The Spymaster's Daughter

by Jeane Westin

  Waiting for the rider to take horse and return to Mortlake, she stood and brought the package to her chair to open in the light. If it contained another jeweled necklace or earring, she would return it with the next rider.

  Unwrapping the long package, she lifted a narrow full-length portrait of Essex standing by his horse, looking heroic enough for a hero’s widow, which was no doubt his intention. She held the frame at arm’s length, the winter light falling on his long, lean body and handsome face. It was obviously a copy of a much larger image he was having painted. How thoughtful of him to have rushed a duplicate to her.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. This gift was difficult to return. Jewelry, unsuitable for her mourning, was one thing; to reject his portrait was too much a rude rebuff of the man himself. Surely there was a dark corner at Barn Elms that could hold it.

  A note under the portrait read:

  My dearest friend Lady Frances,

  I stay with my fellow soldier Sir Andrew Petty at Mortlake, resting from my service in Holland and ready to offer you my protection. Call on me any hour, day or night, for any possible need you might have.

  E.

  He offered himself. There it was, written plainly. She had heard other widows speak of such kind offers from gentlemen who thought once a woman was a wife, she would always be in need of bed sport. God’s grace, he would find none in her widow’s bed!

  Feeling as if her chamber were closing in about her, Frances stood and wrapped herself in her heavy cloak for a walk in her desolate garden. As she trod the lane of poled elm trees, she missed their summer shade and pruned symmetry. Her roses, similarly, were trimmed to bare sticks for early bloom. All was as winter-bare as her life. No, no, she was too morose, a burden to herself. She forced her head up and widened her mouth into a semblance of pleasantry.

  At the end of the gravel path, the Thames flowed sluggishly toward London. She saw some ice chunks near the banks where the water shoaled, and pulled her cloak tighter. She was surprised to hear a drumbeat. It was a raw day for any but the most determined traveler to be abroad from London. Could it be her father? Or another lord come to soothe a grieving widow? Or a kind neighbor seeking to cheer her?

  Pray God, no!

  Yet, she did grieve for Philip’s painful death. From his friends, she had heard much of his last hours and his bravery, along with some gossip of Stella. Had she come to him, or had he called for her in his final delirium? Only the men close about him knew, and they would soon enough tell the story, which would be carried to her. It would get out, as all secrets eventually did, and she would see it in the hands raised to hide the whispers.

  She gazed hard through the fog toward the steady sound of oars splashing. The oarsmen were not coming from Mortlake in Essex livery. If not Essex, then who? Gradually she recognized her father’s official barge. A man stood in the prow by the lantern pole…something her father would never do because of the pain to his sore joints.

  Her legs started moving toward the pier as the man’s clear outline, his dear outline, came from behind the foggy shroud. Could he hear her above the sound of oars rasping in their locks and the beat of the drummer? “Robert!” she called, caring naught for the gardeners raking the last of the fallen leaves into piles for burning.

  Robert heard her call his name and saw her as he had imagined her almost since taking leave of Whitehall hours before. Her cloak swirled about her; her skirts were pulled by the breeze surging upriver from the channel as her hair was whipped about her face, the face that had dwelled in his night dreams and filled his mind from one day’s break to the next.

  The barge came alongside the Barn Elms pier and he leaped to the landing with a mere trifle of stiffness, not waiting for the men to ship their oars. He knelt at once and bowed his head. “It is ever good to see you well, my lady.” He looked up, seeking to read her face, to see in it what he had seen that last day at Fotheringhay: the desire, but more, the desperate hope that fed his own. Until he saw that face, he would not embarrass himself by assuming that her feelings had not changed in the two months of her mourning. And with Essex lurking nearby…Oh, it was the talk of the palace that the earl hoped to bring the young Lady Sidney to love him, if not immediately to his bed. Some malicious enemy of the earl’s had informed the queen and she was furious, raging or crying, whichever suited the moment, demanding his return to her side, though he pleaded an ailing back related to much riding on bad horses in his country’s wars abroad.

