Treason in Trust

by G Lawrence

  Tears sprang to his eyes and he clutched my hand. His were cold. “I swear to you, Majesty,” he wheezed. “I knew nothing of the plots of rebellion.”

  “Would I have brought you to my side, allowed you to guard me throughout the most dangerous time of my life if I thought you were disloyal?” I shook my head. “I know your heart, old friend, and I know it is pure. Set aside thoughts that I distrust you. I trust you with my life, Pembroke. You are a true son of England.”

  He sagged upon his bed and wiped his eyes as his dog pranced about, as though it too had heard and was happy. “Then all is well,” he said, trying to conceal his tears. “I can die in peace without that dragging on my mind.”

  “You will get well,” I said. “I am not done with needing you yet.”

  But I had no mastery over Death. Each time I tried to pretend I did, that old shade came to teach me a lesson. Pembroke got worse. He coughed so he could not breathe, and vomited long and hard, until he passed blood.

  He asked to be buried with his first wife, another Anne, like his second, in St Paul’s Cathedral. She had been the sister of my beloved stepmother, Katherine Parr. On the 17th of March, Pembroke died. Whilst he awaited burial, his dog would not leave his body, and pined away, faithful in life and in death, dying under his hearse.

  *

  As I sorrowed for another lost, loyal man, Cecil was busy.

  The first outing for Cecil’s new spy network came in the form of Ridolfi. The man was brought to me in the gardens of Greenwich one afternoon in March, ready to be sent out into the wide world, to see what we would learn from him.

  It was not a moment too soon. Fitzmaurice had gathered a new force in Ireland and laid waste to Kilmallock. Ormonde had seen him off, but more worryingly, the Archbishop of Cashel had been wailing to Phillip that unless he sent support to them soon, the rebels would have to make peace with England. The Archbishop urged Phillip to dispatch his brother, Don John of Austria, to be their King. Cecil’s men had intercepted letters saying unless this was done soon, the remaining Irish rebels would not be capable of controlling their own people.

  Phillip was deep in negotiations with us at that moment to restore trade, and both France and Spain were unsettled by how easily the northern rebellion had been crushed, so we thought there was little danger he would send his brother to Ireland, but there was also word that Thomas Stucley, the former spy in my pay, had most definitely switched sides, and was to be sent to Spain to petition Phillip in person.

  No matter the benefits of restoring trade, Phillip might consider intervening in Ireland if he thought he had enough support. Mary, he might hesitate about, but if he could get himself or one of his relations proclaimed King in Ireland, it would lead his ambitious foot a step closer towards England.

  It was high time Ridolfi was unleashed.

  Ridolfi was to swear loyalty to me, something we could use to arrest him if he betrayed me, and was instructed to journey to Rome first, then to Alba, ending his little peregrination at Phillip’s court in Madrid. He was to gather information, offer up plots with spare information and small chance of success to my foes, and see if he could get Spain, France, or Rome to obviously support Mary. If Mary responded to any of their communications, with treason in mind, we would know her heart.

  When he was brought to me, I was unimpressed. Ridolfi was tall, but gangly, and sported a thin moustache and beard. The fact that even his own hair could not stand to cling to him told me much. And he was, as Walsingham had claimed, mightily susceptible to flattery.

  “I am heartened that you would work for me,” I told him in flawless Italian as he rose from a deep bow. “Walsingham tells me you are, at heart, a loyal Englishman now.”

  “England is in my soul, Majesty,” he assured me. “I am your man.”

  I doubted this was true, but I was willing to let him think me a fool. “You strike me as a wise man, Master Ridolfi,” I gushed after we had conversed for a while. “I, a poor and feeble woman, am grateful to have men such as you to defend me in this hostile world.”

  “It is the honourable place of all men to defend women,” he said.

  Cross me, you Florentine snake, I thought, and we will see who needs defending.

  I giggled and blushed my way through that meeting, and by the end, I was sure Ridolfi thought me a vapid creature, with no more brain than a dishcloth, and surmised that the power of my crafty government came not from me, but from Cecil and Walsingham.

  The feeling was mutual. Ridolfi did not amaze me. I thought him far too talkative and also lacking in sense. I judged that Walsingham was correct; Ridolfi liked attention, and did not seem to mind where it came from. He was like a child who misbehaves simply because he knows errant behaviour will earn him punishment, which is, after all, attention. He did not strike me as a wonderful secret agent, but perhaps that was where his strength lay. If one appears to be a great agent, one is probably not. Ridolfi might be overlooked simply because he was so obvious. No one would think that we would trust him to keep secrets.

  I sent Ridolfi away with a passport to travel uninhibited through England, along with two horses. “Make good use of them,” I said. “And God speed, Master Ridolfi.”

  “Your servant, madam,” he said.

  I wondered if he was any such thing. To me, it was clear Ridolfi served only himself.

  “I hope you and Walsingham know what you are doing, Cecil,” I said after Ridolfi had gone. “There is no knowing what side that man is on. This is a dangerous gamble. You are, in effect, using me as bait.”

