The Queen's Bastard

by Robin Maxwell

  By now I could see the hook lodged in the cheek of this fish, and so I began to pull him in. I spoke of Ambassador Stafford — whom Englefield knew, of course, to be a double agent for England and Spain. I invented a superb yarn surrounding my meeting and association with the ambassador in Paris, and my apprenticeship to him. I described the Staffords hatred of Lord Leicester for his past treatment of Lady Stafford, formerly Douglas Sheffield, and the embarrassing pamphlet about them now circulating the Continent. I even claimed to have met Ambassador Mendoza on several occasions, and got Englefield laughing about the Spaniards lisp. I knew that telling such tales was dangerous, but I knew also that a communication confirming the information from Madrid to Paris and back, could take up to two months travelling time. I would surely be a free man by then, else a dead one. I knew quite well that I was treading upon thin ice, but was required never the less to stride boldly upon it, or I could never hope to save my life.

  I pointed out that born the only natural child of Elizabeths body, I had a stronger claim to the English throne than the Scots King James. His Mother was dead at my Mothers hand. I suggested that after the conquest of England I finish the job, assassinating the heretic James, leaving the throne of Scotland conveniently empty and easily annexed to Catholic England. My own claim could then be determined by Philip, to whom I would of course pledge my whole allegiance.

  I could see Englefields agitation growing, his blind eyes darting every which way behind the thick glass spectacles, the trembling of his body causing the huge ruff to vibrate round his head. He began firing questions at me. What was the name of Lord Leicesters secretary who accompanied me to see Walsingham? Fludd, I answered. “Humph,” he muttered, then nodded in silent concurrence. What did the inside of Walsinghams house in Throgsneck Street look like, Englefield demanded. I said that the house was not in Throgsneck Street at all, but on the Strand, then proceeded to describe it in some detail. He questioned me in several languages and I answered fluently in each of them. He smiled and nodded, muttering, “Like Mother like son …” Finally picking up my left hand he pinched and stroked my extra digit as if it were a valuable jewel. Suddenly he hooted with delight, an entirely unnerving sound to be coming from so peculiar a character.

  “Randall,” he snapped, “take Mister Dudley to the bath house and have him … washed. Then have Parenta outfit him with a new suit of clothing. Something subtle, grey perhaps with touches of copper. And Randall,” he added, “take several guards with you everywhere you go.”

  Englefield smiled at me with a mouthful of surprisingly good teeth. “Prepare your self, Sir. You shall soon have the privilege and honor of your young life — an audience with the King of Spain.”

  Escorted by Englefield and Randall I strode down the endless corridors of El Escorial. Never in my life had I witnessed such grandeur, from the varicolored marble floors and walls and columns, to the exquisite statuary, to the colossal altars which seemed to drip with gold. Nor had I ever been so elegantly attired. The Kings own tailor had outfitted me in a velvet and satin costume in shades of grey and black and white, with knitted silk hose and the most extraordinary boots of Spanish leather I had ever seen, much less worn.

  Everything round me seemed very bright and sharply in focus. I felt unaccountably strong and sure of myself. I was walking to meet my destiny. Philip of Spain awaited me.

  Finally we arrived at the intricately carven and inlaid door to the throne room. The guards uncrossed their halberds and allowed us entrance. I had imagined an immense throne and a resplendent and overbearing sovereign, arrayed with gold and precious gemstones. What I found was a small, jutjawed and greying old man in a dull black doublet and hose, hunched on what appeared to be a simple campaign stool. I quickly stifled my shock and after my presentation by Francis Englefield, fell into the many obeisances he had instructed me to make, then waited silently, head bowed on bended knee to be released from my prostrations.

  “Let me see you,” the King said finally in a thin and petulant voice.

  I stood and rose to my full height and felt his pale eyes boring into me, searching my face and form and soul. But I did not tremble in that moment and instead regained the surety of my position. I reminded myself I was the son of a Queen and therefore as Royal as he. I reminded myself also, as I strode thro the convoluted maze I had carefully constructed from the truth and lies and outright fantasy, that one misstep, one false turning could be the end of me.