  “You have grown a small beard, Robert.”

  “Aye, I sought to hide my scar, but hair will not grow on it. Howsomever, I hope to distract the eye of the ladies.” His mouth teased.

  “You have succeeded in that last particular. Yet I like it. It gives you authority, if you needed it.”

  He grinned, then sobered. “Madam,” he said softly, and shivered, “with you, I am always in need of the last word. May we go near to a fire? I will show my beard to you in light so you can judge for yourself how well it suits me.”

  “Indeed, sir, I will be happy to advise.” She smiled fully. “Come this way.”

  In the hall, where a huge fire was roaring and the scents of clove and cinnamon were strong, the servants were busy hanging berries and holly to add good winter cheer.

  Frances ordered mulled wine and led Robert to cushioned settles by the fire.

  While they waited, she was amazed that she had not remembered his every plane and muscle, which were so obvious to her now as she took in his features. How could she have forgotten? Or was it a tender God giving her possible happiness in forgetting?

  “Frances, you are wondering why I am here.”

  “Not so, Robert. I am wondering why you did not come sooner.”

  He lowered his voice. Servants were always eager to know what their masters said. “It was impossible to come without official reason. And the queen made certain that your father gave me every long trip possible.”

  “The queen?”

  “Aye, did you say aught to her?”

  “Robert, no one needs to tell Elizabeth anything. Her eyes see through you and into your heart.”

  “Not every heart. She could not see into Leicester’s when he hid his marriage to Lettice Knollys for longer than a year.”

  “She did not want to see; Robin had always been hers…and still is. Her eyes are not closed to us.”

  “Perhaps that is the reason she has not seen fit to reward me.”

  “With nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Frances asked the question that plagued her. “Robert, has Her Majesty decided the fate of Mary Stuart?”

  “She has signed the order for execution, but she cannot bring herself to dispatch it.”

  “Will Mary escape?”

  “Your father and my lord Burghley will manage to bring this to an end. If Mary lives, Elizabeth dies, and with her all who serve her…and they know it. So does our sovereign.”

  She nodded. Now her eyes begged him to agree, though her voice was loud enough to satisfy the servants. “You must dine and rest the night before returning to Whitehall, Master Pauley.”

  His gaze was on her face. “My lady, I am yours…to command. And I bring greetings and a letter from your father. He awaits your answer.”

  “Yes,” she said, trying to keep from showing a too obvious joy. “I will need time to compose my reply. There will be a chamber made ready for your rest this night.”

  “My thanks.” She could tell that he wanted to reach across the space and touch her, take her hand, pull her to him; she wanted it, too.

  He stood and bowed as she left for her chamber, telling Meg to arrange food and accommodation for Sir Walsingham’s courier.

  Meg dipped into a saucy curtsy.

  Later, Frances and Robert were served supper in her father’s library, with Will in livery attending.

  “What will Mr. Secretary’s servants think if we sup as equals?” Robert asked.

  “You work closely with
their master, and they know to treat you well.”

  While Will carried in dishes to a table before the hearth, Robert walked about, looking at the chests of books and manuscripts, wanting to open them. “My father had many books when I was a lad. I don’t know what happened to them. My half brother did not love them as I did.”

  Robert sat down and relaxed, winking at Will, who was fast growing out of his new livery and had a hint of beard on his chin. “You have grown to near manhood since the Falcon and Dove.”

  The lad answered with a grin. “Aye, sir, in many ways.” He bowed and served the hot boar soup and a coffin of partridge stuffed with wrens. Soon they were ready for their gingered bread and a steaming minced pie smelling of currants and spiced meats.

  Frances dismissed Will to wait outside, and as soon as the door closed, she asked, “Robert, do you know what my father wrote?”

  “Do you wish to tell me?” he asked, his eyes dark and unreadable now that the candles had burned low.

  “I do not wish it, but there is no avoiding it.” She pulled the letter from her bodice, the wax seal hanging loose, and handed the paper to Robert with a slightly shaking hand.

