A Traitor's Tears

by FIONA BUCKLEY

  At dinner, the Brockleys were directed to a lower place but Sybil and I were together close to the top table. My position at court was never closely defined, even though court protocol was always stiff and over the years had grown stiffer. I had once been a Lady of the Bedchamber but was not so any longer; I was the queen’s half-sister but not openly acknowledged; I had also at times been an espionage agent for her, but few people were supposed to know that. I had no claim to a place at the top table; nor could I be thrust down towards the salt, let alone below it. Every time I came to court, whoever planned the seating must have to worry over where, exactly, to put me. It amused me.

  The queen was absent, presumably taking supper in private. Looking towards a table parallel with the one where Sybil and I were placed, I saw, in an equivalent position to ourselves, someone I knew. It was Anthony Cobbold’s friend Roland Wyse, who was now one of Cecil’s assistants, though I didn’t know why, since he had originally been attached to Francis Walsingham. It puzzled me that he was not in France, where Walsingham now was.

  I knew Wyse fairly well, since we had met last year during the process of unravelling the plot which tomorrow would bring Norfolk to the block. He had errands in Surrey sometimes and he usually seized the chance of calling both on Anthony Cobbold and myself. I rather wished he wouldn’t for he was much given to boastful accounts of life at court, and would talk at length about his ambitions and his hopes for future advancement, and I found this tedious.

  He was capable of charity; I had seen him giving alms to somebody in need which was a point in his favour, yet I could not like him and neither could Brockley. Wyse had sandy hair and a snub-nosed face that at first sight looked boyish, until you noticed his pugnacious jawline and the coldness of his stone-coloured eyes. Brockley had once said that Wyse looked like an assassin. He noticed me and bowed in my direction. I bowed back.

  Seated at the top table were a number of dignitaries, and among them, to my surprise, was Sir Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, who I knew usually took meals in his own apartments. He was a man for rich and colourful clothing but today, though his velvet doublet was rich enough, if rather too hot for a June evening, it was dark blue.

  I realized suddenly how muted was the atmosphere in the dining hall. It was usually lively with talk and very often musicians would play while the diners ate, but not this evening. Voices were quiet and not only Leicester had chosen a sombre outfit. I myself had instinctively chosen a dark brown dress, lightened only by a cream kirtle, while Sybil was in black and white. The impending execution was affecting everyone, I thought, and perhaps Dudley was here because in such circumstances, people draw together.

  I could understand it. Norfolk was in his prime, and he had been popular. He had been married three times, though none of his wives were long-lived. His marriages had brought him three sons and two daughters, and three stepdaughters to whom I knew he had been a conscientious guardian. His third wife had died five years ago and it was after that that his romantic fantasies about Mary Stuart had begun. John Ryder had been right, I thought, to call him foolish rather than wicked.

  His death was timed for the morrow, at eight o’clock in the morning. We rose shortly after daybreak. John Ryder was coming to escort me, but as I had said, back in Hawkswood, Brockley would come with me as well. Dale and Sybil would stay in our lodgings.

  As I prepared to set out, I looked at myself in a mirror and noticed how the years were changing me. My hair was still dark and glossy, but my eyes, which were hazel, had little lines round them and a wary expression. This morning, they also looked large and dark, and my face – it was triangular, not unlike the queen’s in shape – was pale. Sybil, coming into the room to see if I were ready to go to breakfast, said: ‘Ursula, you look tired. Did you sleep badly?’

  ‘Not too well,’ I admitted, ‘though I wanted to sleep. The long ride yesterday was tiring. I don’t think I’ve quite regained my strength after having Harry, even though it was much easier than I expected.’ I had had trouble in childbirth on previous occasions, and until Harry arrived, my married daughter Meg was my only surviving offspring.

  ‘You hate all this,’ Sybil said. ‘We all do. But one can’t refuse the queen.’

  ‘No, I know. I hate being back at court, too,’ I told her.

  Sybil, who rather enjoyed the contact with glamour that such visits brought, looked surprised. ‘You hate being at court? But why?’

