The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy

by Alexandra Walsh

  “Your Majesty, my apologies for disturbing you, but I have the note,” said a quiet voice, bringing Elizabeth back from her reverie.

  “And who is it from?” Elizabeth’s voice was low, carried on an edge of anxiety.

  “From Calypso. I have translated it.”

  “Thank you, Katherine.”

  Katherine Newton bobbed a curtsey, then brushed past Elizabeth and with sleight of hand, slid a small square of parchment, unnoticed by those around them, on to Elizabeth’s palm. Katherine took her seat with the other favoured ladies of the bedchamber in the shaded and cushioned chairs behind Elizabeth. The queen pulled a silken handkerchief from her sleeve and under the guise of dabbing her forehead, glanced down to read the short missive.

  Our friend the nun has once again been approached by those who favour the old. She has heard whispers that there is an intention to breach the coast of the dragon. Ships are sailing.

  Elizabeth bit her lip. These were not the words she had expected to read. The note had arrived as they were leaving for the May Day ceremony but Katherine, as their chief cryptographer, had remained behind in the chamber to translate the message that was written in one of their detailed codes. Although Katherine had converted this into English, she had left behind certain words known only to the chosen few who were part of Queen Elizabeth’s inner circle. By leaving in this layer of subterfuge, the note would not be fully understood if it was read by someone unfriendly to their cause. The ladies in Elizabeth’s close circle all had codenames, and Calypso was Lady Dorothy Perrot, daughter of Elizabeth’s favourite cousin, Lettice Dudley, Countess of Leicester. Lettice herself was codenamed the ‘She-wolf’.

  “Katherine, pour me some sweet spiced wine,” called Elizabeth. As Katherine fussed around, Elizabeth passed the note to Kate, whose eyes widened as she read the contents.

  Katherine bent close, passing her the golden goblet of wine. “Calypso is currently with her husband at their family home of Carew Castle. They hear news from her father-in-law and from the sailors, not to mention the pirates, who roam the coastline. Calypso must be certain or she would not write such a dangerous letter. Perhaps we could ask the countess of Shrewsbury to send word to Mignonne to see if she can corroborate the rumours.”

  The third codename, ‘Mignonne’, referred to Bess of Hardwick’s granddaughter, Elizabeth Pierrepont, who was serving as Lady of the Bedchamber to Elizabeth’s hidden half-sister. Elizabeth gripped Katherine’s hand and gave the smallest of nods. “Would you?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Katherine replied with a curtsey. “I will attend to it at once.”

  “Very well, Lady Newton, seeing as your head pains you again, you are dismissed,” said Elizabeth, her voice raised so those around glanced over to see who had incurred her displeasure. She gave Katherine a complicit wink at the cover story they often used. In reality, Katherine’s health was robust. “Your many ailments keep you often from my side — it is most disagreeable.”

  Katherine adopted a downcast expression before leaving the pavilion.

  “Do you think this could be true?” asked Kate Howard, who had screwed the note into a tiny ball and placed it in the hollow at the back of the necklace she wore, intending to dispose of it later.

  Elizabeth allowed her eyes to wander to the spectacle taking place around her while she thought. Having completed several circuits of the tournament ground, Arbella was reclaiming her May Day throne, which was positioned at the opposite end of the enclosure and matched Elizabeth’s pavilion in every detail, complete with an array of courtiers. Arbella’s court was made up of her contemporaries and as Elizabeth’s eyes roved across the faces of the children of her nobles, watching them enjoying the freedom of the day, she realised she was seeing the future. Was this the precursor of the next Tudor court? she wondered, then shook her head to clear herself of such unnerving thoughts. Arbella was standing and waving, indicating she was ready for the knights to enter. Elizabeth clapped along with the throng for a few moments before turning back to her cousin.

  “Yes, Kate, I do,” she sighed, “but we will wait until we have heard from Mignonne. We have heard these rumours before and they have been nothing but gossip and scaremongering.”

  “Yet this time you believe there is substance?”

