‘To whom was it addressed?’
‘It bears no name, nor closing signature. Which tells me that its writer was a cautious man, for all his boldness in setting forth the art of royal assassination.’ Walsingham accepted the sheet back from Goodluck and, after glancing through it once more, threw it back on to his desk as though it meant nothing. ‘It also tells me that he knew we might intercept it.’
‘And that there may be others like it out there which were not intercepted, and have found their targets.’
‘Indeed,’ Walsingham agreed grimly. ‘Which brings me to your part in this great comedy. This past year, I have begun to compile a list. On that list are the names of various courtiers suspected either of having dealings with men like the writer of this letter – those who would rid England of Protestant rule for good – or who are themselves the instigators of such treacherous schemes and plots.’ Walsingham paused, his expression troubled. ‘It is not as short a list as I hoped at the start. But some of the names may appear there in error, and some, perchance, may be persuaded to turn against their fellow conspirators in return for the Queen’s pardon.’
‘And my part, sir?’
‘Your task is to befriend the men whose names are in the paper I am about to hand to you, along with this purse, which is frighteningly heavy and should suffice to buy you priestly vestments and other necessary accoutrements of a Catholic priest, as well as pay for your passage into France. When you encounter these men, as I say, you will persuade them not only that you are a Roman priest, but that you are privy to many plots against Her Majesty and are keen to put them into action.’ He smiled. ‘You will need to trim your famous beard for this mission, I fear. My apologies.’
Goodluck’s mouth twitched. ‘In the Queen’s service, anything.’
‘I want you to send me reports whenever you are able to do so without rousing suspicion. I want names and intentions. I want to know who is involved at the English court. I want to know details and timings of any assassination attempts you uncover. And I particularly wish to be informed if the Queen’s Scottish cousin is ever mentioned as having given her consent or blessing to these plots.’
‘Sir?’ Goodluck stared at him, only now realizing the enormity of the task he had been assigned. His discovery in such a role would almost certainly mean his death. ‘How long am I to stay in France and make these reports? Six months? A year? Longer?’
‘Here, too,’ Walsingham said, ignoring his query, and passing Goodluck the purse and several papers, ‘is a pass allowing you to enter and leave any English port at will, no questions asked. Also a note that you may produce in case of arrest. You will see my mark on the paper there. That should get you through most difficult situations.’
Weighing the purse in his hand, Goodluck frowned. ‘So I am to pose as a Catholic priest, sir?’
‘I hope your Latin’s up to it.’
Goodluck grimaced. ‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti?’
‘Amen.’
‘Amen, indeed, if I muddle my declensions.’
‘Don’t worry. A few days’ study and you can begin baptizing the faithful.’ Walsingham nodded irreverently at Goodluck’s untouched glass. ‘Talking of the blood of Christ, you had better down that and be on your way before this conversation becomes redundant.’ He turned to consult a book that lay open on the table, its pages covered with tiny crabbed print. ‘According to my almanac, the next tide leaves at eight in the morning, and you must go with it to France.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Goodluck stood and drained the wine glass. He set it down carefully on the table, admiring the delicate fluting of the stem, the tiny bubbles in the coloured glass.
‘Why me, sir? You must have other, more educated spies to choose from, ones who could more easily pass as a priest in a Catholic seminary.’
‘Because your French is excellent, your Italian almost perfect, you’re quick-witted, and you’re skilled at living in disguise for many months without discovery.’
Goodluck’s eyes narrowed on Walsingham’s face, having sensed a slight hesitation. ‘And?’
Walsingham smiled wryly. ‘And you’re already dead, Goodluck. Such a convenience to have a dead spy who can still move about unsuspected.’
That had not been the true reason for his hesitation, Goodluck knew instinctively. But it was the only answer he would get tonight.
Tucking the heavy purse inside his jacket, Goodluck turned at the door. ‘Sir?’ he asked, determined not to leave England without discovering what he had intended to find out for many months now. ‘How is my ward? How is Lucy Morgan? I know you must see her at court from time to time.’
