The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  “Yes, of course.” Frances thought she knew the answer to her next question, but she had to ask. “What will happen to these plotters?”

  “Lady Frances, you know what happens to traitors who plan to kill our Protestant queen and put Catholic Mary on England’s throne. They will die after we wring from them everything they know, especially who pays them for regicide and the betrayal of their country to Spain.” His voice had risen and become determined, harder, pitiless.

  Frances held her body tight to suppress a shiver of dread. She knew what a traitor’s death meant: a racking so absolute that the man’s broken body had to be dragged to Tyburn, after which he was carried to the scaffold to be hung, but cut down living and butchered like an animal while still alive, his entrails and manhood cut out and tossed on a brazier before his fading eyes. She had no desire for such entertainment, although she knew the road to Tyburn’s tree was crowded with jeering Londoners seeking such bloody diversion.

  “Do such thoughts trouble you, my lady?” he asked, squinting at her.

  She shrugged, not trusting her voice, although hoping to reassure him. “I know the law and will follow it.” An intelligencer could not be cowardly or shrink from duty.

  Still, troubling questions raced through her mind. Did her own dear father and the English people have a cruel nature, brutal beyond even the Romans with their gladiators and crucifixions? Or had modern life in London formed them, where dogs baited bears in the pits and tore them to pieces while crowds cheered and chewed on hazelnuts? Death was everywhere in life. People succumbed to plague in the streets; country folk starved after bad harvest years. Half of the children born died before their fifth year. Had the English made the world, or had the world made them what they were?

  And what would living the life of a spy do to Frances Walsingham?

  She had been protected from such brutal truth, being a country lady. Would the knowledge gained from ciphers harden her, too? If so, she would welcome some hardening. Never to regret, never to care about what had been lost would be a blessing. Yes, that was what she wanted.

  She was brought back to the present by the somewhat perplexed expression on Phelippes’s face. She smiled to reassure him that she did not shrink from him or the law.

  Now some of her father’s overheard conversations made more sense to her. He was trying to entrap Queen Mary in a plot to kill the queen of England, and Phelippes would help him. Plotting the queen of England’s death was the one thing that Elizabeth could never forgive her cousin. Proof of Mary’s intent to supplant her was Walsingham’s quest…and now his daughter’s.

  Frances pushed aside any further questions that might bring a fearful answer.

  Phelippes lowered his voice and stared at his hands. “My lady, there is every indication that this present conspiracy is well financed with Spanish gold, and that some of the traitors have access to the court and possibly”—his voice grew even more confidential as he met her gaze—“even Queen Elizabeth’s own person.”

  Frances felt her mouth open at that news. Traitors in Whitehall, perhaps someone she knew and saw every day? A picture of Aunt Jennet in the Chapel Royal came unbidden to her mind. She must talk with her aunt, warn her to take greater care. If she were seen by a Catholic plotter, they might try to recruit her, or at least report her to turn away suspicion from themselves. She dared not go further and think her very proper aunt could be a Catholic plotter herself! Tomorrow would not be too early to warn Jennet.

  She returned once again to the ciphered message. “These must be common words,” she said, looking more closely at the letter combinations, “and that would mean that these same letters could expose other common words.”

  “And thus break down the cipher entire,” Phelippes agreed, apparently delighted with her quick understanding. “Yet, my lady, I urge you to caution. If they have made it easy for us to break, it could hide something we don’t see. And remember, some symbols stand for whole words, and a few messages are doubly encrypted, though the same methods break them…if you are patient.”

  “I am patient,” she said, although she was not certain whether that was as true as she wanted him to believe.

  “And now, my lady,” Phelippes said, leaning his chin on his hand in a familiar gesture that those who had suffered the pox used to hide their scars, “I beg pardon, but I must decipher this message and get to others even more important.”

  Frances leaned closer and spoke in a low, friendly voice. “Master Phelippes, I admire your skills above most men’s. You need not hide the brave scars that marked you. I see them as proud symbols of your fight to survive to serve Her Majesty well, as you do.”

  Phelippes seemed startled, though he dropped his hand and his face relaxed its tension. “You are correct, my lady. It is not a becoming habit.”

  Pauley, who had been leaning against the shadowed wall, stepped forward and spoke in a low voice. “Perhaps, Master Phelippes, you could allow Lady Sidney to try her hand with this less important cipher. She is the most eager apprentice for this work that I have ever seen.”

  Phelippes’s pale eyebrows rose in surprise, but then settled in agreement. “It looks to be one of the Scots queen’s constant demands for cosmetics to hide her aging beauty,” he replied, a little unkindly. He raised one shoulder briefly. “You may take it to your chambers, Lady Sidney,” he said, “but you must allow no one to see it.” He did not say, especially Mr. Secretary, but he looked behind him toward her father’s empty writing table and his caution was clear.

  “Of course, Master Intelligencer, I will guard it with my life.”

  “I doubt you need go to such lengths,” he said, smiling at her.

  Robert escorted her to her chambers and, without being asked, brought new candles for her candelabra. “My lady, I know you will wish to begin work immediately.”

