Sir William stole a glance at Cecil; Cecil nodded. This was dismissal; Sir William wasted not a moment. He bowed himself out of the room and was gone. In the corridor outside the Council chamber, he stopped to get his breath, but only for a moment; he was fearful that the queen might change her mind and call him back again. Once he set forth, he would not stop until he reached the London docks and the ship that would bear him back across the water to the Continent.
Chartley Manor, Staffordshire, March 1586
Mary swore in French under her breath as she tried a fourth time to roll the thick vellum into the tight spiral required to fit the letter into the small wooden box that would fit neatly into the bunghole of an ale cask. Having taken the Lord’s name in vain, she quickly crossed herself with an exasperated sigh.
And that was another thing! It would seem that there was no end to the creativity with which Sir Amyas conceived the petty cruelties he visited upon her. Henceforth, she was to have no wine, only ale. The English loved their ale; but she was French, and loved her wine. So she was very much amused by the thought that her letters were to be smuggled in and out of Chartley Manor in the hated ale casks, right under Sir Amyas’ very nose.
She gazed out the window at the pale March sunshine. The trees were in bud, the birds flitted and sang, sounding very self-important. As always, her eyes fell upon the ruin that was the former castle. If her view of the abandoned castle was meant to discomfit her, she allowed herself a smug smile; for it had the opposite effect. It had been a hundred years since anyone had lived in the castle; it had been built three hundred years before that. She found pondering the sturdy towers and curtain walls to be of great interest. Who had lived there? What had their lives been like? The ruined towers, the warm, reddish color of the brick, was somehow always a comforting sight, especially in late afternoon when the bricks seemed to glow in the slanting golden sunset.
It was warm for March; there was the tentative promise of an early spring. Gentle laughter and the sounds of water splashing were borne on the breeze. She arose, walked to the window, and looked down at the moat. Such a change from foul-smelling Tutbury! Yellow, white and purple crocuses dotted the lush green grass that grew up the banks of the moat. Chartley’s moat was fed by a spring; the water was so clean and clear that her laundresses washed her clothes in it. It was their laughter that she had heard, as the women went about their tasks. Chartley was such an improvement over Tutbury that she could not help but hope that the move was only the beginning of a time when things would finally begin to go right for her once more. It was wonderful to have hope again, after sinking to such a nadir as that which she had experienced at Tutbury.
Although the news that she was finally to leave Tutbury was most welcome, it should have been more so had the decision not been made in the wintertime. The move had been miserable. She departed Tutbury Castle for Chartley Manor on Christmas Eve. It had been very cold and windy. The damp permeated her very bones; never before in her life had she been so cold. On the second day of the journey she began to shake with chills and could not stop. Her teeth chattered. She was so ill by the time she reached Chartley that she had had to take to her bed for weeks. Only gradually did she come to realize that although the move itself had almost been the death of her, Chartley was a vast improvement over Tutbury. Sir Amyas had haughtily informed her that the queen had heard her complaints about Tutbury, and these, along with the protests of her French relations, had finally precipitated the move. But she was not so naïve as to believe that Elizabeth wished her well or that her cousin would heed anything the Guise had to say. No, the stout battlements and effective if picturesque moat were meant to ensure that the Queen of Scotland remained in England. She must be more cautious than ever now.
Not long after her arrival at Chartley, she received news from a breathless Janet that Sir Anthony had been approached by a deacon of the Church, sent by her friends in Paris, who had devised a means by which she might plan her escape, and return to her throne. The plan was nothing new; Elizabeth to be deposed, Philip to arrive with his fleet and place the crown of England upon her head in her cousin’s place. This new man was working with Anthony to effect the means by which to carry out their intentions. One must be patient; she had waited this long. She had once enquired of Sir Francis Walsingham when there would be justice in England for her. She knew there never would be; so she had resolved to make her own justice. Had their positions been reversed, she believed that Elizabeth would have done no differently.
