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When he woke again, he was prone, but before he was able to marvel at the miracle that allowed him to stretch out his arms and legs once again, he realized that he still had not the freedom of movement that both his mind and his body craved. To his horror, he found that he was bound by stout ropes to whatever it was he was lying upon.
He felt rather than saw the door open; there was a rush of cold air. The flickering flames of a torch held high above him blinded his unaccustomed eyes; it was as painful as looking too long at the sun, but he could not lift his hands to shield his eyes. The light seemed to burn even through his tightly closed lids.
All was silent; had he imagined the cold wind, the torture of the firelight? And then he heard a voice.
“Do you know where you are?”
He tried to answer, but no sound came out of his dry throat. His tongue was thick and swollen.
“I think you do,” said the voice. “But allow me to show you.”
Suddenly the ropes that bound his arms and legs tightened. And then he knew. The rack! He tried to scream but no sound came forth. He heard a creak as the crank that governed the ropes was tightened. The pain grew and grew until finally, he simply became the pain.
The next time he awakened he was lying on a bed. There were no fetters; he felt blissfully warm. He opened his eyes. The room was dim, but still the light of a single candle hurt his eyes, and he was compelled to close them once again. He felt the movement of another person; someone was lifting his head and holding a cup to his mouth. His lips were dry and cracked; the water dribbled down his chin, and he got none. He was painfully thirsty; his throat was dry and parched. He began to weep once more.
“There, there,” said a soothing voice. “Let us try again.” He felt his head being lifted higher; this time, the water slid into his mouth and caressed his throat. Such kindness after all he had been through moved him unspeakably. He continued to weep; he found he could not stop. Sobs racked his body.
Then down, down, into the abyss he slid once more. When he awakened, it was dark; he could see nothing. A moment of panic seized him; was he back in Little Ease? On the rack once more? But no; when he shrank back in terror, his arms and legs went with him. Then he saw a light; the movement he heard had been that of someone lighting a candle. He struggled to open his eyes; this time he succeeded. A disembodied face regarded him above the candle’s wavering flame.
“I am Sir Francis Walsingham,” said a soft voice.
Once more he tried to speak, but his throat was sore and his tongue still swollen.
“Your ability to speak will soon return,” said Walsingham. “Until then, I shall tell you all that you need to know. You will go to the Queen of Scots. You shall tell her that there are many for whom she is, and has always been, their Dread Sovereign Queen. Show her Morgan’s letter. This will gain you Her Grace’s confidence. You will encourage her to write letters. And to respond to those she receives.”
His mind raced; nothing made sense. Walsingham. Elizabeth’s spymaster. So he was caught; how had he been betrayed? What was Walsingham saying? What did he know?
“You shall go to the Queen of Scotland. Do you understand?”
His eyes had finally adjusted to the candlelight; he could see Walsingham more clearly. The Moor; he understood now. With his black hair, dark skin and piercing eyes, and his features appearing in macabre proportions above the wavering candle flame, Walsingham looked like the devil incarnate. At that moment, Giffford was convinced that Walsingham was Satan himself. Must he make a deal with the devil to save himself, then? Must he betray the queen he had sworn to place onto the throne of England? And then his mind slipped sideways and he lost consciousness once again.
The next time he awakened it was to the full light of day. Again he was seized with sheer panic; where was he? But he soon realized that all seemed enough; he was in a room with a bed, a table, a chair. He was unfettered; there was food. When he sat up, his head swam, but he must eat. He thrust his hand into the bowl and shoveled the food into his mouth without even knowing what it was that he ate. Never had he tasted anything so delicious.
“You are mine now,” said Walsingham.
Startled, Gifford dropped the bowl, but it was all right; he had emptied it in three gulps. His mind struggled to remember. And then memory came flooding back in a rush akin to a tidal wave. Little Ease. The rack. Walsingham’s soft, hypnotic voice telling him that he must betray his mission. There had been no hesitation; he understood. It was betray or die, and die horribly. He was an English subject; he knew the penalty for treason.
