“Very good, Lord Robert. And what information have you gleaned in your evenings with the ambassador?”
Robert wondered if Elizabeth knew precisely to what use Walsingham was putting him. Working for her intelligencer was one thing—he didn’t think her imagination had stretched to Robert drinking heavily with a man who liked his women pretty and loose. “Nothing practical. He deplores William’s new betrothal on political grounds, though he has no objection to Mistress Wyatt’s—pardon me, Lady Somerset’s—personal charms. Like all the French, he thinks William prudish in not simply making her his permanent mistress, much along the lines of Diane de Poitiers at King Henri’s court. And he thinks we are all fools for looking to the Spanish for, as he says, ‘an English princess is not an equal balance to their armies and gold.’ But that last is mostly bluster. I would say the French are deeply worried about an English-Spanish alliance.”
“As to the nature of that alliance … has there been any discussion of the Lady Mary?”
Robert’s attention sharpened. “No. Should there be?”
Walsingham’s gestures could speak volumes. The shrug he gave now encompassed a wealth of possibilities. “Since her visit to court at Easter, Lady Mary has kept up a considerable correspondence with the Duke of Norfolk and the Spanish ambassador. She has naturally taken great pleasure in Lord Rochford’s current exile, and perhaps sees England’s turn to Spain as an answer to years of prayer.”
“Perhaps it is.”
“I do not operate on the level of prayers and faith, Lord Robert. What concerns me is the obsessions of the fanatic, and to what interpretation such a person may put current events.”
Robert studied Walsingham, brow furrowed until his head ached as he tried to divine the man’s mind. “You’re talking about Norwich, aren’t you?”
“Should I be?”
“Catholic mass, Catholic rebels, protests against Rochford—it’s not such a leap to see England’s leading Catholic in the shadows. You think Mary would suborn one of her brother’s bishops against him and pay men to call her queen?”
“I think Lady Mary will do precisely as she believes God intends her to do, which too often coincides with her own desires.”
“Sounds like royalty to me.”
“Yes, for not all obsessions are religious in nature. Even love can make fanatics.”
Robert shifted in his seat. “So I continue with the French ambassador.”
“For now. I may have use for you elsewhere soon enough.”
This had better be worth it to Elizabeth, Robert thought as he left. Because it felt all too much like working for Rochford had—secretive, sideways, and with the end always in doubt.
Elizabeth was growing impatient with fretting over her brother and her friend. What was the point? In making Minuette a marquess, William had made it plain to all of Europe that he would do in this matter exactly as he pleased. And whether that pleased or frightened Minuette, she kept her own counsel and seemed in no hurry to share it. When Elizabeth congratulated her on the new title and wealth, with a slight questioning tone to the words that invited confidence, Minuette had replied with courtly formality, “I welcome your good wishes, Your Highness.”
Since when am I Your Highness to you? Elizabeth nearly asked. But she had a temper of her own and it was being increasingly tried. She would take Minuette and retreat one last time to Hatfield—William had made plain that this visit would entail Minuette as her guest, not as her lady-in-waiting—and give her friend a final chance to discuss her feelings or ask for help or simply rejoice. Elizabeth didn’t much care which particular emotion was released as long as Minuette did something other than behave like a perfectly groomed child with no mind of her own.
But before she left court, Elizabeth had final plans to make with Walsingham. She had put him in charge of her household’s preparations for King Philip’s visit with the express purpose of gathering information from whatever quarter provided it. Liaising with William’s household was one thing; dealing with Mary and the other Catholics as protocol demanded was something else.
And it was of Mary that Walsingham had to warn her on the last day of June, if in a rather roundabout manner.
He began by updating her on Dr. John Dee. It had been almost three months since Elizabeth had sent Dee to the Continent on an extended tour of universities and church libraries and already he had sent back some beautiful and rare books of knowledge. Together with Walsingham, they seemed to be forming a backbone of secrets and caution in Elizabeth’s household.
“Dee has been in France for three weeks and he writes that matters of military retaliation might not be so straightforward as we suppose. The French king does indeed appear to be preparing for a coastal invasion, but the French ships—although provisioning for an extended time at sea—do not seem to be taking on large numbers of soldiers.”
“What of Renaud LeClerc?” Elizabeth knew he was the chief general of France’s armies—LeClerc’s whereabouts would be a clue to French intentions. He had been Dominic’s friend, but when Elizabeth had asked him for insight into Renaud’s mind, Dominic had said abruptly, “I don’t hear from him any longer and do not expect to. Find your spies elsewhere.”
So she had. And now her spymaster looked at her with that expression of knowing far more than he told, and said, “LeClerc has not stirred from the French court except to his own home in the Loire Valley. He has not been seen near any French port. Either Henri intends to invade without his best soldier, or else we are expecting the wrong attack.”
“Diplomatic, do you mean? Economic? We are always under attack from the Continent in those ways. I sometimes wonder if we would not be better served making an alliance with the Low Countries once and for all and line up neatly with Protestants against Catholics.”