  Forty-six

  “Let me see the finger,” commanded the King of Spain.

  The tall, handsome man purporting to be the Queen’s son raised his left hand and turned it outer side up. Philip beckoned for him to come closer. He approached slowly and Philip gazed down at the deformity with pursed lips.

  “It is nothing but a nub of flesh with a piece of nail in it,” he said.

  “As it was with the whore Anne Boleyn,” replied Francis Englefield.

  Philip noticed the young man was smiling a small, mocking smile, as if to reassure them he held his grandmother in equal contempt. He might be pretending, of course, thought Philip, but the truth was, this person standing before him claiming to be Arthur Dudley bore an uncanny resemblance to each of the people he swore were his parents. He was built precisely like Lord Robert Dudley in his prime, when he had fought for Philip in the Neapolitan Wars. He moved with the same grace that the King had always found so peculiar in such a large and masculine man — a grace he had secretly envied. And according to Englefield, the man was persuasive. So had Robert Dudley been. Why, he had even persuaded Philip to support his ludicrous pursuit of Elizabeth’s hand in marriage!

  “So the Earl of Leicester has turned his back on you,” inquired Philip coolly.

  “He has, Your Majesty, and made it impossible for me to approach my mother.”

  “Your mother …” repeated the King with a cynical downturning of his lip, and suddenly the image of Elizabeth was before him. Elizabeth as she had been in the days of her sister Mary’s ill-fated lying-in. Elizabeth the young and exquisite princess with the mother-of-pearl skin, the willowlike slenderness, the wild, burnished gold hair. Elizabeth for whom Philip would have willingly overthrown his Father’s dictum regarding passion. “Do not overstrain yourself,” Charles had commanded. “It damages the growth and strength of the male body. Stay away from your wife as much as you can. As soon as the marriage is consummated, leave on some pretext and do not go back too quickly or too often.” He had obeyed such orders with his first two wives. But if he had had Elizabeth …

  “I knew your mother,” said Philip, recognizing as the words left his lips that he had in effect admitted he believed this man to be Elizabeth’s child.

  “I met her once when I was eight.”

  The man spoke with such authority, such confidence! Who would dare to lie so brazenly to the King of Spain? But how could the son of Elizabeth be standing before him now? It was impossible!

  “She was a magnificent horsewoman, strong in her seat and altogether tireless,” the man went on. “We rode side by side in a wild goose chase — a custom of ours in England — and I tell you the woman was not above cheating!” With that Arthur laughed a great booming laugh which revealed a sunburst smile.

  The sight of that smile forced Philip back into the garden at Hampton Court thirty years before. Elizabeth had laughed at one of his small jests, and that smile’s memory had lingered for years, warm on the walls of his mind. She had loved him too, he thought, for a brief moment she had loved him as he loved her. Then abruptly, without the King’s permission, a heavy prison door crashed shut upon the rogue memory, and he stood naked before God in his shame. “Jesus forgive me,” he cried out silently, “I have loved a heretic whore.”

  Suddenly there remained not a fraction of a doubt. He knew who stood before him bantering and smiling with Elizabeth’s smile and Robin Dudley’s graceful swagger. And just as suddenly he was overcome with rage. This man, this stranger who had appeared from nowhere, had emerged
as his most dangerous rival for the throne of England.

  “You have done well, Francis, bringing young Dudley to me.”

  Englefield was beaming with pride. Perhaps if he had been sighted he would have detected the cold fury behind the King’s placid expression.

  “Shall I have a suite of rooms prepared for him, Your Majesty?” asked Englefield, already envisaging the luxurious appointments — the hangings and carpets and gold plate, the wardrobe filled with clothing fit for a prince.

  “Indeed,” agreed Philip mildly. “We must show our new ally our most gracious hospitality. Nothing shall be spared.”

