Elizabeth sighed deeply. “And we found no letters at Tutbury? Her Grace’s letters to Norfolk are not enough to condemn my cousin; we need Norfolk’s letters to her in order to prove beyond doubt that he has violated his oath to the crown to have no further truck with her.”
“If they are to be found, Your Grace, Walsingham will find them,” said Cecil. He lifted the parchment and skimmed it again. “Sir Francis’s letter says that he shall go himself to Tutbury.”
She was looking down at her hands; they were sticky with apricot juice, and she rubbed them with the linen square she always kept pushed up her voluminous sleeve.
“What is this?” asked Cecil. “I thought I told the man to wait.”
Elizabeth looked up; her eyesight was still as keen as a hawk’s. “I do not believe it is the same courier,” she said.
The man strode up to them, knelt, and handed up a square letter, sealed and tied with string. She took the letter from him.
“You may go refresh yourself,” she said. The man bowed and trotted off in the direction of the stables. Good man, she thought; he will see to his horse before he sees to his own comfort. She untied the string, broke the seal, and unfolded the vellum. Suddenly she shot up off the bench.
“God’s Blood!” she cried. “The Earl of Lennox has been killed. By a Hamilton, no less! One of Mary Stuart’s own men! I fear me that this plan has been put into motion, Cecil. Come, let us away. There will be much ado about this.”
But already she was torn; she had no desire to deal harshly with either of her cousins. But she was queen; she had a responsibility to her people, and to England, to root out treason wheresoever it was found. She would do her duty; but in her own time, in her own way.
Tutbury Castle, Burton-on-Trent, September 1571
The sun was just dipping below the horizon; its last golden rays reflected off the little brass bell that hung from the neck of the painted wooden ewe that was the sign of The Bellwether, the pub that Sir Francis Walsingham had made his headquarters in Burton-upon-Trent. The failure of his men to find incriminating evidence against the Queen of Scots and the Duke of Norfolk at Tutbury Castle did not surprise him; if one wanted a job done right, he had found, one must see to it oneself. And so here he was.
Unbeknownst even to Lord Shrewsbury, he had placed a spy at Tutbury Castle after his men had returned to him empty-handed. According to his men, the Countess of Shrewsbury had constantly harped whilst they were there about the difficulty of finding servants willing to work at Tutbury; the castle was remote, and the marshes near it stank in the summertime. An unprepossessing maidservant, willing to work cheaply, would be certain to find a place there without question. The woman Sir Francis had sent in such guise was a trained spy, and had ferreted out information for him in many a noble household. She was to send word to him when she had what he needed; that word had come hard on the heels of the conclusion of his business at the Tower with the Bishop of Ross and the Duke of Norfolk’s men.
And so here he was. Forewarned was forearmed, so he had not informed the Earl of Shrewsbury that he was coming; therefore, he was not expected at the castle. That was best; surprise was a formidable weapon not only in battle or siege. He scattered a few coins on the table just as the local men began to file in for a pint, weary after their day’s work.
It was four miles to the Castle from the town. By the time he arrived, twilight would be ended and it would be full dark. From what the maidservant had told him, the castle was dull, not the least bit lively. There were no entertainments, likely due to the countess’s meanness, and most evenings concluded after the evening meal; the very best circumstances under which to arrive and spring his trap.
The full yellow moon blazed a trail for him almost to the castle gates. There were sentries posted at the gatehouse; that was good. But this meagre security was inadequate for a queenly prisoner now suspected of treachery. He would see to that whilst he was here.
A wind had risen; the fire of the torches in their metal holders wavered and danced.
“Who goes there?” challenged one of the guards.
“Sir Francis Walsingham, come to see your lord,” he said. The man nodded and lowered his halberd; a page was sent running, and soon Lord Shrewsbury himself appeared.
“This is a strange business, my lord,” said Lord George warily. “Why did you not send an outrider? Still, come in and take your ease.”