  “Calypso would never correspond in such a way unless she was certain. You know how circumspect she is, particularly now she is married. Her nature is so different from the other women in her family. Her great-grandmother and her mother are both such determined women who would stop at nothing to follow their hearts and protect their families. Calypso is more like her grandmother, Lady Kathryn Knollys. Her nature was gentler and she battled shyness all her life.”

  “Have we heard anything from our She-Wolf to corroborate this tale?”

  “Not yet,” confessed Elizabeth. “She is much preoccupied with running her estates. When Katherine returns, I will request she writes to Lettice and asks her to join us at court. She will be safer here.”

  “And Calypso?”

  “We will await word, but it is no longer safe for her to remain in Pembrokeshire,” said Elizabeth. “However, I fear she will not wish to leave her beloved husband.”

  Kate opened her mouth to respond but her voice was drowned by the huge roar of excitement from the crowd as the trumpets sounded and the knights, the stars of the day, galloped into the arena. The huge destriers neighed and whinnied, their enormous hooves thudding on the ground like thunder. The armour of their riders dazzled in the sun and the silken banners declaring mottos of love, family allegiances and puns on names, flowed through the air like a magical rainbow, as the cream of the nobility readied themselves for the joust, the highlight of the festivities. Elizabeth’s attention was drawn to the spectacle, her eyes noting each family banner, each crest and each rider.

  “There is nothing we can do about this today, Kate,” said Elizabeth, her eyes fixed on the young men of the court as they pranced and paraded, playing at war in their polished finery. “We should enjoy the festivities. There will be time for frowns and concerns if these rumours should prove to be true but, for now, let us revel in this day and the sunshine.”

  A week later, Elizabeth sat in her privy chamber, reading the report prepared by her leading spymaster, Sir Francis Walsingham. In stark contrast to the May Day celebrations, the weather had taken a grim turn and rain beat against the windows while a wind scattered the spring blossom across the sodden grounds of Nonsuch Palace, her father’s confection of a hunting lodge in Surrey.

  While she perused the document, Elizabeth left Walsingham standing by the fire. His three assistants, sitting at small tables at the far end of the room, kept exchanging uncertain looks, wondering why the spymaster had not been invited to sit in his usual place at the table to the left of Elizabeth’s raised chair. Oblivious to their scandalised looks, Elizabeth continued to read. In reality, her refusal to offer Walsingham a seat was a face-saving exercise on her spymaster’s behalf. His back was paining him again and standing was far more comfortable than perching on a wooden chair at the low table. The warmth of the flames would also soothe Walsingham’s aches.

  Finishing her spymaster’s report on the situation in the Spanish Netherlands, she held the parchment aloft for one of his assistants. The man hurried forward and bowed, exchanging it for a second document, before backing away, still crouched in supplication. Elizabeth swallowed her sigh of irritation. The endless bowing and scraping bored her — all it did was get in the way of the business.

  “And you are sure this is the most up-to-date information we have?” she asked.

  Walsingham nodded. “It is a difficult situation, Your Majesty. The earl is having a great deal of trouble bringing the various states together.”

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose in annoyance. The war in the Netherlands had been causing her difficulties for a long time. The previous year, she had signed The Treaty of Nonsuch at this very palace, agreeing to assist the United Provinces of the Ne
therlands in their war against Spanish occupation. Her part was to send a nobleman of rank and reputation to lead an army, as well as bank-rolling the invasion. Immediately, the Spanish had put a trade embargo on English and Dutch ships, costing the country a vast amount of money.

  Since then, she had been treading a difficult path as she tried to keep her kingdom safe, while also helping her Protestant allies. Her favourite courtier and closest friend, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was her representative and leader of her troops. Her eyes, she thought. It was the nickname she had given him when she was first made queen and had made Robert her Master of the Horse. His loyalty was something she trusted implicitly and it was under her instructions he had accepted the title of Governor-General of the Netherlands. She believed it was the only way he would be able to achieve the necessary authority required to create any form of cohesion among the warring states. Yet this shrewd suggestion that Robert should rule in her place also gave her the opportunity to disassociate herself from any bad decisions he might make. The instruction for Robert to accept this role had been hers alone; taken without the usual consultations with her Privy Councillors, whom she had felt would only have delayed her intentions, as they had so often in the past.

