He sank to his knees, asking God for a sign, confirmation of his cohorts’ loyalty. After praying for more than an hour, he felt the glow of divine confidence wash through him, and he knew that God had not abandoned him, had not allowed his mission to be seriously threatened. Still, despite his certainty, his feeling of relief, he did what anyone in his position would.
He returned to his rooms and called each of the members of his group to him, individually, and questioned them more thoroughly than Walsingham himself could have. Before night fell, he was satisfied with his human confirmation of God’s message and ready to continue his work.
But first, he would pray for Throckmorton’s soul.
The wait for this week’s delivery seemed endless. Reston was trying to compose a letter, but his hand ached, tension seeping into every muscle, making it difficult to write. Candles lit the hidden cellar room in which he sat, their flickering glow far from bright. He leapt to his feet when the brewer walked in. “You have it?” he asked. Burton handed him a letter, which Reston read and passed to another man, hidden in the shadows, face covered by a hood. “What do you think? You’re the expert on church law.”
His companion shook his head as he read. “No. It won’t do. This is not an order.” Mary had to do more than agree to their plans. She was their true sovereign—she had to command that Elizabeth be assassinated. She had to set their scheme into motion. He was adamant on this point.
Reston nodded agreement, returned to the table, and dashed off a letter. “She and she alone must give the order,” he said, passing his now-complete note to Burton. “One more journey, my friend. Then—consummatum est! It is finished.”
Excitement pulsed through him. They were so close. He would pray now and, when he was finished, allow himself to start work on his plans for St. Paul’s. Truly, there was no enjoyment more satisfying than that of bringing souls and glory to God.
The pursuit of pleasure was always within reach of Elizabeth’s court, regardless of which royal palace they occupied. The queen often rose late—she’d never been fond of mornings—and though most of her time was spent on government matters, she was no stranger to the arts of entertainment. Her homes had tennis courts, elaborate garden mazes, spaces for command performances of the latest plays. She hunted stag and cheered enthusiastically while watching her trained mastiffs set to the bloody work of bearbaiting. But dancing was the pastime to which she continually returned, a pursuit that allowed for rare intimacy and physical satisfaction. It would always carry memories of Robert, the partner of her youth, and though thoughts of him were always laced with the bittersweet, she welcomed them.
“Jump!” The dancing master clapped as he commanded Bess, instructing her in la volta. It was full of leaping and turning and exuberant emotion, but it was the intimate embrace required by the dance that brought its wild popularity. They were in Elizabeth’s atrium, a trio of musicians playing a jaunty tune as a circle of ladies watched Bess.
“When I push like this, my lady, give a jump into the air.”
“Let him throw you round, Bess,” the queen said. “You can trust him.”
He spun the girl, her feet flying out, and lifted her into the air as the watching courtiers laughed. “And round— and round—and round—and down!” He lowered her to the ground. Her lovely face, flushed from the exercise, was bright, her eyes sparkling, lips parted in a beguiling smile. As the spinning began again, Raleigh entered the room.
“La volta, Water,” Elizabeth said as he crossed to her, his focus on the dancers. “The jump. I require all my ladies to learn it. You see how fearless Bess is.”
He could not take his eyes off her. Fearless. Beautiful. Sweet. Vulnerable. He remembered the feeling of Bess’s skin against his, remembered the sweet taste of her tongue, and felt an odd jealousy at the fact that the queen had so much control over her. “You like your ladies to jump at your command?”
“Sometimes. Do you think that is wrong?”
“No, no. You’re the queen. You are to be obeyed.”
“To tell you the truth, Water, there are times when I’m tired of being always in control.”
“Nonsense,” he said, forcing himself to pay attention to Elizabeth when all he wanted was to drink in every detail of Bess. He had to be more careful; he could not trust himself to hide his passion.
“What?” Regal eyebrows rose.
“You don’t mean a word of it. You eat and drink control.”
“Do you think so?” she asked as the music stopped and the courtiers clapped. “Bess, you must try a dance with Mr. Raleigh. He’s eager to show us his skill.”
“No skill at all, Majesty. I don’t know the steps.”
“Oh, it’s very simple.” The queen stood, crossed the room to Bess and held her by the waist to demonstrate. “You stand like this, with your hands firmly clasped here—and when she jumps, on the eighth step, you swing her round— once, twice, three times—and you’re back to the beginning. What could be simpler?”
“Your Majesty knows the dance better than I,” the dancing master said, bowing low.
“So come, Mr. Raleigh. Take your position.” Elizabeth urged him forward. “I am to be obeyed.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” Raleigh replied with a flourish, taking his place next to Bess, tempering his feelings, trying not to look too eager, hoping she would understand. “Hold her tight. I don’t want her dropped,” Elizabeth said, then commanded the musicians. “Play!”
The dance began again, and they started to move. Raleigh’s touch was too tentative at first, and her jump was awkward, but then their eyes met, and it was as if the world around them vanished. Now they moved together flawlessly, Bess jumping, Raleigh swinging her round and round.
