by Sam Burnell
“It has left us though with poor stocks. More has been brought up from Birgu, but we cannot weaken our defences there overly, so the emphasis needs to be on rebuilding our supplies here at the citadel,” Caron said, and then added, “and the cost will be considerable.”
“I am aware of the cost. It was an unexpected expense we could have done without. The building program to make this isle a secure base will be a heavy burden on our coffers. But it will be worth it,” de la Sengle commented.
“I can sympathise with Brother Carew. This powder expert needed help and Carew was forced to find men to work for him. There are few to spare at the moment, as you well know, so he gave him those whom he could afford to be without. All spare skilled hands are working to complete the fort, to protect the harbour. That was his only fault, that he gave Master Scranton fools. Scranton is an expert of some note, isn’t he? Surely, he should have schooled those beneath him with the knowledge they needed to work with powder?”
“Where is this Master Scranton now?” de la Sengle asked, refusing to be drawn into conversation where the only focus was to allocate blame.
“We thought it wise to remove him and his processes from the close proximity of Mdina. He is working with our own powder experts to produce more near St Paul’s Island,” Caron supplied.
“And the flintlocks?” de la Sengle asked. “They were sent to our armoury. What is the conclusion?”
Caron smiled. At least on this point he had a definitive answer. “They are the missing Italian weapons. We are confident they are from the shipment Monsinetto took to England.”
The Grand Master nodded. “And this second man? Also claiming to be Fitzwarren? What do we know?”
“Very little.” Caron fished on the desk for the letter, a letter that had made it by land quicker than the Santa Fe had sailed around the rugged Italian coastline. “The second man claiming also to be Richard Fitzwarren is, in the words of the controller, on the way here from Venice.” He paused while he scanned the letter. “Clothed in the rags of poverty, accompanied by a woman he declared as his sister and another man who is without his wits.”
“How long behind this letter will they be?” de la Sengle asked, twisting the earthenware cup in his hand.
“Less than a week, if the winds are in their favour,” Brother Caron replied.
“A week,” de la Sengle repeated. “I will meet with the man you have here and see what he has to say.”
†
Morley’s eyes met Cecil’s across the desk. Little usually shocked him, however this request was one that he had not seen coming. Mary’s lust to prove her devotion to God had moved to a higher level, it seemed. Her new demand was one that even Cecil could not countenance.
Mary now desired that Kate Ashley, currently interred in the Fleet prison, be one of the next to burn for her Protestant beliefs. Even worse, that her sister, Elizabeth, should be present to witness the event. If Mary had been looking to gain attention then this proposal would most certainly obtain it, if not from God then definitely from the City of London.
“The Council are obviously against it. There is popular support for Elizabeth. To parade her in front of the City like this, to make her watch such a spectacle, will gain Mary little support. Indeed it will, if anything, strengthen Elizabeth’s position. It is well known that Her Majesty has little liking for her sister and if she subjects her to this ordeal she’ll find London will back Elizabeth. Martyring Protestants is not as popular as Mary wishes to believe,” Cecil growled. He was agitated, a condition he rarely suffered, however he had received several demands that the Queen’s desire be thwarted. If Henry had been stubborn, his daughter was even more so. Her father could be swayed by arguments of reason, but when it came to matters of religion, Mary would tolerate nothing but the exercise of her own will to serve the Lord. The eradication of the scourge of Protestantism was a crusade that she believed God had gifted to her, and there was nothing could deflect her from that path. Until now.
Cecil continued, “Have you found out yet who killed Mistress Haddington?”
For a moment a smile flicked to the corner of Morley’s mouth as the obvious answer tumbled in to his brain. The reply that it was Mary who was responsible for Mistress Haddington’s demise he quickly buried along with the smile. “I have a man for the crime.”
“Well that’s a start. We can build around that. Produce something to Her Majesty’s liking and it may be that I can persuade her to keep Kate Ashley and Elizabeth’s subjugation for the future, should everything not go her way. And Morley! It will go her way this time, do you hear?” Cecil barked across the table.
Morley nodded.
“Find someone else, close to Elizabeth that will satisfy Mary, someone who does not matter to the princess,” Cecil commanded.
Morley left the interview shortly after, walking through the corridors. His mind on his current puzzle, he was little aware of his surroundings. Elizabeth was now at court with a small household. He had been pleased to find out that she was attended by none other than Catherine de Bernay. It was not long before his feet took him in her direction.
†
The trepidation Catherine had felt initially when she was forced to move to court with Elizabeth soon left her. The apartments at court afforded to the princess were dire compared to Durham Place, and the Princess was very rarely absent from them. On the few occasions when she had been required to attend court, the excursions had been brief, formal and had required little of Catherine other than for her to stand in silence obediently observing the floor.
Catherine had not seen Morley for months and her heart sank when she recognised him walking towards her. This fact obviously showed plainly on her face and Morley’s smile widened.
“So sad? Maybe I am just passing by?” he said, coming up alongside her, gently catching her arm and tucking it into the fold of his own.
“We are, as you might have noticed, somewhat out of the way. Nobody, sir, passes by,” Catherine observed coldly.