The bottom of the baker’s basket had been too risky; this new plan was much better. The brewer had been bribed to smuggle her letters in and out of the castle in the bungholes of certain ale casks. Once more she had a means of communicating; God must be on her side. How could it be otherwise? Did she not mean to restore both Scotland and England to the Catholic Church?
How many times must she learn this lesson? One must never, ever despair. She had tasted the panic of the truly desperate; she had almost succumbed to the desolation, the despondency, of utter hopelessness. She was in dire need of a safe, secret means of communication with the outside world; God had provided. She even had a fresh cipher, always a concern, for Castelnau had been recalled to Paris and a new French ambassador had come in his place. Castelnau she had never cared for; she suspected that he was but an indifferent Catholic and he seldom demonstrated initiative or zeal on her behalf. He had not always been that way; she wondered what had happened to change him. Guillame de l’Auberpine, Baron de Chateauneuf, was urbane and self-assured; a man who could be depended upon, as Castelnau had never been.
No, one must never, ever despair; this time, she would not forget it.
A slight scratching at the door told her that Janet had come for the scroll. Janet’s red head and a plump white hand appeared around the door. “Air ye riddy, Your Grace?”
Mary looked up helplessly. “Will this do?” she asked. She proffered the scroll.
“Aye,” said Janet, eyeing the curious thing. “It looks right weel.” She slipped the scroll into her bodice and was gone with a swish of skirts.
Chartley Manor, Staffordshire, April 1586
“He is a fool,” said Gifford angrily. He found it ironic that he was a devout Catholic posing, much against his will, as a Protestant, while Poley’s situation was in exact juxtaposition with his own; for Robert was an ardent Protestant pretending to be a Catholic sympathizer.
He had been immersed in intrigue for some time; in his experience, those who betrayed both sides usually ended up dead. And that he had no intention of doing. He had not asked to play both sides against the middle! But then, fortune had seldom smiled upon him. It seemed that any dream of his was destined to die unfulfilled, or to be fulfilled in some twisted way. Had he not been forced to settle for a deaconship, and not the priesthood he craved? He had failed to become a priest; and now it seemed most likely that he would fail in his attempt to place Mary Stuart, a Catholic, upon the throne of England.
He was well aware that some questioned the Scottish queen’s judgment and ability to rule; that did not concern him. She was Catholic, and that was all he cared about. What were counselors for, after all? But the French were right with their Salic Law; no female should ever be permitted to rule a country. It was against nature for a woman to rule over men. But Mary Stuart was the rightful queen, and he had vowed, as a good Catholic, to see her onto the thrones of both England and Scotland. And now this! He was caught out and made to betray his sacred mission in order to save his life. Perhaps this compulsion to survive at all costs was the very quality that had cost him the priesthood he so desired; he had often told himself of late that he was not the stuff of which martyrs were made. Forsooth, far from it! He should not be compelled to die because he must conspire, against his will, with a fool.
“To which fool do you refer?” replied Robert Poley dryly. In his estimation, there was an overabundance of fools involved in this endeavor.
Gifford considered. “Castelnau I ha
ve always considered to be a fool,” he said. “Thank the Virgin that he has been called back to Paris and Chateauneuf has taken his place. I was referring to Babington.”
“So Babington is a fool,” shrugged Poley. “What of it?”
Always one to carefully weigh a situation, Gifford replied, “I do see that on the one hand, Sir Anthony’s foolishness makes him easy to influence, and thence to manipulate. On the other hand, he has passion, vehemence even; but his folly might cause him to act rashly. He is too gullible, too open to persuasion.”
They had been picking their way through a thicket of low-growing yellow gorse on what had turned out to be a glorious spring day. The open thicket gave way to a copse, through which ran the waters of the same spring that fed the moat. Where there was water, there would be quarry; Poley spied a small herd of deer at the water’s edge. He drew a fledged shaft from his quiver and nocked the arrow. When the deer sensed their presence, they would bolt; he would be ready.
They sat their horses in silence for a few moments, and then Gifford spoke. “Why was Castelnau cooperating with Walsingham?”
