by Ken Follett
‘Not if you’re discreet.’
Dan nodded. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘You want to know what Swithin and the Fitzgeralds do.’
‘Very much.’
‘They went to Brussels.’
Ned was rocked. ‘What? When?’
‘Four weeks ago. I know because they travelled on a ship of mine. We took them to Antwerp, and heard them hiring a guide to take them on to Brussels. They came back on one of my ships, too. They were afraid they might have to postpone the wedding, but they got here three days ago.’
‘King Felipe is in Brussels.’
‘So I gather.’
Ned tried to analyse this as William Cecil would, and in his mind the dominoes fell one by one. Why did Swithin and the Fitzgeralds want to see King Felipe? To talk about who would rule England when Mary Tudor died. What had they said to Felipe? That Mary Stuart should be queen, not Elizabeth Tudor.
They must have asked Felipe to support Mary.
And if Felipe had said yes, Elizabeth was in trouble.
*
NED BECAME EVEN more worried when he saw Cecil’s reaction.
‘I didn’t expect King Felipe to support Elizabeth, but I did hope he might stay out of it,’ Cecil said anxiously.
‘Why wouldn’t he support Mary Stuart?’
‘He’s worried about England coming under the control of her French uncles. He doesn’t want France to become too powerful. So, much as he wants us to be Catholic again, he’s in two minds. I don’t want him to be talked into making a decision for Mary Stuart.’
Ned had not thought of that. It was remarkable how often Cecil pointed out things he had not thought of. He was learning fast, but he felt he would never master the intricacies of international diplomacy.
Cecil was moody for an entire day, trying to think of something he could do or say to discourage the Spanish king from interfering. Then he and Ned went to see the count of Feria.
Ned had met Feria once before, back in the summer, when the Spanish courtier had come to Hatfield. Elizabeth had been pleased to see him, taking his visit as a sign that his master, King Felipe, might not be implacably opposed to her. She had turned the full force of her charm on Feria, and he had gone away half in love with her. However, nothing was quite what it seemed in the world of international relations. Ned was not sure how much it meant that Feria was smitten with Elizabeth. He was a smooth diplomat, courteous to all, ruthless beneath the surface.
Cecil and Ned found Feria in London.
The city of London was small by comparison with Antwerp, Paris or Seville, but it was the beating heart of England’s growing commercial life. From London a road ran west, along the river, through palaces and mansions with gardens running down to the beach. Two miles from London was the separate city of Westminster, which was the centre of government. White Hall, Westminster Yard and St James’s Palace were where noblemen, councillors and courtiers gathered to thrash out the laws that made it possible for the merchants to do business.
Feria had an apartment in the sprawl of assorted buildings known as White Hall Palace. Cecil and Ned were lucky: they caught him as he was about to return to his master in Brussels.
Cecil was not fluent in Spanish, but happily Feria spoke good English. Cecil pretended he had been passing Feria’s door and had merely dropped in to pay his respects. Feria politely pretended to believe him. They danced around each other for a few minutes, speaking platitudes.
A lot was at stake underneath the courtesies. King Felipe believed it was his holy duty to support the Catholic Church: it was perfectly possible for Swithin and Sir Reginald to talk the Spanish king into opposing Elizabeth.
Once the formalities were done, Cecil said: ‘Between us, England and Spain have very nearly defeated France and Scotland.’
Ned noted the odd emphasis. England had had little to do with the war: it was Spain that was winning. And Scotland was almost irrelevant. But Cecil was reminding Feria who his friends were.
Feria said: ‘The war is almost won.’
‘King Felipe must be pleased.’
‘And most grateful for the assistance of his English subjects.’
Cecil nodded acknowledgement and got down to business. ‘By the way, count, have you been in touch recently with Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots?’
Ned was surprised by the question. Cecil had not told him in advance what he planned to say.
Feria was surprised, too. ‘Good lord, no,’ he said. ‘Why on earth do you want me to communicate with her?’
