She unfurled the scroll of Mary’s letter and read it again. In it her cousin swore that Bess entertained the vain hope of placing her granddaughter Arabella on the English throne, and that Robert meant to see his son as King of England by marrying her to his son. Both children had been informed of the match, and had exchanged portraits. It was insolent, it was insufferable!
She turned, and there he was; but before she could utter a word of the stream of abuse she had meant to fling at him, he began to talk.
“I must speak with you,” he said. “I must be permitted to take command of the Netherlands force.” Finally, they were in talks with the Dutch delegation; an English military command in the Netherlands must surely be part of the pact.
Elizabeth paced the room, displaying all the nervous tension of a caged animal. “By the Rood, but you try my patience!” she cried. She waved Mary’s letter at him. “How dare you attempt to…”
“Sydney is to go to Flushing to command the garrison there, to his honor!” Robert wrung his hands, an action that never failed to tug at her heart. She could not abide seeing him in distress, or fretting over anything. But there were limits even to her indulgence. And from a black place indeed inside her brain a voice was asking, Does he want to get away from me?
Suddenly her temper flared. “Go, then,” she shouted, “and be damned to you!”
“You have ever thought to belittle me,” he said, “and to keep me in my place as royal pet! And ever since my marriage to Lettice…”
Too late, he realized his mistake.
The blood drained from her face; her fists clenched; her eyes blazed fire from their golden depths. And then as quickly as the fire flared, it died. He watched as that inexplicable thing that lurked behind her eyes retreated, and cold, stark fear took its place.
“I have ever sought only to raise you up,” she said. Her voice was monotoned, almost expressionless. It must be so, lest she betray her great emotion. “And any road, I did not mean it,” she said miserably.
“What did you not mean?” he asked coolly. “That now, at least, I may go and do my duty to England, to my own honor, or that I may be damned to Hell as I go about it? Please, Madam, I beg you to inform me, that I may do as I am expected to do, and not disappoint Your Grace.”
It was a subtle statement; on the face of it, what he said was perfectly reasonable. The sting it held was in his tone. But there was no help for it; she simply could not allow him to go, even if he hated her for it.
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Surely it is the former, my dearest Eyes; because it makes the latter irrelevant. I cannot allow you to go. I am sorry.” The endearment had slipped out; she had not meant to do anything so intimate as use a nickname. When asked by a curious (and impertinent!) maid of honor why she called the Earl of Leicester her Eyes, Elizabeth had replied that after her great love for God, her eyes were the most precious thing she had.
“But why?” asked Robert plaintively. “Do you not have faith in me? I served as a commander in your sister’s reign, you know.” He was careful not to wheedle; any show of weakness now could be fatal to his aims. Imagine being able to escape the vicious court, to escape Lettice. He loved his wife, but she was bored at their country estates, and resentful of her banishment from court. It galled her even further that he was under no such ban. She had become irritable and shrewish. If Elizabeth wanted to exact revenge on Lettice for stealing him from her, there was no denying that she had done so most successfully.
And even to get away from Elizabeth, at least for a while, would be a welcome relief. To live a soldier’s life, as a noble commander! What could be better? And he did not lie; his honor demanded that he lead a campaign. Was he not the favorite of the Queen of England? He must garner some glory to his name, on his own, and not in the shadow of the queen, before it was too late.
The silence had become deafening. One of them must speak.
“We both know,” he said softly, “that England must send a noble to command the forces in defense of the Low Countries. The Dutch expect it, and honor demands it.”
She looked into his eyes; his expression was eloquent, and strangely evocative of pity. She was reminded of another situation where a man had been thwarted in his desire to follow his heart; that had resulted in the judicial murder of her mother. She knew she must let him go. But how would she bear it? And then she remembered the letter she held clenched in her hand.
“Oh, yes,” she cried, “you may go to play soldiers on the continent. I shall not gainsay you, my noble Earl of Leicester. Just as soon as you explain this!” She flung the letter at him; Mary’s seal was heavy, and the letter hit the floor with a thud.