  She looked up at him, the candlelight outlining his strong features, which she decided were handsomer than Essex’s or even her husband’s. “How do you know that?”

  “It is your way.”

  His words pleased her. Though he had spent only a few short months in her service, he knew her better than most…she suspected better even than Jennet, certainly better than Philip.

  Satisfied with that answer for now, Frances bent to the cipher.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Doubt you to whom my Muse these notes intendeth,

  Which now my breast o’ercharged to music lendeth?”

  —Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney

  Christmastide

  Frances stared into the three-branched candelabra on her writing table, captivated by its flickering flames. Why did lines from one of Philip’s sonnets to Stella fill her mind whenever Robert softly played and hummed his music? Even when he was not present in the outer chamber, his voice sang through her mind along with Philip’s words.

  “Why are you frowning so, Frances?” Jennet, coming up beside her, spoke a little above a whisper so as not to startle.

  “Just deep in thought, Aunt.”

  “You are thinking of Philip.”

  “Yes,” Frances answered half truthfully.

  “Write to him about the lady Stanley before the court gossip reaches him, as it surely will. There will be some who cannot wait to bring him such news under the guise of friendship.”

  “I have done so, Aunt.” She did not add that she had not received Philip’s reply, nor very much looked forward to one, which would probably place some blame on her for making such an unseemly spectacle of herself. And she did not tell Jennet how difficult it was to write to Philip at any time, even letters of court gossip and her work in the presence chamber. She had so little sense of him, sometimes even forgetting his features, requiring his miniature to remember his face. She would tell no one of this trick her mind played. She did not understand what so completely blocked memory of her own husband. The forgetting was no deliberate move on her part. It had just happened gradually over the last months, until now she had to
think hard to remember his kindness…his guilty consideration.

  “Please let us go and talk by the warm fire.” Frances shivered involuntarily, aware of the bone-chilling cold of her chamber as she stood and took Jennet’s hand. They walked to the upholstered chairs placed comfortably just far enough from the hearth to disperse the acrid odor of burning sea coal and save their slippers from flying sparks.

  Frances motioned her maid to move a brazier closer behind them before dismissing her. This would be no conversation for a servant.

  Pouring sweet Madeira into two glasses from an unstoppered green bottle, Frances offered the drink to Jennet and they both settled into their chairs. With a quick breath, Frances began: “There is something most urgent that I must warn you about.”

  “Warn me?” Aunt Jennet laughed, but shifted uneasily on her chair.

  “I should have spoken earlier, but…”

  “What is it, girl?” Jennet said, her voice testier than she probably meant, because she immediately smiled and shrugged.

  “I saw you praying in the Chapel Royal.”

  Jennet, puzzled, started to interrupt.

  “No, Aunt, hear me.” She lowered her voice to little more than a whisper. “I saw your fingers moving against your breast as if…as if you were saying…rosary beads. Do you yet cling to the old faith in your heart and in Her Majesty’s own palace…the queen who is governor of the Church of England? If so, do you not know the peril you invite?” Frances stopped for breath and for the look of anger on Jennet’s white face.

  Her aunt clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles red from squeezing too hard. “Have you spoken of your suspicions to your father?” she asked, her head bowed, her chin pressing the pleats of her neck ruff flat.

  “No. But I must warn you—”

  “There is no need.” Jennet sat rigid, staring into the fire. “I was but a young girl, but I remember the burnings at Smithfield during Queen Mary Tudor’s time, and I heard of those when Henry the Eighth forsook Rome.”

  “Jenney, the queen would never…”

  “Never? I take no chances. Long ago, I had a physician make some poison capsules for me to kill rats. I have them always with me.”

  Frances shivered. “But you would not—”

  “I will tell you, niece, what I would not, and that is…burn. I haven’t the courage of those who have done so. I would recant and lose my life and heaven altogether.”

  Frances put both hands high on her stomacher to press against her heart. “Aunt, think what you say! Her Majesty has not given up all Catholic ways. The Chapel Royal has many candles and fine glass windows from the old days, a preacher who wears an alb…and choristers. It is even whispered that she keeps a crucifix in her cabinet, but she is queen…and you are not.” Frances took a breath, her last argument on her tongue. “She is much criticized for these practices by the Puritans.”

  “One of them is your father, my brother-in-law,” Jennet replied, her mouth drawn into a straight line. “I cannot forget, nor forgive this queen who has replaced the Holy Virgin Mother with herself, a false virgin.”

  Though Jennet had kept her voice low, Frances looked about warily, nervous in a palace where so many doors and walls had spies listening. “Have a care with such speech, Aunt.”

  “I have had much practice in hiding my speech.”

  Frances forged on. “Promise me that you will outwardly practice the new faith, or…”

  Jennet pulled herself up in the chair. “Or? Would you report me, niece? See me sent to the Tower into the tender hands of the queen’s torturers?”

  Though her aunt’s voice was low and calm, Frances was startled. “You know I would not,” Frances answered, “but others could. My father has enemies. And now I have enemies. They look for all ways to reduce Walsingham influence and raise their own.”

