And there was another rub besides her pitted skin; the pox had had a most distressing effect upon her hair. Gone were the abundant, red-gold locks that still appeared thick and lustrous in her coronation portrait. Since her devastating illness, her hair had thinned and lost its sheen. And it seemed that after she began using Mrs. Frankwell’s cosmetic paste, her hair had become even more dull and lifeless, and it often came out in her hairbrush. But no matter; she had found that it was easier simply to crop her hair close and choose each day from amongst a plethora of elaborately dressed and decorated wigs.
And so when Sir William Cecil and Sir Francis Walsingham entered the room, the sight that met their eyes was of the queen, reclining in her unusual gilt chair, her head swathed in snowy linen to keep her hair out of the way of Mrs. Frankwell’s brush. The queen wore a loose morning gown of apricot silk, a favorite color. It was embroidered with silver and gold thread in an intricate pattern about the wide cuffs and hem. On her feet were silken slippers of the same hue, sewn with tiny seed pearls. Lady Sandes announced the two men, curtseyed, and departed.
Again without opening her eyes, Elizabeth said, “How now, gentlemen. What has the pair of you so early abroad?” Sir William and Sir Francis exchanged glances; Sir Francis conceded his place to Cecil.
“We have netted us a spy at Dover,” said Cecil. “Good Sir Francis’s man has a means by which to secret away for inspection all correspondence coming in from, or departing to, the Continent. Usually, these steps are exercised only on the diplomatic pouches, but of late, with so many rumors and evil tales being bruited, the search has been expanded somewhat. Suffice it to say that we have discovered a most wicked plot against Your Grace, and against England.”
Just at that moment, Mrs. Frankenwell murmured her usual, “Well then, Your Grace,” put down her brush, curtseyed, and departed.
Elizabeth sat up; her face was almost as white as the bleached linen that covered her hair. “Who is implicated?”
Both knew better than to beat about the bush. This time Sir Francis spoke. “The Queen of Scots, the Bishop of Ross, and the Duke of Norfolk.”
“Jesu!” cried Elizabeth. The Bishop of Ross she did not care two beans about; he was one of those annoying Catholics who did not know when to keep silent. He had no subtlety about him at all; how fitting that her cousin had chosen him for her ambassador to the English court! She had sent him packing back to Mary with his tail between his legs. But Mary herself…and Norfolk! Was the man daft? Had he not just escaped the shadow of the executioner’s axe? And had she not just had to plead for Mary’s life with both Council and Parliament after the uprising in the North?
“The letters are not proof of anything,” said Walsingham, who knew his law very well. “The missives are from Signore Ridolfi, and are addressed directly to the Queen of Scots and the duke.”
Elizabeth shrugged; she understood the fine point of law that Sir Francis was making. “Anyone may write a letter,” she said. She put an unconscious hand to her face, and quickly drew it away. The white paste would crack if one touched it too often, or smiled too much. No need to worry about that, she thought wryly. More plots! Would she never be free of them?
“Precisely,” said Sir Francis.
“And what of the Earl of Shrewsbury?” she asked with a sigh. He was such a good gaoler; she was content to leave her troublesome cousin in his charge for the time being, and wanted nothing to upset that apple cart.
“It is unlikely that he is involved,” said Cecil. “We allowed the man, Charles Bailley is his name, to proceed as if nothing untoward had happened at Dover. We set spies of our own upon him, hoping to unravel the mystery. The Bishop of Ross received the letters, and arranged to have them delivered to Her Grace through one of her own servants. The good bishop hovers close to Sheffield, but no doubt thinks to deflect any suspicion by not visiting the lady himself. It was he who carried Norfolk’s letter directly to the Duke.”
Elizabeth arose and began pacing the room in her silken slippers. “Ridolfi!” she exclaimed. “I must admit to being baffled. Did he not just broker a resumption of trade between England and the Netherlands? It makes no sense.” The sly thing, she thought. Garnering her enthusiastic support for his parley with Alva, and then all the time planning…what?
“Of what does this plot consist?” she asked.