‘Lucy is very well. A little quiet these days, but that is only to be expected.’
‘She will think I’m dead.’
Walsingham inclined his head. ‘I’m sorry about that, truly I am. But it’s safer for her this way. And for you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I can see how you might prefer not to leave her unprotected, however. If you wish, I shall give one of my men instructions to approach her over the sale of your house in Cheapside. You will not wish to keep it on if you are abroad a year or more, and she may be glad of the money.’
‘I had rather she was given the deeds, so she has somewhere safe to live if she ever leaves court.’
‘Life at court is a precarious existence indeed. Lucy has long been one of my favourites. It will be my pleasure to arrange for her to “inherit” your property until such time as you are free to return and declare yourself not dead, but very much alive.’ Walsingham looked at him drily, not commenting on how unlikely that prospect was, nor needing to. ‘Anything else?’
‘Have you located John Twist, sir?’
‘I am still pursuing that lead, though it is not a matter of any urgency. I understand your desire for revenge, believe me. I am often angry myself when men attempt to have me killed – and it was done so clumsily, too. Master Twist must be held in reserve, however, in case his presence proves useful in some way.’ Walsingham smiled. ‘To speak frankly, his name has not yet come up on my list of men to be detained.’
Still Goodluck hesitated, not satisfied by this answer. ‘Forgive me, sir, you have been both generous and patient, and I thank you for it. But when will I be allowed to tell Lucy the truth?’
Without answering the question, Walsingham poured a little more red wine into his glass, and studied it cautiously. ‘This Burgundy goes straight to my head in the evenings, you know. I used to drink no end of it when I was a young man. But now … Ah well, I must be getting old.’ He looked down at his half-written letter and took up his pen again, dipping it fastidiously in the inkwell. ‘I believe you’ll find a groom in the yard, with a fast horse saddled and waiting for you. Don’t miss the tide, Goodluck. Bon voyage!’
Part Two
One
Nonsuch Palace, Surrey, autumn 1585
‘YOUR MAJESTY,’ LORD Burghley said quietly, ‘I am afraid Lord Leicester is right for once. We cannot delay any longer. You have promised to send four thousand foot soldiers and a thousand cavalrymen to relieve those fighting the Spanish in the Low Countries, and you cannot now be seen to be withdrawing that promise of help.’
Elizabeth turned from the window, chin held high as she faced her Privy Councillors. It was a beautiful autumnal day, the gardens at Nonsuch glorious with pink overblown roses and the feathery purple heads of lavender. Yet she would not be allowed to wander through the grounds today, nor pick basketfuls of fragrant lavender with her ladies, for she was beset on all sides by those who would set a date for the English fleet to sail to Brill and Flushing.
‘And when Spain declares war on England, who will send men for our relief?’ she demanded sharply, examining their faces. Only Lord Burghley had the grace to lower his gaze. ‘No one, for we are alone in standing up to Philip of Spain and his obsession with empire. You know my policy here, my lords. War bleeds a country dry, and our coffers will not stand such a conflict. Yes, I
promised fighting men to the Low Countries to prevent the Spanish invasion there, and Robert to lead them, for he is so well-known on the Continent.’ She hesitated, seeing the sudden light of hope on their faces. ‘But I did not say when I would send them.’
Robert slammed his hand against the table in frustration. ‘This delay is impossible and cannot be borne! Your Majesty, forgive me for speaking so frankly, but our efforts will be ruined if we do not leave before the end of September. At least set a date for October if you cannot agree on one for this month.’
‘But why do we need to hurry?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘I distrust hurrying. It nearly always leads to mistakes.’
‘Because I have sent out marshalling letters as you yourself requested, Your Majesty. I have hundreds of men under my command already assembled at Harwich, or on their way to join the fleet as soon as they may.’ Robert looked at her bitterly. ‘Good men, whom I can ill afford to offend.’
