Briefly, she was silent. As usual, she had avoided mentioning her mother’s name, but I suspected that she thought of her mother often.
She said: ‘I am saying this, Ursula, so that you fully understand my present doubts. You must also understand that I need you to help me deal with those doubts. I don’t ask you to dispel them; they can’t be dispelled. I need you to brace me, so that I can face them. Marriage in itself is dangerous. And so, of course, is childbirth. For a woman of my years to bear a child for the first time is extra dangerous. I know well enough that I would be gambling with my life.’
I couldn’t think of anything to say in answer, and therefore remained silent.
Elizabeth said: ‘The stakes are high. But if I do marry and I bear a child – especially a son – think of the advantages! England would have a direct heir. And not only would the treaty with France be strengthened immensely just by my marriage, but the birth of an heir to me and Alençon would mean that one day the crowns of England and France would be united.’
I still said nothing. Elizabeth looked at me and I at her, though I could not read her face. It always had reminded me of a shield. It never expressed her feelings. But her golden-brown eyes sometimes did. At the moment, they were pleading with me. She wanted me not only to understand what she was saying, but to agree.
‘Long ago,’ said Elizabeth, ‘before Christianity ever came to these shores, before Christ was even born, ancient peoples existed who sometimes made human sacrifices of their kings. Did you know?’
‘Yes. When I was a child, I shared my cousins’ tutor. He was knowledgeable about ancient beliefs and legends, and sometimes told us tales of such things. My aunt and uncle didn’t approve of that, but they didn’t always know!’
I had never been close to my cousins; my aunt and uncle had made it too clear that as an illegitimate child, I was an object of charity and socially below them. But in concealing our tutor’s forays into the pagan world, we had for once co-operated. His tales and legends were so interesting. None of us wanted them to be forbidden.
‘Some of those ancient tribes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘sacrificed their kings annually. The old king, dying, would represent the death of the old year. The new king would represent the spring of the new one. For twelve months he would have everything a man could wish – wealth, women, rich clothes and food – but at the end of those months, he had to die in his turn. In other tribes, the custom was different. Their kings sometimes reigned for years. But if trouble came, famine, plague, or a threat from a dangerous enemy, then it was the king’s duty to placate the gods who decided the fate of the tribe. He had to surrender his life.’
Once again, I was not sure what to say, and yet again, said nothing at all.
‘If I marry,’ said Elizabeth, ‘I shall have to face what I hate the very thought of; the duty of lying beneath a man and letting him invade me. Ugh! When the physicians examined me to see if I were still fertile, they hurt me. I cried with the pain of it! That prospect is bad enough, but if I should conceive, I would have to face – the possibility of death. Yet the possible gains are so tremendous that I cannot refuse the risk. That is what royalty means, Ursula. That is one reason why we have palaces and adulation; it’s why I have gowns sewn with pearls and magnificent horses to ride and a thousand people to serve my needs. Oh, part of it is so that England can make a show in the eyes of foreign powers. But part of it is … compensation, if you like, for the fact that one day my death may be demanded. I think that now … it is required of me to gamble with my life and yes, perhaps, to lose it. Help me!’
I listened to this with horror and then, looking once more into those golden-brown eyes, I saw, with pity, that their owner was more than just afraid. She was terrified.
And with that, I blurted out the truth of what was in my mind.
‘Sister, I don’t think you do need to endanger your life in this way. You ask me to help you face it, because you say it is in England’s best interests, but I can’t agree about that. If it did … go wrong … England could be left with no queen and perhaps with no heir either. If there should be a baby and it lived but you did not, well, what kind of sovereign is an infant in a cradle? And if it should be a daughter, she couldn’t unite the crowns of England and France. The French have a law against it.’
‘I was a daughter,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And laws can be changed. An honest Protector could be found to see England through while a child matured; I am sure of that.’ She sighed again. ‘In fact, there is a possible heir, though he too is still young – only thirteen as yet. He has been reared as a good Protestant. I mean James, the son of Mary of Scotland, who is, after all, a cousin of mine. He is descended from King Henry the Seventh, as I am. And,’ said Elizabeth, ‘if he were on the throne of England, Mary might stop trying to start a Catholic rising in her favour. Oh, she still tries, even though I keep her as close as I can. Walsingham says that if she could find someone willing to assassinate me, she would, and he may well be right. But she might balk at trying to assassinate her son. Whatever happens, England will still have an heir. But a direct heir, and a firm treaty with France, would be far better. Far better. And as England’s queen, I must try to achieve the best possible future, the greatest possible safety, for my country. Unless Alençon is as repulsive as a snake – or even if he is as repulsive as a snake – I must marry him. The possible gains are immeasurable.’
There just wasn’t an answer to this. Once more, I sat speechless.
‘I need you to steady my nerve,’ said Elizabeth. ‘You have been married, you have borne children. You survived. I need you to warm my heart and quiet my fears. To see me through. Ursula,’ said the queen, ‘give me your courage.’