Cecil shrugged. “Of that which one might expect,” he replied. “An invasion of Spaniards, presumably from the Low Countries, likely funded by Rome, and Norfolk to incite the English Catholics. Queen and Council to be seized and replaced with the Queen of Scots, who will marry Norfolk, and sit on the thrones of both Scotland and England. Protestants persecuted, and the land restored to papistry.”
A gentle breeze blew in through the window and caught the edge of a tapestry, causing it to undulate. For a moment, it seemed as if the figures depicted on its silky surface came to life. Most of the tapestries and arras that graced the walls of Elizabeth’s castles and palaces had been inherited from previous reigns and portrayed religious themes; but those that adorned her privy chamber were of her own choosing. The wall hanging closest to the window depicted Perseus with his mighty sword raised to sever the head of Medusa. She loved Greek mythology; she spoke the language fluently, and had learnt it by studying and translating the ancient tales. As the wind caused the sword in Perseus’s hand to waver, for a moment it was Mary of Scotland whom she saw being threatened, and not the frightening Medusa. She shivered. Why must Mary persist in this perfidious behavior? How long would she be able to stay the executioner’s axe if her cousin continued to cause such trouble in her realm?
She turned her gaze from the tapestry back to Cecil and Walsingham. “And what, pray tell, is to become of “queen and council” as a result of this conspiracy?”
Walsingham shifted in his chair. “The letters are vague on that point, Your Grace.”
Thank God, thought Elizabeth. No one must shout “murder” in connection with this ridiculous plot. For she must keep her cousin from the block at all costs. She had no desire to emulate her bloodthirsty father. And how could she ever wish to set an example of beheading an anointed queen? The very thought made her quiver with fear. What could be done once could be done again; she would never be safe after such an act. But there would be no saving Norfolk this time.
“I think me that my cousin and her accomplices overestimate the number of English Catholics willing to bring us to the brink of civil war,” she said dryly. “The Catholics are still my subjects, and I believe them to be mainly loyal to the crown. But more importantly, my cousin of Scotland has proven herself an inept and incompetent ruler. I flatter myself that only the fanatic would wish to see her on the throne of England in my stead. And Norfolk! The man is either stupid, or so blinded by lust and his own ambition that he has lost his wits. What a king he would make!” She snorted inelegantly. “Have we any evidence that this plot is anything more than wishful thinking on the part of my cousin?”
Cecil pulled a letter from his doublet; he arose and walked to where Elizabeth stood by the window, gazing out at the blue sky. The garden outside her windows sent forth a heady scent of lilacs; the delicate trees alternated purple and white, and were laden with blossoms that swayed gently in the breeze. He handed her the letter.
Elizabeth scanned the letter and handed it back. “The Grand Duke of Tuscany! So Ridolfi visited him on his way to Rome. Well, then, there can be no doubt that Sir Pope has a hand in this as well! But why should we trust the word of the Grand Duke? Is he not Italian? And what did I ever do to Signore Ridolfi, that he should wish to see me deposed?” It was true that Ridolfi had been detained in the Tower during the time of the northern rebellion, on suspicion of having abetted the rebels; but he had been well-treated and duly released when no such evidence could be found. Then another thought struck her.
“Has Ridolfi ever made the acquaintance of the Queen of Scots?” That bewitching charm again!
Sir Francis catalogued the quee
n’s questions as fast as she uttered them. “Your Grace, the Grand Duke is Medici; they are rivals of the Ridolfis. Cosimo de’ Medici would gain much by exposing Ridolfi as the fool he must be to confide such a thing to a competitor. And it is almost certain that the pope is involved. Where one sees one Italian, there are always more. And we know that Ridolfi is the pope’s agent and is in his pay. But he has never met the Queen of Scots to my knowledge.”
So, thought Elizabeth, her bewitching cousin could apparently charm men from a distance; was such a thing possible? She must confer with Dr. Dee on the subject. But perhaps it was only that her cousin’s plight appealed to the romantic in the little Italian. She walked to the sideboard and poured wine for them all from a jeweled flagon; she handed the cups to Cecil and Walsingham, then sat down and sipped her own.