  He opened it and read aloud: “‘Daughter, I have wonderful news. My lord Essex has asked for you to be his wife….’”

  Robert’s voice caught on an indrawn breath. He paused, looked at her, though she turned away. He began again:

  …to be his wife after a short mourning. His request for your dowry is very small, since his love for you is great. This is beyond my dreams for you, and I have consented most gladly. He does you and our family great honor. Never in my life had I thought to see you a countess, our family allied with the greatest in England. I am beyond joy and I know, though you grieve, you join me in this happiness.

  Your father

  The earl has agreed to help me pay Philip’s debts, which you know reach to fifteen hundred pounds spent for his service to the crown.

  Robert refolded the letter, pushed it toward her, and looked up, his face as blank as he could make it, though his heart thundered in his ears. His voice was low, dull. “Your father has the right by law to give you in marriage to Essex.”

  “None can give my heart. I will not marry Essex. Two loveless marriages in one lifetime! It is too much to ask of any daughter. I love you…only you.” She rose, her body straining forward as if ready to run. “We could escape to France, the Palatine, Italy!”

  He went to her and clasped her arms without pulling her body to his. If he did, he knew he would agree to anything to be with her, his better self surrendering to desire. “Frances”—and, God forgive him, he shook her slightly—“we would be hunted down and it would go the worse for us. There is no country where your father could not reach us and have me murdered. Then you would be given to a man you had humiliated before the world, if he would yet have you. What life would that be?” He shook her again. “Dearest, you know how quickly word of Essex’s offer will spread about the court. Walsingham would never recover from disgrace if you refused the earl.”

  She was shaking her head, blindly denying his words. “There must…must be a way.”

  “Have you forgotten the queen? It could be the Tower for us. Remember the queen’s lady Katherine Grey, and my lord Hertford, who married against Elizabeth’s will. They were kept in the Tower, then banished to the countryside…never to see each other again. I mind not for myself, but for you….”

  She opened her mouth in protest, but he could not listen. She was pleading for what he wanted with all of his being. All his strength of will had gone into that one denial. He could not make another. He dropped her arms and went blindly to the door, leaving it open behind him.

  That night, Frances, knowing well how to walk the shadows, went to the chamber that had been given to her father’s courier, opening and closing the door in complete silence.

  “Are you awake?” she whispered as she bent over the narrow rope bed on which he lay.

  “Think you that I could sleep, knowing you are above me in your chamber?”

  “I did not know for a certainty that where I slept would trouble you.”

  He laughed softly and pulled her down atop his body, aroused even before she came to him. “You knew, Frances. You have always known. It was yourself that you had to overcome, not Robert Pauley.”

  Laughing lightly with him, she asked, though with a tremor in her voice, “Will this night change our circumstance?”

  “No.”

  “The days of the troubadour are very much…over,” she murmured, her tone rueful, breaking. “You are…too honest to be a lady’s lover.”

  “My lady, you have discovered my fatal flaw, which I promise in every way to overcome…but not until after this night.” His hands found her breasts and she bent to press her mouth to his, stretching atop his long body, and he, increasing his pressure on her lips, sent his tongue searching inside. She felt her face blaze and the fire make a searing trail down her belly and below, to where he was ready for her.

  Holding her tight, he turned her onto her side in the narrow bed, the ropes creaking, and pulled her leg over his hip, moving ever slower and stiffer, deeper inside her until she stuffed a hand into her mouth to keep from screaming out her craving for him to go deeper still.

  Again, he reached to her melting core, as only he had before or ever would. Irresistible love was the only fuel that could feed a fire so deep. She knew that she would endure another man’s love, but never this way…never this….

  Robert woke Frances before dawn and shook her gently. “Go to your bed now, my sweetest.”

  “How will I ever sleep again without your love?” she whispered, putting a foot on the cold floor, her body bent in anguish.