“Easier for England to contemplate that alliance than for the Low Countries themselves, seeing as how we have the sea and a navy between us and the Catholic powers. The Netherlands are not so lucky. Not that they like the thought of England allying with their hated Spanish overlord.”
“I can’t say I like it much myself,” Elizabeth said tartly, “but then I am rather more personally involved than the Low Countries.”
She refused to go further in her thoughts on Philip. She just hoped when she finally met him, she would not find him completely abhorrent. She had seen several miniatures of the Spanish king and he appeared to be handsome enough, and certainly he was intelligent. At least he was only six years older than she, though he was a widower of ten years duration and already had a son and heir.
Elizabeth returned to the matter at hand. “So Dr. Dee thinks we should be wary about French intentions. That their naval involvement may be a feint, and not necessarily indicate a planned invasion.”
“Possibly they intend to harass the Spanish coasts and try to keep Philip from sailing to England. The king and Lord Burghley have that possibility in mind. The Lord Chancellor tells me that English ships will travel in convoy with the Spanish to make such numbers that the French cannot attack, while still leaving sufficient protection for the ports.”
Just how much did the Lord Chancellor share with Walsingham? Elizabeth wondered. They had known one another for some time—Burghley, along with John Dee, had recommended Walsingham to her. Did her brother guess how much Elizabeth’s intelligencer knew of his government’s affairs?
Walsingham interrupted that train of thought. “Your Highness, have you considered that the French may be more interested in their own territories?”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply, but even as she questioned, she knew the answer. “Harfleur and Le Havre.”
“England has only held those cities since 1554. I imagine the French want them back, considering their loss was one of the points that brought them to the negotiating table in the first place. If there is no treaty, there is no reason for the French to stay their hands from attempting to reclaim the cities.”
“Well, England has certainly won
and lost our share of French cities. I will speak to Burghley of the possibility. Unless you would care to do so?” she invited archly.
Walsingham ignored the invitation. “William Cecil, rather than your brother?”
“Burghley is an outstandingly canny man who is not only clever and wise but without the pride to show off about it,” Elizabeth retorted, certain she was not telling Walsingham anything he didn’t already know. “Although I miss my uncle in many ways, truthfully, Burghley may be the better choice as chancellor. He rules without temperament, which is restful in this court.”
“What if the French have more in mind than simply retaking Le Havre and Harfleur?” asked Walsingham.
This time Elizabeth couldn’t anticipate him. “What do you mean?”
“Calais.” Walsingham pronounced the name delicately and then let it rest, lingering in Elizabeth’s shocked mind.
“The French haven’t made a serious play for Calais in years. Do you really think they would attempt it now?”
“While English ships patrol the southern ports and keep their soldiers close to home? What better time to attack than when all eyes are elsewhere?”
Elizabeth drew in her breath. “I do not like this possibility at all. Nor will my brother.”
“Liking does not enter into it. Only preparation.”
“You have made your point, Walsingham, I will speak to William directly about all of Dr. Dee’s concerns. Is there anything else?”
“There is. I have some cause for concern in the Lady Mary’s correspondence of late.”
“You’re reading her letters?”
“As your uncle has long done,” Walsingham said, unmoved. “And no doubt Burghley has his own methods as well.”
Everyone spying on everybody else, Elizabeth thought wryly. How many hands did her own letters pass through on the way to their intended recipients?
“What is my sister saying that concerns you?”
“It’s what she’s not saying, rather. Her letters have become rather pedestrian. One might almost say mundane. Quite unlike her usual style. It leads me to wonder why she is taking such care not to be inflammatory, particularly when she must have opinions on what happened in Norwich.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are too suspicious for your own good?”
“I am not looking to my own good, but to yours. And England’s. No suspicion can be too great if it prevents disaster.”
“Well, I shall defer to your judgment for now. If Mary does anything to confirm your suspicions, you will let me know.”
“I shall write to you at Hatfield, Your Highness.”
“Do you expect you will need to cipher your communications?”
He smiled briefly. “Not just yet. But it is a skill with which you may wish to familiarize yourself. One never knows.”
One never knows anything, Elizabeth thought, except that where there are kings and princesses and bishops and heretics, there will be trouble. And secrets. And more than enough of both.
Her last afternoon at Hampton Court, Minuette could not settle to anything. While Carrie packed, she flitted from room to room in her near-royal suite, aware at every moment of the scrolled patent of nobility that seemed to watch her from the new gilded and bejeweled chest where it had been stored. She had not been able to think straight since that awful, portentous day when William had placed a coronet on her head and made her a marquess.
She didn’t want the coronet or the title or the wealth that went with it. She had never wanted any of this. The only thing William had ever given her that had caused her a thrill of triumph had been the promise, made three years ago on another birthday, that he would allow her to marry where she chose.
Carrie kept looking as though she wanted to say something, but Minuette turned away every time her maid opened her mouth. She was having a private dinner with William in two hours and at some point she had to say goodbye to Dominic as well, but until then all she could do was fret and wander.
And once again, at the height of her nerves and anxiety, Jane Grey appeared unexpectedly. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” Jane said hesitantly.
“Not at all,” Minuette answered. “Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you, my lady.” Somehow, hearing “my lady” from the serene, pious Jane made real the weight of her new title.