“I wish we were alone,” he whispered as he picked her up to swing her.
“As do I,” she replied, smiling.
“We have to be very careful, Bess.” But try though they might, they could not hide their intensity, their intimacy, their longing. It was obvious to anyone paying half attention.
Elizabeth studied the couple on the floor, nodding to the beat. She felt Walsingham come to her side.
“Majesty, if you would like I will—”
“Leave her alone, Walsingham. I want both of them left alone.” She was not so confident as her voice suggested, but she liked seeing the passion in Raleigh’s eyes, and she could see the pleasure Bess drew from it.
Her emotions were a tumble of confusion. It would be dangerous to try to keep them apart when their attraction was so apparent. Better to let them enjoy each other, to bring them together enough that they would not have to seek each other out privately. So long as she was careful that they could never meet outside of her presence, there was no danger that he would entirely transfer his affections to the girl. Besides, this was what she’d warned Bess of: men and their desires. They meant so very little, were utterly indiscriminate. Any of her ladies might incite in him the same response. There was no point in denying him his flirtation.
She wanted him all to herself but knew that she could not have that unless she gave him the same in return. Raleigh spun Bess around again, and the girl laughed with such perfect delight that, for an instant, Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to laugh like that herself, even if it meant giving everything to one man.
Bess had a terrible time falling asleep that night, and when she did, her dreams would not allow for peaceful slumber. She saw Raleigh, too far away, and knew she’d betrayed him, though not how or why. She was trapped just beyond consciousness, fitful, restless, at last waking up with a start, stifling a scream with her hand as she sat up in her bed. Across the room, Walsingham sat in a stiff-backed chair, watching her, silent, his presence more frightening than her dream, bringing instantly to mind hideous thoughts of her cousin’s execution.
“Please! I’m inno
cent,” she said. “I’ve always been a loyal servant of the queen. My cousin was nothing to me. I’d never betray the queen, never—”
“But you have, my dear.” His voice was preternaturally calm. “And you do. We both know that.”
She knew at once that he meant her affair with Raleigh, and it terrified her. Terrified her that Walsingham might harm her lover, keep her from ever seeing him—touching him— again. The illicit nature of their relationship made it full of peril; they both knew it, had talked about it long into the night until red light streaked the sky. But neither of them was able to will away the consuming feelings drawing them together.
Now that Walsingham was here, however, she started to question her decisions and could bring herself neither to look at nor to speak to the man. His sharp voice shattered the silence. “Keep me informed, and all will be well,” he said, standing. “I don’t like surprises.”
“I— I—” She fumbled to reply, but he was already gone. His footsteps were silent, but she heard a soft click as he closed the door behind him. It felt as if her bones had dissolved. She collapsed in a heap on her bed, relieved, scared, wanting nothing but Raleigh’s arms around her again. First she couldn’t breathe, then she couldn’t stop crying.
She should force herself to stop loving him, should refuse to see him again, and thank God that they’d gone this far without being caught or arrested. But these sentiments she let into her head only because she knew they were what she was supposed to think—what was strictly right, moral—and she forced them from her mind almost before they were fully formed. No matter the risk, she could not keep away from him. To pretend anything else was no better than a lie. She dried her eyes with her linen sheet and sat up tall, feeling strong again. She waited an hour before she left her room and, in the cloak of darkness, slipped away to Durham House. Raleigh was the only person on earth who could understand her emotions.
To any observer, Mary Stuart’s piety would have appeared moving, so focused was she on her prayer, head bent low in the modest chapel at Chartley Hall. But the Bible that hid her face was not providing inspiration. Behind it, she was writing a letter, out of the sight of her jailers. It was a frequent occurrence, though not all her correspondence merited such secrecy. She thrilled at the game of it, the sensations it caused, the up-and-down emotions that reminded her of falling in love.
Today, though, her confidence was tempered. This note was more important than any she’d written in her life, and she had to be certain she phrased everything in a precise manner. She trusted her friends but was too smart to be careless. She bent her head low, almost resting it on the table as she wrote, and this drew the attention of her warden. Careful not to move too quickly, she closed the paper into the book when Paulet stepped toward her, three men following behind him.
“Am I a danger to England even when I pray?” she asked.
“As always, ma’am, my concern is for your safety.”
Paulet’s voice was kind, but Mary noticed a difference in his smile. She looked at him with a cool stare. “I pray for my cousin Elizabeth. Do you think she prays for me?”
“I’ve no doubt of it,” Paulet replied. “She is a holy woman.”
“Is she?” Mary threw back her head and laughed. “Yet she holds a sovereign ruler prisoner. I would not be so ungenerous.”
“What would you have her do?”
“Release me. So that I might find love again.” She fought back a sigh, displeased that he’d not shown any reaction to this statement. “I suppose that’s a hopeless cause.”
“I’m sure you’ll find consolation in the Bible.”
The men retreated but didn’t leave her alone, hovering near the door, taking turns walking past her at irregular intervals. The rest of her letter would have to wait.