Poley smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a triumphant, smug smile. “His Excellency was more deeply involved in Throckmorton’s debacle than an ambassador ought to have been. For certain considerations, Walsingham has agreed to keep the extent of Castelnau’s role in the plot from Henri, and more importantly, from the Queen Mother.”
“That is an empty promise if ever there was one!” laughed Gifford. “Catherine de’ Medici has spies everywhere.” Now it all made sense…so Castelnau had exceeded his mandate and wished the French king not to know. “I see,” he said. “I was wondering why His Foolish Excellency handed the new cipher over to us without a whimper.”
“Quite,” said Poley absently; his eyes as well as his attention were riveted upon the part of the stream where the trees were at their thickest. They were walking their horses slowly; at any moment, the next snapped twig would be in earshot and the herd would break. He had his heart set upon a doe; but a hind would do. His mind drew an amusing parallel between the hunt and the effort to place the Catholic Queen of Scots on the throne of England. “Gilbert,” he said. “Why do you sulk?”
“I do not,” said Gifford with suspicious promptness.
“Of course you do,” said Poley. “It is evident in your demeanor.”
“All right, then,” said Gifford. “If you must know, it is my sense that Babington has become…”
“Has become what, pray tell?” asked Poley. Both men had nocked their arrows and awaited the sudden movement that would presage the scattering of the deer. No noise had yet startled the does; perhaps they must await a shift in the wind.
“What is evident to me,” Gifford said truculently, “is that the fool has become smitten with you.”
Poley snorted his derision. “That is absurd. Sir Anthony Babington is married and has a child.”
“Nay, Robert, such is not so absurd,” replied Gifford. “Such things are known to happen. Why, at the French court…”
“I do not care to hear of the vile perversions of the French court,” snapped Poley. He relaxed his bow. “And where the devil are Paulet and Phelippes?”
Gifford scanned the horizon. His eyes still had the sharpness of youth. He spied two figures picking their way through the gorse. “They come,” he said. He had not survived this long by being unobservant; he had noticed that Walsingham’s men…and he now was, if he wanted to live, Walsingham’s man…always worked in pairs. It was a clever precaution; whatever the task, whatever the mission, if one man failed his mandate or was killed, there was another, who knew the plan, to carry out whatever must be done. And the fact that their meeting place was in an open field, far from the manor, was no coincidence. Sir Amyas was a cautious man; there was no need to worry about anyone listening at doors if there were no doors. They started their way back across the heath.
As the four men drew nigh each other, Sir Amyas lifted his arm in salute. “How now!” he cried across the gorse. His voice echoed across the empty heath.
“Is all in place and ready?” asked Poley. He saw no value in the niceties; to business was his motto.
“All is well,” said Sir Amyas. “The Scots whore has already availed herself of Brewer Burton’s services and believes the way is clear.”
“Good, that is good,” said Poley. “Thomas, what of the cipher?”
Thomas Phelippes inclined his head. “Castelnau was true to his word,” he said. “The cipher is good.”
Gifford shifted in his saddle. “Has anything of value yet been gleaned from Her Grace’s letters?” Hearing the Queen of Scotland slandered did not offend his ear; to him, she was simply a tool to God’s glory. England must be brought back into the fold of the Church of Rome, and her souls saved. Therefore he was indifferent to Mary Stuart’s alleged crimes, or what others thought of her.
Phelippes shook his head. “So far I have found naught in the letters Her Grace has sent more pernicious than that James will be forced to marry a Spanish princess once Her Grace is back on her Scottish throne. The letters she has received speak of plans to invade and place her on her thrones of both Scotland and England. But no date for such is mentioned, nor is there anything more specific in them as to method.”
