In High Places

by Bonny G Smith

  Something must be done.

  It had been he who had first approached Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish Ambassador to the court of England. Mendoza was known for having a most acrimonious relationship with the Bastard Elizabeth. Francis and Thomas had been welcomed enthusiastically into the bosom of Catholic Spain, and before long, he and Mendoza had worked out the details of a plan to assassinate Elizabeth, and to free Mary Stuart to ascend the throne of England. If only he could see the plan come to fruition, he would feel that he had avenged his father, and served God mightily with the opportunity to restore England to the true faith. If not, well then, God’s will be done; he would be content to die a martyr to the Faith. Either fate was, to him, glorious. Suddenly he realized that he had thought these thoughts in the short time it had taken for the communion wafer to dissolve on his tongue.

  “Thank you, Father,” he said, almost in a whisper. Dusk was nigh and the orange flames of the candles provided the only color in a gray and white world. Francis’s blood ran cold in his veins for just a spilt second when the priest’s head seemed disembodied above his black robe. He shivered.

  Father Simkin was one of hundreds of Jesuits who had flocked to the Throckmorton’s call on the Continent for priests willing to risk their lives to deliver the people of England from grave fault and grievous error. An ardent priest, he had left a sinecure at the Vatican to go back to his native England, to help restore both England and Scotland to Pope and Church.

  All agreed that the first order of business must be to assassinate Elizabeth. How should it be done? The arquebus? The dagger? The poison cup? It was to be the dagger; the careless queen refused to heed her Councilor’s pleas not to mingle with the crowds of common people as she made her way from place to place. Her Grace never failed to stop if hailed or begged for mercy or justice. The dagger would be all too easy. But now that the decision was made, further plans must be crafted; a man to wield the dagger must be engaged; how was one to reconcile that with Thou Shalt Not Kill? It would all take time. They must be very, very careful. The occasion upon which the queen would die must be carefully chosen…

  Richmond Palace, November 1583

  The only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and the rustle of parchment as Elizabeth read Throckmorton’s confession. She fixed her steely gaze upon Walsingham and said, “And how were these confessions elicited, my lord?”

  Sir Francis returned the queen’s icy stare without flinching. All knew that the law in England prohibited torture. And yet the means for continuing such practices had never been removed from the Tower; likewise, the men whose grisly task it was to ply their trade still bided there. All these things the queen knew quite well. He understood; Her Grace desired results but did not wish to be made privy to how they were obtained…until after the deed was done. And then she would cry long and loudly that she did not know; she had never, would have never, given her permission for such a heinous thing. He did not mind the queen’s duplicity, as long as it accomplished his purpose; he would have walked through fire to rid England of its most pernicious foe: Mary Stuart.

  “The end shall justify the means, Your Grace,” he said quietly.

  Elizabeth rose and pounded her fist upon the table where she had laid the parchment out and weighted down its corners. The impact caused one of the silver candlesticks so employed to topple; one corner of the parchment moved as if with a life of its own, curling stubbornly back up again.

  “And what end is that, sir?” she cried.

  “God’s teeth! Open your eyes, Madam! Can you not conceive that the number of Recusants and papists in England is increasing, and that this is a danger to the realm? Men willing to risk their lives to end your own are ten to the penny in England! The land seethes with Catholic priests from Land’s End to John O’ Groats! Has Your Grace forgotten that there have been three attempts on your life in this year alone?”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “One by a lunatic!”

  “Aye, tis true,” conceded Sir Francis. “John Somerville was known to be… unbalanced. But he did not act alone, Madam! His accomplice knew very well what he was about, persuading a madman to do his dirty work for him. Arden’s head rots on a pike on London Bridge for his trouble. And William Parry was a member of Parliament!”

  “Hah,” expostulated Elizabeth. “Think you that there are no lunatics sitting in the Parliament? More rather less, I trow! So! Radical Catholics and insensible fools want to murder me and place Mary Stuart on the throne! That is proof enough of lunacy!”