“Ach…” croaked Gilbert. He had learnt his lesson. He was not made of the stuff of martyrs. He had thought he was; but he was not. He must save himself, for he could not face the consequences of doing aught else. The horror that was Little Ease, the terror of the rack; he knew in his heart that he could never face them again, let alone die a bloody, painful death.
Sir Francis nodded sagely. “I understand,” he said. “How, you ask? I shall tell you how. There is a young man who sniffs about the queen like a besotted pup. His name is Sir Anthony Babington. You will go to him. You will gain his trust. He has already failed the Scottish queen once; or so he believes. We provided a means by which to allow the queen to send and receive letters. Her Grace thinks that she was found out, and the means removed. Now we shall make another way for her. Do you understand?”
“I…y-yes,” said Gilbert. At last, he could speak again, but still he nodded vigorously. There must be no misunderstanding; never again could he endure the terror of the cell or the exquisite agony of the rack. Never!
“The French ambassador will soon be recalled to Paris, and another sent in his place. You shall assist Castelnau with his preparations to depart England. Part of your duties will be to see to the Scots queen’s letters. You will pass them to my man to decipher, then send the letters on their way.” He nodded towards Phelippes. “Good Thomas here will give you the details. By the time Castelnau departs and Chateauneuf arrives, you will have insinuated yourself at the French embassy.” Walsingham’s black eyes bore into his own.
Gifford nodded his assent wordlessly. Christ on the Cross, he thought; was the French ambassador under Walsingham’s thumb? And if so, why?
“The queen is now at Chartley Manor, in Staffordshire,” said Sir Francis. “Sir Amyas Paulet is her keeper. He will permit you to see the queen. Ale is delivered to the castle in casks each week. You shall inform the queen that the bungholes of certain casks are hollow and that letters may be smuggled in them. The barrels will be marked. You shall pass any and all letters to and from the queen to Phelippes to decipher, then send them on their way. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” It was all he could say; fear had him in its mighty grip. There was no sense in asking any questions; the answers did not matter. All that mattered was that Gilbert Gifford emerged from the disaster his mission to England had become with his head firmly attached to his shoulders. And that he meant to see to at any cost.
“I hope that it is so,” said Walsingham softly. “Because your life now depends upon it.”
Chapter 29
“When all is ready, the six gentlemen must be set to work, and you will provide that on their design being accomplished, I may myself be rescued from this place.”
– Mary Stuart, from her reply to Sir Anthony Babington’s letter
“You have in various ways and manners attempted to take my life and to bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. These treasons will be proved to you and all made manifest. It is my will that you answer the nobles and peers of the realm as if I myself were present…act plainly and you will then sooner be able to obtain favour of me.”
- Elizabeth I, in a letter to Mary
Westminster Palace, London, January 1586
S ir William Davison had always entertained a cynical view of ladies who feigned a swoon, for surely, almost all swoons must be feigned. After all, a lady in distress had only to
threaten a swoon to have every available male dancing attendance upon her. Burnt feathers, a measure of brandywine; assurances that whatever lack had her in a faint would be instantly remedied.
But facing an angry Tudor queen was a situation in which Sir William had never expected to find himself, and suddenly he revised his opinion. If the situation were dire enough, one was bound to feel shaky, light-headed and dazed. O God, of thy mercy, he prayed, do not let me shame myself before such an august assembly! For his knees were weak, his breath was coming in short gasps, and white spots danced in the blackness that had enveloped his vision. Surely these were the harbingers of a genuine fainting spell?
The queen’s golden eyes bored into his. Things had taken a decidedly frightening turn. And the Earl of Leicester had been so certain that the queen would be mightily pleased! How could Lord Robert have so misjudged a woman that he had known almost all of his life? And despite her royal bluster, Queen Elizabeth was a woman. She had proved that with her spiteful refusal to allow the Countess of Essex to join her husband in the Netherlands.
