Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  “Of course they are your friends! If they are not, why do you intrigue with them? The Throckmorton Plot—” Shrewsbury’s sad eyes had begun to glow.

  Yes. The Throckmorton Plot. That was what they were calling it, named after my agent who had been captured and tortured by Francis Walsingham. He had served as a messenger between me, the Spanish ambassador, and all the plotters in Europe who were planning the “Holy Enterprise.”

  “I was merely kept informed about it,” I said. “I offered no advice, no support.”

  “You should have reported it to Queen Elizabeth! Your failure to do so means that you are a traitor! Have you heard of misprision of treason? It means to be aware of treason and fail to report it. It is a felony!” His voice was rising, and his gentle demeanour was changing. Of late, Shrewsbury had undergone a transformation; he was worn down and worn out, and weary of his thankless task in being appointed my Protestant guard-dragon. He also, understandably, felt betrayed that I had dared to “plot” right under his nose. It was a delicate matter.

  “Dear friend, let us not quibble. This is but a reflection of a larger issue, one that loomed from the first moment I was illegally detained here. I told Sir Francis Knollys then, and I have continued to say it; ‘If I shall be held here perforce, you may be sure, then, as a desperate person I will use any attempts that may serve my purpose either by myself or my friends.’ It is the role of the prisoner to try to escape, and the role of the gaoler to try to prevent it. But within those prescribed courses of behaviour, we may still be honourable people.”

  “Honourable! To try to assassinate Elizabeth!”

  “Nowhere has it been recommended to assassinate Elizabeth.”

  “That Somerfield man—”

  “The Somerfield man was a madman,” I said. “You mean the man who set out from Warwickshire to shoot the Queen and put her head on a pole, for ‘she was a serpent and a viper’? Surely you know that all rulers live in fear of just such a person? We all tremble at the thought.”

  “I am sure you would tremble less than anyone should he have succeeded!” Shrewsbury’s bearded chin thrust forward.

  I was deeply offended at this, but tried not to show it. I, who had lost Riccio and Darnley to violent murder, could not stomach the thought. Murder was dreadful, whether by poison, bullets, knives, or blows—even if the end result was not undesirable. “You malign me,” I finally said.

  “You know, as well as anyone, what happens at the death of the monarch!” He was almost shouting now. “Do not play the innocent with me! All commissions expire along with her: the sheriffs, the councillors, the lords lieutenant, the judges, the magistrates, Parliament. The only authority is in the heir, the next in line. And here that would be you!”

  “Then I would have to fear the assassin as well,” I said. “For do you really think I would be allowed to ascend the throne? No.”

  “So you have thought about it!”

  “Of course I have thought of it. Who has not? Elizabeth, in not naming her successor, gambles every day.”

  “Because there are plots against her?” Shrewsbury was gripping the subject like a mastiff.

  “No, because every day that we live is a gift from God. We can be struck down—by natural causes—at any moment. Nothing is certain.”

  “What is certain is that assassination is quicker and surer than these lumbering ‘invasion’ plots that require such coordination and planning that they undo themselves. And require so many messengers and letters that they are inevitably discovered,” he said smugly.

  “Thanks to your Walsingham and his Tower rackmaster,” I said. They had captured Throckmorton, seized his papers, and tortured and then executed him. The Spanish ambassador, who had been in the thick of the plot, was expelled by Elizabeth. There was now no Spanish ambassador in London, which meant that I had to rely on the French for all my correspondence.

  “Yes, thanks to him! And thanks to him, you might be pleased to know, that Jesuit Creighton was taken by the Dutch on his ship to Scotland. Oh, he was laden with papers about the ‘Holy Enterprise of England’—every pouch in his robes was bulging! He tore up the papers and threw them overboard. But guess what? The winds were in love with Elizabeth, and blew them right back on board, where our agents gathered them up! What do you make of that?”

  “Only that the metaphors must have come true, then, and all nature stands in awe of the Faerie Queen, Gloriana.”

  “Do you dare to blaspheme our Queen?” He was sputtering.