When they were seated before the empty tile fireplace, Minuette said, as she always seemed to with Jane, “What can I do for you?” Could she be about to ask her again about William’s intentions? Jane’s mother could hardly be in doubt of them, considering that she had been one of Minuette’s escorts during the investiture ceremony. Minuette had felt the duchess glaring at her throughout.
But better that than to ask again about Dominic. Minuette was prepared to be curt and dismissive if Jane mentioned his name at all.
Quiet Jane, however, always seemed to have a surprise in store. “I wondered, my lady, if you would speak to the king on behalf of Lady Rochford.”
After a moment, Minuette asked, “Is this your request, or your mother’s?” As far as she knew, the Duchess of Suffolk had privately loathed Anne Boleyn’s brother and, by extension, his wife. Though the duchess was too politically canny to openly rejoice at George Boleyn’s current predicament, surely she was privately glad to see both him and his wife come to grief.
But Jane was not her mother. “Lady Rochford has been all but forgotten in the Tower. I have been to see her and I must tell you that she is not … coping all that well. Truth be told, I fear for her mind in continued confinement. Have you not wondered why she has not come to trial yet?”
Minuette was ashamed to admit that she had not wondered, being so busy with her own concerns. “I am sure the king is aware of her condition,” she said at last. “But I will speak of it to him.” For that was why Jane had sought her out; to use her influence with the king. It was the only reason anyone would ever seek her out again.
“Thank you. It may settle Lady Rochford a little to know she has not been forgotten. Her husband has not made any attempt at contact or comfort.”
Well, he wouldn’t, would he? the cynical part of Minuette nearly retorted. Rochford was protecting himself from the taint of attempted murder. And to be honest, Minuette herself was not looking forward to Lady Rochford’s trial, for then it would all be public knowledge—the adder in her bedchamber, the awful rat and image in France, the monkshood painted on the back of her pendant that had so nearly killed her. She did not relish the thought of her life being picked over by the curious. She wished it would all just go away. Except, of course, that Eleanor Percy had been released from the Tower to a more civilized house arrest in London while she waited her opportunity to openly testify against Lady Rochford. Minuette could not leave Eleanor Percy loose without keeping to her bargain to bring her to William’s attention.
“Lord Rochford’s concern is ever and always the stability of England,” Minuette said to Jane, hating her own lecturing tone. “He would have little patience for anyone who threatened the king, wife or not.”
“But she didn’t threaten the king, did she?” Jane countered. “She threatened you.”
“Would you care to speak freely?” Minuette asked drily.
Unperturbed, Jane merely studied Minuette with furrowed brow and real concern. “I hope that you are what William needs. A strong king is a strong England, yes, but for his own sake and my affection for my cousin, I want him to be at peace as well.”
“You are kind,” Minuette said impulsively, and meant it. She herself had once been kind. How long had it been since she had been motivated by anything except her own concerns?
She would remedy that tonight. She would speak to William about Lady Rochford. And, for her sins, Eleanor Percy.
William had been anticipating a quiet, intimate dinner with Minuette in his privy chamber. It was quiet enough, but the intimacy of their last night together for a month was spoiled by Minuette’s choice of topic.
“Jane Grey
came to see me today,” she began, playing with the quail and leek pie on her plate but eating little.
“Yes?” William asked from mere politeness. “You’ll have to accustom yourself to many visitors. Everyone will want something from you now.”
He did not want to talk about Jane. It seemed to him he had spent half his life fending off his young cousin. Though Jane herself was reserved, even shy, she had a highly ambitious mother whose ambitions had heightened with the overthrow of the French treaty. Despite the title so recently given to Minuette, the Duchess of Suffolk saw what she wanted to see: the French marriage off, the Catholics on increasingly unstable ground, and a daughter with royal blood and impeccable Protestant credentials. His aunt did everything but parade Jane naked in front of him, and if she could have gotten away with that, she would have.
And it was true that he had frequently made use of Jane’s company since Easter. He did not fault her for her mother and Jane was convenient and restful company. She was also the only woman at court, other than Elizabeth, who never made sly comments about Minuette. It was useful to be seen riding with Jane or sitting next to her at table or merely giving her his arm while they walked through the galleries. It made the Catholics nervous.
But the last thing he needed was Jane’s pious presence evoked in this private space with Minuette.
“She didn’t want something for herself. She was asking, rather, after Lady Rochford’s welfare. Jane claims that your aunt has been unwell in the Tower.”
“Gone mad, you mean?” William said casually. “It seems so. The doctors who’ve examined her believe she is not feigning merely to avoid trial.”
“If she is truly afflicted, where will you send her? Surely you will not continue to keep her at the Tower. She must be moved elsewhere—perhaps one of their homes.”
“Do you think my uncle is interested in caring for a lunatic wife?” He did not miss the flinch of Minuette’s expression, but she needed to hear the truth. “Her condition does not answer her crimes. She came perilously close to killing you. An attack on you is an attack on me. For that, she will answer.”
The Boleyn Reckoning: A Novel (The Boleyn Trilogy) Page 13