Elizabeth read the missive that he handed her; when she was finished, she let forth a mighty oath, and threw the letter back at him. Instantly, his physical state altered to such an extent that he began to think of swoons. And now Her Grace awaited an explanation, and he had none to give. He was, after all, merely a messenger. He had a vague memory of a time he had heard of when a potentate would murder in cold blood a messenger whose message he did not like. At the very least, it would likely be the Tower for him. His blood ran cold at the thought. It was so unfair! He was not to blame. In fact, he had, at first, tried gently to dissuade the earl from a course of action that all knew was in direct conflict with his sovereign’s instructions. But Lord Robert was noble, and knew the queen well; he himself was a mere knight, a servant of the crown. Surely Lord Robert knew what was best to do?
“Well?” shouted Elizabeth. “What have you to say for yourself?” But before Sir William could answer, the queen began to rave once again. For Robert had done the very thing that she had expressly warned him not to do. Just as she had predicted, the Dutch had offered him a lofty title; Supreme Governor of the Netherlands, indeed! And the fool had accepted it! Without even asking permission, for the ingrate knew that he would not have gotten such from her!
“Is Lord Robert daft?” she shouted. Her eyes searched the room, ostensibly daring any man present to even attempt to answer such a question. “Does he not see that such a move is sufficient to make me infamous to all the princes of Christendom? That by his folly he places England in the greatest peril? And to allow himself to be inaugurated into such a position in a solemn ceremony, in my name! I have always known that Lord Robert craved a crown, but to accept such from the Dutch, who, by the Rood, ought to know better, if Lord Robert does not! Why, were I Philip, I would be sending ships as soon as the news reached my ears!”
Elizabeth arose from her chair at the head of the Council table and began to pace, her hands on her hips as she strode back and forth. The older Council members were reminded very much of her father at that moment. But not a man in the room had the courage to meet the angry queen’s eyes. Many had experienced the queen in a temper before, but this was like nothing they had seen yet. She was truly frightening in her rage.
Elizabeth suddenly ceased her pacing and threw her arms up into the air in exasperation. “Such childish dealing!” she cried. “Never could we have imagined that a man raised up by ourself, a man so extraordinarily favored by us, yea, above even any other subject in the entire land, would have in so contemptible a manner broken our express commandment! I told him!” With that, she pounded her fist on the sturdy oaken table so hard that the men’s ale mugs jumped. “I warned him that the Dutch would seek to raise him up and make him king! England is in the Low Countries to aid the Dutch in their struggle against the tyranny of King Philip and the dreaded Inquisition of the Roman Church, not to obligate herself with a burden of rule that could very well bring down upon us the might of Spain!”
Sir William cleared his throat; the angry queen’s tirade had given him a chance to command his swimming head to behave properly, his eyes to focus once again. But an answer to the queen could not be delayed much longer; when the flashing eyes alighted upon him again, he must be prepared to speak. But in the name of St. Michael and all His angels, what was he going to say?
But Elizabeth continued on; it was almost as if she spoke now to herself and not to the assembled Council. “So the Earl of Leicester craved a command. I pointed out his inexperience; but no, he must convince me that his time commanding in my sister’s reign gave him the experience needed for such a task. Ha! Ordinance master, indeed! But I believed him, I trusted him. And then what ensued? I have received report after report from both the English under his lordship’s command and from the Dutch leaders, of his truculence, his strutting self-importance! All he has done since he arrived there is to fête the Dutch and be fêted by them in turn! Parades! Pageants! Spectacles! Ovations! Speechifying, triumphal arches! Balls! Bah! Show, mere show! Lord Robert has proved himself incapable of getting along with either his equals or his subordinates, let alone the Dutch! Why they would even want him for their ruler is beyond my capability to imagine!”
The roaring in his ears had returned, and Sir William heartily wished that he were anywhere but where he was. Surely now the queen would demand that he speak on Lord Robert’s behalf, explain the earl’s reasoning for going against the queen’s express orders. But just as he had amassed the courage to look at her, she began again.
