Do you want to ruin the lady Sidney’s good name on the day her husband finds his last rest?”

  Robert’s hand reached for the pouch in Walsingham’s hand, the orders for his posting and the end of his dream. “I will do what is best for you, Frances.”

  “No, Robert,” she said, her voice trembling, a tear falling onto her lips, her tongue reaching to take it in.

  He looked at her, his gaze seeming to see forever. “Remember what I said.”

  She whispered, and though her father obviously strained to hear her, he could not: “Our love can never be conquered.”

  Robert bowed to Walsingham, then to Frances, hesitating, his gaze memorizing her face, and marched back down the long room and out the door.

  “My barge waits for you,” her father sai
d, not looking at her, his dark-circled eyes on his many papers. “I myself will escort you home, daughter. You will marry my lord the Earl of Essex in one week’s time at Barn Elms. Set your mind to it; you will have him and bring honor to our family….”

  “Rather, Father,” she replied, her words bitter, “I feel certain such haste will confirm my disgrace.”

  February 24

  BARN ELMS

  It was a small, very quiet wedding. Until the final words were spoken, Frances was never quite sure that the queen would not send her royal guards to break down the door and stop it. She did not. When she wished to know nothing, she made nothing truth. Everyone—Walsingham, Essex, and all who knew—agreed the queen would soon forgive her handsome young favorite.

  As Frances repeated her vows, it was to the remembered image of Robert Pauley’s face that she made her promises, though she knew he was on a ship braving winter storms on its approach to Calais on the French coast. She spent the wedding feast treasuring again every moment that they had spent together…and most especially in the secret knowledge that she carried his son below her heart, Robert with her forever.

  She raised the cup Meg gave her and smiled at the guests, including Essex’s sister, Penelope Rich…Stella…who was part of her life again. Above all she toasted her father’s pleased face. Finally, she was the daughter he’d always wanted.

  For herself, she would fill the empty days ahead with her son, who would be an earl, with all the privileges and more that his true father had been denied.

  It would be enough, she knew, taking a deep breath. She would make sure it was enough. Their love would live on, every day to come, in their son.

  EPILOGUE

  February 25

  In the Year of Our Lord 1601

  THE TOWER

  The winter’s morn, made colder by the sodden wind whipping off the Thames, greeted Frances, Countess of Essex, as, heart pounding, she stepped through the postern gate of the Tower, leaving the last of her former life behind. Looking up, she saw the queen’s standard being raised above the Bell Tower, Elizabeth triumphant.

  Facing a pale sun beginning to light the sky to the east, Frances knew this would not be a sunny day in any sense. Spring would not come for many weeks yet. Even the recent plow day had not brought husbandmen to the fields.

  There was a palpable hush in the streets, where vendors of every kind usually jostled and sang out their morning wares. It was as if all London prepared to mourn her husband, the long-ago hero of Cádiz. No Englishman had forgotten that Essex had burned that enemy city and the Spanish fleet in the harbor. The queen had not been pleased when he had missed the treasure ships returning from the New World, but she had forgiven and favored him…until he defied her orders and made peace, losing the late Irish War and emptying her purse. She had sent him from court to house arrest and stripped him of his honors and his income. He would not have been lost had he not led a rebellion through the streets of London. Treason was the one crime Elizabeth could never forgive.

  Behind Frances, she thought she heard the thud of the ax on the Tower Green block. She was certain of it when a faint cheer rose from behind the ancient walls, and, though she was warm under her cloak, she shivered, swaying.

  I have nothing left but that which I must pay the queen, he had written to her from his cell. Now he owed Elizabeth nothing. He had given her everything.

  Frances was twice widowed now, first by Philip Sidney and now by Essex, both men who sought glory, only to find bitter death.

  Faintly, she heard the street rhymers already hawking the earl’s imagined last words.

  Upon my death, at my good night,

  Farewell, Elizabeth, my gracious queen!

  God bless thee and thy council all!

  Had it been his good night? Essex had refused to see Frances, his heir, Robert, or his young daughters, Frances and Dorothy. Instead, the earl had clung to his chaplain and so maniacally desired heaven and God’s forgiveness that he had had no time to beg hers. She doubted he had thought it necessary, though she had borne him five children. Only three had lived, her firstborn son beside her now, his dark head high and his step firm, the strongest of them all, speaking to his good blood. Young Robert would be a comfort to his sisters, playing their games and distracting them with his good humor. He had always spent more time with them than their father had.

  Once in her life Frances had been loved for herself, and the memory was yet part of her, well hidden but utterly alive and breathing. It was that remembered love that warmed her now, as it always had and ever would.

