by Susan Kay
So he was gone and in his absence she was left to face the whispered threats of invasion and the constant plotting to end her life. Burghley had been right, it was rapidly becoming a life not worth the living.
“Madam, I strongly advise against your walking unguarded, even in your private gardens—accept no gifts personally—refrain from opening letters with your own hand—inhale no perfumed articles—eat nothing, nothing at all that has not been tested—”
Christ’s soul, if Burghley had his way, an armed guard would follow her to the privy! She had refused to humour his obsessive anxiety for her person and had said, with her customary flippancy, that she would sooner be dead than in custody. The London crowds lauded her courage, but courage took its toll on her, shrivelling her appetite and gnawing at her sleep, making her unreasonably irritable with her women, whose soft, silly cluckings and pretty love affairs aggravated her beyond endurance. After the disclosure of Leicester’s marriage, she had been virtually unapproachable on the subject; only the death of Leicester’s son had seemed to soften her.
It still hurt Elizabeth to recall her own behaviour when Leicester had come to her four years before, nervous, yet buoyed up with diplomatically suppressed excitement, the pleasure of a middle-aged man who has sired his first legitimate son. He had told her quietly of the birth and stood in front of her with his eyes filled with naked joy, silently begging for her interest and approval.
She had not even asked for the child’s name. Stunned with jealous misery, she had turned away in silence, without a word of congratulation, and he had gone out of her room cut to the quick by her attitude. He made no further reference to his son in her hearing; four years later she learnt from his sister-in-law, the Countess of Warwick, that the child was not expected to live long.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she cried later, as he knelt at her feet; and he looked up in his tired grief and said with brutal frankness, “Because you never asked!”
She, who loved all children, had put her hand to her cheek as though she had been struck a physical blow. The child she had chosen to ignore brought them together by his death, as in his birth he had driven them apart. When the funeral was over there was little comfort for Leicester at Wanstead with his bitter, resentful wife. He went back to Whitehall, like a lost soul, seeking the understanding that only the Queen could give him, and her response was generous. She shielded his grief from the spiteful eyes of those who rejoiced to see “the Great Lord” brought low by any means.
But harmony crept back into their private life only to be thwarted by their public existence. The whirling vortex of crisis in the Netherlands had sucked them apart at the very moment when they had begun to know how much they needed one another. And so he had gone, leaving Lettice to entertain young Christopher Blount in his absence, leaving the Queen to fret and wait with feverish impatience for that news of his success which alone could precede his return. She chafed at the delay, but dreaded the battles which would place him at risk, no longer the young man of lightning reflexes who had won military fame on the field of St. Quentin. She had warned him sternly against empty heroics, impressing upon him that the English force was purely defensive, designed to deter Philip’s aggression rather than challenge it openly. She had made a public declaration to France and Spain, insisting that she sought no territorial gain in the Netherlands, and she relied heavily on Leicester’s common sense to ensure that relations between England and Spain were not unnecessarily inflamed by his presence there.
He knew how important that was—knew that they were not ready for war with Spain. Oh yes, he knew it all—so why then could she not relax and know the matter was safe in his hands?
Returning to the palace she found Burghley waiting for her, so grim-faced that she immediately feared the worst.
“Is there news of Leicester?”
“Aye, madam,” said Burghley stonily, “I fear there is.”
She stiffened, holding the little spaniel against her breast in a grip which made the animal protest indignantly.
“Is he hurt?” she whispered.
“No, madam—not yet.”
She dumped the spaniel in his basket by the fire and turned on Burghley angrily.
“Not yet! What the devil do you mean, not yet?”
Burghley stared at her, his expression unchanged.
“I have just received news that on New Year’s Day, in answer to the importunate desire of the Dutch, the Earl of Leicester accepted the title of Supreme Governor of the Netherlands.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“Is it true?”
Burghley nodded slowly.
“I’ll kill him,” said the Queen briefly, and turned away.
Burghley coughed. “With respect, madam, it will not help the Dutch resistance to see two leaders die in office in such quick succession.”
“So I’ll kill him after he’s resigned the post.”
“Madam—”
“I will not support him in this position! After all I have said to reassure the French and the Spanish—Christ’s blood, I might just as well have accepted the Dutch crown myself! I shall draft a letter immediately ordering him to resign the post.”
Burghley laid his hand heavily on her sleeve.
“If you send it, madam, I shall resign mine.”
He was right, of course, and in her heart she knew it. A public humiliation of Leicester would throw the Dutch into demoralised confusion before Parma’s forces.
She shrugged off Burghley’s hand and marched to the door of her bedchamber.
“Very well! A little time he may have to set this outrageous blunder to rights. But I shall still write a letter to make him smart.”
Burghley bowed stiffly. “That, madam, is your privilege, and my pleasure. I know I can safely leave the wording in your hands.”