  “Be that as it may,” said Walsingham patiently, “England will never be safe until the Queen of Scotland is relieved of her head. Her very presence in England is an invitation to treason. This,” he pointed a long, bony finger at the parchment, “is enough not only to execute Throckmorton, but Mary Stuart as well. And there has never been a better opportunity to send Mendoza packing. All are implicated, and all should be punished accordingly.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth grunted. “Would that I could separate that Spanish weasel’s head from his shoulders! But I am afraid that we shall have to be content with mere banishment.”

  Sir Francis licked dry lips. “And the Queen of Scots, Madam?”

  Elizabeth turned and stared out of the window at the bleak November landscape. “That needs thinking on.”

  It was a good thing, he reflected, that the queen’s back was to him. Before he realized what he was doing, he had clenched his fists and bared his teeth in sheer frustration. When letters had been seized in the previous fall that indicated a plot afoot between Mary Stuart, her Guise relations, and King Philip, all of whom for which Francis Throckmorton was the willing go-between, there had been evidence enough to implicate all of them. But he and Cecil, and Sussex, God rest him, who had died during the summer, all knew that the queen would not act on the strength of those letters alone. He had watched Throckmorton and Mendoza for months afterwards. On the night just days before when he had deemed the moment propitious, his men had raided St. Paul’s Wharf, Throckmorton’s London home, and caught him red-handed writing a letter to the Scottish queen. Important papers were seized…papers that left no doubt as to what was planned, and who was involved.

  Throckmorton had bravely borne the rack thrice with extraordinary fortitude, but the very sight of the monstrous device unmanned him on the fourth occasion. When he had told all, he cried the difficult tears of one unfamiliar with weeping, lamenting that now he had betrayed she who was the dearest queen in the world to him. Walsingham thought him pathetic; Elizabeth thought him poetic and steadfast, but a traitor nonetheless.

  She turned and said, “Everyone will know. Such a thing cannot be kept secret. And will not a man say anything on the rack, to ease his pain?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “Let us be clear.”

  Still Sir Francis’s gaze did not waver. “I believe that which he said to be the truth. We asked him no questions, Your Grace. He told us only what he would, which is clear enough. The warrants lie before you, and require only your signature.”

  Death warrants. How many had she signed in her twenty-five years as queen? Not as many as she should have! She had shown remarkable restraint and good judgment; no man who had died at her order had done so without a fair trial and ample proof of guilt. And a female ruler could not afford to show leniency, lest she be suspected of weakness.

  “Certainly, Throckmorton must die,” she said.

  Sir Francis’s eyes reflected the firelight in two pools so dark that one could not discern the pupils. “And the Queen of Scots?”

  “Shall be left alone for the present!” Could the fool not see that she was as afraid of Mary Stuart, and of what Mary represented, as was he? But order her cousin’s death she could not. When she had been free, Mary had been no stranger to peril. God alone knew how little there was to bind the two cousins together, and much to prise them apart, but by God, they both knew what it was like to fear! Mary had come into the k
nowledge later in life, but that did not make the lesson any less potent. Many was the time that her own sister could have had her executed, but something had always stayed Mary’s hand. While relieved on one hand, she had been dispassionately curious on the other; what had so stayed her sister’s hand? Now she knew. It was a kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions that rarely made coherent sense, and yet must be heeded. There was no easy answer to the dilemma of Mary of Scotland; death was not amongst the alternatives. At least not yet.

  She regarded Sir Francis with a softer eye. “I am not insensible of the love and care that you and all my ministers have for me,” she said. “But I fear me that the decision about what must be done regarding my royal cousin must needs wait. However…”

  At this, Sir Francis looked up hopefully.

  “Let us look to defenses along the coast,” she said. “And deploy the fleet.”