  “Elizabeth is but a mortal, and one cannot blaspheme a mortal,” I said. “Poetry is not reality. I fear you, and all the English, are blurring the line between them. Call her Faerie Queen, Gloriana, Astraea, Cynthia, Britomart to your heart’s content—she is first and foremost a politician, and not a goddess. Besides,” I could not help saying, “is it not blasphemous of you to elevate her to become a pagan goddess, and make your own national cult of the Virgin?”

  “Parliament is meeting soon, and we will then decide how best to protect her. It will not be a good occasion for you, that I can assure you.”

  “My friend,” I said, “it has not been a good occasion for me since I stepped out of the boat at Workington, and stumbled and fell. I have never risen since to stand at my full height. And now”—I attempted to lighten the conversation—“I cannot stand straight, due to my rheumatism. Which is much improved, thanks to your kindness in letting me take the cure at Buxton.”

  He smiled wanly. It was a difficult position for him. We could never truly be friends.

  Through all this, I still had one hope: the Association with James. There might still be an honourable exit for me from this purgatory. But if not … then I must endure it, for it is God’s sovereign will. He, the sovereign over Elizabeth and me, the sister sovereigns, will prevail, regardless of our plots and plans and Walsinghams.

  XVI

  “So long as that devilish woman lives,” said the thin dark man softly, “Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth cannot count on continuing in quiet possession of her crown, nor can we, her faithful servants, be sure of our own lives.”

  He held the miniature of Mary, Queen of Scots, aloft and showed it to his companion, as if holding up a talisman of awesome power.

  “But, Sir Walsingham, our glorious mistress refuses to see the truth,” replied the man, Walsingham’s chief agent, Thomas Phelippes. Phelippes looked as if he were made of melting tallow: his hair and skin had a greasy glow, and his face was pitted all over with pock marks, as if he had come too close to a flame and started to melt.

  Walsingham picked up another miniature, housed in an identical frame, and even by the same artist, Nicholas Hillard, and compared them side by side. “She sees the truth,” he said. “But her motto is Video et taceo: ‘I see and keep silent.’ She has seen the truth ever since the wretched Ridolfi Plot, and that was fourteen years ago. Parliament called for Mary’s death then, and Parliament was right. But the Queen would have none of it.” He stared at the portraits intently. “There is a certain similarity between them, after all. Family resemblance.”

  Walsingham sighed and leaned back in his chair. He was seated in his London quarters, the navel of his far-flung system of espionage and security for Her Majesty’s safety. They were austere but functional, like Walsingham himself.

  “Wine?” asked Walsingham, in a manner that made it incumbent on Phelippes to refuse.

  Phelippes looked around the room. His eyesight was poor for distance, as though he had worn out his eyes poring over books and deciphering codes for so many years. He could just dimly make out the neat rows of boxes lined up along the wall, each proudly wearing a label: Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Scotland, Netherlands, Byzantium, Africa. In each box were the reports filed by the agents in those countries, some fifty or so altogether. His master had even managed to place spies within the Paris embassy of the Queen of Scots herself, and for the past ten years he had had informers within her English household as well. The box with those dispatches
was simply labeled “Serpent,” his favourite nickname for her. Within England, Walsingham’s agents and informers were everywhere: in the ports, in the London taverns, within the foreign embassies.

  Framed above the rows of boxes was a motto: “A Most Subtle Searcher of Secrets.” It was what his old master Cecil had called him, and he was prouder of that title than he was of the knighthood he had been given in 1577 for his spy work. Below it was another motto: “Knowledge is Never too Dear.” He wished he could convince the Queen of that; as it was, in spite of his budget, he paid for much of the expenses out of his own pocket. Still, he did not begrudge it. Knowledge, and the Queen’s safety, were never too dear.

  “There is only one way to move the Queen to act,” said Walsingham finally. “There must be proof, absolute proof, and in writing, of Mary Stuart’s participation in a plot to assassinate Elizabeth. Then she could be tried, and once convicted—”

  “But that is exactly what happened with the Duke of Norfolk,” Phelippes reminded him. He brushed a lank strand of yellow hair off his greasy forehead. “And the Queen kept recalling the warrant. She agreed to his execution only in order to save the Queen of Scots. He was the sacrificial goat. But for whom would she make Mary the sacrificial goat? There is none she protects more.”