Mary’s letter came much later than Reston had expected, late enough that he’d begun to worry, but at last it had arrived. In their hidden room in London, Babington and Ramsay sat, watching, faces tense with anxiety, as he read aloud. During all the months they’d spent holed up in the squalid place, they’d done nothing to improve its conditions. Water seeped through cracks between the rough rocks that formed the walls, and the smell of mildew had long since permeated their clothes, books, every porous thing. They shared the space with any number of sordid little creatures, most of whom scurried away at the slightest hint of light. But the conspirators hadn’t many candles, and more often than not, their work was accompanied by the sound of gnawing teeth and the click of tiny feet against stone.
“If our forces are in readiness, both within and without the realm, then your Queen commands you to set the gentlemen to work.” He smiled, eyes unholy in their brightness. “I think we have it.” He handed the letter to a figure who stepped out of the shadows, wanting him to see the words for himself.
“Yes,” William Walsingham said, pulling down his hood and revealing his face. “We have it now.”
Reston turned to his men. “At last. Gentlemen, to work.” His heart soared, and he murmured a joyful prayer, eager to begin. With each step now, he was moving closer to heaven.
Chapter 11
“I speak more languages than you,” Elizabeth said, leaning against the back of the stone bench and stretching her legs, breathing in the good scent of lavender. She and Raleigh had spent the morning wandering through her gardens, and she was quite certain they’d walked no fewer than five miles.
“More, perhaps, but are they useful? I’ve little danger of encountering natives fluent in Latin on my travels.”
“Spanish might be helpful.”
“True,” he said, picking up her hand. “I could make you my translator.”
“What would my official title be?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, but you’d be badly paid and treated in a most appalling manner.”
She laughed. “So long as you don’t make me clean the deck.”
“Swab. We swab the deck.” He leaned close, his voice intimate, teasing. “You are not fluent in the language of sailors.”
“You could teach me,” she said. “I’m a good pupil.”
“I doubt that very much. You’d never be able to stand someone telling you what to do.”
“I might if he had the right manner while doing it.”
“My manner is always right.”
“Is it?” she asked. “I wonder.”
“I could show you.”
“That would be dangerous,” she said, loving the way every inch of her skin came alive when he flirted with her. “I might be worth the risk,” he said.
Raleigh did not stay seated after Elizabeth left him in the garden. As usual, Walsingham had pulled her away to attend to pressing business, confirming again that he would never have all of her. He kicked at the dirt on the path in front of him, making his shoes dusty. He’d told her he might be worth the risk, and the words were so close to ones he’d said to Bess. Love was not supposed to bring with it this sort of agony. How had he managed to fall simultaneously in love with two unattainable women?
He was leading them both on, selfishly taking what he could from each. But he sought only that which was given freely, and at least Bess knew how divided his affections were. And Elizabeth... it was unlikely he could ever hide something from her. He knew not what to do except continue through these murky waters, hoping that eventually a solution would emerge and wash away the guilt that for now was his constant companion.
Francis Walsingham was buried in work, holed up in his study at his house on Seething Lane, reading a letter from Thomas Phelippes, more pleased than ever with his decision to found a school of cryptography in London, smug at his continuing success as he was every time he saw Phelippes’s work.
Today’s delivery from his cipher secretary was the culmination of all their work. Mary had at last given specific instructions to her a
llies, showing great concern for the precise timing of her release and Elizabeth’s assassination. In the margin, Phelippes had added a symbol: Π. The gallows. Mary could no longer escape her guilt. The postscript had not even been necessary.
And all this should have brought Walsingham joy. Or, if not joy, certainly contentedness, a feeling of accomplishment, satisfaction. But his pleasure was tainted. This was a dirty business, and it had stained his soul. Ferreting out secrets could lead to abysmal disappointment. He read Mary’s letter again, then tossed it aside, picking up a pen and fiddling with it as he considered the queen’s likely response to this new proof of her cousin’s treachery.
There was one final piece still missing. He knew the conspirators were going to act—that Elizabeth was in grave danger—but he knew not when they would strike. He’d already ordered protective measures. More soldiers were on their way to Whitehall, and the number of soldiers guarding the queen herself had doubled. He hoped it would be enough.
A knock sounded on his door. “Enter,” he said but did not look up from his papers.
“It’s me. William.”
Still he did not look up. “Where have you been?” Walsingham said. “We haven’t seen you for days.”
“I met up with some old friends.” William stepped forward, one smooth, well-groomed hand reaching for the back of a chair, the other concealed under his cloak.
“From Paris, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“And now you’ve come back.” He looked up at last. “Do you know, I can still remember the day you were born?” The smile on Walsingham’s lips was at odds with the sadness in his eyes. “I was eleven years old. And you, this helpless bundle. I looked at you in your crib, with your little wrinkled face, and I loved you from the first. I vowed then to look after you. But I’ve failed you, haven’t I? Forgive me if I haven’t loved you enough.”
The brothers looked at each other for a long moment, a matched recognition reflecting between their eyes. With a clatter, something fell from William’s hand. His face had gone gray.
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