  I thought about it, visualizing Hawkswood, that quiet, grey stone manor house with its big, light hall, its two pleasant parlours, its terrace and the rose garden that Hugh had so much loved, and wishing myself back there, with all my heart. Life at Hawkswood was …

  ‘At home,’ I said, ‘life is simple. Everyone knows who they are and what they have to do each day. We’re like a family, even if most of us aren’t related to each other. At court, everyone’s watching everyone else. They’re sensitive about where they’re seated in the dining hall, or who goes first and who goes last when coming into the queen’s presence. They eye each other, wondering if so and so, who smiles at them so nicely, is really scheming to oust them from whatever position they’re in. Roland Wyse aches to be granted a title and appointed to the Privy Council; I know he does. I’ve heard him say so. People at court become subtle, cunning, suspicious, and when I’m here for any length of time, I find myself beginning to think like them, seeing the world through their eyes and I don’t like it.’

  ‘I never thought of it that way!’ said Sybil, much astonished.

  ‘No, you just see the dresses and the jewellery and the sunshine on the River Thames!’

  ‘Not today,’ said Sybil gravely.

  John Ryder arrived to accompany us when we set out but in fact, it was a big group that left Whitehall. We rode, as it was some distance to Tower Hill. Roland Wyse was there, on a showy chestnut gelding. Robert Dudley of Leicester was not, and there was no sign either of Lord Burghley. Neither, I knew, greatly cared for gruesome spectacles. There were, however, many ladies and gallants who had chosen to attend, though they were surely not obliged to do so. Some would have come to sorrow, perhaps to give Norfolk some kind of support. But others, those who didn’t know him well, were probably just there to gawp at the scene. I shivered, thinking about it. My stomach was churning.

  To keep my mind off the immediate future, I brought my horse alongside John Ryder and asked him why Roland Wyse was in London with Lord Burghley and not in Paris with Walsingham. Since Ryder himself belonged to Burghley’s entourage, he was likely to know.

  He did, and laughed. ‘He’s still officially one of Walsingham’s assistants but he’s been seconded to Burghley till Walsingham comes home for good. Rumour has it that Walsingham wants a rest from Wyse’s pushy ways. I think he lends Wyse to other departments, or sends him on errands away from the court whenever he gets the chance!’

  I nodded. I knew all about Wyse’s pushy ways.

  ‘My lord Burghley uses him sometimes for the courier work I used to do,’ Ryder said. ‘I still do some short journeys but the longer ones are too wearing nowadays. I’m getting older! Wyse is welcome to those.’

  ‘Does he mind?’ I asked. ‘Being sent back to England to run errands for Lord Burghley?’

  Ryder shrugged. ‘Can’t tell. But one impression I do have is that if Walsingham doesn’t really like him, he doesn’t like Walsingham, either.’

  I had some sympathy with that. I knew that Walsingham was a valuable and most loyal servant to the queen, but he was also a stark, stern man who on the few occasions when I had met him had made me ill at ease. I had even heard rumours that the queen herself didn’t care for him either, though she trusted him. The two things aren’t the same.

  As we rode through London we noticed that many people, on foot, were going in the same direction. ‘By the look of things, half the city means to be in at the death,’ Brockley muttered, coming up on my other side.

  It was a beautiful morning with brilliant sunshine, though Lon
don, of course, was as smelly as ever, with chimney smoke and horse droppings, food cooking in kitchens with open windows, middens beginning to steam in the warmth. But all such things, sunlight and smells alike, were part of living. Life was pulsing everywhere. It was no day for anyone to die.

  Tower Hill was beyond the Tower of London itself, just outside its walls. There were barriers to keep the crowds back from the scaffold, which was a high platform, with the block in the middle and thick straw all around it. My stomach churned more than ever. I knew why the straw was there. It was to absorb the blood.

  Grooms were waiting to take our horses. They led them away – probably, I thought, to some convenient stabling or hitching posts. I was sure that the grooms didn’t intend to miss the spectacle through having to hold horses’ bridles. We continued on foot. Most of the crowd had to stand but members of the court had the privilege of seats and there were benches ready for us. They were closer to the scaffold than I could have wished. We were going to have an unpleasantly good view.