Walsingham was a man of few words and definite purpose. “I am not here to take my ease,” he said. “Show me to the Queen of Scotland.”
Lord George looked nonplussed. His Bess was a vain woman; she had already removed her jewels, undressed her hair and was in her night clothes, else she would have met Sir Francis at the door herself, and given him what for, for appearing at the castle door unannounced at such an inconvenient hour. With the nights beginning to close in early, it was probable that Mary had also been prepared for bed.
“But I fear me that Her Grace is likely by now in deshabille,” he said.
Sir Francis ignored that as the irrelevancy it was, and said nothing.
Lord George sighed. “Well, you are here now. Come this way, then.” Surely this visit boded no good. He had been complicit with Sir Francis’s men in the search of Mary’s rooms earlier in the summer; they had found nothing. But apparently even he and Bess were under suspicion; the men had conducted a thorough search of their apartments as well. He was a good servant of queen and crown; he was fascinated by the beautiful Scottish queen, mayhap even a little smitten, but never would he have betrayed duty, queen or country. It simply was not in his nature to do so. Therefore, he had nothing to fear for himself; but he trembled for Mary. If Sir Francis could not find what he was looking for, Lord George wondered if he would simply manufacture it.
“It is just here,” he said. Sir Francis leaned forward and rapped on the thick oaken door with his riding crop. A moment later Seton appeared, her hair in a braid that lay down the front of her dressing gown. She held a single candle. At the sight of Sir Francis’s stern countenance, her eyes went wide.
Lord George said, “My lady, this is Sir Francis Walsingham, come to see the queen.”
Seton bobbed a quick curtsey, but her countenance was equally stern. “I am sorry, but I fear me that the queen has retired for the night,” she said.
Ignoring Seton, Sir Francis turned to Lord George. The golden September days were pleasant, but the nights were turning cold; fire crackled on both of the queen’s hearths. “Have a page douse both fires and bring more candles,” he said. Then he turned back to Seton. “Rouse the queen.”
For a few moments, all was activity and confusion. Finally, it was done; the two rooms that made up Mary’s apartments blazed with candelabra, the fires on both hearths had been extinguished, and Mary sat, silent and resentful, on a settle by the hearth in the outer room.
Sir Francis observed that Lord George hovered near to Mary, his manner protective. He tucked that information away for later. He seated himself across from the Queen of Scots and studied her as curiously as if she were a unicorn. So this was the siren, the she-devil who had been the doom of so many men. Even Cecil, that stalwart man, had not come away unscathed from his dealings with her. He himself was not immune to the female sex by any means; but as he beheld her, he felt nothing, nor had he expected that he would. To him, the Queen of Scotland was simply one more threat to the crown that must be managed, and if possible, eradicated.
He gazed silently at the creamy white skin, at the rich auburn hair, unbound, streaming about her shoulders; the swell of breast and the haunch of hip outlined under her flowing burgundy velvet robe. Yes, he could understand the lure; she exuded a feminine sexuality that was so strong one could almost smell it. But there was something more, some indescribable fascination that transcended mere attraction. There was a distinct draw, some mysterious magnetism. He felt its pull even as he held her gaze.
Their eyes remained locked in combat for some time; she battling for pos
session of his soul, as she had conquered the souls of so many men. But surely by now she must have realized that he was one of the few people, man or woman, who was not to be swayed by her bewitchment. Her magic was strong, there was no doubt of it; but on him it had absolutely no effect, and somehow, she knew it.
He wondered if she were able to perceive his own brand of sorcery. He thought she did. His was a taciturn nature, but it went beyond mere temperament, behavior, or disposition; men feared him, and they were right to do so. He possessed neither scruple nor qualm. He would get what he wanted by any means necessary. He was like a lion in the presence of lambs. His gaze had the power to engender alarm, distress, fright, and finally, panic in his victims. Had not the Bishop of Ross crumbled like a house of cards under his quiet determination? He could not rack the queen; he could not even threaten to so do. So in order to get that which he needed, he had resorted to other means. But get what he wanted he would.
