The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  Frances’s gaze went quickly to his face, but she detected nothing of ridicule, only interest. Yet she was wary. Robert Pauley had seemed astonished and delighted with her curiosity, but it came naturally out of their conversation. Essex might be taking advantage of any gossip he could use to gain her friendship. For what end? “I wouldn’t know where to begin, my lord.”

  He sat and leaned closer, arm bent on his knee, chin cupped in his hand, altogether attractive…and knowing. “Begin anywhere, Lady Frances, anywhere at all.”

  She heard herself telling him of her study of cipher and her ability to lift and reseal a letter so that it remained undetectable.

  Essex laughed aloud with delight and took her hand from her lap before Frances could snatch it away. Once it rested in his, she would have seemed unfriendly to withdraw it abruptly.

  “Such a great skill for so small a hand.”

  He turned her hand over and pressed his fingers into the palm as if he intended to leave his mark. “Ah, how clever you are, Lady Frances! I do adore intelligence, especially when it is attached to such beauty. By the great Harry, a woman who wants to know secrets is not unique, but a woman who breaks a cipher…now, that is beyond unusual. You must show me this talent you have with wax seals, and show me soon. Perhaps I could come to your rooms to watch you work.”

  Frances could not tell whether he spoke true. A young and too handsome face was harder to read than a cipher. “Perhaps, my lord. As yet I do not know what hours the queen will need me.” She gently removed her hand from his grasp. “I must go now.”

  “Soon, lady, but I beg you, let us talk on for yet a time. I greatly admire your husband. I write some poor poetry of my own; of course, nothing to qualify me as his equal, though I will say the queen does me the honor of reading it.” He tried to look humbled by the tribute, but he succeeded only in trying.

  Here was a man who was clever, Frances thought, and believed everyone must love him. But she, being demure, kept her body straight and drew away from him as much as the cushioned alcove seat would allow. He was probably right about the feminine interest he aroused, except in this instance. She had not come to court to play romantic chess games with handsome young lords, though she doubted that any such argument would sway this earl.

  She stood. “I must take my leave, my lord. My servants are unsupervised, and I would see to the further unpacking of my chests and caskets.”

  He stood, again towering above her. “Your servants are idle, if that fellow is any indication.”

  Frances followed his gaze and saw Robert Pauley standing at the head of the corridor leading to her rooms. He was not staring in her direction, but she suspected he was watching every move. Was he spying on her for her father as a duty, or for himself? And why would she even think the question?

  “I will soon put him to his tasks. Excuse me, my lord.”

  Essex held out his hand. “Lady Frances, I would escort you to your rooms.”

  Her answer was sharper than she meant it to be. “I have a servant for that!”

  He knew how to look the hurt boy, and no doubt the talent had served him well in the past, and might have served again had she not been forewarned.

  She softened her tone. “How kind, my lord Essex. Another time…perhaps.”

  Frances walked away, sensing his gaze burning into her back. What would she do if he followed and insisted on being her escort?

  “Remember me to your husband when next you write,” he called softly after her.

  Robert Pauley saw her frown as she approached.

  “Where have you been the morning long?” she demanded.

  So her ladyship would have him waiting inside her apartment door, jumping to her every waking command…bring this, take that…early and late. He was in her service, yes, but for quite another reason. The court could be cruel, and, though she had a ready spirit, she would need a champion. Why he had named himself, he refused to consider, though he knew he would think on it when he took to his pallet for sleep.

  “I see you have made a new friend, my lady, but have a care.”

  “I can ensure my own safety, Master Pauley.”

  “Of that I have no doubt, my lady. I was more concerned for the earl.”

  His response was so droll and unexpected that she had to smother an urge to laugh. Robert Pauley did not need her encouragement. Besides, she had heard quite enough from clever men for one day. “You have sharp eyes for everything but your duties, Master Pauley.”

  He bowed. “My humble thanks to you, my lady. Every now and then I must be reminded of my place by even the most gracious of mistresses.”

  She was shamed. He had waited for her when she could have been trapped in the earl’s doubtful company. Her tongue was not usually so sharp. Why couldn’t she just be grateful?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “O Moon…

  Are beauties there as proud as here they be?”

  —Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

  September 15

  The scrap of vellum slipped under her door had been written with a fine hand, and she had no doubt who had held the quill. What youth, other than Essex, would be so arrogant as to use her own husband’s poetry to try to capture her attention?

  Yet Frances knew that had she been really annoyed, she would not have laughed at the boyishly clumsy effort to draw her attention. True, she hadn’t laughed as she first read the lines, but a sense of Essex’s inability to know the ridiculous finally overcame her, and she sat at her writing table, laughing until the tears came. What had happened to the sure-footed courtier? Had he been overcome by eagerness or by a desire to win a wager?

  Frances’s first month at Whitehall had kept her busy with a daily round of serving the queen, trying to walk into her father’s well-guarded offices as if she belonged, and, hardest of all, escaping the Earl of Essex’s attentions. His behavior, though seemingly friendly, was bothersome—nay, worrisome. He was too much the affectionate youth to dismiss cruelly, and she really didn’t want to hurt or anger him by rebuffing him too sharply. Though he looked and acted a man grown, suited to an earl’s estate, he as often became a hurt, sulking boy even with the queen, who was more charmed by this behavior than Frances was.