  It was quarter to eight when we sat down. I was between Brockley and Ryder. Glancing to my right, I saw that Roland Wyse was a few yards away and at that moment, a man I didn’t recognize pushed his way along the row of benches and took a seat next to him. The stranger, who was dressed in black, with a style of hat that didn’t look quite English, hadn’t been with us on the ride to the Tower and probably wasn’t from the court. Perhaps Wyse had arranged his seat in advance for they embraced as they met, as friends do, and then sat talking with an air of intimacy.

  I looked away, not wanting to be caught staring, and found myself looking instead at a group of younger people, men and girls, all in black. The girls were tearful and, after a moment, I identified one of them and realized that the group consisted of Norfolk’s children and stepdaughters. Ryder had noticed them, too. ‘I suppose they’re here so that Norfolk will see friendly faces at the last,’ he said. ‘I wonder, does it really help a man, to see his family grieving?’

  I shook my head, not knowing the answer.

  There was a pause, tense, like the air before a thunderstorm. Then, in the distance, trumpets blared and we heard a slow drumbeat. The sad procession appeared, calling forth a murmur from the throng, half excited, half distressed. The trumpeters walked first, as heralds, clearing the way with noisy blasts, since the crowd was spilling in all directions. The drummers followed, sounding a regular, muted roll like the tread of heavy and inexorable feet. It pounded at one’s nerves.

  After the drummers came a man who, Ryder told us, was the constable of the Tower. Behind him were guards with halberds and, in the midst of them, a small forlorn figure in doublet and hose but without a ruff, was Norfolk. A chaplain walked beside him, reading from a prayer book and behind them was a man in the dark gown of a clerk.

  I looked up at the horrible straw-bedded platform and saw that the headsman had arrived, masked and dressed in skin-tight sable. He held his long-handled axe at his side, not attempting to conceal it.

  Silence fell as the guards took up positions round the scaffold, except that I could hear sobbing from Norfolk’s family. The guards had their backs to the block, and were watching the crowd in case of trouble. Of all the people present, they would be the only ones who wouldn’t witness the end.

  The constable came to Norfolk’s side and motioned to him to climb the wooden steps to the platform. He did so, looking, as he climbed, smaller and more forlorn than ever. The chaplain and the clerk followed him, and I realized that in a corner of the platform, incongruously, there was a small table where paper, held down by stone weights, an inkpot and a quill pen in a holder were set ready. The clerk at once went to dip the quill in the ink. I wondered what he was about and then understood, because as Norfolk turned round, took hold of the surrounding railing, and began to speak, the clerk began to write. He was recording Norfolk’s final words.

  I was near enough to see how white Norfolk was, and I could see that behind him, the chaplain, still clutching his prayer book, looked just as bad. It was difficult to hear, for voices carry poorly in the open air and Norfolk’s was trembling, anyway. But I made out some of his words.

  He said that he had only met Signor Ridolfi face to face once, and nothing had been said against the queen. I lost much of the next few sentences but thought he was saying that they had only talked of money matters. There was something about Ridolfi appreciating the tranquillity of England. A murmur broke out at that and I stiffened, too. There would have been little left of that tranquillity if any of Ridolfi’s schemes had reached fruition. He would have loosed a Spanish army on us, dragging the Inquisition in its wake. Norfolk’s next few words, though, did in a way admit as much, for he seemed to be saying that in his opinion, Ridolfi was ready for any wicked design. Then he said that God would witness that he, Norfolk, was a good Protestant and loyal to the queen.

  In the silence following his speech, he turned away, taking off his doublet. He handed it to the clerk, who put it over his arm, gathered up the paper he had been writing on, and then scurried down the steps to get out of the way. The headsman knelt and Norfolk gave him a purse. It was customary but I thought it must be a bitter thing, having to pay the man who was about to kill you. Presumably to make sure he did his best to make a quick job of it.