  “But the gamble is one worth a wager, madam, if it reveals what we wish to know.”

  “You play with my safety, old friend.”

  “I do, Majesty. But we will protect you.”

  “I have learnt, Cecil, there is nothing more dangerous than men thinking they understand something. What if he tells Phillip or the Pope to launch an invasion?”

  “That may occur in any case, Majesty. We know something of that kind has already been planned between Alba and Phillip. Ridolfi entering the game will not make it more or less likely. At least this way we will be ahead of the game.”

  A game indeed, although many of its players did not know they had taken a seat at the board. Was it fair? To entrap my cousin in a treasonous web of my own construction? Perhaps not, but I was not forcing Mary’s hand. The temptation was to be dangled before her by Cecil’s agent, it was true, but she had only to say no and she would be safe. We are all accountable for the choices we make. Mary could refuse to communicate with my enemies, or she could join in on their plots.

  Ridolfi would be Mary’s greatest test. I would be the master marking her work.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Greenwich Palace

  Spring 1570

  Spring fell upon England with showering rain and glorious sun. The air still tinged with the chill of winter, the sun pale through the sudden mists, it was a glorious time of newness, fresh hopes, and beginnings. Hedgerows bustled as animals sought to establish their territories, and hillsides were suddenly plush with spring lambs. Orchids, their beauty then still buried deep in grass roots, waited for the coming of their master, the sun, to cajole them into bloom.

  Sleek otters fished for eels, racing for their holts amongst the confusion of dense tree roots bordering the rivers when riders came past, and southern hares, always a little ahead of their northern kin, entered their annual dance upon the hillsides, boxing and prancing, pugilists all.

  Pussy-willow catkins sent their fragrant dust into the air, and speedwell shone blue from the decrepit undergrowth. Coltsfoot appeared on the verge of roads, thrusting their scaled stems into the skies to display yellow flowers, and maids gathered it to make remedies for coughs and to treat ailments of the lungs. Frogspawn oozed in the ponds, and lapwings winging into the skies, heralding each day as though it were the first ever seen.

  One day I looked to the river to see a swan carrying two signets on her back. Nestled amongst her
sparkling white feathers, the grey-silver chicks bleated and cheeped merrily as their careful mother bore them safely along the water.

  Thus shelter I England, or thus England shelters me? I thought, watching them. Was I the signet or the swan? Perhaps it did not matter, perhaps we each were both. In some relationships there is no distinction between the old and new, the strong and the weak. Like the swan and her signets, England and I simply helped each other to grow, to live, to survive, and to forge a future.

  There was better news that spring from France. With Coligny marching on Paris, and royal debt mounting to astronomical levels, King Charles agreed to make peace with his subjects.

  “I am pleased to hear it,” I said to Fenelon.

  “No more than I, Your Majesty,” he said. “My country has been in a sad, sorrowful state for many years. There is nothing good about civil war.”

  “There is nothing good about any war, my lord ambassador, but I do agree. Civil war is the worst of its kind, turning brother on brother, and father on son.”

  Talks were to be brought about between Catholic and Huguenot leaders, and the third French war of religion was to end. The peace brought new thoughts to the French too.

  Hearing of my admiration for Anjou, they thought it was high time to offer me a husband.

  *

  “I am surprised to hear you plead for him, Rob,” I said, turning my foot to another path in Greenwich’s park. “I thought you two were dedicated enemies.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, trailing a hand through a bush of thyme. “But he was, this time, only attempting to wed Mary to Norfolk.”

  “I agree I think he had nothing to do with the uprising,” I said. “Very well. Arundel shall be freed. I will inform him he has you to thank.”

  Restoration was on many a mind that spring. With a grateful Arundel restored to his home, albeit under strict instructions that to meddle again with royal marriages would bring about a death sentence, many more were clamouring for Mary of Scots to be restored, much to Cecil’s horror.

  “Her restoration would only bring peril,” he said, coming to sit with me upon a turf seat beside a pretty, flowery mead.

  “I agree, Cecil,” I said. “But seeming as though we are working for it will appease France and Spain. I need no more Florentine financiers backing rebellion in my realm.” I paused to take a breath of sweet air. “In Council,” I went on, “You will defy me openly, press for her continued incarceration and tell everyone I am a fool who has lost my heart to the Queen of Scots, and I will support the notion, as long as my demands are met.”

  Cecil smiled. “You want us to take opposing sides so that anyone who supports either will be called out.”

  “Indeed, Spirit. With one of us backing each idea, men will feel they are safe to come forwards, and then we will know what lies in their minds. I cannot restore Mary now. It is far too dangerous, but to refuse risks war with France. They have just made peace, and although their country has been rendered poor by civil war, they might think to wage war on us.”

  I smiled. “My plan has other benefits, old friend. I can blame you for convincing me not to restore Mary, if and when the need arises.”

  Cecil did not even blink. He understood the game. “And our demands, madam, will be too stringent to be agreed?”