  The tall boy striding beside her clasped her hand tighter and spoke in the croaking voice of one near thirteen years. “Do not fear, Mother; I will have a care for you, always.”

  She tightened her grip. “Yes, Robert, we will care for each other and your sisters as we have done.” It was true. Trying to smile at him, she felt her lips quiver and gave it up. She had never wished a traitor’s death for her husband, but he had not sought her advice. He had thought to force her love, and when he could not, he had turned for opinion and caring to his sister Penelope, Lady Rich…Stella, again and always…a tragic mistake. That lady had advised him to rebel, then counted too much on Elizabeth’s former love for her brother and went to beg his life. The queen had denied her entry, though Penelope had pounded hard on the great doors to Her Majesty’s privy chamber. They remained unopened. Like her brother, Penelope never understood that the queen loved her throne more than any man, always had and ever would.

  The carriage waited, her old horses Quint and Claudius restless in their traces, the golden crest of the Essex arms on the door spotless as the weak light glinted on it. The footman held the door open.

  A movement in the shadow of the draper’s shop across the cobbled street caught Frances’s eye and stole her breath. Even after so many years, she knew him, and when he stepped stiffly toward her, his stride proved his identity. When he removed his hat, he was little changed, though she saw that white had sprouted in his hair.

  “Come, Robert,” she said to her son. “I wish you to meet a worthy gentleman of old acquaintance.”

  “Countess,” the man said, approaching, “I apologize for such an untimely intrusion.”

  She looked up into the same steady, dark eyes, the same beloved face that had haunted her dreams these many years…so little changed…so dear. This meeting, this longed-for meeting, was almost too much on such a day. To lose a husband and to find her love again in the same hour.

  “Robert,” she said to her son, “this is Sir Robert Pauley, a very old friend of my father’s…and of mine.”

  “Good day, sir,” young Robert said, looking curiously at the man’s face. “I have many cousins. Are you one?”

  “No, my lord, not a cousin.”

  “Your face is familiar to me, sir. Have we never met?”

  He smiled at Frances. “I have seen you at a distance, my lord, but…no, we have never met as we do now.”

  Young Robert drew himself to his full height, his mouth, which started to tremble, held firm. “You do not have to call me ‘my lord,’ sir. The sons of executed traitors lose their titles and estates.”

  “Yes, I do know that, young Robert.” His gaze rose to Frances’s face, and he spoke as much for her as for the boy. “But what is lost can be restored. I have lived long enough to believe that truth.”

  “Thank you, Sir Pauley. I will remember your words.” He climbed into the carriage, on his face his clear need to be alone.

  Frances swallowed hard. Was Robert saying that they might yet be together? Pray God it could be true. “I did not expect to meet you here, Robert.”

  “It takes no great skill in cipher, such as yours, to know some things.”

  She almost smiled, remembering the days when deciphering the Scots queen’s messages had been her own triumph.

  “Did you not know that I would be near?” he said quietly. “I have never been far from you, Frances.”

 
She bowed her head, shy and at the same time wanting to lean into him as she once had. “There were times when I needed to know such was true.”

  “I hoped you knew it, Frances.”

  “How could I? You have never written or approached me at court.”

  “That was not possible. I wanted you to find your happiness.”

  “Happiness?” The word almost choked her. “I knew such once, but now young Robert and my two daughters are my only happiness.” She turned her face away from the carriage and her son. “I never expected to have more.”

  His voice was proud, his gaze telling her that he knew the boy was his. “Young Robert is a fine lad and must bring you much joy.”

  “Yes.”

  “You want more than you have?”

  She stared at him, keeping all hope from her eyes. “What more is there for me?”

  He looked long at her. “You did not believe me all those years ago, or do you not remember?”

  She laughed, a small and bitter sound. “Believe what? Remember what?”

  “All I once told you, all you once knew: Armies are vanquished, countries overrun, but…”

  “I remember now,” she said, repeating the long-ago words he had planted in her heart. “Love is never conquered.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Although it is based on real people and events, the love story and adventures come from my imagination. Some dates have been changed, but wherever possible I kept to historical fact.

  First, my sincere apologies must go to Sir Philip Sidney, magical poet of love and hero soldier. I took great liberties with his life for the sake of my story. There is little evidence that he was anything other than a good and loving husband to Frances Walsingham…except for one troubling find in 1964. An original manuscript by George Gifford, a clergyman who was present in the room in Holland when Sidney died, differed from its published version. This sentence, describing those gathered about the deathbed—“It was my Lady Rich…” —was deleted. I have to ask: Was Stella with him at the end and, if so, could that mean this work of my imagination might hold more truth than I know?