by Hall, Ian
“Reginald Pole.”
“Yes!” He turned to me as if I’d tried to hit him. “Another fox dressed as lamb. He’s the son of her old governess. How well they’ve contrived their nest. We’ve fallen behind on this one, Richard; we’ve taken our eyes off the game.”
I thought of the scandals that had rocked America, and looked for some helpful suggestions. “We can catch Pole in bed with boys. We can throw Renard into a bed of whores and give him the pox.”
But Fakenham seemed resolved to wallow in his despair. “If his manhood dripped in yellow pus, I don’t think the Queen would change her mind; she seems to be wholly smitten with both Renard and his patron, Philip.”
“Then we play dirty,” I said, my own indignation rising. “We bring Renard’s wife to London, and let him discover her in bed with a herd of rampant goats; anything to destabilize his core.”
“By all accounts, she is of honest means, and a good catholic.”
“Bring her in front of me, and I’ll get her on her knees begging for my cock like a drunken whore.”
He stopped his ranting, and looked at me. “You’re serious.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Then you have your orders,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. “Bring mistress Renard to London.”
“I will need funds,” I said, aware of a whole new turn in my spying career.
“Take them.” He opened a drawer in his desk. It seemed twenty pouches sat in the deep drawer. “By all accounts, you’ll need two or three.”
So with no delay, we set out across London Bridge for the docks at Dover. A few coins were all it took to hire a schooner for Brussels.
What would one day become the capital of Belgium, was now just a large town in the Low Countries, owned by Spain, dominated by Spanish influence in both art and new architecture.
Finding Jeanne Renard proved quite easy; the Spanish Ambassadors seemed to gather in one particular section of the city, near the administration hub.
We posed as friends of her husband’s; we entered the house by the front door, Jeanne inviting us inside, asking after news. Once inside, we grabbed the nondescript lady, put her immediately under our influence, told her to dress in men’s clothing, and ran with her back to the dock.
I don’t think we were in Belgium for twenty-four hours.
Jeanne Renard was a thin woman, with thick dark hair and matching bushy eyebrows. I’d like to say she looked comely, but alas, I found nothing above the ordinary about her. We kept her subdued on the trip back over the Channel, and arrived in London on the high tide of the twenty-first, just four days for the whole kidnap process.
If no sea journeys had been involved, we could have done it in two.
Once we’d established Jeanne Renard in our London room, I reported directly to Fakenham. We discussed many ways to undermine Renard’s game, but ultimately we just decided to send him a few horrible messages and mess with his head for a while.
That afternoon, I passed Renard in a hallway, and once he’d passed, did a quick vampire sweep, dropping our message, his name up, on the floor in front of him. I watched from down the corridor as he stopped, then opened and read the missive.
‘Your wife has left your children. She has taken with an actor. She is with child. Z.’
I had signed it ‘Z’ like Zorro, and laughed at my wit. Needless to say, Fakenham hadn’t got the joke.
“It will take him a week to verify the information,” I reported back on the message’s arrival. “But in the meantime, we hold the cards while he worries.”
At his meeting that day, from my peephole into the Queen’s quarters, I watched him squirm. His mind clearly not on the job at hand, seducing our Queen, he looked distant and distracted.
But since most of the discussion was conducted in very good Spanish, and I caught maybe one word in three, I looked for the broad picture rather than content.
In darkness Steve and I visited Haxtun House. I can only say that bedlam reigned on the first floor. Renard’s usually dulcet tones were anything but relaxed. He must have been standing over Etienne Quiclet’s head as he translated his message into cypher.
Once more the messenger Montmorency was called for, and he soon ran off down the street. This time I did not follow, but returned to our rooms on Elmhurst Street, to find Jeanne Renard asleep as we’d instructed her.
The next day, on the twenty-second of September, the ringleaders in leading the small army against Queen Mary were executed. I attended, just for the simple fact that I’d never seen a beheading before. I stood amazed at the crowds that attended, jeering and shouting rough epithets at the poor guys standing on the platform.
John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, and father-in-law to Lady Jane Grey, stood on the platform, his face ashen, yet showing little fear of the proceedings. Behind him stood his accomplices, Sir Thomas Palmer and Sir John Gates.
I’d seen so many dramatizations on television, but none could compare to the real thing. The anticipation, the long stroke, the crescendoed cheer of the nonpartisan crowd.
In less than ten minutes, three heads lay in baskets, ready to be hung on London Bridge.
With a heaviness in my heart, I walked to the Tower to meet with Fakenham.
“Renard continues his push against the Princess Elizabeth.” The spy master turned to me, his eyes slits. “Why do you consider this important?”
“It could be just a papist thing; I mean he constantly reports to the Queen that Elizabeth does not attend mass. It seems she crosses herself, carries the crucifix, and maintains outward affectations, but does not fully commit to the old religion.”
“How secure is the Renard woman?”
“Very, why?”
“Well, I need someone to scout around Elizabeth, and I need to know if you’re up to the task.”
“I have my man with Mistress Renard twenty-four-seven.”
He gave me with a worried look. “You say the most confusing things sometimes, Richard.”