  For thirty pounds annual and two hot meals a day, a lady of the presence spent mornings in the presence chamber, except when the queen took to her bed and physic with an aching head or ailing belly…usually from too many sweetmeats or the many demands on her treasury.

  When Frances bent her efforts to gaining admission to her father’s offices, his guards—on strict orders, as they explained most politely—turned her away. Her father would not allow her to broach the subject.

  Pauley was no help, being gone from her service more than he was with her, although he seemed to appear whenever the Earl of Essex waylaid her in one of the many dark corridors of the rambling old palace.

  Just this day, the earl stood in her way as she turned into the Long Gallery. He was wearing blue satin, vastly embroidered, very much the court gallant.

  He stepped closer, and though his manner was easy and friendly toward her, she felt an instant unease, as she almost always did with him.

  “My lord, please allow me to pass.”

  “If I do, you will disappear again without saying yea.” There was more than annoyance in his voice, although he was trying to hide it behind a smile.

  “What would you know from me, my lord?” She must yield one day to his many offers of diversion, or seem discourteous, and he knew it. Still, the thought of being alone with him troubled her. If she allowed it, his attentions might become almost agreeable. There was no denying the charm he dangled in front of her.

  “When will you show me your skill with lifting seals, or come out riding with me one fine morning, or walk in the orchard to pick ripe apples, or go to the French dance master’s classes?”

  She smiled with as much graciousness as she could bring to her face. “Your offers sound exhausting, my lord
Essex.”

  He grinned, then looked over her head, the grin vanishing. “There is your lapdog, my lady. Is he always so faithful?”

  He obviously tried hard to hide his dislike. To even notice Pauley, let alone be upset by him, was beneath an earl.

  “He but follows my father’s orders.” Frances curtsied and moved on rapidly down the corridor, grateful to Robert Pauley for dogging her footsteps. This one time. Although she hoped she was capable of taming an unruly young lord, truth be told, she had not had much practice at Barn Elms.

  “You have the most astounding gray eyes, my lady. Know you that?”

  She heard Essex’s steps close behind her and walked faster. “You are too kind, my lord, but I must be on my way.”

  The earl seemed capable of hearing only agreement to his requests for her company, no matter how plainspoken her refusals. Then again, perhaps she was being unfair to this shockingly handsome young man who sought her company as no one ever had. She should never hold court gossip, no matter how alarming, against a man. Alarm was the nature of court gossip.

  And he was sweet to want her company. Maybe she should learn to accept determined male attention as a compliment. Yet why did he seek her out? Did she have some needful look about her that would draw a young man to a possible new conquest, especially when he was said to have swived four of the queen’s waiting ladies already? She must watch her face and eyes, lest she be seen as too forward and encouraging, or did he see what he wanted to see no matter what her face revealed? She suspected the latter from so accomplished a romancer.

  Still, it was not wise to ignore the queen’s new favorite. At the turning of the corridor, she looked back with a smile and lifted her hand in farewell. There, that was just friendly enough, without being forward.

  She made her way for a second day to sit by her father’s bed, nearly covered with vellum sheets, letters from everywhere in France, the Low Countries, Rome, and Spain. She bent to exchange the cloth on his fevered brow for a cooler one from a basin of rose-petal-filled water. Pain had marked him with deep lines, and his dark face bore a yellow tinge, as it did when his malady fell upon him.

  His doctors had bled, purged, and dosed him with a decoction of campion herb to help him expel urine, and, judging from the rank odor in the chamber, had also extracted many stools. He was too weak to feed himself, though the doctors had insisted he drink ass’s milk, a universal curative. Although she knew from past attacks that he was in great pain, the only indication he made was a sudden intake of breath, or a hand making a fist on the coverlet.

  She walked to the brazier to reheat the bull’s broth that his doctors had also ordered to strengthen him. She tried to spoon some into his mouth.

  He turned his head away. “No, daughter, I cannot.”

  “Lord father, you must have nourishment to cure your weakness.” She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “My mother, Anne, would want it so.” The plea had worked on him before.

  His eyes remained closed tight, but he opened his mouth and swallowed two spoonfuls.

  “How does Robert Pauley in your service?” he asked suddenly.

  “Well enough…when he is with me.”

  “His service is not to your liking?”

  “It is well enough, Father,” she repeated, and then realized that was unfair. “Nay, Father, he is diligent as my guard, remarkably so, though I do not understand him.” The words were out of her mouth before she could think how strange they must sound. What understanding was needed between mistress and servant? She quickly added to explain herself, “He does seem a man of great confidence for his rank.”

  “Do not judge him too harshly. You do not know his origin, daughter.”

  “He is your man, and that recommends him to me.” She had said the dutiful words before she thought to question him about Pauley’s beginning, though she would when her father was stronger.

  “Then call him to me, daughter.”

  Her father would dictate more letters, or notes to himself for later action. There was no keeping him from his work, and from long experience she did not try.