I could do nothing but bow my head and agree, but I was full of sorrow for her. She was the queen. She did indeed have ropes of pearls and a string of palaces; she was surrounded by hundreds of people, all concerned for her well-being. Yet at the heart of it all was this dark pit, this yawning abyss of terror. I was thankful in that moment that my mother had not been one of King Henry’s lawful wives.
EIGHT
Seeing Double
I returned to my quarters, heavy of heart. I knew now what was asked of me. I was to encourage the queen and thrust her towards a peril that appalled her, and for good reason, for her fears were justified. I too was appalled.
Deep in unhappy thought, I entered the room which we were using as a parlour, and then halted, because Sir William Cecil was there, evidently awaiting me, being entertained by the Brockleys and sipping the wine that Brockley had purchased.
‘Lord Burghley!’ I said, formally.
‘Good afternoon, Ursula. You have been with the queen?’
‘I … yes.’ I made my curtsey and sat down. Dale at once poured a glass of wine for me and I took it absent-mindedly. ‘What brings you here, my lord?’ I asked.
‘A natural wish to welcome you to court. And I want to ask you how you found the queen and what you think of this new marriage ploy, and also to ask you to undertake a small – and quite harmless – task for me – for us, that is, the queen, myself, Sir Francis Walsingham.’
I might have known. I might have known. Somehow, whenever Cecil came over my horizon, he had a task for me. It was always small, it was always allegedly harmless, and it usually turned out to be neither. No, let me correct that. It always turned out to be neither.
‘But first,’ said Cecil, who knew perfectly well what I was thinking though he didn’t comment on it, ‘the queen. Ursula, what is your opinion of this latest development? The treaty with France is obviously a good thing, but is the marriage equally worthwhile?’
‘I don’t like it,’ I said candidly. ‘I think it’s dangerous.’
‘For the queen or for England?’
‘Both. We risk losing the queen, and there really is a risk. The queen is in her forties. If the worst happened, we would be left either with an heir who is an infant in a cradle or a boy in his teens, who has never set fo
ot in England before.’
Cecil nodded. He was always a pensive man. Today, he was dressed, as he so often was, not in doublet and hose, but in a long, formal gown of blue and grey, and the worried line that was always there between his light eyes, was deeper even than usual. He kept on uneasily stroking his fair, forked beard.
‘My feelings exactly, Ursula. Walsingham thinks the same and he also says that although the treaty would mean that France would help England if Spain attacked us, and vice versa, the Spanish might be so incensed by such an agreement that it could cause a war rather than discourage one. And the Earl of Leicester heartily agrees with both of us, although he is being rather careful at the moment.’
‘For any particular reason?’
‘There is indeed a particular reason. You had better know, if I can rely on your discretion. Can I?’
‘Of course.’
He looked at the Brockleys, who were trying not to appear agog.
‘And theirs,’ I said.
‘They would hear soon enough, anyway,’ said Cecil. ‘All the Council knows. Only the queen, the one who matters most, does not. The Earl of Leicester, the queen’s Sweet Robin, got himself married last year. You will find that he has since then found excuses to leave court for prolonged periods now and then, and that’s why. He goes home to his wife. You know her.’
He paused, while I looked enquiring, and then smiled. Cecil had a knack of – just now and then – saying something totally unexpected. He was a professional lawyer and therefore discreet. But now, just for once, he spoke with a wicked glint in his eyes and a touch of malice in his voice.
‘Leicester has married that sloeberry-eyed charmer, Lettice Knollys. Her mother was the queen’s first cousin – a niece of Anne Boleyn.’
I did indeed know Lettice and hadn’t taken to her. Nor had Cecil, by the sound of it. The queen would be furious when she heard of this. Her Sweet Robin had never been her lover, of that I was certain. But she assuredly regarded him as her possession. ‘No wonder Leicester is being cautious,’ I said.
‘Jean de Simier hates him,’ said Cecil, ‘because he knows that Leicester is against the French marriage and he also knows that Leicester has great influence with the queen. De Simier doesn’t know about Lettice as far as we are aware and we hope he doesn’t find out, but he may do. He has an enquiring nature, and that clerk of his, Antoine de Lacey, is worse. He looks harmless, but I have talked with him and believe me, he has the sort of mind that pokes into every crack like a chisel and tries to pry secrets loose. If de Simier doesn’t find out about Lettice, then de Lacey very well may. Thomas Radcliffe of Sussex, of course, has always wanted the queen to marry and have children and he is in favour of the match. So are a good many other members of the Council, though by no means all. Some share our doubts. It’s an awkward situation – fraught, even. What did the queen say to you?’
I repeated the gist of it as well as I could and Dale couldn’t stop herself from exclaiming: ‘Oh, the poor woman!’
Cecil sighed. ‘At heart, I hope that when Alençon gets here, she doesn’t like him, or he doesn’t like her so that the whole enterprise falls quietly through. And yet – England really does need that treaty with France, and could certainly do with an heir.’
Into the silence that followed, I said: ‘And the little, harmless task you have in mind for me?’
‘Ah. Yes, you remind me. On the Continent just now,’ said Cecil, ‘is an agent of ours. I won’t tell you his real name but his code-name is Janus.’
‘The Roman god of the threshold, who had two faces and looked both inwards and outwards?’