  “Know this,” he said. “My love will always be with you in your dreams, and during the mornings in your garden. Even when you are an elder countess sitting at your embroidery, you will remember your youth when you realized who you were. Know then that I have been with you forever. Sweetest, love can never be conquered. Never.” He drew in a shuddering breath. “Now go from me while I still have reason enough to save you from yourself…and from me.”

  Still, she could not move.

  “Quickly, Frances, while I can send you away from the certain ruin of your life.”

  She did not turn to look at him as she fled. And later, at dawn, when she heard the barge oarlocks creak, the drum begin and fade to nothing, and knew he’d gone, she buried her face in the bolster to hide from the emptiness and silence of her world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  February 17

  LONDON

  Frances pulled her fur-lined cloak tight against her body as an icy winter wind howled from the Thames down the east London streets. Holding her Bible against her breast, she nodded to the crowds as the queen’s open carriage came into a new street in the Minories on the way to St. Paul’s for Philip’s funeral. Silent crowds, their heads bowed, lined the way to mourn their newest hero, the brightest flower of English knighthood.

  Essex and Sir Walter Raleigh marched beside the royal carriage horses, leading the long procession of London notables. Leicester, who had returned from Holland before Christmastide, now strode on the queen’s side with little left of the young gallant he had once been.

  Elizabeth Regina continued to acknowledge her people, speaking to Frances without looking her way. “I must warn you, my lady…” she began, but paused.

  What now? Frances wondered. “Yes, Majesty?”

  “The Earl of Essex is altogether too young and unsuitable for a hero’s widow. I forbade him to marry. And you, Lady Frances, must retire to your country manor and mourn for at least two years, after which I will find a suitable husband of rank for you…neither too high nor too low. Nay, express no gratitude; I honor your secret service to me.”

  So, Frances thought, the queen did not know that her father had given Essex permission to marry her. Perhaps she would stop it. Her heart grew more lightsome, as much a
s it could this day.

  The queen nodded to her subjects, who were both sad for Philip Sidney and happy that the hated Scots queen Mary had lost her head but a week earlier. They had lit bonfires and danced in the streets to celebrate. “It took three blows to sever her head,” Elizabeth murmured, her hand resting on her neck.

  Though she did not explain her change of subject, Frances knew the queen was haunted by Mary’s death.

  “Three,” the queen whispered. “And her little dog crawled from her skirts to lie in her blood.”

  The words were barely perceptible, so that Frances had to bend close to hear them. The queen seemed unaware she’d spoken.

  “I did not order her death. My faithless councilors tricked me, and now all Catholic Europe comes for my head,” she said, her voice rising. After a deep, shuddering breath, she pressed her lips together and spoke no more.

  Frances had heard as well that after the sheriff’s men made Mary’s death mask, her head was buried in a secret place, lest it draw Catholic pilgrims.

  The carriage turned down Ludgate into Paul’s yard. Elizabeth spoke again in a softly understanding voice, looking at Leicester. “As a woman, Lady Frances, I know that at times, in full youth, the heart speaks louder than the head. Yet as queen I know that my duty lies, as does yours, in obedience to God’s order of being.”

  Frances nodded. Not too high, not too low.

  The queen was speaking of her old love for Leicester, Frances knew, and that kept her from screaming out, My heart is not with Essex, but with Robert Pauley. She dared not say the truth aloud, dared not name her love, as Elizabeth did not. Were women made silent by their forbidden emotions?

  The carriage stopped, and Frances, carrying her Bible, put one foot forward and then the other. Her heart was gladdened by the chance to pay due homage to Philip. She had not been the wife he wanted in life, but she would not disgrace him in death.

  Her head high, she walked down the wide stone aisle of the empty nave. The queen went first toward the chancel arch, which was illumined by a thousand candles to chase the dark into the far, dusty corners. The rose window cast its many colored lights over the pointed arches and clustered pillars. To honor Philip, the Chapel Royal choir sang sweetly the solemn music written especially by the queen’s composer, William Byrd.