“I have no intention,” she said, “of modifying any of my religious policies. The people of this land enjoy freedom of conscience, if not freedom of the outward form of worship. That is as far as I am willing to go, and most of the Catholics in this realm thank God fasting for it! I will not be dragged by my hapless cousins or Sir Pope in Rome into any further conflict on the subject of religion.” She had no desire to force belief upon anyone; had not such a policy proved disastrous for her wretched sister, and resulted in the horrendous deaths of almost three hundred good Englishmen and women? If she sought to emulate Mary, she might very well come out the loser in such a game, just as her sister had.
“And quite right, too,” replied Cecil.
“Then what is to be done?” she asked. “What think you, Walsingham?”
Cecil and Sir Francis were ardent Protestants; they exchanged significant glances. The destruction of the papist Queen of Scotland was a goal of paramount importance to them both. More, much more, would be needed in order to realize that objective. But the opportunity to rid the realm of the Duke of Norfolk once and for all was irresistible, and they must capitalize on that for the time being.
First things first. Cecil leaned forward.
“Your Grace,” he said. The first thing that we ought to look to is neutralizing the Catholics in the North. You are right about the Catholics in the south; they are thankful for the leniency of the crown and look no further than that. But the North, as we know, is much further removed, and has proven volatile more than once. I recommend that we send the Earl of Sussex north once again to harry not all of the Catholics, we do not want to provoke the French, but only those on either side of the border who sheltered rebels during the uprising. Sir Francis has a very reliable list of who they are.”
Elizabeth nodded. “A good plan. Let it be done, then.”
It was Sir Francis’s turn. He placed his hands on his knees and said, “In addition, Your Grace, I deem it advisable that we detain this man, Bailley. Quietly; we do not want to tip our hand. We shall spirit him away at Dover when he arrives back there for his return journey to the Continent. He should be racked; then we shall see what other little fish, or big ones! …we can net. Your Grace’s safety is of the utmost importance. We must know how far-reaching this conspiracy is, and who else is involved. We will find out what we can, and then watch all the conspirators most closely. If there is any substance to this scheme, not only shall we nip it in the bud, but we will root out the plant.”
Elizabeth laid aside her wine cup and approached the table where she sat each day to finish the job started by Mistress Frankwell. Two small bowls had been laid out for her earlier; one contained red pomegranate juice, and the other a dollop of goose grease, diluted and scented with rosewater. She lifted a small hand-mirror, an unusual trinket; her larger mirrors were made of highly polished silver. She dabbed the pomegranate juice onto her dry lips with a cloth until they were stained red, then she applied the goose grease. She studied the effect, and was pleased. She turned to the two men and said, “A fine plan, gentlemen. Secrecy and subterfuge shall be our strategy for now. Keep me informed.”
In her mind’s eye, she pictured her cousin Mary at Sheffield, weaving her web and entrapping all who wandered into it. It was likely not wise to leave her troublesome cousin in one place for too long. If there were a conspiracy afoot, a forced change of location would be tantamount to wielding a stick and destroying her cousin’s carefully woven web.
“And inform the Earl of Shrewsbury that I wish him to move Her Grace back to Tutbury.” That should thrust a stick into her spokes, and no mistake.
Chapter 16
“Elizabeth’s command of statesmanship and politics was as
exceptional as her intelligence was formidable.”
-Alison Weir
Tutbury Castle, Staffordshire, September 1571
O h, the darling thing!” cried Mary, as the little pink tongue explored her face. She laughed and hugged the little dog to her, its tail wagging in an excited blur. She had had hunting dogs and greyhounds, but never had she owned a dog simply for its own sake. How tiny he was, and how sweet!
Sir George Talbot, Lord Shrewsbury, looked on benignly, pleased with the reception his gift had received. The dowager at Bolsover Castle, a near neighbor, had a lapdog that had just whelped; she was honored to give the Earl of Shrewsbury the choicest of the pups for the Queen of Scotland.