  She stepped to the door to summon Pauley and found him waiting there. His eyes were half closed from lack of sleep. “My father calls you.”

  “Is he stronger?” Pauley asked. His expression was concerned as he brushed past her into the darkened room, and that heartened Frances. Most men feared her father, yet this man seemed to have a fondness for him.

  Pauley stopped to hear her answer, but did not turn to her.

  “In one way, he is the same as ever, needing to work.”

  Pauley went to sit beside Walsingham’s bed. “Mr. Secretary, what would you have of me?”

  The spymaster did not open his eyes. “Is there word from my intelligencer David Cobrett in Dieppe?”

  “No word, sir.”

  “Write to him in his personal cipher and ask him for news of the English college at Douai. How many priests and Catholic Bibles are they spewing out, and how many are on their way across the channel to do mischief to Her Majesty’s rule and to our true Protestant faith? I must have names and descriptions so that my agents at Dover and Plymouth can arrest them before they disappear into their priest holes in the west country, or north to Lancaster, or here in London itself.”

  The many words exhausted him, and his arm, which had been waving in the air as if he were ciphering himself, dropped back to his side.

  “At once, sir. Do you wish to sign it?”

  “No. Use my cinquefoil seal and get it off by means of swift courier. I must have news of their traitorous plans. There has been quiet from Cobrett for too long.”

  “Aye, Mr. Secretary, at once, as you wish.”

  “Bring my agent’s answer to me as soon as it arrives, if I am yet in this devil-cursed bed.”

  Pauley nodded, bowed, and turned to leave, nearly running into Frances. “My pardon, Lady Sidney.”

  She saw that her father had fallen into sleep, his fever seeming somewhat abated. Leaving the bedchamber door ajar to overhear if he stirred, she followed Pauley into the corridor, where the air, though chilly, was almost sweet. “You promised to take me to my father’s offices. I would come with you later….”

  “My lady, I do not remember such a promise.”

  “You did not deny me.”

  “Sometimes we can think our dearest wish has been granted when it has not.”

  “I do not imagine…”

  At that moment some roisterers stumbled into the corridor, led by the Earl of Essex dressed as a harlequin. Seeing her, he bowed and waved his peaked hat in greeting. “Hey-ho, Lady Sidney, I am gladdened to find you…yet so beautiful this late of day.” He swayed, the worse for wine, and caught his balance against the wall. “Forgive me; I am very tired. Her Majesty has kept me from my bed playing at Maw for three nights running.”

  “Did you win, my lord?” Frances asked for something conversational, especially since she had heard he had allowed the queen to beat him.

  He shrugged. “Not often,” he said, grinning. “The queen hates to lose a trick and adores to win the pots, even the small ones. A few groats from my purse makes her happy, and she counts it a good month to take forty pounds from me.” He laughed and bent forward, whispering, enveloping Frances in sweet Madeira wine fumes: “And she changes the rules if she is not winning.” His eyes softened and sobered as his handsome face came closer to hers. “Ah, your faithful dog is near.”

  Pauley stepped forward and bowed. Frances thought, without considering his rank, that he had more natural dignity than the earl.

  For a moment, Essex looked like a petulant boy. “Lady Frances, I have tried in every way to be your friend…for your husband’s sake.”

  “My lord, forgive me; my father is very ill, and my worry burdens me and makes the delights you offer…”

  He regained his bright smile. “All the more reason that you should have sun and fresh air. It is not good for the complexion to spend many hours in a darken
ed sickroom. Her gracious Majesty agrees, and commands that you come riding tomorrow morning. Your servant there can help the doctors care for Mr. Secretary. We ride out at first light.” He bowed and walked away, as if all would be done as he wished.

  Pauley spoke behind her. “The queen’s command cannot be ignored, my lady. I think you should ride to the hunt in the morn. I will sit with Mr. Secretary. He will have work for me and all of his intelligencers.”

  His assured voice startled her, though for a man’s low voice it was not heavy. It was comforting, in truth.

  For a moment Essex had so o’erwhelmed the space that she had forgotten Pauley was behind her. “You advise it, then,” she said, turning toward him with a half smile.

  “If you will forgive me an opinion, my lady.”

  She swallowed a laugh. “Why ever not? It is only one of many, and I daresay not the last. But I thought you would warn me away from riding with the earl.”

  “The queen will see to it that he does not pay you too close attention…welcome or unwelcome.”

  She was half-intrigued and half-annoyed in turn, as she always seemed to be with Pauley. “You will allow the queen to see to my safety?”

  “I trust her next to myself, Lady Frances.”

  He had to be jesting, and she rewarded him with a smile. “You do have very decided views on many things.”

  “An undecided view is of no use to anyone.”

  He bowed low, but she saw no mockery, although it could be well hidden in such a clever man. “My thanks to you, then, sir.”

  “Anything to be of good service, Lady Frances. And now, I must to business.” With another and hastier bow, he turned and left her for the intelligencer offices on a lower level. She knew he would work through the night to cipher her father’s message to the intelligencer Cobrett in France. And she knew another thing: Pauley did have her safety at heart. His presumption might once have angered her. She wondered why it no longer did.