Suddenly she arose and began to pace the room. “I was advised against appointing Lord High-and-Mighty to this post, I do assure you!” Her eyes searched the room as she regarded the men of her Council. “Oh yes, all know of Lord Robert’s questionable judgment. He has proved himself a muddle-headed fool! How dare he place me in such a position?”
She stopped for a moment to reflect; it was Robert’s very lack of focus and ineptness that had decided her to send him to the Netherlands in the first place. She believed him incapable of rule, and so he must do as he was told, being capable of doing nothing else. And see what had happened! See what he had done! He had accepted the title in her name, on her behalf, as Queen of England, and yet he still had no inkling of how to actually rule than he had ever had. This made the situation doubly dangerous; he was in a position of supreme authority without the backing of his queen, and without the ability to make the best of the muddle his very ineptness had made. What a coil!
Most of all, she had no wish to relinquish her royal authority to a male military commander. She had an uncanny ability to rule and rule well, but she had no military experience. And rightfully so! Had she not always sedulously avoided war? And for good reason! She turned and faced her Council, and the quaking Sir William, with steely eyes.
“Once one starts a war, my lords, the enterprise develops a momentum of its own. It cannot be gainsaid, and it cannot be stopped.” Suddenly her voice became very quiet, and she calmly took her seat again. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I am well aware that Lord Robert wants such a title, and enjoys the adulation that accompanies it. But what he has done is unforgivable! Did I send His Grace to the Netherlands with the power of a viceroy? I did not! Far from it, I say! Burghley!” she cried.
Cecil and the rest of the men had waited patiently for the queen’s tirade to end. The others were secretly relieved that the one called upon was not they. Cecil had always enjoyed the queen’s special favor; let him earn that favor now!
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Cecil.
“Recall the Earl of Leicester from the Netherlands at once, by my express command.”
Cecil stole a quick glance around the Council table. All eyes were upon him, and by their looks, it seemed that the men were of one mind.
“Your Grace,” said Cecil. “Such a move would be most inadvisable.”
“Inadvisable?” she cried. “Must I stomach your disobedience as well as Lor
d Robert’s?”
“Your Grace, England must not demonstrate any sort of disunity to the world, by word or deed. We must appear to be in strict accord. Recalling Lord Robert now would send dire messages of a decided rift in English policy. If Your Grace persists in this course, I shall have no choice but to resign my office.”
“God’s toenails!” bellowed the queen. “Every time I want to do something with which you do not agree, I am threatened with your resignation!”
Sir William stood as if poleaxed; he now knew and appreciated how a deer felt when in the hunter’s sights. If one stood perfectly still, if one made no sound, perhaps the hunter’s attention would be diverted elsewhere. Certainly Cecil was bearing the brunt of the white heat of the queen’s fury at the moment. If only he were at liberty to quietly depart; but that was unthinkable.
“Your Grace,” said Cecil, “What is done is done. Permitting Lord Robert to remain where he is can do no harm. I shall send explanatory letters to the Spanish and French ambassadors. I shall say that the title of Supreme Governor means nothing of any substance.”
“Who do the Dutch think he is?’ cried Elizabeth, who had begun to pace the room once more. “Do they believe that he is their Joshua, sent to lead them to the Promised Land? Forsooth, England has made no such promises! We shall support our fellow Protestants, to be sure, but that is the extent of it! We have garrisoned the towns that the Dutch pledged to us, and that is as far as I am willing to go! Sir William!”
Sir William, startled out of his thoughts, went down on one knee at the sound of the furious queen’s angry voice.
“You shall return to the Netherlands,” she said. “You shall inform Lord Robert that we are most displeased with him, but that we shall permit him to retain his spurious title. You will also inform His Grace that I am well aware of the fact that he has used my money, the money meant to pay his soldiers, to provide gifts to the Dutch townships that have celebrated his governorship, and that he has raised both his own pay and that of his officers.” At this Sir William blanched anew; he was one of the men whose pay had been increased. “You shall tell him to reverse these edicts and pay his men. If he does so, he shall be my Sweet Robin once again.”
In High Places Page 98