  “Only herself, Phelippes, only herself.” Walsingham had put his palms together and was mumbling into them. “She will not sacrifice the Scots Queen until she does it as a last resort to protect her life or her throne. That is why it is incumbent on us to persuade her that this is indeed the case.”

  “I beg your pardon. I had trouble hearing you.”

  “I said”—Walsingham removed his hands—“that only if she is convinced that Mary means to murder her will Elizabeth steel herself to murder her first.”

  Phelippes grimaced. “Must you say ‘murder’?”

  “That is what an execution is—murder, dignified by rituals. Rather a civil version of the hated mass.”

  Phelippes blinked. Walsingham was preparing to launch into an attack on Catholicism, and must be diverted. Not that Phelippes did not agree with him, but he had heard it all before—many times. His master was obsessed with the subject. “The people tried to enact a means of ending the menace of the Queen of Scots, but Elizabeth once again protected her,” he said, annoyance rising in his voice.

  “Yes.” Walsingham was sitting immobile, staring off into space, thinking deeply. “The Bond of Association that thousands of loyal Englishmen signed, promising to protect Elizabeth with their own lives, and to kill Mary forthwith if anyone even attempted to harm Elizabeth on her account—it was farsighted, assuming that if it were known that the Scots Queen would cease to exist along with Elizabeth, who would bother making plots on her behalf? Their motive would be removed in advance. But Elizabeth said no! And what was her reason? That no one should be punished for the sins of another!” He threw up his hands in disgust. “As if we were not all punished for the sins of another every day!”

  “I can understand that, in that Elizabeth was herself at the mercy of others before she came to the throne. But that she would not even allow the Scots Queen to be removed from the succession! I cannot fathom it; surely she would never want Mary to succeed her? A Catholic, and a tainted plotter! So why not remove her?”

  Walsingham shook his head. “I know not,” he said softly. “I know not. She is a great mystery. She began to negotiate with the Scots after the Ridolfi Plot to send Mary back to Morton and have her meet her just deserts, but then changed her mind.”

  “And now poor Morton is gone that way himself. Well, Parliament will settle the issue when it meets. This time they are militant, and will attack both the Jesuit menace and Mary, never fear.”

  “Gradually it all becomes clear. The remaining traitor Catholic lords like Paget and Arundel have been smoked out. Paget has fled to Paris and joined the Scots Queen’s partisans there.” He gave a humourless laugh. “Once a traitor, double a traitor.”

  “What do you mean?” Phelippes asked. He found this exciting.

  “Paget has come over to us,” Walsingham answered. “He reports to me.” He stood up and pulled open the drawer marked “Paris—Serpent” and extracted a paper. He handed it to Phelippes.

  “This is in code,” he objected.

  “I thought there was no code you could not read. I thought you even dreamed in code!”

  “This is an easy code, one used by children,” Phelippes said. “I can undo it in my head.”

  “Then do so.” Walsingham leaned back and watched him intently.

  “‘I—watch all—dispatches and there is—nothing—now in the works. The Guises are hard—at work—plundering Mary’s dower—estates. With—her uncle the Cardinal dead—there is none—to act on her—behalf.’” He handed the paper back to Walsingham with a proud flourish.

  Walsingham smiled. “Very good! Very good! And so fast! You are indeed all my enemies claim you are. Now do not you go over to them! That would be a sore loss. Yes, as you see, the income of the Scots Queen has been sorely cut. The French are weary of supporting three dowager queens: the widows of Henri II, François II, and Charles IX. Catherine de Médicis complained, ‘The Queen of Scotland holds the fairest rose of France,’ and has swapped the rich dower lands of Touraine for inferior ones elsewhere. This has cut Mary’s income in half, severely curtailing her ability to pay for her plotting, not to mention her ostentatious almsgiving here in England. The tide turns our way, Phelippes, it turns our way.”

  “Can we speak honestly?” asked Phelippes. “I hesitate to say what I think and wonder, even in my own thoughts.”