* * *
The Queen’s despatch, written with icy formality in the third person, humbled Leicester into desperate attempts to salvage his mission from the ruin into which he had plunged it by that rash act. He paid his men from his own purse and worked himself into illness to draw back some vestige of standing in her eyes; and later he received a very different letter from her, one that moved him to tears as he read it in the poor candlelight a the height of his campaign.
“Rob,
I am afraid you will suppose by my wandering writings that a mid-summer’s moon has taken a large possession of my brain this month; but you must take things as they come into my head, though I leave order behind me…”
The letter accompanied him to his hard trestle bed where he lay awake trying to resolve the problems of ill-trained and half-starved soldiers, greedy officers and rank corruption, the constant bickering of niggardly Dutch allies. Oh yes, he had made a fine shambles of this and they both knew it. Yet her incredible letter, with its “million and legion of thanks for all your cares and pains,” told him simply that he had done his best and that little else mattered.
“I pray God bless you from harm and save you from all foes…”
A friend not won with trifles, nor lost with the like, she could love beyond desertion and treacherous disobedience. What was he doing here pretending to be a king, deserting the only significant role he had ever held in this world? He should never have come, he should never have left her, because without her he was nothing, an empty shadow with no substance. To go home now was the summit of his worldly ambitions; but home was not at Wanstead with his gay, voluptuous, shallow wife.
He could see now that it never had been.
* * *
All through the Spring of 1586, Walsingham had watched his trap with the ceaseless vigilance of a hunter. Not a word which left the pen of Mary Stuart and her correspondents escaped his eye, but for a strangely long time there was nothing significant. Harmless prattlings and dignified complaints about her treatment passed to and
fro and mocked him with their innocence. He supported Leicester’s wretched case in the Netherlands, but with something less than his customary snub-proof intensity, and the men who worked closely with him noted his tense preoccupation.
It was May when the first breath of conspiracy drifted into the communication channel, originating with a Jesuit priest named Ballard. Mendoza, in Paris, informed Philip that it was the most hopeful plot of all and it followed the usual lines—the murder of Elizabeth to be followed by the accession of the Scottish Queen.
Walsingham waited on further developments and set a spy on one of Elizabeth’s young Catholic courtiers, the vain, impulsive, hopelessly romantic Anthony Babington. But even Babington realised the dangers involved and for several agonising weeks he hesitated on the brink of the plot. Just as Walsingham had begun to think he was wasting his time and money after all, Babington pushed aside his doubts and assumed the leadership of the enterprise, causing the Secretary to reflect grimly that a little patience is usually rewarded.
Once the wheels of conspiracy had begun to turn, the plot rapidly gathered momentum. Gifford approached Babington, on Walsingham’s instructions, in the guise of a religious fanatic and pointed to himself as a go-between. He was well acquainted with Queen Mary and believed he had her trust; she would listen to his advice. He explained the little comedy with the beer barrels, mocking the stolid ignorance of Mary’s custodian, Paulet, and saw that Babington was favourably impressed; it was easy after that.
Babington wasted no time once he had committed himself. He was very familiar with the royal household and had soon approached six gentlemen with good positions in reasonably close attendance on Elizabeth—among them a Gentleman Pensioner, the son of the Under Treasurer and the son of the Master of the Wardrobe. Attending assiduously to her public needs about the court, they awaited the quiet word from Babington to kill her.
It had all been so easy that Babington got carried away with his own importance. Posterity interested him—so much so that he actually had his portrait painted with the six conspirators, ready to be hung at Whitehall or Windsor or wherever it should please Queen Mary to hang it, for the world to see.
By the end of June the portrait was finished; and very handsome he looked too, as Gifford agreed, when invited to admire it.
* * *
Secretary Walsingham looked up from the portrait which had been placed on his tidy desk. He was not amused, but he was certainly amazed.
“You say he commissioned this for posterity?”
“Yes, sir—hard to credit isn’t it? But he’s been showing it off to all his close friends.”
Walsingham sucked in his breath with a long hiss, like a snake.
“I have observed some strange sights in my time, Gifford, but for sheer effrontery I should be hard put to match this one.”
Gifford’s ugly face was twitching with nerves and amusement. He could never look at Walsingham’s pallid, passionless features without remembering the painful circumstances of their first interview and the penalty for failure on this mission.
“You never saw such a vain, empty-headed popinjay, sir, and that’s God’s truth.” Gifford paused and wished he had not had cause to mention God in Walsingham’s presence. It conjured up memories he would have preferred to forget. “He must be raving mad, sir,” he continued hastily. “I wonder you take his dabbling seriously.”
“Madness,” said Walsingham coldly, “is no deterrent to murder. Fools may handle guns and knives as well as sane men.” He sighed and stared down at the portrait once more. “But you have done well, Gifford. This goes to the Queen without a moment’s delay.”
He rose and locked his drawers automatically, frowning at the thought of Elizabeth’s loud laughter. Her irreverent sense of humour appalled him and he was well enough acquainted with her nature to know that this arrogant portrait would throw her into ecstasies of amusement.