  As he spoke, the King of Spain became aware that Arthur Dudley’s smile had subtly altered. The man had penetrated Philip’s mendacious veneer. He knew he was doomed. Their eyes met and held as Englefield babbled on about apartments in the south wing, or the great chamber in the west wing. To his credit, the Queen’s bastard stood unflinching under the King’s gaze. Philip searched for a sign of defeat, a crack in the dignified bearing, even the equanimity of a gambler whose bluff has been called. He searched in vain. He could see that Arthur Dudley would hold his proud posture as he traversed the thirty miles back to Madrid and into the prison where he would live in obscurity until the day he died.

  He was a formidable opponent. A magnificent man. But that was to be expected, thought Philip with cold pleasure. Arthur Dudley was of royal blood.

  Forty-seven

  Returned to the horrid confines of my Madrid prison I consoled my self with the knowledge that I was still alive, and for the time being ignored by the grim cadre of interrogators and torturers. I own that I was confused. I believed that Philip had accepted the truth of my parentage. Why then had he turned on me and, horrifying poor Francis Englefield, had me clapped in chains? But who, after all, can fathom the mind of a religious fanatic and tyrant like Philip of Spain? Never the less I was glad to be alive and at least able to contemplate the means of my liberation.

  It soon became apparent that escape from that Madrid prison was no easy feat. I learnt that no one had managed it for more than twenty years. To make matters worse, prison security had increased as the date of the Armada sailing approached, and preparations for an Auto da Fé in its honor were begun.

  Since my removal and return to the prison, the place had filled with dozens of victims of the Inquisition, altogether wretched men and women accused and convicted of secret Judaizing, some repentant and others steadfastly defiant. As the Holy Office itself had no right to inflict physical punishment on those found guilty of their crimes, they were declared “abandoned” to the secular arm of the law. This was merely the polite way of saying they would be given over to the civil authorities to be burnt at the stake. These, then, were the intended participants in the coming “act of faith” and now the stench of fear was added to the other foul odors in the common chamber.

  My daily life was filled with mounting helplessness and despair as the day of the Spanish invasion of England inexorably approached, while the woman I loved seemed to lie beyond my reach for ever.

  Then one day late in May I was visited by Sir Francis Englefield himself. He made quite a stir in his fuchsia doublet and matching hose, mincing in on the arm of his young scribe Randall. It occurred to me that for once the man would be grateful for his blindness, having enough to contend with in the offensive smell of the place. He had brought from El Escorial the transcripts of my “confession” and now required my signature on them before they were shipped off to the Royal Archives at Salamanca.

  Englefield had me taken to a tiny private chamber and dismissed Randall so that we were quite alone. I could see all round the scribes neat handwriting on the document a great many notations in the margins in a strange loopy scrawl. I took my time with the signature and read one or two. They were obviously Philips comments on the content of my story. Near the bottom he had written “It will certainly be safest to make sure of Dudleys person until we know more about the matter.”

  Then I heard Englefield whisper urgently, “Please hurry, we have little time, my lord.”

  “My lord?” I replied incredulously. No one had ever addressed me in that way.

  “Listen to me, Arthur Dudley. I believe you are who you say you are. And I have reason for seeing you released from this incarceration which must inevitably lead to your death.”

  “But King Philip —”

  “King Philip will win this war and then destroy Spain when he attempts to take the throne of England for himself.”

  I laughed aloud then, imagining that wizened little creature trying to control the bawdy English commoners and the growing masses of straitlaced Puritans.

  “Quiet!” hissed Englefield. “And listen carefully. On Sunday of next week three dozen prisoners of the Inquisition will be marched to the city plaza to receive their punishment. One group — the “reconciliados” — will be burnt in effigy only, whilst two groups found guilty — the repentant and unrepentant — will be consumed by fire. I have contrived to place your name on the list of the reconciled. Once you have stood before the Inquisitors and received your penance and yellow hood, you will be released into society.”

  I was altogether baffled. “Why are you doing this, Englefield?”

  “Because when the war is won I will see to it that you make your way back to England. I may seem nothing more to you than a blind and ineffectual petty official, but in my day I was a master conspirator.” Englefield seemed to stand a little straighter and whispered, “I plotted with the Scots Queen against your Mother —”

  “I did not know.”