  “Through me? A spinster nobody, unwanted, unneeded!” Jennet attempted a scornful laugh, but it strangled in her throat.

  “Jennet! That is untrue, and you must know it. Why do you torment yourself so? Now promise me what I ask.” Frances allowed her voice to rise, more fearful than ever for Jennet, who scarce hid her defiance. “You concealed your recusant ways at Barn Elms. It is even more important to hide them at Whitehall. Don’t you realize that my father knows who plots against the queen’s majesty? Should any plotters approach you, turn them away at once!”

  “And deny my faith.” Jennet nodded sadly and stood, her eyes half-shut as she looked long at Frances. “The pupil always becomes the teacher in the end.” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “I will obey as I can, of course. I have no other choice, or lose my bed and bread.” She dipped a knee. “May I be excused, my lady?”

  “Jenney, please don’t…”

  Aunt Jennet, head high, body unnaturally stiff, walked toward her chamber, casting a large receding shadow against the paneled wall until she passed out of the light, her wooden heels thudding against the stone-paved floor.

  What more could Frances do? She could send her aunt back to Barn Elms, but her father would object and question her. As for Jennet, she would never agree to return to Surrey, where she would have no meaningful occupation, and a good reason could not be found to put her there. Frances feared a distance had opened between them, one that might never be breached.

  At once, she knew she could enlist Robert’s help. He heard everything spoken and guessed at the unspoken. He would know whether Jennet’s name was being used by other recusants, or was under suspicion in her father’s office. Robert would not betray her father, but he would find a way to warn her. She knew that as surely as she knew she could trust him in all things. She wondered briefly when such trust had come to her, but she could not remember being without it.

  Frances finished her wine, so sweet on her tongue at so bitter a moment. She sighed, stood, clutched up her skirts, and went to her writing table, moving the brazier closer as she went. Her shawl lay over the back of her chair. As she sat down, she snuggled into the thick, soft material.

  Phelippes’s copy of the substitution cipher from Mary of Scots lay concealed under her tapestry seat cushion.

  She had slit one side of the tapestry and slipped the vellum underneath the sheep’s-wool padding. The cushion hid the cipher nicely. Only Robert knew where she had put it, and he had nodded his approval. On her writing table she had a quire of paper, a sheet of which she withdrew. She retrieved the cipher and sharpened her quill.

  Pulling the cipher to her, she studied each letter, identifying repetitions, though they had been broken into five-letter code groups to further confuse someone trying to break it. Since Phelippes had told her the message was meant for the French ambassador, Chateauneuf, she chanced that name underneath cipher letters, as they appeared three times together in the message, though all the letters were without spaces, to confuse.

  The letters began to blur, and Frances leaned back and squeezed her eyes tight to rest them, then looked again.

  G R P O C P J E C J I

  Then she saw the same letters repeated three times. Now Frances was certain she was right and had the name, Chateauneuf. Mary had not used a symbol for the name. A mistake!

  Now Frances had nine letters deciphered, including two vowels.

  On a separate page of the quire paper she wrote the alphabet and the cipher letters she was sure of underneath.

  In the next hour, Frances counted the times each letter appeared and put them in numerical order from most instances to least. She knew she must account for a variety of spellings. Searching for repetitions, she assigned an English letter to some of them until she came to the middle of the cipher.

  She listed the five-letter code groups meant to disguise the true length of the words.

  T P F S T YHCBO GRPFO NWQSG RFOTP WCZCL

  There were several Ps, and she put an E under them, but later decided to try As, and saw that the first word must be Mary. Such a number of As would indicate either English or French. She was certain that the language was not
Italian, but she would have to determine that no word ended in I to be sure.

  At first she puzzled at the placement of some of the Es, in first, second, or last place, which suggested French. But many others suggested English. Thinking, she brushed the quill feathers back and forth against her cheek. Could Mary Stuart have written in both languages, alternating? The clever Scots queen was full of tricks, having attempted many daring escapes during her near eighteen years of imprisonment in England. Once, she had even tried to slide down a rope from her tower to the ground, jumping the last several feet, only to be caught almost immediately. Mary had no lack of courage, but good fortune did not cling to her.

  A piece of sea coal fell from the grate, and a spark sizzled against the stone on the hearth. A quick look reassured Frances that it had not flamed on the turkey carpet placed under the chairs to warm slippered feet.

  She stared for a long time at the cipher without making progress. Perhaps she did not have an intelligencer’s brain after all. The thought was painful, like a blow to her head, but it might have to be confronted. Just not yet.

  Upset and disappointed, her eyes blurring, she stood and paced the room until she heard the case clock strike a new hour. She spread her hands across her bodice against her roiling stomach at the thought of returning the message to Phelippes undeciphered. They would laugh at a woman who thought she had the brain of a man. Oh, they would not laugh in her face, but as soon as she left her father’s office and for a good time after. Inevitably, the tale would make its way through the gossips to the entire court, even to the queen, who would think less of her. Elizabeth Tudor did not accept failure, since she never failed herself.

  Frances felt her anger rise at the idea of such failure and returned to her writing table, determined not to give up. Not yet.