He glanced curtly at his spy.
“You will see this portrait is returned before it is missed. Babington must suspect nothing, least of all you.”
“Yes, sir.” Gifford bowed in obsequious agreement. “I don’t think we’ll have to wait much longer. Babington has made all his arrangements—he should write to the lady any day now.”
Walsingham nodded and walked stiffly towards the Queen’s apartments with the clumsy, linen-wrapped parcel under his arm.
Early in July Babington wrote to Mary, detailing the plot and asking for advice as to her rescue. When he had signed and sealed the letter, he handed it to Gifford, who hovered beside his desk.
“See to it she receives that without delay. And take the greatest care. It contains all our lives, you understand.”
“Anthony, you know you can trust me to be as circumspect as the case demands.”
Babington stood up and squeezed Gifford’s hand with emotion.
“For Queen Mary and the True Faith, my friend.”
“For Queen Mary and the True Faith,” echoed Gifford dutifully, his face pale, serious, sincere. He went out of Babington’s room without a flicker of emotion and rode hell for leather to the English court.
Next morning, Walsingham sat down to read the deciphered copy of that letter, his knees suddenly too weak with excitement and anticipation to bear his weight.
“It’s what you wanted, then, sir?” Gifford watched the Secretary’s face with cautious curiosity.
“Excellent.” Walsingham spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “It couldn’t be much better—exactly what I had hoped for!”
“Will you arrest them tonight, sir?”
“I think not.” Walsingham spoke without raising his eyes from the letter.
“Sir?” Gifford’s head flung upwards and his mouth dropped open with astonishment. “But the Queen—”
“The risk to the Queen is not immediate.” Walsingham’s cool voice flowed on as though there had been no interruption. “I’m certain Babington will not act until he hears from Mary. There must be no panic and no suspicion until I am ready to strike at the head of this bosom serpent. I must have her reply in writing or she will slip through our fingers again—believe me, I know Her Majesty too well to leave any loophole at this stage.” He paused and plaited his fingers together. “Whatever it takes I must have her reply, Gifford, do you understand me—whatever it takes.”
Gifford stared and his high colour rapidly drained out of his cheeks.
“Forgery?” he whispered.
Walsingham’s jaundiced eyes fixed him with an icy stare.
“Whatever it takes,” he repeated steadily and smiled, showing long, yellow teeth, remarkably akin to a rat’s. He pushed Babington’s re-sealed letter across the desk between them. “You had better see that gets to Chartley as soon as possible.”
* * *
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair beside an empty hearth and handed Walsingham the deciphered copy.
“It condemns Babington and his friends,” she said quietly. “Nothing more.”
“I admit that, madam, and for your immediate safety Babington could be arrested at once, but—”
He hesitated and his eyes flickered over her face, searching for some sign of her reaction. He was terrified of losing her support at this critical juncture and his practised mind-reading gave him no glimmer of her inward thoughts. Her face was as calm and blank as a stone wall.
“But?” she prompted coolly.
“Forgive me, madam, we would merely be striking at the branches and leaving the root untouched.”
“Yes—I am familiar with your obsession, Walsingham.” She glanced down to where Perrico sat with his head on Walsingham’s softly slippered foot. Walsingham liked animals. She found that quite out of character, but supposed that the man must have some human failings. Privately it irked her every time she saw the little spaniel launch himself across the room to grovel on his back, white paws
jerking wildly in the air in welcome. It was the sort of display she would prefer to be totally reserved for herself—and perhaps Leicester, under sufferance.
She looked up at last and said slowly, “What is it you want?”
“Your permission, madam, to keep the trap open a little longer, until I have the positive proof you require. The bird approaches the net, but one sound may scare her off.”
“You are so sure, aren’t you, Walsingham—so certain—she will agree! Have you thought what would happen if Gifford took her reply straight to Babington instead? I’m sure he has. If I were dead, all the evidence in the world would not keep her from my throne and Gifford would sit very pretty in her favour.”
“I know, madam, I also know this asks a great deal of you personally, but I have considered the matter carefully and I am convinced the risk is minimal.”
“That is a great comfort,” she remarked sarcastically. After a moment she got up and walked away to the window. He was convinced then that he had failed and in his innermost heart supposed that he could not really blame her. It was her life, after all, that he intended to juggle with, and not many people could be expected to play the part of live bait with nonchalance. He was about to bow and inform her that he would make out an immediate order for Babington’s arrest, when she looked at him over her shoulder and shrugged, almost carelessly.
“Well, Walsingham, if you are prepared to place my life in the hands of a renegade Catholic spy I suppose the position is very desperate.”
“Madam?”
“I will be advised by you, sir—do whatever you think best.”
He walked to the window and dropped awkwardly on one knee, kissing her hand with a sudden, unexpected wave of emotion.
“You realise, Your Majesty, that we can risk no extra guards or any measure that would give rise to suspicion?”