  “— and I will plot to make you King. And when you have assumed the throne — a Catholic monarch, but the true heir and an Englishman — then I shall reap my reward.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “Only the rightful return of my lands and fortune which your Father now possesses.” He grabbed my arm. “Will you promise me that much?”

  I was staggered. Francis Englefield was actually taking seriously my claim to the throne — something I never expected anyone to swallow. I recovered my self quickly and with a congenial arm round Englefields shoulder I confided, “You shall have your lands and your fortune, my friend, and a title too. But listen, will this plan of yours work? My name on a list, and suddenly I am a free man?”

  “I have no doubt of it, my lord. There is only one thing that you must provide for me — the name of someone who will fetch you from the Auto da Fé. Someone whom you trust implicitly.”

  I went suddenly cold hearing those words, and Englefield saw me stiffen.

  “You must trust me, do you hear? I offer your one and only hope to escape from this place. I shall not have another opportunity to help you! Look at me, my lord. I am an Englishman who cannot go home, not so different from your self.” He pounded his chest and spoke with a passion I had not seen before. “A Catholic exile, yes, but an Englishman all the same!” There were voices outside the door. “You must decide quickly!”

  I knew that if Englefield was lying, divulging the Lorca name might be the death of them all. But I felt in my deepest soul that the man was honest and an Englishman, and that I could trust him. The door began to open.

  “In the port of Santa Maria across the bay from Cadiz,” I whispered. You must seek Don Ramón Lorca. The saddlemaker.”

  * * *

  At dawn four days after the Armada had sailed from Lisbon Harbor, a black and white robed monk stood on the high stair of the common chamber and intoned in the voice of the Grim Reaper three lists of names. I breathed easier as my name was amongst the final group called. Taking my place in that somber company we were led, heavily guarded, out the prison gate and into the courtyard of a nearby greathouse. I looked up to the balconied second floor and saw the children of the house watching wide eyed as the heretics were stripped of their clothing, their private areas covered in loincloths, and each outfitted in the grotesque costume of the Auto da Fé. The “sanbenito” was a kneelength sac
kcloth tunic painted with the Cross of St. Andrew. Those worn by the reconciliados were nothing more than that. But on the front and back of the tunics of repentant Judaizers was painted a pile of blazing faggots, their flames extending downwards to signify that they would be spared actual death by fire and be garrotted first. For those sinners who were unrepentant, however, the flames on their sanbenitos turned upwards, and they were further painted with the gaudy devils and dragons with whom these worst of all sinners would presumably spend Eternity. Tall conical hats completed the humiliating outfit.

  When the grim voiced monk handed me my tunic I felt the breath go out of me. There were flames rising upwards and the faces of nightmarish demons grinned back at me.

  “This is a mistake!” I cried to the monk who had already moved on to the next person in line. He turned and raised an eyebrow. “I am a reconciliado. You must check your list of names!”

  He fixed me with a patronizing gaze, but finally glided away to confer with his superior. Then he returned.

  “You are Arthur Dudley?”

  “I am.”

  He lifted the tunic off my arm and examined it. Then he looked up at me. “This is correct, Señor. Please put it on.”

  The world spun all round me. I had been betrayed by Englefield, tricked into going like a lamb to the slaughter. Worse, much worse, I had betrayed the Lorcas. What a fool I had been! Why had Englefield done this? I had been as blind as he, never seeing how deeply King Philips evil had infected him. Constanza! Don Ramón! Oh God, for my incredible stupidity I in deed deserved to die!

  I remember the procession thro the crowded streets of Madrid to Cathedral Square as if in a dream. The Soldiers of Faith led the way, followed by the green cross of the Inquisition shrouded in a black crepe mourning veil. A bellringer preceded a portly priest walking under a brilliant canopy of scarlet and gold, and as he came, the multitudes sank down on their knees and wept, beating their breasts to the clang of the bell. Then came we prisoners, ropes hung round our necks, clutching green candles, each flanked by two serene monks. The robed constables of the Inquisition came next, and finally men bearing on tall poles the grotesque straw and wax effigies, with their sanbenitos and grinning painted faces.