“I can do the Elizabeth thing, sire,” I pressed, seeking a way to get to the Princess. If she was going to be a great Queen, I needed friends in high places. “Trust me.”
“We need her to comply with Mary’s wishes.”
I nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Having no proper ‘court’, and thus having no audience procedure, Princess Elizabeth would prove easier to approach than I’d expected.
I gained entrance to Lambeth Palace just by naming the Queen as my benefactor, and found the Princess wandering in the rose gardens with an older woman. As I neared the pair, Elizabeth’s questioning eyes caught my presence and she stopped, suddenly a deer caught in headlights.
I bowed, although I stood too far to talk, and waited for her permission to come nearer. She gave her companion a kind word, and walked towards me.
“Your Grace,” I said, bowing again.
“The man who pokes his head in carriages,” she said, the slightest sign of a mischievous smile crossing her face.
“Your Grace has a keen memory.”
“A dog who serves two masters makes an impression.” Boy, Elizabeth’s wit proved as sharp as a tack.
“Your Grace might remember that in her own life.” I made no effort to hide my intention, there seemed little point in subtlety when she fenced with words better than I did. For her age, her mind seemed lightning fast.
“In that regard, there is only one master.”
“But can one not serve the master, whilst giving the appearance of subservience to another?”
“How can one be duplicitous with one’s soul?”
Oh, such sharpness again. “I seek not to divide your soul, Your Grace, merely to show a veneer to others who look for it.”
“Oh, they do not look for it, sire.” Her teeth openly gritted together, and her lips paled to a thin line. “They do far worse. They spread stories; they invent my movements, amplify my slightest inflections, then conspire in conjecture of my deepest thoughts.”
&nbs
p; Wow. For the first time in 1553, I felt out of my depth. I hoped I’d see her in power one day, and witness the toads around her dance in the verbal quicksand I found myself sinking in. “It is true, Your Grace. So why, in the face of such a barrage, do you not submit just the merest of ground, and go through the motions? It would stand well with you.”
She walked closer and reached out, touching my shoulder. “Do you threaten me?”
I dropped on one knee immediately. “No, Your Grace. I only act out of protection to your position at court.”
“But your master commands you to bring me this thinly veiled message.”
“I have no master but England.” I had no idea where the phrase had sprung from, but it sounded good, and Elizabeth looked at me differently once I’d uttered it.
“Your name?”
“Richard DeVere, Your Grace.”
“Your accent?”
“Low Countries, Your Grace, although I have been in the service of England for many years.”
She suddenly became nervous. “Arise, if the Spanish see you…”
“There are no witnesses to our conversation, Your Grace, I am certain.”
She paused, looking down at a rose. “A façade of beauty, yet wielding thorns. Is this what you bring me? Does your tongue and dagger work for the one master, sire? Or do you dance with words, plying me with nuance, while you cut at my hamstrings?”
“There is little doubt the Spanish desire you gone from court, and it may not be in the interest of England for you to do so.”
She paused, then snapped the head of the rose, squashing it in her small hand. “I would take your words under advisement, Master DeVere.”
I bowed, edging back from her. “I shall return from time to time. Do you invite me into your house?” I tried the old vampire trick.
But she smiled. “Yes, Master DeVere, I invite you inside.”
Chapter 13
September 23rd, 1553
Etienne Quiclet
Steve returned from Haxtun House with a huge grin on his face.
Bigger than normal.
“I think I can bring Etienne Quiclet to our side.”
“Renard’s personal secretary?”
“The very same.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
“Well, I was over there last night, you know…”
“Yes, get on with it.”
“And he took the worst of verbal beatings from Renard. Seems our little letter has gotten to him.”
I nodded, not able to help looking at the peacefully sleeping Jeanne Renard in my bed. “Or he’s got a confirmation she’s missing.”
“Whatever. But he came into the kitchen, ranting at the cook that he was going to bring him down, get him back for his abuse.”
“So what’s his weakness? Booze? Women?” I asked.
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
“Good, we have to strike while the iron’s hot on this one.”
I took my haul to Fakenham that day. He looked very, very interested.
“It couldn’t come at a better time. Our Queen writes to the Pope, asking every marriage of her father be expunged, apart from the first one to her mother, Catherine of Aragon.”
“It seems but a small move forward.”
We walked through a small door at the back of his office and quietly made our way through the ‘secret corridor’ to the listening post behind the Queen’s chamber.
Through the small peephole, I could see Renard standing alone with the Queen, they were in their favorite position, staring at the newly arrived portrait of Phillip, hanging on her wall. Their tones were low, obviously aware of the possibility of our hearing.
After wasting half an hour, we returned to Fakenham’s office.
“Even the Queen now conspires in secret,” he said with disgust. “We must hit Renard with another message. Shake him up a bit.”
So, later that day, we sent the next message.
‘We have both the actor and the Lady. The child grows in her belly. We would talk. Z.’
I zipped past Renard in a corridor, slipping the note into his tunic, then Fakenham and I watched from afar as he eventually found it. In the crowded anteroom, he looked around, trying to identify the reverse pickpocket, then slowly read the note. I swear I could see him pale from over a hundred feet away.