“A viper’s tongue as ever,” Morley said quietly as he leant close to her.
Catherine didn’t reply but cast a sour sideways glance at him.
Patting her hand, he continued, “As always there is a dilemma. Mistress Ashley is in prison, as you know.” Morley paused just long enough for Catherine to be reminded of how Kate had ended up there. “And now it seems that it is our task to keep her safe. After all, we both know how she got there, don’t we?”
Catherine stopped abruptly, her arm tugging on Morley’s. “How she got there?” Her voice was incredulous.
Morley smiling again, patting her hand. “Tides come in,” he said, “and when they go out again, as they always will, they remove all the traces of our footprints in the sand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Catherine replied hotly, her feet firmly planted on the ground, refusing to take another step forward.
Sighing, Morley pulled her gently to walk on with him. “It means, my dear, that the world is ever changing, and we must change with it.”
“Ah, so now you’d rather Mistress Ashley was not in jail,” Catherine replied bitingly. “Well, that is your fault. I don’t think there’s a lot I can do about it.”
“You have the ear of Elizabeth I assume?” Morley said, and when Catherine just looked at him he continued, “It’s Mary’s wish to show the people that she will root out Protestantism, even within her own household. I am sure you heard about Mistress Haddington?”
“No, surely they wouldn’t do that to Kate Ashley!” Catherine stumbled, and her face went pale.
“I am afraid so. As I said, you and I are now charged with keeping her safe,” Morley said quietly.
“How?”
“Speak to your Mistress, tell her that there’s a move to bring such a case against Kate Ashley. Tell her that any member of her household will suffice to take Kate’s place,” Morley said. “She can keep herself and Kate safe, and she can pass the message back to me through you.”
Catherine’s eyes were wide. “It’s murder.”
Morley’s head twisted in a grimace. “A harsh word. I was thinking more that it is an expediency. Your mistress, I am sure, will understand.”
When Catherine’s head was reeling, and she thought the interview was finally over, Morley it seemed had one last question. “And Fitzwarren, have you heard anything from him?”
Catherine answered with a quick shake of her head.
†
At the back of the apartments, a small enclosed garden was available for the Princess and her household. It was poorly kept. The apartments far from the main court were used for minor officials and then only on an irregular basis, so routine maintenance was kept to a minimum. It had been a long while since they had been used for permanent occupation. Elizabeth, a book in her lap and with Alice Mayers sitting sewing next to her, looked up when Catherine’s feet crunched on the gravel path.
Elizabeth must have read the look on Catherine’s face. Alice found herself swiftly dismissed. This was a conversation that Catherine did not want to have, and her heart was hammering in her chest.
“My Lady, I have been asked to speak with you,” Catherine said, and found herself shocked when Elizabeth quickly rose, and taking her hand pulled her down to sit next to her.
“Is it Richard?” Elizabeth said, under her breath.
Catherine quickly shook her head, launching in to her rehearsed speech. “The message is that there’s a move to send Mistress Kate to be executed. Your sister wishes to make an example of a member of your household,” Catherine’s voice faltered, “and you have been asked to find another.”
“Who sent the message?”
Catherine’s hands clasped in her lap trembled. “I don’t know who, my lady. That was just the message I was to pass on. He said he will find me again in a few days.”
Elizabeth looked at her closely. “You’ve never seen him before?”
Catherine shook her head rapidly.
“Tell me again exactly what he said,” Elizabeth demanded.
Catherine repeated her words, never straying from the story, never varying it, and knowing that her salvation lay in being the messenger only and not complicit in the crime. Eventually Elizabeth appeared to be satisfied that she had nothing more to gain by her repeated questions, although she kept Catherine close for the remainder of the day.
An hour later a letter was sent to Durham Place requesting the delivery to the apartments of more of her chattels. Catherine was horrified when she saw Lilly Walters arriving, delighted to have been invited to join Elizabeth at court and full of excitement. Elizabeth informed Catherine curtly of her arrival, along with the name she was to pass on when she was approached again.
†
Morley sought Catherine out the day after Lilly arrived, and she quickly supplied him with the servant’s name. There was, this time, no conversation, no pleasantries. He simply paused as he passed her in the corridor, asked for the name, and Catherine answered him quietly. A moment later he was striding down the passageway, his boots clicking noisily on the tiles. Catherine walked on unsteadily. She took refuge in an alcove in the corridor. It held a semi-circular alabaster bench and in a niche a statue of a Greek goddess. Catherine, trying to settle her breathing, sat and returned the effigy’s blind stare. The statue had one hand held out before it, palm open holding a flower. The figure’s other hand was behind her back clutching a dagger. The white unseeing eyes belonged to Apate, the Goddess of deceit. Catherine’s stomach convulsed.
