“After reading all the new evidence in the letters,” said Perdita, “we’re suggesting that the ships were really there but that they weren’t part of the Armada as Burghley supposedly claimed. We think they were part of this invasion force that has been written out of history. The Babington Plot is one of the oddest entrapment stories in our past, yet it is studied endlessly and never changes, despite the fact it’s littered with anomalies — the most obvious being that a consummate survivor like Mary, Queen of Scots would never have been careless enough to incriminate herself on paper. Do you think it’s possible that the reason the Spanish invasion has been expunged from the records is because they were the ones responsible for the death of Mary, Queen of Scots, and not Elizabeth and her Privy Councillors? Maybe the death of the Scottish queen was the first move Philip II made as part of his plans to invade England but it was rewritten by The Scribe in order to discredit Queen Elizabeth.”
PART SIX: September, 1586
Chapter One
To dress a queen was a work of art. Each layer had meaning, each jewel was a message. Nothing was there by chance. Every expensive and exquisite detail was part of the trappings of war.
The chemise came first: linen as pale and pure as moonbeams on a clear winter night, embroidered with shimmering white silk, the contrasting fabrics catching the light with every movement. Next were the stockings, delicately woven silk that whispered on the skin, coloured the freshest rose pink, hinting at spring, youth and beauty.
The pair of bodies followed, made from the finest golden cambric, patterned with mythical creatures — mermaids, unicorns and, flying majestically across the back, the glorious phoenix. The Spanish farthingale, a cone-shaped frame of wire and whalebone was tied to the corset, poised and waiting, ready to receive the weight of the heavy skirts.
A rowle was attached to this, crescent-shaped and snug around Elizabeth’s waist, gentled in against her back, another layer of support before the triangular stomacher was laced into place. Its shimmering silver thread was another hint of the intensity still to come. The twinkling precious metal was her talisman of femininity, her reminder of the moon, the celestial sister who hung in the night sky.
The kirtle was laced around her, fitting over the farthingale, its white silk the perfect foil for the splendour of the forepart: bedecked and bejewelled with intricate patterns of lace cutwork, accented with gems of coral, green and purple — coral for protection against evil, emeralds for love and amethysts for devotion — it rested like a shield, awaiting the battle to come.
The cloth-of-silver partlet was tied under her arms to fill in the low neckline of her gown, its delicate ruffles patterned with golden thread and rows of seed pearls glinting in the light. Gold for the masculinity of the sun, for power, for success, juxtaposed against the dainty pearls; the representatives of tears, of purity and of peace. The snowy white ruff was attached to this, the frame for her flaming red hair but, before this, was the majesty of the cloth-of-gold gown. Breath-taking in its beauty and so heavy it required two of her women to fit it to her slender frame.
The women fluttered around her, their delicate but firm fingers lacing and patting the spectacular gown into place, their touch offering familiarity and comfort. They were her army of helpful hands, of soothing voices and determined companions, ever her supporters and her soldiers in this interminable war. Turning in the early morning light, amber gems flared like flames within the dense golden fabric, adding lustre to the metallic sheen of the skirt. Amber was for drawing out impurities and offering healing, a potent fire from the dawn of time, offering endings and beginnings.
The matching sleeves were tied into place, slashed to reveal the cloth-of-silver lining and, in each delicate opening, an embroidered mermaid peeped out, the outlines captured in shimmering greens, blues and purples. As they caught the light they appeared to swim — sensuous and mysterious — like a woman’s heart.
On Elizabeth’s feet were placed golden slippers, the latchet style with two side flaps that fastened over a central tongue. The soles were thin, supple leather and the uppers were the same embroidered cloth-of-gold as her gown. On each instep flew a phoenix surrounded by flames. She would walk on fire today as she fought to save her realm.