  Walsingham sighed with relief. Amongst Throckmorton’s seized papers was a list of Channel ports suitable for the invasion of England. The Guise were to have landed at points north, and King Philip, east, and as far south as the Isle of Wight. The thrifty queen had balked mightily at the expense of both measures; that she now wished to move forward with defensive measures was better than nothing.

  So the execution of the Queen of Scots must once more be postponed.

  But one thing he knew, as surely as he knew his own name; Mary Stuart would never cease her plotting until either she or Elizabeth was no more. There would surely be another time.

  “Very well, he said. “I shall see to it all, Your Grace.”

  Whitehall Palace, January 1584

  “Can you row no faster, man?” cried Mendoza. “The queen herself awaits me at Whitehall.”

  The boatman spat into the river and stayed silent just long enough for Mendoza to wonder if he had been heard above the rushing water of the river. Finally he said, “It maren’t mek no difference. We canna shoot the bridge time the tide floods.” It was true; London Bridge had very narrow arches and wide pier bases that dangerously restricted the river's tidal flow. The flow of water was further obstructed by waterwheels for mills at either end of the bridge. All of these circumstances produced ferocious rapids between the piers. Only the brave or foolhardy attempted to steer a boat between the starlings when the mighty Thames was in flood; some had drowned in the attempt. Mendoza sat back and contented himself with nibbling his cuticles nervously.

  At last the tide turned and they reached the water-steps at Whitehall Palace. He had been ten miles away when the queen’s messenger reached him. After keeping him waiting ten days for an audience, Her Grace had given him less than two hours’ notice to appear. It was a straw that showed which way the wind was blowing.

  At the entrance to the queen’s chambers he was stopped by two Gentlemen Pensioners. “You are late,” said one. “Ah, here is My Lord Chamberlain.”

  Lord Hunsdon greeted him with the same icy reserve. “This way, if you please,” he said. It was singular that he did not use Mendoza’s title of ambassador. Another straw!

  Suddenly, there she was. She sat glittering on her throne under her canopy of estate. Her custom had always been to rise, extend her hand to be kissed, and welcome the ambassador in his own language. But when the queen finally spoke, it was in English.

  “I am unable to treat you like a diplomat, sir, because by your recent actions, you have forfeited your diplomatic immunity at this court. Nay!” she cried, raising an imperious hand. “Do not try to deny it. Written proof cannot be gainsaid, sir.”

  “Very well,” replied Mendoza. “In that case, mayhap I am at liberty to share with Your Grace my personal belief that it is you who condones, yea, instigates, the insolence and belligerence of the pirate Drake and his ilk, and who pours English money into the rebellion against Spain in the Netherlands. We marvel much that Your Grace has not simply come out and declared war against Spain openly.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed, reflecting the yellow light of hundreds of candles. “Hah!” she cried. “I know nothing of pirates and the doings in the Netherlands. Had England genuinely desired to stir up trouble, sir, it would not take King Philip’s ships far off course to prevent her! His Majesty has much to answer for in Ireland, my lord!”

  In unmistakable mockery of Elizabeth’s earlier words, Mendoza said, “I know nothing of the doings and disturbances in Ireland.”

  Now Elizabeth did rise; she stood to her full height and pointed a long, elegant finger down at Mendoza. “You lie,” she said simply. “And hark thee, sir; we are marking well here your troublesome words!”

  “Aye,” blustered Mendoza. “Mark them well, Your Grace! The fleets of Spain shall triumph over any enemy, so strong are they. Spain was meant not to disturb kingdoms, but to conquer them. ”

  Elizabeth smiled her slow, sly smile. “Boastful talk is one thing, action another.”

  Mendoza smiled back, but it was more a mere baring of the teeth; there was no mirth in it. “Perhaps, then, Your Grace, it will be necessary for us to see whether Spanish cannon will help you to better understand our words.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, and the sly smile widened. “Do you think to frighten me, sir?” she asked in a voice so quiet that Mendoza unconsciously leaned forward the better to hear her. “If you threaten me further, I shall this very hour put you in a place where you will not be able to say a word.”

