by Jeane Westin
Staring at the cipher page, she saw something she had passed over. Some of the odd symbols that were not letters were repeated. They could stand for countries or names of rulers. One of them could be the king of Spain…another, the pope of Rome. The Scots queen had sought their help for years.
Where to start? Frances stared at the message until the letters began to blur and shift again. She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes, only to open them wide a moment later. She had heard that Cordaillot had been appointed secretary to the French ambassador Chateauneuf. Surely, if this was indeed a true message about Mary’s cosmetics, it would not be addressed to the ambassador, but to the secretary. And yet the repeated name had an N, meaning an E three letters from the end, and only one repeated letter. It could be an A if she were right and Mary’s messages started with her name and title, as was usual for rulers.
Thrilled, she was now completely convinced that the letter was to the ambassador, at least in part, and had some importance. Phelippes had been wrong in that.
The name Cordaillot was repeated twice, and both times the name was run together with other words to further disguise it.
She wrote the name:
CORDAILLOT
She went on to other words that could be French and deciphered most of the name by its vowels. Her head in her hand, she worked on, determining that the Scots queen had indeed combined two messages, one a cosmetic order to Cordaillot, and within the message another, shorter one in English to the French ambassador.
She clapped her hands together in excitement.
“Did you call, my lady?”
It was Robert’s voice at the doorway between her reception and her privy chamber.
“I did not know you had returned.”
“You were deep in thought and I did not want to disturb you. May I pour you some ale, since you have been at dry work?”
“A hot cider would be even more welcome, thank you, Robert,” Frances said, pulling her shawl about her shoulders, though she felt warmth enough in Robert’s comforting presence.
“At once, as is my duty, Lady Frances.”
She frowned. Why did he insist on such formality when they were alone? She did not ask him, fearing to appear foolish, or worse, in need of his friendship or sympathy.
He brought her a cup of cider. “May I be of any further service, my lady?” His body leaned away from her as he spoke, showing no eagerness to do more of her bidding.
There came a pounding on her outer chamber door.
“Are you welcoming visitors at this hour?”
“See who it is and tell them to return tomorrow, unless it is Mr. Secretary returned from Barn Elms early.” Frances hoped it was not her father. He would require her attendance when she wanted only to work on the cipher, just as she was beginning to triumph over its mystery.
It was not her father at the door, but the Earl of Essex, and from his haughty tone he was in no mood to wait or be delayed by a servant.
Frances quickly slipped the cipher message and her worksheet into their hiding space as Essex, unbidden, strode into her privy chamber, holding his long French sword away from his longer legs. He was wearing a padded codpiece with a jeweled pin holding it to his shirt. From his right ear hung a large pendant pearl, and on his head a tall, pleated velvet crowned hat held a trailing peacock feather. Even in the dim firelight, no adornment could be missed.
“My lord.” She stood and curtsied. “I am happy to see you in health again.”
He put his hand over his heart. “God has answered my prayers,” he said, and grinned in his charmingly boyish way, obviously relieved of the ill humors that had nearly brought an end to court revelry for a fortnight, dashing so many female expectations. “Lady Frances,” he said, bowing over her unoffered hand, which he reached to grasp. “Great good news! The queen is recovered suddenly.”
“I am gladdened to hear it,” Frances answered, wondering why he would deliver the news in person, trying to remove her hand from his grip without success.
“Her Majesty wishes you to attend her at the tennis court with her other ladies tomorrow morn at ten of the clock.” He beamed, his face proud and confident. “I am to play against that Devon upstart Walter Raleigh. The queen has wagered for both of us. She will never completely lose.” He laughed fondly. “I have promised her that I will win; thus she will win twice, my money and my apology!”
“I am indeed happy that Her Majesty’s health is so renewed,” Frances said, attempting again to retrieve her hand.
“And you will be there, my lady?”
“Of course. The queen commands it.”
He stepped closer until she felt his warm wine-scented breath carried on his whisper. “And, Frances, what if I command your attendance?”
She laughed lightly to relieve the tension with which the Earl of Essex always seemed to surround her, hoping to discourage any further advance. “Surely there are other agreeable young—”
He smiled again, his mouth tightening, and came closer still, until she could smell his lavender-scented clothes. “Oh, my lady, there are many women quite agreeable, believe me, beautiful women in plenty in this court. And there are interesting minds. Though it is rare to find both equal qualities in one woman.” He glanced at her writing table. “And,” he added, nodding at Robert, who approached closer, “not nearly so well guarded by a faithful cripple-leg manservant.”
Frances finally pulled her hand away, betraying her anger. “My lord, cruelty does not endear you to me.”
A knowing look swept his face. “Ah,” he said. “You have a woman’s gentle heart and feel pity for the man.”
Frances thought to say nothing, then changed her mind. “I feel gratitude to a man whom my father holds in great faith—”
“Not as great as yours, Frances. There is talk already about a lady of rank with such a faithful shadow.”
“There are idle tongues talking about every lady at this court, including the queen, my lord, most of it wishful braggadocio.” She was angry now and no longer hiding it. She backed away.