  “Wise men who are here to help you make such decisions,” her most senior minister and Lord High Treasurer, William Cecil, Lord Burghley had exclaimed in fury when he had discovered the truth.

  “And yet you think you are more able than I, the Queen of England, to rule my realm as I see fit. Would you have spoken to my father, Henry VIII, in such a manner? What annoys you more: that I made a wise decision or that I made it without consulting you?” she had retorted. “You forget, Lord Burghley, I am Queen. The decisions are mine.”

  He had glared at her mutinously. “Let us hope none of us live to regret your ‘wise’ decision,” he had muttered, storming out in high dudgeon.

  Elizabeth sighed as she remembered his outburst. She and Lord Burghley had been friends for years. He had worked alongside her throughout the difficult years of her house arrest when her half-sister, Mary, had been queen. When Elizabeth had ascended to the throne on 17 November 1558, Burghley had been the first person she had appointed to her privy council. She still trusted him, but recently she had noticed his tendency to push his own agenda above her own.

  Burghley was not at court today, but Elizabeth knew he often colluded with Walsingham to manipulate her. Their schemes, which always claimed to have Elizabeth’s safety at heart, were often tinged with agendas peculiar to the two men and their political leanings, rather than her own views on what was right for herself and her nation.

  The second of Walsingham’s reports concerned a plot on Elizabeth’s life. His vast spy network had supplied a list of known plotters and high-ranking members of local boroughs who were considered to be of interest or who had pro-Catholic leanings. Reading each name and the attached list of possible misdemeanours against them, Elizabeth searched for anything that might corroborate the unsettling information she had received during the May Day celebrations. She felt sure Walsingham would have included the rumours had he heard of anything unusual. Yet there was nothing new on this list and, according to Walsingham’s intelligence, there were no obvious threats, something which concerned Elizabeth. Once again, she held out the document and a scribe scurried forward, rat-like, to relieve her of it.

  “What news of the Pembrokeshire coast?” Her tone was casual but Walsingham was not fooled. “There is nothing in the report concerning that area, yet it is a vast seaward-facing county with great potential for mischief.”

  “Your Majesty, at present I have no new intelligence from that area…”

  “And yet a known felon who is on one of your ‘watch lists’ has recently been released from the Fleet Prison and is known to have travelled to Pembrokeshire?”

  “Who?” asked Walsingham, taken aback.

  “A former mayor of Tenby named Erasmus Sanders.”

  Walsingham beckoned to an assistant and issued an instruction to make notes.

  “There is also the Barlow family, who have known Catholic leanings,” continued Elizabeth. “Not to mention Charles Paget and Thomas Morgan, two more men of interest. You have no new information on these people and their potential plots?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  Walsingham’s assistants exchanged amused glances at what they perceived as the weakness of the female brain and its inability to grasp the complexities of politics.

  “Perhaps you should check again,” she said. “I have received information from a source I trust that suggests there are plans afoot for a Spanish invasion on the Welsh coast.”

  “It is an unlikely route, Your Majesty,” said Walsingham, looking startled, “but we should never underestimate Philip II.”

  The assistants stifled their giggles of disbelief at such a ridiculous suggestion.

  “What precautions have you taken to secure the Welsh borders?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No new precautions, Your Majesty, but they are well protected. At present, Sir Thomas Perrot has returned from Sir Robert’s campaign in the Netherlands to Carew Castle in Pembrokeshire where he would be available to muster the region, should it be necessary. If there were to be an invasion, the most likely landing place would be the harbour of Milford Haven because of its depth and size. Other potential landing points are Haverfordwest and possibly Pembroke itself. As you are aware, Your Majesty, there is a proliferation of castles along the Welsh coast. At present, Perrot, his uncle-in-law, George Devereux at Lamphey and Morgan Philipps of Picton Castle are all in residence. The marshal of Pembroke Castle, the duke of Hereford, has also recently returned with his son from the Netherlands, although he has not yet travelled west. There is no cause for concern.” Walsingham gave Elizabeth a searching look.