‘Oh, I’m not saying you should – although I would, if I were you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she may be the next queen of England, even though she’s a mere girl.’
‘One could say the same of Princess Elizabeth.’
Ned frowned. Feria had misjudged Elizabeth if he thought she was a mere girl. Perhaps he was not as sharp as people said.
Cecil ignored the remark. ‘In fact, I understand that King Felipe has been asked to support Scottish Mary’s claim to the throne.’
Cecil paused, giving Feria the chance to deny this. Feria said nothing. Ned concluded that his guesswork had been accurate: Swithin and Reginald had asked Felipe to support Mary Stuart.
Cecil went on: ‘In your place, I would ask Mary Stuart for a very specific commitment. I would want her to guarantee that under her rule England will not change sides, to join forces with France and Scotland against Spain. After all, at this stage that’s just about the only development that could prevent Spain winning this war.’
Ned marvelled. Cecil’s imagination had come up with just the right fantasy to scare Feria – and his master, the king of Spain.
Feria said: ‘Surely you don’t think that’s likely?’
‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Cecil said, though Ned felt sure he thought no such thing. ‘Mary Stuart is technically ruler of Scotland, though her mother acts as regent on her behalf. And Mary’s husband is heir to the throne of France. How could she be disloyal to both her countries? She is sure to turn England against Spain – unless you do something now to prevent it.’
Feria nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I’m guessing you have a suggestion,’ he said.
Cecil shrugged. ‘I hardly dare offer advice to the most distinguished diplomat in Europe.’ Cecil, too, could be smooth when necessary. ‘But, if King Felipe really is considering a request from English Catholics to support Mary Stuart as heir to the throne of England, I do think his majesty might first ask her for a guarantee that, as queen of England, she will not declare war on Spain. He could make that a condition of his support.’
‘He could,’ Feria said neutrally.
Ned was confused. Cecil was supposed to be talking Feria out of supporting Mary Stuart. Instead he seemed to be suggesting how King Felipe might overcome the main problem. Was there yet again something here Ned was not seeing?
Cecil stood up. ‘I’m glad we had the chance to chat,’ he said. ‘I only looked in to say bon voyage.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you. Please give my respects to the lovely Elizabeth.’
‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be glad.’
As soon as they were outside, Ned said: ‘I don’t understand! Why did you make that helpful suggestion about asking Mary Stuart for a guarantee?’
Cecil smiled. ‘First of all, King Henri of France will never allow his daughter-in-law to make such a promise.’
Ned had not thought of that. She was still only fifteen: she could not do anything without approval.
Cecil went on: ‘Second, her guarantee would be worthless. She would just break it after she took the throne. And there would be nothing anyone could do to hold her to it.’
‘And King Felipe will see both of those snags.’
‘Or, if he doesn’t, Count Feria will point them out to him.’
‘So why did you suggest it?’
‘As the fastest way to alert Feria and Felipe to the hazards of supporting Mary Stu
art. Feria won’t take up my suggestion, but he’s now thinking hard about what else he could do to protect Spain. And soon Felipe will be thinking about it, too.’
‘And what will they do?’
‘I don’t know – but I know what they won’t do. They won’t help Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald. They won’t throw their weight behind the campaign for Mary Stuart. And that makes things a lot more hopeful for us.’
*
QUEEN MARY TUDOR departed her earthly life gradually and majestically, like a mighty galleon inching out of its berth.
As she got weaker, lying in bed in her private apartment in St James’s Palace, London, Elizabeth at Hatfield received more and more visitors. Representatives of noble families and rich businesses came to tell her how unhappy they were about religious persecution. Others sent messages offering to do anything they could for her. Elizabeth spent half the day dictating to secretaries, sending a blizzard of short notes thanking people for their loyalty, firming up friendships. The implied message in every letter was I will be an energetic monarch, and I will remember who helped me at the start.