‘Then you must send them home again,’ she said calmly.
‘At whose expense?’
Haughtily, Elizabeth raised her brows at him, disliking his tone and the freedom of his speech before her. Robert was rather too quick these days to forget the deference he owed to his queen. Perhaps appointing Robert as leader of this military expedition to the Low Countries had been a mistake, for his self-regard was now more marked than ever. If he came back victorious, an army at his beck and call, he might even be a threat to her throne.
‘At your own, my lord.’
Lord Burghley cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty—’
‘Oh, very well,’ she interrupted him impatiently, knowing what he meant to say, and not being minded to hear it. ‘I will set a date for the fleet to sail. Let it be in October. No, that is too soon. Early November. Or else December, if there is any further delay.’
Robert bowed stiffly and left the room without asking her permission. She could see that he was angry and did not call him back. Her jangling nerves felt easier when he was not in her presence, anyway.
She avoided Lord Burghley’s gaze. He had been suffering from the gout all summer, and his temper was less steady than usual. ‘So that is an answer of sorts. Or the best answer you can hope for today. Remind me, gentlemen, how much did I promise from the coffers to keep these men in the field if the conflict should last longer than a year?’
‘The sum of one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds per annum, Your Majesty,’ Sir Christopher Hatton announced, checking back through the stack of papers in front of him.
‘Merciful heavens,’ she said blankly. ‘That is a vast sum.’
‘But consider, Your Majesty,’ Hatton added diplomatically, ‘the inevitable result of not supporting the Dutch against the Spanish threat. If the Low Countries were to fall, and King Philip could supply and launch his ships from the port of Flushing, his war fleet would be upon us within days. Nor are the towns on the east coast as fortified as the Channel ports are. Such a sum may seem vast, but it is necessary and proportionate to our commitments there. To ignore the Spanish encroachment on the Low Countries is to expose England herself to invasion.’
‘Who is to take command of Flushing?’
‘Sir Philip Sidney will control Flushing,’ Lord Burghley told her, ‘and my own son, Sir Thomas Cecil, will take the governorship of Brill. Their orders, like those given to Lord Leicester, are not to exceed their authority with open warfare but to lend support only. I am as keen as you, Your Majesty, not to see this conflict escalate into a war with Spain.’
Waving him to silence, Elizabeth paced the room as she considered the matter. Even in the beautiful and extravagant surroundings of Nonsuch, she felt constantly at risk – the very reason why she had not yet returned to one of her London palaces, even though her summer progress should have finished weeks ago. It had seemed safer at first to remain as far outside the capital as possible. Yet Elizabeth knew there would be no safe place for her, whether in London or the provinces, once she had given permission to Robert and his fleet to set sail for Flushing. Whatever Burghley might say, such a flagrant act of defiance would be tantamount to declaring open war on Spain, and with the growing number of Catholics in England, desperate to remove their Protestant queen from power, she might as well poison her own food and have done with it.
Well, so be it. Elizabeth had grown accustomed to living in fear of attack and assassination.
But did this war have to happen now, while she felt so weak and unsure of herself? Mary on the one hand, and now Robert’s wife on the other, by all accounts setting herself up as the next queen, with Elizabeth still on the throne.
‘Tell me, is it true what I hear about Leicester’s wife?’ she asked tartly, pausing to stare at her assembled councillors. ‘I am informed that since she arrived in London, she is attended wherever she goes by a liveried train of a dozen servants and outriders, and that she dresses as though she were on the throne herself, not a mere countess.’
There was an awkward silence, then Lord Burghley dismissed the other councillors, waiting discreetly until the door had closed behind the last of them before answering her question. ‘I’m afraid it does Your Majesty little credit to be overly concerned with the domestic arrangements of Leicester’s wife while our fleet kicks its heels, awaiting your order to sail.’
‘But is it true?’ Elizabeth persisted, hating herself for the shrewish note in her voice, but driven by a compulsive need to know her enemy.
