Elizabeth: The Golden Age (6 page)

“Courtesy of a Spanish ship that found itself unable to complete its journey,” Raleigh said. She dropped the coin back into the basket. “I can’t accept the proceeds of piracy, Mr. Raleigh.”

“Philip of Spain is no friend of England, Majesty. The more gold I take from him, the safer you will be,” Raleigh said. “He balks when English ships refuse to respect the monopoly of trade he wants wherever his flag is found. And if you did not agree with me, I doubt very much you’d have sent Francis Drake to annoy him.” Philip had stopped all English ships in Spanish ports, and it had been a paralyzing blow to trade. In response, Elizabeth had unleashed Drake, favorite hero of the seas, explorer and soldier, on her nemesis. He’d met with nothing short of spectacular success. Success that she knew—not only because of what she’d seen when Philip was in England with her sister, but because of the reports from Walsingham’s spies—had made Philip furious. “Well, well.” She considered the man before her. “A political pirate. A logic-chopping pirate.”

“And Your Majesty’s most loyal subject.” Their eyes met for too long. Yes, she liked him. It was decided. “But not my best-dressed,” the queen said. “Welcome home, Mr. Raleigh.”



“Mr. Raleigh.” Walsingham overtook him in an arched corridor after he’d left the Presence Chamber. “A word of advice. It amuses the queen to show you favor. You will naturally take advantage of that. But do keep in mind that even her private affairs are matters of state.” He paused. “Don’t ask for too much.”

“You think all I want is money,” Raleigh said. “I hope all you want is money.” He walked on. Raleigh watched him go, thinking about his words and realizing that he’d very much enjoyed the queen’s sense of humor and quick wit. Machinating to win favor for his expeditionary plans would not be the chore he’d expected. As Walsingham disappeared down the hall, a tight group of the queen’s ladies burst out of the doors of the Privy Chamber. Their laughter bounced off the walls as light heels clattered on the stone floor. “‘Mud and leaves!’ I nearly died,” Margaret said.

“‘Patata! You eat it!’” Bess said.

“She liked him. I could tell.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?” Bess asked. Raleigh smiled, listening to their banter, pleased to hear himself spoken of in such a favorable way. He walked straight toward them, and both girls fell quiet when they saw him in their path. He met their curtsies with a debonair bow, his eyes singling out Bess.

“I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank you,” he said. “Without your help, I’d still be in outer darkness.”

“I did very little, sir.” Bess flushed as she spoke. “You’d already caught the queen’s eye.”

“Then I thank you for the very little,” he said. Their eyes danced together for a moment before Margaret pulled Bess away from him. The ladies continued on, their chatter and laughter growing more enthusiastic as the distance between them and Raleigh grew. It was a pretty scene. But in the shadows, a man watched, taking careful note of the flirtation, knowing that Walsingham would want a full report. If he hurried, he might hear news from other agents, agents whose jobs entailed gathering information far more compelling than that of the romantic hopes of ladies-in-waiting.



The queen had been strumming her lute and singing for more than an hour, but Bess was not paying attention. She’d returned to the poetry she’d been forced to abandon that afternoon. The music room in Elizabeth’s private quarters was full of admiring courtiers, so it seemed safe to assume that no one would notice her, tucked into a window seat, staying quiet. She wasn’t actually focused on the poems, retreating instead far into her head. “What are you reading, Bess?”

“Spenser, Majesty,” she replied, startled to see the queen standing in front of her. She hadn’t even noticed the music had stopped. “Well I must complain to him about the quality of his poems,” Elizabeth said. “They’re not holding your interest.”

“I—”

“You’re distracted, Bess. You held the book upside down for half an hour before you realized it and I know precisely why.”

“Distracted, Majesty? No, I—”

The queen dropped next to her on the long bench. “It’s our new friend, Raleigh. He’s terribly distracting. You would deny it?”

“Raleigh? Yes—no—I wouldn’t deny it. He’s distracting.” She loved the sound of his name, and remembered his devastating smile, his rich voice. How had he so quickly filled up the space in her head?

“We’re amused by him, too, Bess. I think we shall have him back soon.”

Chapter 4

“I may need you to do more,” Walsingham said, handing a piece of paper to the man across from him in a forgotten room hidden deep in the hallways of Whitehall. He’d hired Thomas Phelippes as his cipher secretary, and working with him was nothing short of a pleasure. His skills as a cryptographer were unmatched in all of Europe. He was infinitely clever, motivated, and discreet. All of this was important, but it was his discretion that mattered most when it came to his latest assignment.

“I’m at your disposal,” Phelippes said, taking the paper and leaning forward, resting his chin on his hand. Walsingham funneled to him all of the coded messages his agents intercepted between Mary Stuart and the men who hoped to place her on England’s throne. The scheme was working flawlessly; the cipher had given the conspirators a false sense of safety. They were holding back no details, confident that their code would protect them.

By analyzing the frequency with which each character occurred in the letters, Phelippes, a brilliant linguist, shattered completely the privacy of the correspondence, providing Walsingham with a fast-growing mound of evidence against the former Scottish queen.

“The copies you’ve made of the original letters are flawless,” Walsingham said. Phelippes not only deciphered the messages, he copied them with all the skill of a master forger. The original letters he returned to Walsingham and the copies were delivered to Mary and her friends. “We’re quite certain they’ve raised no suspicions.”