The earl grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. “Lovely Frances,” he murmured, “so far unobtained, but not, I think, forever unattainable.” He took a trembling breath. “For that I pray. I will have you in the end. I see in your face that you know it already.”
Frances shivered, despite the warmth of her shawl. “Sir, you are hurting me, and I must ask you to leave!” Again she smelled the heavy scent of sweet wine under the lavender pastille.
Robert was suddenly beside her, grasping Essex’s hand and removing it. “My lord, I will show you to the door. It is late and the lady Frances is obviously weary. I wish you good fortune in your match tomorrow.”
Essex glared at him, then threw back his head and laughed, although it was harsh humor.
Robert loosened his grip.
“You’re an impudent fellow, Pauley, more than impudent. I could have you flogged for laying hands on me.”
“I do my duty to my mistress, and mean no disrespect to you, my lord.”
“Do you not?” He gave a shrug, and feigned amusement left his face. “This lady shows you mercy,” he said, staring down at Robert. “I will show you none in future. Depend on it!”
Frances lowered her head, not wishing to say another word to Essex, nor to look into his face.
He bent over her hand again, his russet curls falling over his forehead. She was certain that he was aware of the handsome impression he made.
“Until the morrow morn, then, my lady,” he murmured, his breath warm against her hand. He whirled about to look in Robert’s face. “On my honor, you will regret your actions this day, churl.”
After her outer door slammed, Robert escorted her the few steps to her writing table and replaced her cold cider with a new hot cup, the cinnamon and clove spices assaulting her nose, reviving her. Surely Robert must know that she did not invite the earl’s attentions, that she held him in low esteem. “I am sorry that you—”
He looked into her face, his features softening, although she saw his eyes narrow.
“I would take such scorn from no man, lord or no, but for you, Frances.”
She bowed her head, not knowing what to say to him, not knowing what she wanted to say. He had called her Frances without hesitation, as if it belonged on his tongue. She ought to issue a reproof, but she couldn’t. He must not guess that, through weariness, she wanted to lean toward him, against him for strength.
“Shall I leave?” he asked.
“No,” she answered immediately, then thought to add an excuse: “I fear he might return.”
“No man whom you do not wish to see will ever pass me again, no matter how high his rank.”
“Thank you, I…You must believe that I never want to see my lord Essex when he is in his cups, or in my private chamber.”
Robert’s heart pounded against his jerkin. He could see that it was important to her that he believe her words. Why? Did she care so much for his good opinion?
He wanted to say, I honor you above all women, but he said nothing, nor allowed her to see anything of what he was feeling. He was uncertain of her own feelings…. Sometimes he thought that she…But no, it was his own desire he saw reflected in her eyes. Of a certainty, he would show her nothing but the face of a loyal servant. If he had been recognized as his father’s son, all would be different. Then he would have a right to love her.
He almost shook himself. For a moment, he had forgotten that she had a husband, a famous husband. How could he forget? He sensed that she did not love Sir Philip Sidney. Whenever his name was mentioned, her face dimmed like the sun passing behind a cloud. Yet she was no less married.
Robert took a chair and watched her caress her cheek with her quill feathers as she studied the cipher.
“See, Robert, it is a message within a message. In English, the Scots queen tells her agents at a tavern…the Plough Inn…that she is to be moved to…I can’t distinguish the name…on Christmas Eve.”
“Chartley,” Robert breathed. “The country estate of the Earl of Essex.”
“Ah, my thanks, there is the C and Y deciphered.”
Robert’s stomach churned. How had Mary known that? Not even her keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, had been told that a move from Tutbury was imminent. He knew only that he was to inspect the Earl of Essex’s moated manor of Chartley in Staffordshire for its strength to withstand an attack. Knowing of the move could mean only that someone close to Mr. Secretary’s plans was a traitor. Or perhaps the information had come from Burghley’s office.
She frowned. “I’m near finished, but can you tell me why the Scots queen is being moved, and about this inn?”
“The Plough Inn is a hive of treason, Frances, and Mr. Secretary has had men there for some time. They are gradually gaining acceptance by Mary’s plotters. As for the Scots queen, Mary complains about the cold at Tutbury, Paulet’s manor, and Elizabeth agrees that she should be moved to a warmer place for the sake of her aching bones.”
“And it’s warmer at Essex’s country manor?”
“Sir Paulet will be sent to determine its suitability.”
She nodded and returned eagerly to her cipher.
Frances looked up at Robert, her face triumphant. “I can fill in so many words now and read the English lines.” She drew a fresh sheet of paper and wrote one letter at a time as he looked on.
Mary, queen of England, Scotland, Ireland, and France, moved to Chartley Christmas Eve. Tell Babington to arrange rescue. All his requirements will be met, including the earldom.
Robert saw her shock to see that name. Sir Anthony Babington was handsome and wealthy. He came often to court and walked with the queen as one of a throng of young men she strolled with in her garden.
She turned to him, her eyes brimming with tears of happiness, her face showing pride. “Robert, I have deciphered an important message. I am an intelligencer.”
“There is none better.”
She blushed. “I hope you do not think I require such praise.”