He bent to retrieve it; as his eyes traveled across the page, he first turned very pale and then gradually, the blood crept up his neck. She was beginning to regret her anger; if he should die of a fit of apoplexy because of her, she would never forgive herself. Then his face took on a haughty expression. “Well, what of it? The wench must marry, after all. It is extremely unlikely that Arabella Stuart will ever come to throne.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in an impossible arch. “Much the same thing was once said of me.”
“That was different,” he replied.
“You seek,” she said, “to play at the same game your father played at. You wish to make yourself Lord Protector to Arabella, as your father did when he married his son to my cousin Jane! You seek to make your son king of England! Do not even attempt to deny it! Well, I say you shall not! I will see you, Lettice and your son in the Tower ere I ever allow such a thing to happen!”
“I seek only to foster better relations with the king of Scotland on your behalf,” said Robert. “The lady is his cousin, too. And to avoid a Catholic succession.”
“James is a king!” she cried. “If anything, we ought to seek a marriage between him and Arabella. But that would ruin your ambitions, would it not? Nothing in that plan for Lord Robert! Well, I say this, sir! Your son is not good enough to marry the person who is third in line for the throne of England! Have a care, my noble earl…to speak of the death of the sovereign is treason, as you well know. And it is not your place to decide such things!”
“I see,” said Robert quietly. “But did you not seek at one time to marry me to the Queen of Scotland? A Dudley was good enough then, I trow!”
A knock sounded upon the door; with an impatient hand, she signaled to Robert to see what it was about.
“Ah, Cecil,” she said. “Come and hear Lord Robert’s latest scheme for the succession.” The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable; Robert scowled.
But Cecil stood as if poleaxed while Robert scanned the letter he had handed him.
With a choked cry, Robert fell into the chair behind him and buried his face in his hands.
Elizabeth looked questioningly at Cecil. Cecil shook his head. She walked softy over to where Robert sat, sobs racking his body. She bent slowly to retrieve the letter from the floor where he had dropped it. She winced at the sight of Lettice’s scrawl, but read the letter anyway.
“God’s wounds,” she cried. “Page!”
A page appeared with the fearful, hunted expression they all wore when summoned into the queen’s presence.
“Have the Earl of Leicester’s men prepare for his immediate departure,” she said. She knelt on the floor at Robert’s feet; Cecil placed a reassuring hand on Robert’s heaving shoulder. “Robin,” she said softly. It was not just a name; it was the most intimate of endearments. “I am so very sorry.” For now there was no fear that little Lord Denbigh would marry Arabella; the boy had died suddenly of a fever just two days before.
The tragedy of such a loss was not lost on her; for now, Robert had no heir. His brother, Ambrose, had no children. The Dudley line would die now, and no hope for it. Lettice was old for childbearing; she had not conceived again since Lord Denbigh’s birth. She had always fostered a secret belief that Robert had only married Lettice to get an heir; and who better to marry tha
n her own cousin? She and Lettice looked enough alike to be sisters instead of cousins. She had nurtured a silent hope all these years that when Robert made love to her cousin, it was of herself that he thought. Without that notion tucked safely into the back of her mind, she sometimes believed that she might have gone mad.
Robert arose and walked like a man in a trance to the door. He left without a word or a backward glance.
Paris, October 1585
The streets were dark; Gilbert Gifford could barely see his hand in front of his face. The sickle moon was a reluctant sliver, lying on his back and shedding precious little light. But perhaps that was a good thing. Men in the business of intrigue and conspiracy operated best in darkness. It was the only way to survive, and even then, there was no guarantee.
As he approached the gate, a shadow separated itself from the gloom. Not a word was spoken; there was no need. He was expected. The gate opened on silent hinges and he found himself following the shadow in front of him through what he surmised would have been a lovely garden, if only it were spring.
