by G Lawrence
“What is the nature of the trouble?” I asked.
“Bishop Sandys intercepted a parcel of letters from Catholics on the Continent, heading for Oxford,” said Cecil. “He has called upon Your Majesty’s persuivants, dispatching them to Oxford to round up students named in the letters.”
Persuivants were royal messengers, junior officers of arms, largely comprised of men in dire need of funds, and therefore worked for the Crown on missions such as this, where action was required immediately, and payment was quick. They had an ill reputation, which only grew as they were used more and more on religious matters. Eventually they gained another name; priest hunters.
At Oxford, students were arrested and questioned, but one man, whose name was mentioned most in the intercepted letters, escaped; Cuthbert Mayne, a West Countryman and member of St John’s College. The evidence suggested Mayne had gone through a crisis of faith and had perhaps converted, casting aside a future in England for one of shadows elsewhere.
Mayne was absent when the persuivants called, away visiting family, and his contacts rapidly passed on word that he was in danger. Not long after, Mayne was spotted boarding a ship in Cornwall. Walsingham believed he was heading for Allen’s college in Douai.
“Walsingham is to track Mayne and stop him if possible,” I instructed Cecil. “We need no more Englishmen becoming Allen’s students.”
Walsingham tried, but to no avail. Mayne entered the Douai college, was embraced by Allen… and swiftly became one of his best students.
Chapter Eight
Hampton Court
Spring 1573
Spring came in, sweet, wet and wild. Blustery mornings where ice fell from the skies surrendered to warm afternoons. The sun was pale, wan, but her strength was returning. Birds wheeled into England, seeking nests, and farmers were out battling the forces of nature.
“This is good news,” I said to Cecil one morning.
“I hope you are pleased by my efforts, madam.”
“I am indeed.”
Cecil had managed to bring about the end of the trade embargo Phillip had thrust upon us five years ago when Cecil and I had pinched his payload. It was agreed the ban would be lifted for two years, and negotiations had begun to gain compensation for all seizures of property England and Spain had enacted upon each other. Given that Drake was busy causing untold chaos in Phillip’s territories, Cecil’s pact with Spain was a work of genius, if not magic. I was pleased with his sorcery. France had become unstable, so it was valuable to draw close to Spain once more.
But if France was teetering, England was on firmer footing. There had been no re-enactment of the horror that had fallen upon France, and my people were peaceful. Mutterings still went on against the French in general, with the exclusion of any Huguenot, who was seen as first a Protestant and only second as a man of France, but the horrors of St Bartholomewtide did not step upon our shores. I breathed a sigh of relief, but in France they were still feeling the aftermath of the slaughter.
The Siege of Sommières died as Catholic forces won through, but the defenders were offered generous terms, including the right for their garrison to march out with full honours of war. Sancerre still held out, however, suffering famine and death. La Rochelle, too, had fallen under attack in February, but that Huguenot city was resisting. My old reluctant suitor, the Duc d’Anjou, was commanding forces for his brother at La Rochelle, and all we heard of him was barbarous. Thank You for delivering me from the fate of marrying him! I said to God when I prayed.
Another of my prayers was answered that May when Walsingham came home unharmed.
He was supposed to arrive in April, but a last event postponed his departure. King Charles, fearing my ambassador being called home was a prelude to war, sent a messenger flying after Walsingham with orders to bring him back to Fontainebleau. Why Charles suspected anything, when Walsingham’s replacement the Earl of Worcester was already at the French Court, I knew not. Perhaps the madness of the French King was resurfacing.
“Thank you for all that you have done,” I said when he was brought before me. “Not only for England, but for all the souls you saved during that awful time by opening your house, and your mercy.”
“If Christians are to be Christian, Majesty,” he said. “We must emulate Christ. The Lord of Heaven would not have turned away souls in need, and so I did not.”
“I think as you, and yet, I am forced to be more pragmatic than perhaps a Christian should be. You upheld your beliefs, your courage and strength. I am proud of you.”
“I am humbled by your praise, Majesty.”
“As I am grateful that I have men such as you.”
Walsingham was pale and had lost a great deal of weight. Although he was hardly a burly man to begin with, his clothes hung from his gaunt body and he looked as though he had taken little sleep for a long time. Hardly a surprise, I thought. He had lived in constant and unrelenting fear of his life for months, and the scars, rent upon his soul by the massacre, would hurt for a long time. His health had taken a thrashing, too.
“I hear you have a new daughter,” I said. “I hope Ursula is recovering well from the birth?”
“My wife allows little to trouble her, Majesty. After brushing so close to Death in France, childbirth became to her, I think, a small matter.” He smiled grimly. “The challenges we face arm us to stand stronger against those yet to come.”
“Send her my regards and best wishes for your children,” I said. “Two daughters, Walsingham… Do you wish for a son?”