He knew that Mary loathed Tutbury, and when they were ordered to remove there by the queen, he had expected her to sink back into the melancholy that had seized her at Sheffield. But some mysterious change had been wrought in the Scots queen at Sheffield. At first he attributed this to the Bishop of Ross’s visit in February; he knew that Mary took her religion very seriously, and she had seemed remarkably restored after seeing the bishop. It was likely that he had held a secret Mass for her, or perhaps, the time they had been able to spend together being rather short, he had simply heard Mary’s confession and eased her conscience. What things a captive queen might have to confess, he did not know; he only knew that the queen had emerged from the interview with John Lesley with a cheerful countenance that had not dimmed even when he informed her that she was to be sent back to Tutbury. The bishop had not been to see her since then, and still Mary’s mood remained buoyant. The little dog had been planned as a gift to lift her out of the melancholy that he was certain would manifest itself once they arrived at Tutbury; but when Mary had remained cheerful despite the discomfort, the gloom and the stinking marshes nearby, he had decided to give the dog to her anyway.
Sheffield had been overdue for a sweetening, it was true, but why the devil had Elizabeth not ordered them to Chatsworth? That would have better contented both women. Still, he had been surprised when Mary had not turned a hair at the news; it was Bess who had railed for a fortnight about the mandate to remove their royal prisoner to noisome Tutbury. Mary had stayed strangely detached about the move and their destination, but her mood had not been glum; on the contrary, she had been more cheerful than he had seen her in many a day.
And always in the back of his mind was the seed of the idea that if aught should happen to Elizabeth, this enigmatic woman entrusted to his charge might become Queen of England. There was no one else; the Grey girls were dead or disgraced, Darnley, a remote possibility in any case, was dead, and Mary’s son was still a child. And had not Elizabeth almost died of the small pox not so many years ago? And did not the plague ravage London every summer, as it had this very one? It was true that the queen went on Progress during the worst of the scourge, but death would find a man…or a woman… where it would. It was only prudent to stay in Mary’s good graces. And doing so was no chore; the Queen of Scots was beautiful, charming, eager to please her hosts, and a pleasant companion. Even Bess found her so, as long as they were engaged in the only two pastimes in which they indulged together, gossip and embroidery.
And who was to say that Lord George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, might not then become to Mary of Scotland as Sir William Cecil, Lord Burghley, was to Elizabeth of England? Had he not earned such a place?
The remnants of her dinner, which Mary had taken in her rooms,
still lay on the table; Mary plied the little dog with tit-bits, and already he was standing on his hind legs at her command. Lord George had noticed that Mary had a way with horses; perhaps she simply had a way with all animals.
“What shall Your Grace name him?” asked Lord George.
Without hesitation Mary replied, “I shall call him Kinsey. Kinsey! Kinsey!” She repeated the name as the little dog yapped and played about her skirts, begging for another treat. The name derived from cyn and siege; it meant “royal victory”. And she meant to be victorious. It was only a matter of time. All summer Ridolfi had been weaving his web and making his plans; she had received letters aplenty from him describing all phases of the plot. Faithful Willie had devised a means by which to spirit letters in and out of the castle; they had developed a cypher that only she, the Bishop of Ross, Norfolk and Ridolfi knew. All was going well; soon she would be free, and once again seated upon the throne of Scotland. And on Elizabeth’s English one! That would be the sweetest victory of all.
That her cousin feared her she was in no doubt. The journey from Sheffield to Tutbury had been a nightmare; fifty miles in a closed litter! But somehow, in that mysterious way that the common people had, they knew about her removal to Staffordshire, and had flocked the roadway to see her. It galled her that she was not able to smile at them, to wave. But a furious Bess had shared the stifling litter, and would not, at the Queen of England’s order, allow the curtains to be drawn open, even for a breath of air, unless the road was deserted. And then Bess would take to her palfrey to breathe the fresh air, leaving Mary alone in the stuffy litter.
Once at Tutbury, she had been permitted to take some exercise; but walks in the garden and sport at the archery butts were the only concessions. She was still not allowed to ride. Oh, to have a horse between her knees once again! The first thing she would do when she was free would be to mount a horse and ride like the wind, over hill and dale, moor and heath.
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