“I speak truth where I see it, Frances.”
He reached for her free hand and covered it with his before he thought, before he could take a warning that came quickly as she turned to him.
Standing, he stood away from her and bowed. “My lady, I will escort you to your father’s offices tomorrow early, after you have made a fair copy of the English message.”
Robert left before Frances could speak, leaving the warmth of the chamber behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“O Make in me those civil wars to cease;
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.”
—Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney
Christmastide
The hour was very late when Frances finished the cipher and went to her bed, yet sleep came with difficulty. She did not want to watch Essex on the tennis court the following morn, even though his long, lean body and russet curls would be a handsome sight to see. If she paid him too much attention, the queen would be jealous. If she paid too little, Essex would be angered.
Frances had asked for none of it, but Essex wanted to make an impression. He was truthful about his desire to bed her. With such a confession, he obviously thought that she could be aroused to desire him.
The earl did not need to brag of his prowess. It was widely known that his presence was compelling; women were drawn to him. Why wasn’t she? Was her heart truly dead for all time? She had thought so just short months before, but now some days and more nights she was unsure, though it wasn’t Essex who troubled her heart.
What she longed for was warmth, closeness, wooing…. Who would blame her if she allowed a man of the court to give her ease? The court knew her husband did not love her and thought the less of her, thinking it a pitiful fault. If she gained the attention of some lord, even Lady Stanley would no longer heap scorn, pity, and scarce-hidden amusement upon her…the latter the worst insult of all.
But she could not, and sighed heavily into the bolster, knowing that the queen believed that all her ladies must be pure, her court the least licentious.
Frances shook herself to be rid of this dreaming. Her mind opposed it. She had more serious concerns. Time to put aside a woman’s longing. There was no time for it.
She opened the bed curtains slightly and turned to her window, searching for the moon and stars, but found only heavy fog.
One thought brightened the darkness of her fortress bed, covered on all sides with thick curtains against the cold, which nonetheless seemed to creep in beside her: When early morning came, she would return her deciphered message to Phelippes. She hugged herself with the thought of the surprise on his face when he read the traitorous words of the Scots queen that Frances had pulled from the cipher. She felt no sorrow for Sir Anthony Babington, the conspirator whom Mary had named. He was often at court, even near the queen’s person, all the while a viperous traitor ready to strike when ordered.
Was her work finished now? Would Phelippes dismiss her with a smile of thanks? She prayed not. She wanted to know what became of the coded information; she wanted to be a part of stalking and capturing the traitors at the Plough Inn. Would Phelippes think she asked too much? Of course he would. It was one thing to humor the master’s daughter and another to have her take on the dangerous secret work of England’s men.
She heard a soft groan and knew it was Robert deep in sleep beside the antechamber door, guarding her even as the palace remained silent. A faithful servant. Always there.
Even as she thought it, she turned restlessly against the linen sheets, her fingers pulling at a loose embroidery thread on her counterpane. Servant was all he could be, should be…. Still, she trusted him, trusted his strength, his warmth, and his kindness in this unkind court.
Frances had poured herself an extra glass of wine before retiring to bring on fast sleep, and yet she was wakeful, wondering what dreams would make Robert moan aloud. Perhaps she should go to him. A hot trembli
ng surged through her, and she pushed such a thought from her, allowing herself to think on the subject no longer than a few seconds, finally snuggling into her pillow. She forced her eyes tight shut, hoping for sweet oblivion.
When she opened them again, there was a hazy light in her window. The thickest fog rolled away as she watched. The day promised to be bright for a January morn, if not truly sunny.
Donning her shift, gown, stomacher, and oversleeves, she had her maid dress her dark hair, since she refused to wear a hot, heavy red periwig.
Frances drank ale and ate some bread and cheese to break her fast, then cleaned her teeth with tooth soap and rough linen. She called for Robert but found he was already dressed and gone, his pallet neatly folded with a note addressed to her lying on top.
With apologies, my lady. Urgent business calls me away while you yet sleep.
She would descend to her father’s offices alone and quickly, lest she be late to leave with the queen and her ladies for the tennis court. She did not wish to anger the queen, whose dreadful temper had not, as yet, fallen on her.
Lighting a fresh candle, since many hall lanterns were burned low at this early hour, Frances hurried down dark halls and stairs until she reached the landing before her father’s offices. She was pleased when the sleepy halberdiers on guard allowed her through without question.
It was bright inside, the long chamber’s candles and lanterns newly lit, shedding yellow light over gray stone walls and herb-strewn floors. Only Phelippes and Robert were at work. They both stood and bowed to her in welcome.
She walked to Phelippes’s desk, withdrawing the cipher and her deciphered copy from her stomacher. She laid both on his table.
“The Scots queen is deep in a plot, Master Phelippes.”
“Let’s see what you have for me, Lady Frances. Pauley, bring a chair for my lady.”
When she was seated, Robert produced a small glass of ale and placed it by her hand. The chief cipher clerk stared at her written words, his lips moving. “Excellent…excellent. My lady, you do have the brain of an intelligencer. Mr. Secretary would be proud.”