  The headsman stood up. Norfolk knelt at the block. The chaplain, who now looked as though he might collapse at any moment, read something aloud from the prayer book, but his voice was so faint that I couldn’t follow any of his words at all. The axe swung up and its polished blade glittered in that lovely morning sunshine. It swung down with speed and force and blood spurted up, splashing the headsman. He was presumably used to it but I flinched and drew back as though it had splashed me as well.

  Norfolk’s crouched body seemed to fold on itself and sink into a heap. The headsman leant down, picked up something round which dripped with red, and held it up by its blood-dabbled hair, as he declared: ‘So perish all enemies of the queen!’

  I swallowed hard, trying to contain a surge of nausea. Beside me, both Brockley and Ryder had gone rigid. I glanced towards Wyse, wondering how he had reacted and saw, to my astonishment, that Roland Wyse, of the pugnacious jaw and the chilly eyes, was in tears, and the friend at his side was anxiously patting his back, trying to give comfort.

  As I watched, Wyse turned his face into his companion’s doublet and, judging from the heaving of his shoulders, had abandoned himself to the most desolate weeping.

  TWO

  Gifts from a Queen

  The summons to the queen came soon after our return to Whitehall. Indeed, I had barely taken off my hat, before a page came to fetch me. He led me to the queen’s private apartments and showed me through an outer chamber where a number of her ladies were stitching while one of them read aloud from a book of verse, and on into a small room that Elizabeth used as a study and for practising music. It had a mullioned window with glass panes leaded in a pleasing pattern, open this warm June day, so that birdsong came in from outside. The room was furnished with a spinet and a writing desk, a set of bookshelves, and a carved oak settle which just now was occupied by a mysterious object hidden under a silk drape.

  Elizabeth was waiting for me on a cushioned window seat. She was simply dressed, by her standards, in a long loose peach-coloured gown with neither ruff nor farthingale, but most people would have thought the damask of the gown, the profusion of pearls – rope, earrings, the edging of her headdress and the glimmering bunches on the ends of her girdle – were highly elaborate. She smiled at me as I curtsied and, as I rose, I smiled back, but I was nervous.

  As the years went on, my royal half-sister had become increasingly royal and therefore increasingly intimidating. She was not yet forty and every now and then there was renewed talk of marriage plans for her. At present, it was rumoured that an alliance with a French prince was being discussed. Looking at her now, however, I could not imagine her joined in marriage to anyone. Her face was shield-shaped and she
used it as a shield, hiding her thoughts behind it; the jewels and fine fabrics were armour too, holding her aloof from others. I couldn’t visualize a man ever finding his way past them.

  ‘So, Ursula,’ she said. ‘What happened this morning?’

  I told her, briefly and also truthfully. She nodded. ‘So he tried, at the end, to excuse himself, to say he had never plotted treason with Ridolfi. I thought he would. But he died with dignity.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Yes, he did.’

  ‘Of that, I am glad. He was my cousin. It is a sad burden, having to pass such a sentence on a member of one’s own family.’ She did not add, And you helped to put me in that position, but I heard the trace of resentment in her voice. It was only a trace, though, and it vanished as she said: ‘A burden, but inevitable if I and the realm are to stay safe. Thank you, Ursula. This morning must have been an ordeal for you, too. You are well? How is your small son? My little nephew!’

  ‘He thrives, ma’am. A young Hawkswood maidservant, Tessie, has been appointed as his nurse and is caring for him while I’m away.’

  ‘I hear you have called him Harry. After my father?’

  ‘Partly that, ma’am. But it is of course a popular name.’

  ‘So it is. And now, I take it, you will wish to return to your home at Hawkswood. What of your other house, Withysham, that I gave to you so many years ago?’

  ‘That flourishes, too, ma’am. I visited it earlier this year.’

  ‘I do hear a good deal about you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘As you know, I take an interest in your welfare. There are those who send word to Burghley now and then.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. I knew of Burghley’s discreet surveillance and tried not to be irritated by it, knowing that it was for my good.

  ‘In places close to Hawkswood, I hear there has been unkind gossip about Harry,’ Elizabeth remarked. ‘It was to be expected. Withysham, being in Sussex, perhaps gave you a chance of escaping from it.’