A few days later, the Court was full of the news, that yet another member of Elizabeth’s personal household had been interred in The Tower. A number of seditious Protestant writings had been found amongst her belongings. There was even a rumour that this particular servant had confessed to hiding her papers in Kate Ashley’s private rooms. It was this action that had led to Kate’s incarceration in the Fleet Prison, and not her own association with the Protestant cause. Catherine had been in no doubt where the rumours had come from, sure it would also be the same person who was fanning the flames to ensure they made their way around the Court. Lilly Walters was the sacrifice. Kate Ashley might be in prison, out of reach of Elizabeth, but there was now a significant doubt that the crime for which she was being held was hers. In the face of such doubt, it was inconceivable that she would be dragged from the prison and paraded through London in her shift before being tied to the stake for a public burning.
Morley was indeed feeling quite pleased with himself. Cecil’s approval, however, of his recent endeavours had been less than enthusiastic. It seemed the tide had lapped in again and changed the landscape of the political shoreline.
Bartlett Green, an eminent scholar from Oxford and known Protestant reformer, had been watched for months, his correspondence routinely intercepted, opened and read. He was an associate of Christopher Goodman, the exiled Protestant clergyman and outspoken critic of Mary. Like John Knox, Goodman felt Mary to be a double abomination to the natural order, being not only Catholic but also a woman. A supporter of Thomas Wyatt, he had been involved in the failed rebellion. From his refuge in Geneva, he continued to lecture and write articles against Mary’s reign. Bartlett Green’s recent correspondence, that had brought about his immediate arrest, was a letter to Goodman, in which he stated that the Queen was dead.
It had seemed that Green was involved in a plot against Mary, or at the very least was aware of one. He had been brought to the Tower, but this humble and pious man had not confessed. The lines in his letter were ambiguous, it could easily be interpreted that he was not referring to the current sovereign. The charges of treason had to be dropped. Cecil had known from the outset that treason was not the charge that should have been pursued, but he had not been consulted.
Cecil, however, was not about to let Green go. It would set a dangerous precedent to free such a man, an outspoken Protestant and a known associate of the radical Christopher Goodman. So the focus had changed from treason to his Protestant preaching, examined in Newgate prison by the Abbott of Westminster. As a result, he was condemned to burn at Smithfield.
Mary had beenfurious when she heard that the initial case against Green had collapsed. His release would have bolstered the supporters of Goodman and also those who had survived Wyatt’s failed uprising. Mary wanted the message to be a clear one. Green would not go to the stake alone. He would be accompanied by a fellow clergyman and six other outspoken Protestants, each from a different parish in the City. The planned executions at Smithfield would have far-reaching effects. The names of the condemned and the parishes to which they belonged would be read out, and Mary’s message would be clear. London was not a safe haven for the Protestant cause.
Morley’s actions had lifted some of the taint of guilt from Kate Ashley. Lilly Walters’ execution and Mary’s desire to humiliate Elizabeth, for the moment, were put on hold.
†
Overgrown the small garden might be, but Catherine liked it. The ivy climbing the walls, the rose bushes in need of trimming, and the beds bulging with fragrant lavender reminded her of the small garden her mother had kept at Assingham.
At Assingham, there had of course been a kitchen garden with lines of regimented, awkward-looking herbs, all different heights, but to Catherine’s young eyes they had not looked as interesting as her mother’s small garden, with its rose bushes, rhododendron that produced enormous flowers that dropped to carpet the grass, and purple and pink lavender sprouting against the walls. Catherine could remember collecting all the pale fragile petals to make fragrant water. They had given it little scent, so she had set her sights on her mother’s rose bushes, cropping off most of the red flowers to add to her bowl of water. That, she remembered, had earned her a thrashing from her father.
Catherine paused as she walked through the garden, pulling one of the flowers towards her nose. The aroma reminded her of the rose water she had made as a child; the petals had imbued it with a heady scent. She had left it on
a step in the garden. When she had been allowed out of her room and gone back to collect it, the water had been spoiled, she remembered. The petals had shrivelled and darkened and dozens of flies, attracted to the sweet scent, had perished and now floated on the surface. The beating her father had given her had not made her cry, but the waste of her mother’s flowers made tears course down her face.
Catherine released the flower carefully, and blinked away tears that suddenly sprung to her eyes at the reminder of her mother. Her poor mother, who had done nothing to deserve her fate.
Catherine had more time to herself now than when Richard Fitzwarren had first deposited her in Elizabeth’s household. The day to day tasks were performed by Mary’s staff, who cleaned and attended to the laundry. Catherine’s role was now confined to waiting upon Elizabeth. That Mary regarded Elizabeth as beneath the status of most of her courtiers had become obvious very soon after their arrival. She was afforded no special treatment, and the poor apartments reflected upon her status at Court. They left the confines of the rooms Elizabeth had been allotted as little as possible. Elizabeth had attempted to have her meals brought to her, however her request was ignored, so the solution to their hunger was to attend one of the smaller halls with her ladies for meals. Elizabeth had no special place, and was forced to find herself space amongst the other attending nobles and courtiers. Flanked by her ladies, Elizabeth, her face set like stone, would sit with two on either side and avoid the eyes of everyone in the hall. That she was Henry’s daughter and found herself supping with servants did not brighten her humour. Catherine, like her mistress, hated the necessary trips to dine, when the stares of so many would linger upon them, and the faces, when she glanced up, were rarely kind.