Seated before an oval looking glass, her favourite wig was placed over her own red hair. Its vermillion brilliance dazzled against the starched white ruff with its intricate cut work. A string of deep, twinkling emeralds were woven through her curls. Around her neck and shoulders were draped strings of matchless creamy white pearls and nestled at her throat was the fabulous phoenix pendant given to her one Christmas by her younger half-sister. On her pale white fingers were the ruby ring given to her by Anne of Cleves, the locket ring containing the miniature of her mother, Anne Boleyn, and on her little finger, the golden signet ring worn by all the Ladies of Melusine, the top embossed with the mermaid they used to imprint their seal.
White make-up was smoothed across her skin, the herb eyebright was dripped into her eyes to add extra sparkle, rouge was dabbed on to her cheeks, while a perfect cupid’s bow was painted around her lips and delicate perfumed oils were applied to her wrists. Finally, her women fell away, one by one, forming a circle around her as they checked their handiwork, allowing no errors to mar the importance of their mission and, as an appreciative silence fell, Gloriana rose from the chair in the centre of the hushed room: like Venus from the foaming waves, she was complete, perfect, formidable.
“Leave me,” she said, her voice low. “I would like some time alone with my thoughts before we descend to the hell that awaits us below.”
With a rustling and murmuring like the breeze through the autumn leaves, her women gathered the paraphernalia required for dressing a monarch and walked noiselessly through the doors, their departure leaving an eerie silence in the brightly painted chamber.
Time had passed since they had found the shocking letter sewn into the lining of Babington’s coat. The man had confessed, and the following day a horseman had arrived in the Habsburg livery to deliver a sealed scroll to Elizabeth, and this time she knew Mary was in terrible danger. It was the reason why she was now in this room in Boughton Hall in Northamptonshire. It was the home of Sir Edward Montagu and his wife, Elizabeth, daughter of James Harington of Exton in Rutland. Both were wealthy men, dependable Protestants and staunch supporters of Elizabeth, yet neither usually moved in the high-status, high-glamour and high-stakes world of the inner court. Today, though, Boughton Hall was the centre of power.
Soon to arrive in the presence chamber below was the envoy from Philip II of Spain. Within the hour, Elizabeth would be bargaining not only for her own life but for that of her sister too, and, more importantly, for her crown and kingdom.
Her privy council, including George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, in his capacity as her Earl Marshal of England; his son, Henry Talbot; Sir Francis Walsingham; Sir William Cecil; Sir James Croft; Sir Christopher Hatton and a solid wall of support from her remaining council members, including 26 earls, barons and senior justices, were all filling the hall as she waited for the allotted hour when she would descent to Hades.
Mr Edward Barker would act as registrar of events — he was Robert Dudley’s lawyer and had been responsible for notarising the depositions made in 1582 by the witnesses at Lettice and Robert’s wedding. He was another man loyal to her, to the crown and to justice. Even Robert Dudley and his men were poised in the Netherlands to return and fight for Elizabeth, should she send word.
Outside the window, the September sky was clear. No clouds marred the dome of blue as it stretched upwards towards the sun. A swirl of leaves floated past the window, red and yellow, full of glee at being sent on a final adventure. Elizabeth watched as one danced and whirled on the golden eddies of the breeze, following its progress while it skipped and hopped across the ancient landscape of her kingdom. In the distance she could hear shouts from the fields as the final harvests were gathered, birds sang for the pure pleasure of being
alive and the world shimmered in the flawlessness of an English day. Yet it sickened Elizabeth and, shuddering, she turned away from the bucolic perfection.
A casket sat on the small table beside the bed. When the word had come to request a parley at Boughton House, Elizabeth had insisted this unassuming wooden chest was included in the heavily guarded and securely padlocked strongbox containing her jewels. Alone now, she sat on the embroidered counterpane with its pattern of swirling Tudor roses weaving its way across the bed. Removing a key from a small pouch secreted under her pillow, she unlocked the box for the first time in nearly 30 years. With fear and uncertainty now enveloping her reign, the time had come to ensure all was in place in the event that her successor might need her help, even if was from beyond the grave.