Ned and Tom Parry were in charge of military preparations. They commandeered a nearby house, Brocket Hall, and made it their headquarters. From there, they liaised with Elizabeth’s backers in the provincial towns, preparing to deal with a Catholic uprising. Ned added up the number of soldiers they could muster, calculated how long it would take each group to get to Hatfield, and wrestled with the problem of finding weapons for them all.
Cecil’s sly intervention with Count Feria had been effective. Feria was back in England in the second week of November. He met with the Privy Council – the monarch’s most powerful group of advisors – and told them that King Felipe supported Elizabeth as heir to the throne. Queen Mary, in so far as she was able to do anything at all, seemed to have accepted her husband’s decision.
Then Feria came to Hatfield.
He walked in all smiles, a man with good news for a captivating woman. The Spanish were the richest people in the world, and Feria wore a red doublet delicately pinked to show the gold lining. His black cloak had a red lining and gold embroidery. Ned had never seen anyone looking quite so pleased with himself.
‘Madam, I bring you a gift,’ he said.
In the room with Elizabeth and Feria were Cecil, Tom Parry and Ned.
Elizabeth liked presents but hated surprises, and she said guardedly: ‘How kind.’
‘A gift from my master and yours, King Felipe,’ Feria went on.
Felipe was still Elizabeth’s master, technically, for Mary Tudor was still alive, still queen of England, and therefore her husband was king of England. But Elizabeth was not pleased to be reminded of this. Ned saw the signs – her chin raised a fraction, the ghost of a frown on her pale brow, a barely perceptible stiffening of her body in the carved-oak chair – but Feria missed them.
He went on: ‘King Felipe gives you the throne of England.’ He took a step back and bowed, as if expecting a round of applause, or a kiss.
Elizabeth looked calm, but Ned could tell she was thinking hard. Feria brought good news, but delivered it with magnificent condescension. What would Elizabeth say?
After a moment Feria added: ‘May I be the first to congratulate you – your majesty.’
Elizabeth nodded regally, but still said nothing. Ned knew such a silence to be ominous.
‘I have informed the Privy Council of King Felipe’s decision,’ Feria added.
‘My sister is dying, and I am to be queen,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I feel a kind of defeated joy, gladness and sorrow equal in the balance.’
Ned thought she had probably prepared those words.
Feria said: ‘Queen Mary, despite her illness, was able to ratify her husband’s choice.’
Something had changed subtly in his manner, and Ned instinctively suspected that Feria was now lying.
Feria went on: ‘She designates you her heir, on condition that you promise to keep England Catholic.’
Ned’s spirits fell again. Elizabeth’s hands would be tied from the start of her reign if she agreed to this. Bishop Julius and Sir Reginald would continue to do anything they pleased in Kingsbridge.
Ned glanced at Cecil. He did not seem dismayed. Perhaps he, too, thought Feria was lying. Cecil’s expression showed faint amusement, and he was looking expectantly at Elizabeth.
There was a long silence. Feria broke it by saying: ‘May I tell the king and queen that you consent to their decision?’
When Elizabeth spoke at last, her voice was like the crack of a whip. ‘No, sir, you may not.’
Feria looked as if he had been slapped. ‘But . . .’
Elizabeth did not give him the chance to protest. ‘If I become queen, it will be because I have been chosen by God, not King Felipe,’ she said.
Ned wanted to cheer.
She went on: ‘If I rule, it will be by the consent of the English people, not of my dying sister.’
Feria was thunderstruck.
Elizabeth’s scorn became vitriolic. ‘And when I am crowned I will take the oath customary to an English sovereign – and will not add extra promises proposed to me by the count of Feria.’
For once Feria did not know what to say.
He had played his cards in the wrong order, Ned realized. Feria should have demanded a promise of Catholicism from Elizabeth before endorsing her to the Privy Council. Now it was too late. Ned guessed that at their first meeting Feria had been misled by Elizabeth’s alluring manner into thinking she was a weak female who could be manipulated by a strong-minded man. But she had played him, instead of the other way around.