  Suddenly his knees felt as if they had turned to butter, his bowels were awash as if with water, ice cold from the well, and his heart felt as if it would burst out of his chest, it was beating so hard. Visions of the Tower, and the dreaded oak and rope rack, danced before his eyes; in his mind he could hear the disquieting words ‘Little Ease’ being chanted. For the first time, he realized just what it meant to be stripped of his diplomatic status. He felt as if he had run headlong towards the edge of a cliff and stopped just in time.

  Elizabeth grunted inelegantly; she knew what his lack of response meant. He was beaten. “I am more afraid,” she said quietly, “of making a mistake in my Latin, than I am of the kings of Spain, France, Scotland, and the Guise combined.” Once again she stood, looking down upon him with cold, glittery eyes. “You are banished from this court, sir. Begone before the sun rises tomorrow. And I pray you, tell your master to send no more men to spy upon me! For none shall henceforth be welcome here.” It was a momentous decision; it was a severing of all diplomatic ties with Spain. And about time, too!

  Jealousy, hatred, revenge; espionage, treachery, treason…would she ever be free of them? “Oh!” she cried, not to any person in particular, but from her heart; “Would to God that each had his own and was content withal!”

  And that, thought both Mendoza and Walsingham simultaneously, is the trouble with female rulers!

  Chapter 27

  “The vilest criminals now in your gaols…are admitted to be tried for their justification; why should not the same privilege be accorded to me, a

  sovereign queen, your nearest relation and legitimate heir?”

  -Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, in a letter to Elizabeth I

  Chatsworth House, Derbyshire, April 1584

  B ess awoke to a feeling that all was not well; something was amiss. Out of habit, she reached out her hand in the dark. The place next to her in the great bed was empty and cold. There had been a time when Lord George had thanked God for bringing him such a wife as herself, but that time was long past. For years now, he had cursed her for a shrew and spent his nights in Eleanor Britton’s bed. She gave a mental shrug, but vowed that someday, she would get her own back on him. No one shunned Bess of Hardwick with impunity! Especially a husband!

  Her intuition was very reliable; there was no question of going back to sleep. She arose and made a light. She made her way along the corridor, shielding her candle against the draft, searching for she knew not what. She spied a faint outline of light glowing from underneath the door of the Scottish Queen’s chambers, and heard the murmur of voices from within. Without w
arning or preamble, she threw open the door.

  “So!” she cried. “Here is a pretty scene!” Lord George was standing beside Mary’s bed, gazing down at her.

  Lord George looked up, unperturbed. “The Queen of Scotland is ill,” he said. “I was summoned.”

  Bess set her candle aside and stood with both hands on her hips. “Ill?” she scoffed. “When is Her Grace not ailing of something? Methinks Her Grace desires the attention of such withal!” Mary did look pale and small in the bed; but even Bess, had she been willing to do so, must admit that Mary’s bad days now outnumbered her good ones. “And what is the meaning of this midnight tryst, as if I do not know!” she cried indignantly.

  Mary struggled to sit up, but her voice was weak and came out much as the mewling of a newborn kitten. “That is a vile accusation! I protest my innocence! I felt sick unto death, and sent Seton for Britton…”

  “…who fetched me, as was the correct thing to do,” said Lord George. His voice was calm, but high-pitched and shrill, as it always was when his dignity was affronted.

  “Hah!” scoffed Bess. “Then where are they now, I pray you to inform me?” As she said this, her eyes searched the room.

  Lord George regarded his wife coldly. “If you must know, Britton has gone to fetch a leech, and Seton to rouse the kitchen for a syllabub for the queen. No one thought it necessary to involve you, Madam.” The implication was clear; her presence was neither required nor desired.

  “I will not be dismissed as of no importance in my own house!”

  Lord George suppressed an impatient sigh. “Madam, I pray you, desist and withdraw. Your tantrums serve only to tire the queen even further.”