“Women are a good thing for this world, Majesty. I welcome each and every one.”
“And how are your finances?” Walsingham was in debt. His embassy in France had cost him more than he had expected.
“I am restructuring my loans, Majesty. They will be paid. There is no need for you to trouble yourself on my account.”
I blinked. Most men would have used this moment to extract favours, but Walsingham apparently had no intention of doing so. That pleased me.
Walsingham had moved back into his house in Aldgate Ward, near the city walls. Named the Papey, as it had once been a hospital for poor priests before being dissolved by my brother, it sat at the edge of Saint Mary Axe Street, near the houses of Thomas Heneage and Thomas Gresham. Robin had already called on Walsingham, as had Heneage, for the two men were old friends, and although Walsingham would be crippled by debt for some time, friends were rallying around him, trying to cheer his spirits and improve the state of his health and wealth. To which end, Cecil had an idea.
“Would you consider offering him the post of junior principal secretary to Your Majesty?” Cecil asked that day as Walsingham’s shadow retreated from the room.
I frowned. I already had a secretary, Sir Thomas Smith, and I disliked the notion of creating a new post specifically for Walsingham, no matter his worth. New posts, created for particular men, encouraged others to think positions should be dreamed up for them. It might cause men to start badgering me to promote them to fantastical and unneeded posts. I preferred to stick fast to tradition, to already created roles, so everyone knew where they stood.
There was another problem, too. Walsingham was firmly on any side opposed to Spain. I sympathised in principle, since I had little love to spare for Phillip, but I did not need someone so obvious about their dislike too close to me. It was necessary, at times, to play friends no matter how false, and I was not sure Walsingham would be a convincing hand if added to the game. We had just ended our trade embargo with Spain, and I did not want to capsize that boat. I could deny all knowledge of Drake’s activities since he had gone without a royal licence to pillage, but if Walsingham was right next to me, promoting anti-Spanish policies, it would be harder to pretend friendship. And pretence was required. Spain was stronger than England. If we were to best them, we had to be sneaky, showing them a face of friendship whilst wreaking havoc behind their backs.
But, all that being said, Walsingham was talented, valuable and brave. It wa
s also true my present secretary had more work than one man could undertake, and it was a frustrating role. I admit this freely. I was not easy to work for. I was always altering, changing and rereading documents, usually at all hours of the night. Frequently I drove poor Smith spare of humour and patience, although he had the wit not to show it. I promised Cecil I would think on it, and I did. Besides, I thought, it is apt. Secretary meant ‘keeper of secrets’.
There was no man in the world who kept more secrets than Walsingham. The man was the ‘b’ in subtle.
As Walsingham came home, my cousin of Scots shifted residence, this time to Sheffield Lodge, another of Shrewsbury’s properties roughly a mile from Sheffield Castle. The closeness of the castle and lodge was valuable to Shrewsbury as he had to maintain a household almost equal to mine in size, and lodging them all in the same place was unhealthy and impractical. The reason for the size of his household was security. Mary’s servants had grown numerous once more; she was always sneaking more people in. Shrewsbury had to guard my cousin and keep an eye on her retainers. The glut of people meant they could only stay so long at any one property before it reeked of sweat and piss. Scuttling back and forth allowed Shrewsbury to cleanse each place sufficiently before a swap was made.
And Mary lived well. She had thirty people in her household, and her servants had servants of their own. Although I did not like it, local nobles called on her, and sometimes went to dinner with her. She had ten horses for hunting and riding, and used her long bow often, shooting at butts in the gardens. She owned many hounds, some for hunting and smaller ones for her lap. Mary was talking of starting an aviary, as she loved birds, and she gambled with her ladies a great deal when they were not sewing. She sent to France for patterns for the latest fashions and wore gold and silver cloth, as well as royal purple, glittering with jewels. Each day she went to her Presence Chamber and sat on a throne on a dais, under a canopy of estate, to receive Shrewsbury and other guests.
Her rooms were hung with rich tapestry, and lit by expensive candles held in opulent gilt chandeliers. She ate as well as me, spending all of the one thousand pounds I had generously allocated for food each year. It was reported, to my spiteful satisfaction, that due to her fine table and its offerings she was putting on weight. She sat up with her women until long past twelve of the clock, and tarried long in bed the next day. Her bedding was changed each morning, as befitted a queen, and she was brought books and writing materials, as well as cloth and silks for embroidery.
She had other comforts, tales to warm her from home. Well-meaning Scottish courtiers sent word that her ‘loyal’ son missed her. Mary accepted these fairy-tales as genuine, but I was sure they were false. James would have little memory of her, if any at all. There were similarities in our upbringings, in that respect, but where I had been raised by those who held ties of blood and affection to my mother, James was being raised by the Countess of Mar, and she despised Mary. The Countess was unlikely to tell him anything good about his mother, and the men on his Council had no reason to either. His tutors, too, were no supporters of the lost Queen of Scotland.