‘Yes. And our Janus is indeed two-faced. In the eyes of the world, he is an ardent Catholic and an enthusiastic supporter of Mary Stuart’s claim to our queen’s throne, who has exiled himself to France for his own safety. He often gets himself involved in various schemes intended for Mary’s benefit – mostly they concern encouraging other supporters and raising money …’
‘I know all about that sort of thing,’ I said. ‘I learned much when I was married to de la Roche.’
‘Quite. But to continue. Janus not only learns what he can of plots in the making and passes on to us what he has discovered; he also scuppers the said plots where possible. He seeks out those who have promised men or money, arranges vital meetings where they can get together and then makes sure that the meetings somehow fall through, and the parties blame each other. He finds people willing to sell land or valuables to raise money for Mary but somehow the land or goods are declared worthless, or the vendor’s right of ownership is mysteriously challenged. Or the donation is made but goes astray. Our Janus has all manner of ploys and a wide knowledge of useful people who can be bribed or blackmailed into helping him. He is a most gifted agent. And a brave one. He travels to Spain sometimes, which is risky. He is also ruthless.’
Cecil’s eyes became thoughtful. ‘To my knowledge, he has arranged the deaths of two men who had become suspicious of him. I have myself asked him to avoid this sort of thing and that is partly why I am about to make a certain request of you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘You will in a moment. Janus occasionally visits England to call upon relatives. He is here now and somewhat worried. He has been accustomed to send letters and reports to me and to Sir Francis Walsingham through an intermediary, someone purporting to be a cousin in England, with whom he corresponds. This man has died. As far as Janus knows, he is not at the moment under suspicion but he soon would be if he took to writing direct to any influential person in England. He needs a replacement for his so-called cousin. We have been thinking, Janus and Walsingham and I, that while he is in England, why should he not happily make contact with a sister that he lost touch with, perhaps many years ago? There need be nothing remarkable about that.’
I was ahead of him. ‘But now he is to pretend that on this latest visit to England, he has met and renewed acquaintance with a sister from whom he was separated, perhaps in childhood, and they wish to write to each other?’
‘Yes. He will return to France and he will receive a letter from this imaginary sister, full of family affection and solidarity and delight in having met her estranged brother and made friends with him. He will talk about the letter and about his sister, to his associates. He will be very touched by her wish to keep in contact with him. He will reply to her. The correspondence will flourish,’ said Cecil.
‘What about his own real relatives? He obviously has some! You have just said that he visits them.’
‘They’re ordinary folk, and we – Walsingham and I – prefer not to involve such people in secret work,’ Cecil said. ‘It can be unsafe. Some would be bewildered or even repelled; some excited and liable to talk. It’s better to keep secret matters in the hands of those who are used to them.’
‘Like me, you mean? I take it,’ I said, ‘that you want me to be Janus’ long-lost sister.’
‘Exactly. To receive his letters and pass them on to me or to Walsingham. To Walsingham, I think would be best. Will you do it? There’s no danger,’ said Cecil persuasively. ‘This time, Ursula, you are not being asked to do anything that can possibly bring you into danger. When you return home, regular messengers will call at Hawkswood to collect any letters you may receive, so you need not worry about how to get letters to us. They will be addressed to you under your maiden name of Faldene, and that way, you will always know that they come from Janus. Also, of course, the name of Stannard may be more widely known than we would wish, but Faldene should be safe enough. Few people now remember what you were called as a girl.’
I had been so often assured that my assignments wouldn’t bring me into danger, but this time it looked as though it must be true. I couldn’t, surely, come to harm just by receiving letters and passing them on. Once again, as so often before, I agreed to do as I was told.
NINE
A Wooer and a Will
I asked if I could meet Janus, but apparently he had left t
he court to visit the relatives who were, alas, so unsuitable as a means of transmitting information back to England. On thinking it over, I found that I didn’t truly want to meet him; I had enough to do already. Like Janus himself, I felt as though I were facing in two directions at the same time, one towards the queen, one towards the mysterious letters I would soon start to receive, from my pretend brother.
My services were to be paid for, of course. The first instalment was paid at once, a purse of six gold angels. There would be four such payments during the year. Twenty pounds annually, just for receiving letters and passing them on. Twenty pounds would keep an ordinary yeoman household for nearly a month. Janus, it seemed, did work of importance.
For the time being, however, I must concentrate on the queen. She called me to her several times during the next few days. On these occasions, I was conducted as before to the private room where she read and studied, received favoured guests and practised her music, but now I was led there by way of a privy stair. This avoided the public performance of passing through successive rooms with guards at the doors and crowds of people. Few others knew of our meetings and there, alone together, she and I would talk, mainly on the subject of marriage.
Because it was what she wanted, I tried to reassure her, to convince her that lovemaking was not alarming and remind her that she was, after all, the reigning queen; she would not be in the power of her husband as her mother and stepmothers had been. She herself said that she did not intend to share power with her husband, if she married.
‘The wedding vows may have to be adapted for us,’ she said, using the royal plural. ‘We cannot promise obedience to any, even a husband. We are England’s sole monarch.’
A Deadly Betrothal Page 7