Walking away, we grinned like schoolboys.
“How is your houseguest?” he asked once the mirth had receded.
“She’s fine, healthy.”
“Intact?”
“Oh, yes.” I hoped my facial expression would expunge any thoughts of us interfering with Renard’s wife. We could both get our fun elsewhere.
“Remember to keep up a dialogue with Elizabeth.”
“I will.”
It wasn’t difficult for a vampire to keep a hostage. I mean, we simply took command of their motor functions. The prisoner needed no bonds, had no urge to attempt escape, and ate and drank when told. To all outside viewers, they were simply houseguests.
Steve, although still not having much experience, kept Jeanne Renard under the strictest control. I had no need to fear any sexual activity between them, Mistress Renard looked very ordinary, one of the plainest women I’d ever seen, and most evenings Steve popped round to Haxtun House on Hamberley Street to gather more information. He seemed to be able to control his feeding; he never exhibited any symptoms of lack, so I never felt the need to remind him.
The news from Haxtun House proved very interesting. Renard remained the sole Spanish Ambassador to London; with Jean Scheyfre’s recall, he had been left with just three assistants. That night, those three were packing their bags.
Steve’s face looked ecstatic. “They’re all leaving; Giacomo Soranzo, de Montmorency, and de Marnix.” He could hardly contain himself. “We did it!”
It seems our plan had succeeded. “Now all we have to do is rid ourselves of Renard, the head fox.”
The next evening, after nightfall, I returned to Elizabeth. This time I entered without passing the guards at the gates. Having already been there on my previous visit in 1501, Lambeth Palace proved much easier than Westminster to navigate; with just one building devoted to accommodation, I found Elizabeth’s room without trouble. A light shone from under the door. I knocked lightly.
“Yes?”
“Richard DeVere,” I said into the angle of door and casement.
I heard the soft padding of her bare feet, then the sound of a latch being lifted. The door opened, and I pushed it gently.
Elizabeth stood, a cape pulled temporarily round her shoulders, a candelabra in one hand, the other hand behind her back.
“You have no need for dagger, Your Grace. May I come in?” I glanced up and down the corridor.
She edged away from the door, and her dagger came into view; a long-handled device. “What brings you?”
“I will call from time to time, Your Grace. I am your ally, and always will be.”
She stood near her bed. “I have never had a man in my room before.”
“Your Grace, the day will come when many will present themselves so.”
She gave a wry smile. “Perhaps. I had a visitor today, but perhaps you know this?”
“The Frenchman doing business for Spain.”
“The same.”
“What did he want?”
“Well, at first, I thought he just wanted to go over details of Queen Mary’s coronation, but he soon strayed from topic. He seemed quite distracted, and hopped from one subject to another with some regularity.” I grinned inwardly, imagining the turmoil we were committing his mind to. “But he did suggest I leave court more than once.”
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes, it seems funny, he mentioned his wife twice, and directly afterwards, looked at me very strangely, almost as if he expected a reaction from me.”
“Yes, that does sound strange.” I bowed. “I will call again, Your Grace.” And I left, a huge smile on
my face. Renard had indeed panicked, striking out in every direction.
It felt wonderful.
With the coronation on the first day in October, just four days away, our focus shifted. Leaving Steve to babysit Mistress Renard, I went through the arrangements at Westminster Abbey, just as I’d done for Arthur and Catherine’s wedding fifty years before. Except for me, it had just been months.
Then on Friday night, Fakenham, on a rare trip outside of the Tower, caught my eye, and I wandered over. “Get yourself to the Tower. Report to the Master of Arms.” I gave him a questioning look, but he waved me away, and snapped, “Go!” before I could argue.
I crossed the threshold of the Tower gate and got directed to the northern courtyard. About ten young men milled around outside the chapel, not quite talking, but many looked excited, and some apprehensive. The chapel of Saint Peter had been rebuilt by King Henry, just a few years ago, and looked by far the newest of the whole building, the stone still shining tan, not having been weathered by the centuries.
I approached the group. “Why are we gathered here?” I asked the nearest man, a young servant I’d seen in Mary’s quarters more than once.
“We are not allowed to discuss it,” he said, partly turning away, partly looking around, to see if he’d been seen.
Just then, the Master of Arms in full dress uniform arrived with three serving wenches, a sight not often seen in the Tower. Each carried a tray of silver goblets.
“Gentlemen!” the Master of Arms called us all to attention, is if we weren’t paying attention. “Tomorrow is the eve of the coronation of Queen Mary the first. God save the Queen!”
And we all echoed his chant.
“When I call your name, you will answer: ‘Here and present, Master at Arms.’” Then he unrolled a scroll, and read from it.
“Thomas Blakeny, William Schofield, Robert Rochester,…”
As each man’s name got read aloud, the reply of acknowledgement sounded.
“…Richard DeVere,…”
Although not exactly expecting my name for some reason, I got the response out smartish. “Here and present, Master at Arms!”
My name had been called, and I felt conscious my face also now held that look of expectation shared by my companions.