But Mary believed these tales. She was desperate to fill her mind with the fantasy her son missed her, loved her, as she did him.
In the aftermath of the Ridolfi plot, Mary had been denied Catholic Mass, but she had ways around it. Ninian Winzet, a Scot, was her secretary, but I knew he was secretly her confessor. I did not inform my men of this. They would not allow it to continue. Shrewsbury and I knew that her priest was Catholic and Mary’s religious liberties had always been kept quiet.
For a queen who had lost her throne, and plotted against the queen who held her, all this was surely a better life than she had reason to expect.
But reason and my cousin of Scots seldom kept company. They were not good friends, having spent so little time in each other’s presence that they were all but strangers.
Mary had recently altered her personal emblem from that of the white marigold turning to face the sun, which she had used in France, to that of the phoenix. Her motto had changed too, from “Its virtue draws me in”, to “In my end is my beginning.”
This new motto was not in fact new, neither was the emblem. Both had belonged to her mother, Marie de Guise, and might therefore be taken as a perfectly innocent appropriation of symbols and mottos used by members of her family, but they were not. The phoenix and accompanying motto were signal fires, lit to inform me she had no intention of accepting her position as a prisoner, and to tell her supporters the same.
In truth if anyone was the phoenix, it was me. My fate had seemed destroyed when I had been named a bastard as an infant, only more so when my brother stripped my sister and me from the succession. Had I not risen from ashes into glory, feeling the pain of flames assaulting me at every turn? Where was Mary’s glory? If anything, she was the worm, fallen from grace into a nest of ashes. But she would not rise again. I would ensure that.
“It is all but smoke,” I said to Robin one evening. “Regent Morton is devoted to ending the war in Scotland, and is working to eradicate her supporters. She thinks to flout him, and me, with this motto and emblem. Mary is no phoenix. She will dwell in ashes, never to fly again.”
“I can never be sure if you hate or admire her.”
“If I could ever be sure of that, Robin, my life would be a great deal simpler.”
*
“I am interested in your proposal,” I said.
Walter Devereux, the Earl of Essex, bowed so low that I thought he might stumble, but he rose elegantly. He had come with a proposal. The Earl had four living children with my cousin Lettice, and with his line assured, he wanted to advance his career by going to Ireland.
Although the rebellion was put down, there were still many concerns. Ulster was as prone to rebellion as milkmaids to cowpox, and Turlough O’Neill, who long ago succeeded the rebel lord Shane O’Neill, was causing trouble. Some of his allies, Sir Brian MacPhelim in particular, had been looting and pillaging, and Brian had burnt the town of Knockfergus almost to the ground.
Essex thought he could help. Cecil had been working on colonising Ulster, bringing in our lords and people to make the lands more English. Essex would help with this, and bring unruly elements into line.
“You would have to fund the operation yourself,” I said. “You do understand that?”
“Of course, Majesty,” said Essex. “But if I succeed, I would hope the rewards would be generous.”
“I would grant perhaps the bulk of Clandeboye to you… if you are successful.”
It was a large territory, and would make Essex rich. But reward came with risk. If he went, this was a private enterprise. He would have to meet the costs.
I granted permission, and Essex went to organise his funds. He did not have enough, but I agreed to loan him ten thousand pounds at a ten per cent interest rate. Although it was a mighty sum, he needed more and had to mortgage some of his lands.
“Lettice is concerned,” Robin said a few days later as we walked in the gardens.
“My cousin writes to you about her personal financial concerns?” I asked, stopping, my lip curling into a sneer. Robin and Lettice had been flirting partners for years. I did not mind Robin having women, but Lettice was not just any woman. She used our bond of blood as an excuse to act as though I were her cousin first, and Queen second. I was fond of her, but if Robin and she became too close I was not likely to respond clemently.
“She wrote to me because she knows how close we are,” he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. “But I do like to see jealousy in your midnight eyes, Elizabeth. It grants your beauty further fire.”
“Be wary of too much flame, my lord Earl. It may incinerate you.”
“I fear nothing but being taken from you.”
I smiled, humour restored. “What is she concerned about?”
“That her husband will mortgage off everything she needs to maintain her house and children.”
“That is between t
he two of them. Essex understands the price of ambition. He and his wife must agree on what is required to maintain their family. I am not about to interfere with a couple, especially when it comes to finances. Discussion of finances is the rot in every relationship, and if a man and wife cannot find a way to talk sensibly about them, there is nothing anyone can do.”
“Then you will not help?”
I rolled my eyes. “If there is one woman in the world who needs no help, it is my cousin Lettice. That woman possesses as much fire as a well-stocked winter hearth, and more spirit than a gin distillery.”