Once inside, the man said, in slightly accented English, “Up the stairs, to the first door.” And then the man departed on silent feet, leaving him to make his own way. The narrow staircase wound dizzyingly up to the topmost part of the tower. Only a torch flickering on high revealed his destination. Breathless from the climb and squinting in the firelight from the torch, he was about to knock upon the door, when it opened and he saw the first familiar face since his arrival back in Paris.
This time he had returned to Paris from Rheims as a newly ordained deacon of the Catholic Church. Deacon; he was a servant of the Church. What did it really mean? He was very interested in words; not just their meanings, but their origins. In this case, his deaconship was highly appropriate; for deacon derived from a Greek word meaning messenger, and that was to be his role in this undertaking. How extraordinary…and what a good omen for their success.
“Thomas!” he exclaimed. “You are surely a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”
Thomas Morgan placed an arm about Gilbert’s shoulders as he led him into the dimly lit room. “And you, for me,” replied Morgan. “Come.”
The night was chilly, but the room had no fire; only a charcoal brazier in the middle of the floor. The only light in the room came from its glow. As his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, he could just make out the figure of an imposing man sitting on an elaborately carved wooden chair.
“Your Excellency, may I please present Gilbert Gifford?” said Morgan.
The man in the chair nodded his head, but said nothing. Bernardino de Mendoza was expert at sizing a man up at a glance. In fact, he prided himself upon his ability to do so, for much of his success as a diplomat was due to this special talent. That Gifford was the son of an English recusant Catholic, who had once been a Member of Parliament, he was already aware. While still just a boy, Gifford had conceived a desire to serve the Catholic Church as a missionary priest. It was soon discovered that he had not the makings of a priest, but young Gilbert refused to abandon his dream; it had taken him eight years to be ordained as a deacon. Such persistence showed conviction and dedication to an ideal; exactly the sort of man needed for this venture. And Gifford was English; it was ever so much more satisfying to know that the Bastard Elizabeth, the heretic queen, would be slain by the hand, not of a foreigner, but of a countryman.
Morgan wished every bit as much as Mendoza to see Elizabeth of England deposed, dead, and Mary Stuart on the throne in her place. Mendoza’s master, King Philip of Spain, felt the same about his sister-in-law; he also wished her deposed and dead. If their plan succeeded, Elizabeth would die and Philip would invade England. But their plan was lacking a much-needed element in order to succeed. They must find a way to communicate with the Queen of Scotland, whose avenues of communication had recently been severely curtailed by a new gaoler. Their hopes now rested upon Gifford.
“We must find a manner in which to get letters to and from the Queen of Scots,” he said. “Good Gilbert has agreed to go to England, Your Excellency, to discover a means by which to do so.” Morgan had known Mary Stuart since he was a young man in the employ of the Earl of Shrewsbury. He had been a little in love with the beautiful, enigmatic queen; he spirited her letters in and out of whatever castle or manor house in which she was housed. He had her trust and she his love and devotion. Then he had been caught; he spent three miserable years in the Tower on her behalf. When he had finally been released, he left England and went to Paris, seeking a way in which to free the queen and visit his revenge upon Elizabeth. He it was who had put William Parry up to his plan to murder Elizabeth as she walked in her gardens. But Parry had been careless, and now he was dead…executed on the block for treason. The arrival in Paris of Mendoza, who had been exiled in anger from the English court for his part in another conspiracy against the heretic queen of England, was a welcome occurrence. Now might they be able to accomplish their goal, with the power and might of Spain behind them.
Mendoza noticed that Gifford’s eyes blazed with fanaticism in the dim light of the brazier. Yes, they would put that zeal to work. Indeed they would.
“You must learn the lay of the land where the queen now is,” said Morgan to Gilbert. “Her Grace is more closely confined than ever now. We must find someone loyal to the queen who is willing to help us.”
Hitherto silent, Mendoza said, in his deep, soft voice, “Tell him of Poley.”