The silence was becoming uncomfortable for the two mere mortals in the room; Seton coughed lightly, and Lord George shifted his stance. Sir Francis did not even glance in their direction, nor did Mary.
Sir Francis, his penetrating stare never leaving her face, said very softly, “We know what is afoot, Madam. The others have confessed.”
Mary tilted her head back haughtily, but her eyes stayed locked on Sir Francis. “I do not know what you mean.”
For the first time, Sir Francis smiled. The act transformed his face, but did not touch his eyes. “Oh, I think that you do. Are you acquainted with Roberto Ridolfi?”
It was all that Mary could do to stop her eyes from flicking to the place in the room where her letters were hidden. She had always been loath to part with them, although she knew she should have burnt them. From time to time she would fetch them from their hiding place and read them, just to reassure herself that it was all true. She struggled to keep her face expressionless, but her eyes smoldered. “The Florentine? Yes, I have heard of him.”
Again a slight smile curved Sir Francis’s lips. “I think me that you have done more than that,” he said.
“It is true,” said Mary, “that in the past, I have given Signore Ridolfi commissions of a financial nature. But that is all.” And what had happened to their plans, after all? Summer was the time for war; the invasion should have occurred by the end of August at the latest. But she did not despair; a number of things could have happened to delay the attack on England. And the plan to assassinate the Earl of Lennox had already gone forward, much to her delight. Insufferable man! It made her blood boil to think that it was he, her erstwhile father-in-law, who had ruled Scotland in her son’s name! And now he was no more. So perish all her enemies! But she feared that if the invasion did not take place by Michaelmas, she would spend yet another dismal winter in captivity in England.
Sir Francis finally dropped his gaze, but it was in no way a concession; he had seen the falsehood in her eyes. He had known of it, but wanted to see it for himself; now he had. One moment he was leaning back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, studying the backs of his hands; the next, as sudden and lithe as a panther pursuing his prey, he sprang up from the chair and shouted, “You lie! We have your letters to the Duke of Norfolk, Madam. We know of your treacherous intent.”
With the information purchased from his spy, he knew where Mary kept her letters hidden. Ridolfi was on the Continent and could not be touched; the Bishop of Ross was a prelate of the Catholic Church of Rome and could not be touched without unpleasant consequences. But the Duke of Norfolk was an English subject, and a treacherous cur, and him Sir Francis meant to have. But he needed the letters that Norfolk had almost certainly written to the queen in order to seal Thomas Howard’s fate.
He stood before the queen where she sat on the settle next to the hearth; the fire had been doused with water, and now exuded an acrid odor of wet ashes. The room had turned cold in the absence of the flames, and Mary held her velvet robe closely about her, clutching it at the neck with a fisted hand. But still she held his gaze, almost willing him not to move.
Sir Francis was a tall man, but not ungainly; he sank gracefully down onto one knee, and with the flick of his wrist, he knocked away the loose hearthstone under which the Queen of Scots kept her cache of letters. This was the information that the maidservant in his employ had imparted; she had entered the queen’s apartments one day to clean, and had caught, out of the corner of her eye, the queen pushing the stone back into place. The next time she cleaned the room and the queen was absent, she had removed the stone, read the letters, and sent a full report to Sir Francis.
Mary sat as if pole-axed; Lord George wore an expression of utter amazement mixed with deadly fear. Neither said anything whilst Sir Francis unfolded and perused each letter. They were exactly what he expected. And then he reached a letter in the stack with a broken seal that made his eyebrows shoot up. This was a seal with which he was very familiar. It was a letter from the King of Spain himself. From the answer being given, it was clear that the plea put to him by Mary of Scotland was that he should use the seizure of the Genoese gold as an excuse to invade England and set herself upon the thrones of England and Scotland. The letter admonished the queen to patience, and was a polite refusal of her request.
Elizabeth knew full well of Mary’s perfidy; but to have in his hand, in writing, proof that her cousin had personally invited a foreign power to invade her realm was a prize beyond even his expectations.