On the night her former stepmother, Anne of Cleves, had given her this box, she had clutched it on her knees, transfixed, as Lady Isabel Baynton had told her the tale of Catherine Howard, but even she had not known everything, and Elizabeth had been certain the remaining answers lay in the casket. When, at last, she had climbed into bed that fateful night, she had waited until those around her had fallen asleep before scurrying to sit by the fire, to use its light to read the contents of the box, to understand what it had been so vital for the Lady Anne to pass on.
Inside had been a series of letters between Anne and Catherine, discussing their fear and heartbreak as they tried to find a path of safety through their lives and their shared experience of being married to Elizabeth’s violent father. Folded neatly below these, she discovered a full confession written by Anne, explaining her part in Catherine’s disappearance and the assistance she had given with moving Catherine’s daughter, Elizabeth, to be hidden in the Scottish court with Mary of Guise. To her surprise, the young princess had discovered that it was Lady Margaret Douglas and her fiancé, Charles Howard, who had volunteered to take the little girl on her dangerous journey the length of the country. The Lady Anne had placed her official seal on the document to add gravitas to its words.
However, the most surprising piece of parchment had been a similar confession written and sealed by the all-powerful Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk. He had died on 25 August 1554 and the letter was dated a week earlier. Like the Lady Anne, the duke had given a detailed account of his involvement in events, including the alteration he had made on the death warrant of Katherine Tilney and Joan Bulmer and the new identity given to Catherine’s son, the Howard heir to the throne, who when Catherine had died in 1552, had been made his ward. A year later, the duke had placed the boy with the Devereux family in Lamphey, Pembrokeshire.
Elizabeth had been both scared and delighted at the prospect of two more legitimate siblings and while, over the years, she had slowly forged a strong bond with her sister, her fear of what might happen if a male heir emerged had left her wary of revealing the truth to her brother. And yet, she knew him, liked him, loved him even, and, in adulthood, had often relied upon him. As a small child, the boy who should have been king revealed himself to Elizabeth, even though she had not understood it at the time.
Closing her eyes and looking back down the years, she saw the scene playing out in her mind as though it were yesterday. It was 1547, her father, Henry VIII, had recently died and she was living with her final stepmother, Katheryn Parr, at her manor in Hanworth, Middlesex. The dowager queen had surprised the court by marrying the handsome, dashing rogue, Sir Thomas Seymour, very soon after she was widowed. Thomas, who was uncle to the new king, the nine-year-old Edward VI, had acquired a number of wardships in order to bolster his income, one of which belonged to Elizabeth’s cousin, Lady Jane Grey.
One morning, Thomas Howard had arrived with a small boy, whom he introduced as Nicholas, although he claimed this was a familiar name and not the boy’s full title. Howard was reasserting his power, having only narrowly escaped an untimely death at the hands of the executioner’s axe. To his relief, the old king had died before the sentence he had bestowed could be carried out and the new king, wishing to begin his reign on a positive note, had pardoned him. Thomas Howard had swept the country, assuring all who would listen that he was still powerful and influential.
While he and Thomas Seymour had enjoyed wine and victuals with the former queen; Elizabeth, Jane and young Nicholas had been left to their own devices. Jane had offered to read a passage from the bible to them, but when Elizabeth and Nicholas had declined she had flounced away. Her irritation had been so over-dramatized it had made Elizabeth and Nicholas laugh and from here they had begun to form a friendship. In fact, the boy had been so taken with Elizabeth he had confided to her his greatest secret about his most precious treasure.
“My mother has given me a locket,” he had whispered to the young princess.
“A locket?”
“Yes, it’s silver and it has a diamond in its centre. Inside she has put a lock of her hair, so I will never forget her, but what makes it mine are the secret words on the inside.”
“Can you tell me?” Elizabeth had asked and the little boy had nodded, his face solemn.
“Spe et nereidum,” he whispered. “It’s Latin, it means ‘Hope and mermaids’.”