Feria was not a fool, and he saw all this in a flash, Ned could tell. Suddenly Feria looked deflated, an empty wineskin. He made as if to speak then changed his mind, several times: Ned guessed he could think of nothing to say that would make any difference.
Elizabeth put him out of his misery. ‘Thank you for coming to visit us, Count,’ she said. ‘Please give our best greetings to King Felipe. And though hope is slender, we will pray for Queen Mary.’
Ned wondered whether she meant to include her staff in the good wishes, or was already using the royal ‘we’. Knowing her, he decided the ambiguity was probably intentional.
Feria took his dismissal as graciously as he could and backed out of the room.
Ned grinned happily. He thought of Earl Swithin and said quietly to Cecil: ‘Well, Count Feria isn’t the first man to suffer for underestimating Elizabeth.’
‘No,’ said Cecil, ‘and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last.’
*
WHEN MARGERY WAS nine years old, she had announced that she was going to be a nun.
She was awestruck by the devout life led by her great-aunt, Sister Joan, living on the top floor of the house with her altar and her prayer beads. Joan had dignity and independence and a purpose in life.
All the nunneries had been abolished, along with the monasteries, by Henry VIII, and Queen Mary Tudor had failed to restore them; but that was not the reason Margery abandoned her ambition. The truth was that as soon as she reached puberty she knew that she could never live a life of celibacy. She loved boys, even when they acted stupid. She liked their boldness and their strength and their humour, and she was excited by the yearning stares they directed at her body. She even liked how blind they were to subtleties and hidden meanings: there was something attractive about their straightforwardness, and sometimes girls were so sly.
So she had given up on the plan of becoming a nun, but she was still drawn to the idea of a life devoted to a mission. She confessed this to Sister Joan, on the day she was to move to New Castle, while her clothes, books and jewellery were being loaded onto a four-wheeled cart for the journey. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Sister Joan said, sitting on a wooden stool, straight-backed and alert despite her age. ‘God has a purpose for you. He has a purpose for all of us.’
‘But how can I find out what his purpose is for me?’
&
nbsp; ‘Why, you can’t find out!’ said Sister Joan. ‘You must just wait for him to reveal it. God won’t be hurried.’
Margery vowed to use self-control, although she was beginning to feel that her life was an exercise in self-control. She had submitted to her parents in marrying Bart. With her new husband she had spent the last two weeks at a house on Leper Island owned by the earl, and during that time Bart had made it clear that he expected Margery to submit to him in the same way she had submitted to her parents. He decided on his own where they would go and what they would do and then simply issued instructions to her as he might have done to a steward. She had expected their marriage to be more of a partnership, but that thought seemed never to have crossed Bart’s mind. She hoped she might change him, gradually and subtly, but he was awfully like his father.
Her proud family came with her on the journey to New Castle: Sir Reginald, Lady Jane and Rollo. They were related to the earl, now, and revelling in their connection with the aristocracy.
Also, the men were eager to confer with Earl Swithin. Their trip to Brussels had failed. King Felipe had seemed to listen to them and agree with their point of view, but someone else must have got to him, for in the end he had thrown the weight of his support behind Elizabeth. Rollo was bitterly disappointed, Margery could see.
On the journey Reginald and Rollo discussed what to do next. The only recourse left to them was an armed uprising against Elizabeth immediately after the death of Mary Tudor. They needed to know how many men-at-arms Earl Swithin could muster, and who among the Catholic nobility could be relied upon to support Swithin.
Margery was troubled. She saw Protestantism as an arrogant heresy favoured by men who imagined they were clever enough to find fault with hundreds of years of Church teaching, but she also believed that Christians should not kill one another. However, as New Castle loomed up ahead, her mind was on more mundane worries. Earl Swithin was a widower, so Margery – now titled Viscountess Shiring – was going to be the lady of the house. She was only sixteen, and hardly knew what it took to manage a castle. She had talked it over at length with Lady Jane, and made some plans, but she was anxious about facing the reality.