  “There should be no barrier between us. Between husband and wife, between lover and beloved, between mother and child, yes—but never between spymaster and his agent! Pray speak,” said Walsingham. “I am true to mine own.”

  “Now that it can be assumed that Queen Elizabeth will have no heir of her body, since the French ‘Frog’ came to nothing … who will it be?”

  “James of Scotland,” said Walsingham. “He is Protestant, and shows himself eager to please Elizabeth, even to the extent of ignoring his mother’s plight. Queen Elizabeth will be succeeded by King James.”

  “Or, as they sometimes say in the streets, King Elizabeth will be succeeded by Queen James,” Phelippes giggled.

  Walsingham stiffened. “Pray do not joke about Her Majesty! But as for James, yes, he shows that distressing Stuart predilection for taking male favourites.” He winced. “At least that meddling French cousin has been run off. Another blow for the Guises. I told you, the tide is turning, turning, in our favour.”

  “Not if James agrees to rule jointly with his mother.”

  “He won’t. He, like all true Stuarts, wants to sit on his throne alone. He has nothing to gain by allowing his mother to join him on it. She’s only a nuisance to him, as she’s a nuisance to Elizabeth, as she’s a nuisance to everyone. There’s no place for her any longer, Phelippes. And do you know what happens to something when there’s no place for it any longer?” He jerked open one of the drawers and pulled out a letter. “This is outdated. Its contents are of no relevance.” He tossed it out the window, where it landed in the street. Three horses in a row stepped on it and ground it into the mud. “That’s what happens. It’s very simple. We have to keep our drawers neat, Phelippes; we have to get rid of the useless.”

  He stood up and pulled open another drawer. “I keep things tidy. All these drawers have locks, and the keys—let me say that there is no way they can be duplicated. The locksmiths who made them are … unavailable. The windows have bars, and there is only one door into this chamber. I never leave it unlocked, never, even for an instant, any more than I would leave the lid off a cage with venomous serpents. A second of carelessness can cause a lifetime of regret. Do you understand me, Phelippes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What I am saying is that everything here is precious, and secure. Now in this drawer lies an exhibit of how I shall rend
er the Scots Queen to follow that scroll out into the street, there to be trampled under.” He pulled the drawer out and set it on his table. Lifting its hinged lid—for it had a cover—he took out a high-heeled shoe, a bottle, a prayer book, and a length of material, and lined them up neatly.

  “Several years ago, in 1575 to be exact, I had the good fortune to have the opportunity to threaten to torture a certain London stationer, Henry Cockyn. The mere threat was enough! He revealed to me all the secrets of the Queen of Scots’ methods of communication. Silly things like these!” He held up the shoe and scratched at the middle of its heel. A round plug soon tumbled out, revealing a hollow chamber. “And this!” He pulled the cork out of the round bottle, revealing a similar hiding place. “This was a little trickier, because the contents had to be protected against the moisture of the wine.” He patted the material. “This used the alum writing. As if to help me, she also wrote instructions to all her correspondents.” He shook his head. “She took a certain delight in all this. I suppose it was like her needlework, and helped her pass the time creatively.”

  “Where did you get all this?” asked Phelippes.

  “Here and there,” said Walsingham. “The extent of her correspondence has been staggering. Naturally, the more of it there was, the more could be intercepted. The shoe is courtesy of the connection to Lady Northumberland around the time of the Northern Uprising. The material went under the protection of the French envoy, who thought he was sending a simple gift. The bottle was carried by a Jesuit posing as a merchant of Bordeaux wines entering Dover. And while Anthony Babington was still in her household, the codes bloomed like the daffodils on a spring hillside. Now he has left, and is just as busy fomenting plots in Paris, which are promptly reported by Paget.”

  “You will have to have a trunk to house these,” said Phelippes.

  “I think not. I have at last come to an understanding of how to destroy her,” said Walsingham. “Are you familiar with the thirty-fifth Psalm? ‘For they have privily laid their net to destroy me without a cause: yea, even without a cause have they made a pit for my soul. Let a sudden destruction come upon him unawares, and his net, that he hath laid privily, catch himself: that he may fall into his own mischief.’”