It was many years before Elizabeth read those words again in Anne of Cleves’s confession and she realised the small, serious child who had confided in her had been her half-brother. After the death of Catherine Howard, Thomas Howard had bought the boy’s wardship and the boy was no longer known as Nicholas. When Thomas died two years later, following instructions in a codicil added to his will from his deathbed, the child was placed in the care of the Devereux family at Lamphey and from there, he had flourished.
Even now, though, this man assumed he was the son of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and some unnamed high-born lady of rank, but with danger creeping across the kingdom towards her and in the knowledge that her sister would not survive this fight due to the severity of her illness, Elizabeth realised the time had come to add her own signed and sealed document to the cache of secrets. It was also the moment to tell her brother the truth and leave him this casket as the proof he would need to follow her on to the throne and continue the Tudor line.
Chapter Two
“We will be waiting in the ante-chamber,” Kate Howard assured her cousin.
“You may not be able to see us but we will be nearby,” added Lady Katherine Newton.
Elizabeth blinked back the sudden rush of unexpected tears. This day was extraordinary and emotions were taut.
“Thank you, my dears,” she said, forcing a confidant smile. “We go into battle as surely as if I were seated on a great destrier and bedecked with armour instead of cloth-of-gold. We work to save my kingdom and to save a life. One that is so very precious.”
Elizabeth and her ladies processed into the Great Hall at Boughton House, making it clear this was no ordinary meeting. The circumstances might be denying her the beauty of Westminster Hall but Elizabeth needed her privy council to understand that this gathering was as important as any that took place in the hallowed halls of Parliament. Lives were at stake and one life in particular. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Bess’s husband, George Talbot struggling to stand. His newly frail appearance was shocking.
Reaching the carved chair that Sir Edward Montagu had placed on a hastily built dais, surrounded by her cloth of state, Elizabeth seated herself, then waited while her ladies melted away into the shadows. There was a soft click and she knew they had departed to the ante room where they would wait until summoned. Sweeping her eyes around the room, she felt heartened as she saw her councillors, all dressed as she was in their finest attire: velvets and silks rippled in the September air. Jewels twinkled on every doublet producing a dazzling show, a line of defiance. This was England — no foreign invader had any right to try and call the terms of war. Elizabeth was fierce, brittle and majestic in her golden dress — her court exuded power.
The door opened to admit a tall, thin man in dull brown ecclesiastic robes, with sallow skin, mousy h
air and grey eyes. He marched into the room, tailed by two more clerics, their eyes downcast, who hovered in the shadows at the back of the hall. The man made no deference to the crown, no humility, no awe at Elizabeth’s splendour as God’s representative on earth, instead he fixed his gaze on her and paused in the centre of the room, his expression mocking.
“You will bow!” thundered Sir Francis Walsingham but the man stood his ground, gazing at Elizabeth. “Sir, you will kneel!”
The shout was taken up by the surrounding courtiers, each one taking a step forward, but the man, who wore the robes of a Jesuit priest, was not intimidated. His glance encompassed the furious men and, after a moment of consideration, he smiled, his head unbending. Lord Zouche raised his hand to summon the guard to force the man to his knees but Elizabeth stayed him.
“No, Lord Zouche,” she said, her voice quiet, calm, controlled. “Do not allow this man to toy with your sensibilities. Let us hear what he has to say, then we can throw him from the building.”
Lord Burghley stepped forward and scowled at the man. “You are John Ballard,” he said, his voice cold as he glared at the priest, “also known as Black Fortescue. A Catholic sympathiser and spy who has spent time at Cambridge University, trying to recruit men to betray their country. You are here today under the laws of parley and, unless you break these, you will be given safe passage to deliver your message and leave. However, if you break these agreements, your head will be in danger.”
Elizabeth’s glittering brown eyes turned back to the priest. “Speak,” she ordered.
Ballard smiled, then beckoned to one of his assistants. A young man emerged from the shadows, his rough brown robes designed to match those of his superior. The contrast to the glittering splendour of Elizabeth and her court was stark. He bowed and handed Ballard a scroll of parchment before scurrying away, his eyes flickering from side to side as though trying to locate a face in the crowd.
The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 23