  “Naturally. And when she refuses it will be universally understood that she is the author of her imprisonment, not me. I also want you to accost me on the matter in front of the French Ambassador. If Fenelon believes I am in earnest, he will report such to his masters.”

  A list of demands was dispatched to Mary. If she wanted me to restore her, it would cost her the ratification of the Treaty of Edinburgh, the abandonment of her claim to be my heir, a ban on foreign troops in Scotland, and she would have to send her son to England as my hostage. My terms were deliberately harsh, and I knew they would not be acceptable. That was the point.

  And if she accepted? It might be worth the risk. Having James in England would secure her good behaviour, and I could raise my godson in a manner befitting the only true, royal heir to my throne. That would be a gamble worth taking.

  Cecil and I organised a series of pageants for Fenelon. During one, Cecil told me I was putting myself at personal risk by supporting Mary, and I blew up, crying, shrieking, and wailing that he understood me not. Sir Nicolas Bacon, engaged by Cecil to follow up our first performance, told me it was insanity to think of releasing her, which got a similar response. Fenelon talked to my ladies, and heard how I worried and moaned at night that my men would not support me. He told his masters I was utterly dedicated to Mary’s restoration, but was being held back by my men.

  So far so good, as old gossips say.

  *

  Mary was sent to Wingfield Manor that April, restored to the sole care of Shrewsbury and Bess. There had been a request to send Mary to Chatsworth, one of Bess’ properties. Mary had been ill and the thought was that Chatsworth’s sweet air would do her good.

  I suspected Mary’s illness was due to her nerves. No doubt she had thought when the northern rebellion was crushed that she would find herself in the Tower. That I had not acted against her had brought some relief, but she was still unwell. Not wanting France to become fractious, I agreed to her going to Chatsworth.

  Shrewsbury had also been ill, although not with the same complaint. Both he and Mary wanted to visit the springs at Buxton, renowned for their healing properties. I deliberated upon it as they went to Chatsworth, and had not reached a decision by the time they were to return to Wingfield. The main reason being, a plot to free Mary had been uncovered.

  The scheme was led by a Sir Thomas Gerard. Gerard was Catholic, as were many of the rash young men involved. They planned to get to Mary whilst she rode over the moor, take her to the coast, then to the Isle of Man, and from there she would be able to negotiate with me freely. John Beaton, her Master of the Household, was involved, as, unfortunately, were two of Shrewsbury’s servants. One was a disgruntled former gentleman server who had not welcomed Bess as a wife for Shrewsbury. The other claimed he had been bribed by Mary and Beaton to gain his aid. The second man had told Bess of the plot, although he failed to inform her he had been granted a costly golden ring as a token to take to Norfolk, if the plan succeeded.

  Bess and Shrewsbury sent word to court, but were quick to point out that Mary had not supported the plot. Mary had told Beaton that due to the negotiations with France, she was sure I was working for her interests and would not betray me. Bess passed this information on.

  “Beaton could be lying,” Robin said. “To save his mistress.”

  “Something about it rings true,” I said.

  “But Mary is still writing to Norfolk,” Robin pointed out, something we knew from Mary’s intercepted letters to the Tower.

  “But that in itself is not treason. I am wont to believe her, this time. I would to God I could restore her, Robin! No matter what trouble she managed to cause in Scotland, at least she would not be in my ear continuously, like a burrowing little wig.”

  “She was the focus for the uprising.”

  “But she was not embroiled in that,” I said. “I have been in that position, too, unless you forget? Often men take a banner and wave it above their heads. Does the figurehead wish to be used in such a way? Often not. Many was the time in my sister’s reign I almost lost my head because foolish men could not keep theirs.”

  Robin chuckled. “So you are disposed to believe Mary?”

  “This time.”

  “And the next?”

  “I do not wish to tempt fate by answering.”

  Shrewsbury and Mary had to travel by litter to Wingfield, as both were sickly. Bess rode in the middle. Something which made me wonder if she was nervous about her husband and Mary.

  Four nights later, I had a worried note from Bess. Shrewsbury was running a fever, and was so ill she thought he would not last the night. Alarmed, I sent Sir John Zouche, who lived near Wingfield, to Shrewsbury’s ai
d. Sir Ralph Sadler was also asked to keep an eye on the place. I wrote to Huntingdon, saying that if anything happened to Shrewsbury, he would take over.

  Thankfully, Shrewsbury recovered, and a week later Bess felt safe enough to leave him in order to attend to a kinswoman’s lying-in. I was glad she felt able to do this. She adored Shrewsbury, and the thought of losing him must have been horrific.

  There had been rumours, during the rebellion, that the Shrewsburys had been seen meeting with Norfolk’s agents. I had to investigate any such claims, but I did not believe them. The Earl and his wife had a hard task on their hands. They had to guard Mary but not mistreat her, make sure she was comfortable but not allow her to escape. No small order. They were bound to fall under suspicion each time a plot emerged because they were so close to Mary and so far from London. It is easy, at a distance, to think people guilty of much on the basis of but little evidence.