There was nothing more to be said to the queen; he stacked the letters neatly, pushed them into his doublet, turned on his heel and departed the room, without uttering another word, leaving Mary stunned and Seton weeping quietly in the corner.
###
“I swear to you, Sir Francis, I did not know,” said Lord George. He uttered these words whilst kneading nervous hands together, but his gaze met Walsingham’s squarely and without flinching.
Sir Francis regarded Lord George blandly. There was no need for the earl to assure him so assiduously, or to make excuses; he was certain, with that sixth sense he possessed, that the earl spoke truth. He would not recommend a new gaoler for the Queen of Scots; the Earl of Shrewsbury had proven himself well-suited to his task. He was fascinated by his enigmatic charge, to be sure, but he lacked the desire, and unless he missed his guess, the ability, to connive either with the queen, or on her behalf.
“Double the guard around the castle,” said Sir Francis. “And post another at the queen’s doors. And under her windows. Her Grace is not to be allowed out of doors until further notice.”
Lord George’s relief was palpable; so he was not under suspicion, nor was he to be held responsible for the queen’s scheming. That Mary’s clandestine activities reflected badly upon him, he was well aware; but still, he sympathized with her. What would he have done, if he were in similar case? What would any man do? It was hard to condemn her for trying. But he must needs be more vigilant in future.
Palace of the Louvre, Paris, September 1571
Roberto Ridolfi’s fastidious nose prevented him from even a semblance of appreciation for the sport being enjoyed by the Queen Mother and King Charles IX of France. The gory nature of bear-baitings and cock fights held no charm for him. He much preferred more princely pursuits, such as hawking, an elegant sport, or the chase. But King Charles reveled in his blood sports. If his mother had allowed it, he would have waged war, where he should have been able to enjoy the ultimate blood sport; man against man. All for a righteous cause, of course!
Roberto took no issue with waging war; was it not for this very reason that he had come to Paris from Madrid? As a financier, he knew that it was always wise to hedge one’s bets; if the King of Spain and the Duke of Alba should fail him, he would have a contingency plan. Two of them!
He had already met with the Queen of Scotland’s Guise relations; the Guise faction in France had a keen interest in rekindling their influence in Scotland, which had been so great under the regency of Mary of Scotland’s mother, thei
r sister, Marie de Guise. Charles de Guise, the Cardinal of Lorraine, and his nephew, the head of the House of Guise, Henri, Duc de Guise, were most eager to support his plot, for in it they saw the opportunity to regain not only all of their lost ground in Scotland, but the glittering prize of England as well.
But France was riddled with factions and internecine strife; three families struggled for power at the French court; the Montmorencies, the Bourbons and the Guises. All differed in their viewpoint on religion; the only thing they had in common was that their allegiance to their sovereign rested on seemingly shifting sands. Amongst them, only the Guises could be relied upon to further Mary of Scotland’s cause.
So in addition to the promise of support for their queenly niece from the Guise, he now sought like commitments from the royal family; Mary was, after all, a dowager Queen of France, and sister-in-law to its reigning sovereign. Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Mother, was her former mother-in-law. The fact that Queen Catherine loathed her daughter-in-law was neither here nor there; the subject of the discussion was not so much Mary herself as the alliance of a united Scotland and England with France, against Spain.
What a tangle, thought Ridolfi. But one way or the other, by hook or by crook, he meant to see England invaded and Mary on the throne of a united Britain, with himself as the power behind the throne.
And where the devil was Bailley, he wondered. He had sent him with letters to England and the man had never returned. He had other couriers, but the mysterious disappearance of even one of them certainly boded no good.
“You do not enjoy the sport, Mon Sieur?” asked a heavily accented voice, so deep that it sounded almost like a man’s.
Ridolfi turned to face the Queen Mother. “I must confess,” he said apologetically, that I do not, Your Majesty.” He ran a sheepish hand through his black hair, and smiled his engaging smile.
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