Gifford soothed his suddenly restive horse. The sooner Mary Stuart could be persuaded to incriminate herself, the sooner he would be able to effect his escape from England. It was not unheard of for a duplicitous spy to be sacrificed to a cause for form’s sake. He had no difficulty seeing that Mary Stuart’s cause was lost. When the juggernaut Walsingham had set in motion came to fruition, there must surely be a time of confusion and great disorder, a time when all was at sixes and sevens. He must seize that opportunity; he must be prepared to run for his life. The memories of the horror of Little Ease and the excruciating pain of the rack were fresh in his mind; he was convinced at that moment that they would never leave him, but would haunt him for the rest of his days.
“I also have Sir Anthony’s trust,” said Gifford. “In my opinion, the man is a fool,” he glanced at Poley as he said this, “however, I believe that we must weave our plan in with Babington’s. The Scottish queen knows him and trusts him.”
“How was Babington’s trust procured?” asked Phelippes.
Gilbert shifted in his saddle. “My bona fides from Thomas Morgan is meant for the queen’s eyes; but Poley and I have shown it to Sir Anthony. He was mightily impressed. But we must not dally, gentlemen. We must proceed to the next step quickly.” He regarded Paulet. “Sir Amyas, it is time I was presented to the queen. We are already acquainted, through the auspices of Good Sir Anthony. Her Grace has taken the bait and is availing herself of the ale casks.”
At this, Sir Amyas interrupted, which was unusual for him; he normally listened carefully to what others said, and took his time responding. “I cannot imagine how it may be possible to convey useful information on a piece of paper no bigger than my finger!” At this, he held up a knobby index finger.
Gifford gave Sir Amyas a long, assessing look and then continued on. “Presently I shall show Her Grace the letter from Morgan; that will be more than enough, I trow, to engage her in our plan. I am well-placed with Chateauneuf, thanks to Castelnau’s treachery; that is an added fillip to our design. But sirs, even though the letters Her Grace has thus far received speak of invasion and the conquest of England, her Grace cannot be accused of treason because of what another writes to her.”
Paulet regarded Gifford through narrowed eyes. He disliked the idea of dual spying; one could never be quite certain where a man’s true loyalties lay. He had shared this concern with Walsingham; but Sir Francis had assured him that most men’s loyalties lay first with themselves. Gifford was no fanatic; he simply had strongly held beliefs. But that his skin would win out over his scruples had never been in question for Walsingham. Such men made excellent double agents.
“What are you suggesting, then?” asked Si
r Amyas. He lived for the day when Mary Stuart’s head left her shoulders; anything that hastened the day of that Jezebel’s demise would have his full support.
Gifford drew close in; the others instinctively followed his example, until their horses were nose to nose in a tight circle. “Sir Anthony has concocted a vague plan to assassinate Queen Elizabeth. But methinks that he will prove far too lily-livered to do the deed himself. He has gathered about him a circle of hot-headed young men, ardent Catholics, who have conceived a romantic passion for the captive queen and her plight. Beyond an unfounded expectation that Elizabeth’s death will result in a Catholic uprising that will demand Mary Stuart be placed upon the throne of England, they mumble only vague conclusions as to how to proceed, or what to do next. I believe that we must guide them in this effort. Two men are coming from France; one whose mission is to murder the queen, and one to foment revolution in the event the assassination attempt fails. Mendoza means to move Philip into action; the death of the queen would certainly be a momentous force, but should that fail, a radical priest to foment an uprising may prove an adequate trigger to get His Grace to move. I shall introduce these men to Babington. But I must advise that these men remain in ignorance of our true intentions.” Ballard and Savage were more than mere acquaintances; they were his friends. But there was nothing for it; if they must needs be sacrificed, then so be it.
The men said nothing.
“Here it is, then,” said Gifford. “We must convince Babington to write a letter to the Scottish queen describing his plan to murder Queen Elizabeth. Everything will then hinge upon Her Grace’s reply to such a letter.” Still the men said nothing. “Sirs, the Queen of Scots has no inkling that every letter that goes in or out of Chartley is intercepted and read by her enemies. If we can get Her Grace to agree, in writing, to Babington’s plot to kill the Queen of England, then the game will be up.”
In High Places Page 99