‘I believe it is true in essence, yes. But she is hardly ever at Leicester House these days. Knowing your keen dislike of her, the earl has always advised his wife to keep to her country houses and avoid London while you are in residence there.’ Lord Burghley shrugged, moving to the window to gaze out over the formal gardens. ‘Which you are not, at present. My own advice, Your Majesty, is that you put aside such trivial matters and come to a decision regarding our commitment in the Low Countries.’
‘She is my cousin,’ Elizabeth hissed. ‘You know some even whisper that her mother was my half-sister by King Henry. Do you not see how Lettice puts herself above me with these tricks and antics? How she manoeuvres for the throne itself?’
‘Your Majesty, this train of thought is not worthy of your royal estate.’
‘But consider,’ she insisted, coming to stand beside him at the window, ‘Robert is to command our forces in the Low Countries. He is widely considered the first man of our nation, both at home and abroad. If anything were to happen to me, to whom would the people look to save them from a Catholic reign under Mary, Queen of Scots?’
‘Nothing will happen to you,’ he murmured, staring out at the gardens. ‘Leicester will contain the situation, as he has been instructed, and there will be no threat of invasion by the Spanish.’
But Elizabeth caught the uneasiness behind his words. ‘Even you do not believe that any more, old friend.’
‘If you are concerned, then name your successor. That at least will make your position more secure.’
Elizabeth turned away, smoothing down her heavy red-gold skirts. The gown had pleased her this morning. Until she had heard from one of her ladies that the Countess of Leicester had been seen in a gown that surpassed even her own wardrobe, being cloth-of-gold with ermine trim. Could no one but she see the danger of allowing this upstart wench to outshine the Queen of England herself? And on what pretext? That Lettice was the second – or third, if Lady Douglas was to be believed – wife of a man who had begun his career as her Master of the Horse, and still had the stink of the stables about him?
Her temper simmered, returning abruptly to her earlier subject. ‘The Countess does not seek to follow her husband to the Low Countries, I trust?’
‘I do not believe so, no,’ Lord Burghley said, almost as curt as Elizabeth.
‘Make sure of it. Have her watched.’
He bowed. ‘I will convey your orders to Sir Francis Walsingham. Meanwhile, Your Majesty, if we could settle on a date for the fleet to sail?’
‘Yes, very well,’
she snapped, exhausted by his insistence. ‘Lord Leicester may sail for the Low Countries as soon as the full fleet is gathered. Draw up the orders and I shall sign them in due course.’
When her councillor had finally left the room, Elizabeth sank to her knees, no longer able to hold back her tears. She did not wish Robert to leave court and her side. She wished she had never thought of him to lead the fleet. Even if his absence would hurt Lettice too, the violent wound it caused in her own heart was not worth the satisfaction of the other.
It was all madness! Robert was two and fifty years old, and suffered from rheumatism. He was no keen young swordsman like Pip Sidney. Nor was he even an experienced campaigner, like the men she was sending to advise him in the field. Robert was a courtier, born and bred to the foolish, stifling life of the court. He was more accustomed to fighting for her affection than wielding a sword in his own protection. Yet he was childishly eager to leave at once for the Low Countries, to sail forth like a conquering hero with thousands of Englishmen under his command.
‘The stupid old fool will be killed in the first skirmish,’ she moaned into the silence of her chamber, scratching at her forearms and taking comfort from the vicious red scores in her skin. ‘He’ll fall from his horse and break his neck, or the fleet will be wrecked in a storm. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear his death.’
With Robert gone, she might as well die herself. What would be left to her? The hollow victory of life?
Elizabeth dragged her red wig from her head and tore at her face in a gasping paroxysm of hysteria. She would never let him leave England. Never! She had lost his body to another woman and now was she to lose his soul, too? Robert! She screamed his name silently inside her head, forcing herself not to shout it aloud. Robert! Robert!
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