  “Check again, Sir Francis. I would like to know the whereabouts of Sanders and whether there are any fresh threats in this area. Begin by contacting Sir Thomas Perrot with the utmost urgency.”

  Walsingham gave his small, tight smile.

  “You may leave me now,” said Elizabeth.

  Bowing, Walsingham indicated for his scribes and assistants to gather their materials and ushered them towards the door.

  “One last thing before you leave, Francis,” called Elizabeth. “Never bring those particular scribes with you again. I’d prefer to have men around who do not giggle like imbeciles.”

  The three men looked horrified and glanced at Walsingham, who cast them a black look before they filed out.

  As the door clicked shut behind them, Kate Howard and Elizabeth Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury, affectionately referred to as Bess of Hardwick, emerged from their position in the shadows at the back of the room.

  “Walsingham hasn’t heard the rumours then?” mused Kate as she cleared away the debris of ink, quill and discarded paper from around Elizabeth, while Bess poured her a goblet of hot wine.

  “No, it appears not,” said Elizabeth, stretching her arms out in front of her, before walking down the two steps of the dais and moving towards the fireplace. “Unless he is lying.”

  “Why would he?” asked Bess.

  “In order to try and quell the issue,” replied Elizabeth. “He has done it in the past when there have been wild rumours about invasion. To give credence to such rumours can build a momentum of its own and before you can stop it, the country is in a state of panic. Behaviour such as this only plays into our enemies’ hands.”

  Swaying on the spot to relieve her stiff hips and back, Elizabeth stretched again, trying to revive her limbs after a morning of having to bear the weight, not only of the business of state as it was laid at her feet, but also of her restrictive, bejewelled, formal court dress.

  “But, Elizabeth, what if…?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not here, Bess, too many ears. Has there been word from Lady Newton?”

  “Yes, she has returned to her rooms. Her headache has passed.”

  Elizabeth
smiled. “Very well, then I must pay her a visit to ensure her health is fully restored,” she said. “Her handwriting is so beautiful; I may request she writes a short note to a friend. Would you inform her maid that I will visit soon? You will bring the alum, Bess,” Elizabeth instructed. “We do not wish to have prying eyes on our words.”

  Bess curtseyed and hurried from the room.

  Elizabeth stared into the roaring fire, lost in thought. She had been Queen of England for 28 years. Her reign had so far outstripped all the previous Tudor monarchs, except her father, Henry VIII, who had been king for 38 years. Before him, her grandfather, Henry VII, had reigned for 24. Her younger brother, Edward VI, had ruled for six years and her elder sister, Mary, only five. Her cousin, Lady Jane Grey, had been queen for only nine days and Elizabeth still shuddered over her grisly end. Beheaded for being a pawn in someone else’s political ambition — a fate Elizabeth’s own mother, Anne Boleyn, had also suffered.

  Yet Jane’s fate could so easily have been mine, too, she thought, if my sister Mary and her husband, Philip II of Spain, had followed through with their plan. Now, this troublesome man is threatening my country and my throne again. A man who glories in war and bloodshed, firm in his belief that he fights for the purity and will of God.

  “What ails you, cousin?” asked Kate, breaking into her thoughts.

  “These wars,” sighed Elizabeth, returning to her raised chair, “these senseless games played by these tedious men.”

  The golden goblet sat on a table beside her seat and she sipped its fragrant contents.

  “What would men do all day if they didn’t have battles to plan?” said Kate, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You have bestowed the honour of Lord High Admiral upon my husband and he now plays at war with his fleet. Like a small boy with a flotilla of toy boats he plans imaginary battle after imaginary battle, all in the name of protecting the realm.”