“Yes,” said Morgan excitedly. “Yes, of course.” He turned to Gilbert. “We have most successfully placed a man in Walsingham’s household. Robert Poley. A heretofore dedicated Catholic; but who now, having seen the error of his ways, is willing to spy for the crown.”
Gifford frowned. “And Walsingham believes in this change of heart?”
Morgan smiled. “That is the beauty of it. Poley is in Sidney’s household, strictly speaking. Sir Philip Sidney is married to Walsingham’s daughter. Poley is in their household, and so has access to Sir Francis. He first gained Sir Philip’s trust, and has now, by that means, insinuated himself into Walsingham’s sphere. They believe him to be a lapsed recusant, when in fact, he very much desires to be of service to the Queen of Scotland. He is a devout and dedicated Catholic.”
“And are we convinced of his fidelity, and fealty to our cause?” asked Gifford.
“Indeed we are,” Morgan replied. “Having a trustworthy contact under Walsingham’s very nose is invaluable to our plan.”
“Indeed,” said Gifford. “Well, if you are satisfied, then I must needs be.” Gilbert’s eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, saw how Mendoza’s eyes burned with hatred for England and her queen. With such strength of purpose and dedication behind their plan, how could they fail? Together they would devise a plan that would see the demise of the daughter of the Great Whore, and a worthy Catholic queen crowned and set in Elizabeth’s place on the throne. England would be restored to the Church of Rome, and countless souls saved. Those who resisted would be turned over to the Inquisition. A certain amount of such was needed in any case; the seizures of property and money associated with resistance to the religious inevitable was needed to keep Spanish coffers full.
Yes, Morgan had recognized the same fire in Mendoza’s eyes that smoldered in his own. He knew that, more than anything, the former Spanish ambassador to England desired vengeance for Elizabeth’s treatment of him. Philip was, indeed, preparing for an invasion of England, but His Grace was a careful man; the fleet he was amassing would not be battle-ready for another year at least, perhaps two. The only way His Grace would agree to act early would be if Elizabeth were dead and England in a succession crisis. And then Spain would step in and reclaim England for Rome, in the name of the Pope and the Catholic Church.
“You shall go to England,” said Thomas. “Poley will be waiting for you. He will provide intelligence and further instructions.”
Gilbert departed with promises on his lips; promises to go to England, to gain Poley’s confi
dence, to find a way to communicate with the Scottish queen. After so long on the Continent, he could not help but feel that it would be good to see England again.
Tutbury Castle, November 1585
The miasma that hung over the entire castle in an evil-smelling pall had been all but unbearable over the long summer. It had been hotter than usual, and so maddeningly still; but when the wind did blow, instead of relieving the oppressive stillness, it only served to send the stench from the marshes to join the reek of the moat until Mary believed that she could not abide it for another moment. She sent letter after letter to Elizabeth, begging to be moved elsewhere, anywhere, as long as it was away from hated Tutbury. She had even included a plea to be allowed her summer visit to Buxton, but all to no avail. She could not help wondering if Elizabeth even read her letters anymore; she certainly had not replied to any of them.
And then finally, the weather broke. The days were pleasant and the nights cool. The stench had abated throughout October, and now, as bleak November set in, the hills and valleys of Staffordshire wore their autumn colors. But all she could see of them was the narrow strip of forest that was afforded by her window.
The only thing that kept her spirits up was knowing that her letters, her pleas for help, were, at last, getting through. She had received none thus far, but that was likely because her correspondents did not yet know that she had a means by which to do so. But if fortune had, for once, favored her, her Guise relations in France, Henri and Catherine, even Philip in faraway Spain, should by now have received her renewed pleas for help.
And her latest letter to James! Much to her annoyance, James now received a pension from Elizabeth in support of their formal alliance, to ensure his loyalty to England. It was painfully evident that he wanted the English crown as badly as did she. The relationship between her son and her cousin was a slight on her own royalty. She was being left out, bypassed, as if she were of no importance. The whole situation was disgraceful, intolerable.
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