“I’m most pleased,” Phelippes said. “I’ve been extremely careful.”

“And it is much appreciated. Things are moving along quickly, but in the future, I may need you to do something more.”

“Of course. Anything.”

“We may need to add a postscript to some of the letters.”

“A postscript?”

“Only if we’re unable to persuade the devilish witch to write what we need. Her very existence is a danger to the queen.”

“You need only ask.” Phelippes’s eyes were sunken in a face ravaged by smallpox. “My loyalty is absolute and I will do anything necessary to protect England.” Walsingham looked at the man and saw nothing but sincerity. He trusted Phelippes, not only out of instinct, but because he had checked carefully to make sure there was no reason not to. It was good to know there were some people in whom he could place absolute faith. Loyalty was a rare thing.

Mary was dangerous. His agents in Spain had been sending a steady stream of unsettling information for months. Philip would like nothing more than to have a Catholic queen on the throne of England, and Walsingham knew there were traitors in London and elsewhere willing to help the Spanish king achieve just that. He was close to being able to prove it, but he also knew there were conspirators he’d not yet found. They haunted him, stalked both his dreams and his waking hours, and he prayed for the strength and tenacity to do whatever necessary to ensure they were stopped before they could carry out their immoral mission. Nothing was more important than keeping Elizabeth safe.



On the outskirts of London, Savage was taking none of it well. He’d failed his compatriots when he ran from the armorer instead of killing him. Failed them even before he’d run, when he’d revealed his anger and raised the man’s suspicions. Failed them with the horror in his eyes after Reston had dealt with the man. Now, standing alone among trees, a forest dark around him, he shivered, his face blanched as he half-mumbled, half-sang an endless prayer.

“Salve regina, mater

misericordiae, vita dulcedo et

spes nostra salve...”

His fellow conspirators sat nearby, close enough to watch him, but none looked at him. They stared at the fire burning before them in the clearing, its light cutting through the trees. Only a fourth man who stood, ignoring the fire, focused on Savage.

“His weakness endangers us all,” Reston said, no longer dressed in his Jesuit robes, presenting the perfect picture of an ordinary Englishman. “He can’t go on with us. And we can’t leave him behind.”

“Surely he won’t take much longer.” Babington watched his friend holding the gun, pointing it at nothing.

“We cannot wait,” Reston said. “Who among us has the courage to show him mercy and send him to God?” Silence hung over the fire. Reston considered the men before him. He would take care of it himself, but the time had come for others to share in the blood. It would guarantee their loyalty. “Would you have him die a suicide and suffer for eternity in hell?”

Babington met his stare, nodded, and headed off through the trees. No one save Reston looked in his direction. Reston had personally selected each man to join his mission. Babington, though young, was a true idealist, while Ramsay had an easy manner that allowed him to blend in anywhere. Francis Throckmorton, whose focus was unwavering, had connections at court. They were all fervent Catholics, all willing to die in the service of returning England to the true church, and all had been very clear as to what would happen should any of them prove less than reliable. Martyrdom never came to cowards. Savage’s family history and his devotion to God had impressed Reston, and it was not often his impressions of people were wrong. He prayed God would forgive him for not recognizing the man’s utter lack of strength.

“Ad te clamamus, exsulaes filii

Evae

Ad te suspiramus gementes et

flentes in hac lacrimarum valle...”

Savage, continuing his semi-delirious chant, leaned against a tree, then stood again on his own, his glazed eyes fixed on the gun. He raised it to his temple, then lowered it, swaying on his feet, looking up as Babington approached him.

“Make your peace with God,” Babington said, taking the pistol from his hand. Savage stood still, his eyes suddenly clear. He stepped back from his friend.

“No! Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.” His limbs were trembling with such ferocity it looked as if he were convulsing. Babington swallowed hard and raised the gun, then paused, breathed deeply, and pointed it to the ground.

Now Reston started to pray, his voice strong.

“
Si ambulam in medio umbrae mortis, non timebo mala—”

The others gathered behind him and joined in, reciting together the words of the psalm. As Babington added his voice to theirs, he began to weep.

“Quoniam tu mecum es, Domine.

Virga tua et baculus tuus, ipsa

me consolata sunt—”

As if fortified by the holy words, Babington raised the pistol, continuing to pray aloud as tears streamed down his face. He squeezed the trigger.

Savage would tremble no more.



Francis Walsingham, his mind still full of conspiracies, returned from Whitehall to a house that was not as grand as his position and proximity to the queen would have led one to expect. He spent freely when he wanted to and was a frequent patron of musicians. But the bulk of his fortune went toward funding the work of gathering intelligence, work essential to ensure the queen’s safety, a matter that concerned him only slightly less than the glory of God. There was nothing more dangerous than belief in security; no one was ever secure.

He’d established an extensive network of agents throughout the world and regularly received updates from twelve locations in France, nine in Germany, four each in Italy and Spain, three in the Low Countries. Constantinople, Tripoli, and Tangiers were within his reach. He’d found no court or household that did not contain at least one person ready to gossip. Solid news often required payment, but Walsingham never balked at that. Personal fortune was nothing compared to the security of the realm.

Not that his wife always agreed.

The walls of his study in Seething Lane were lined with oak cases that hardly began to provide enough space for his books. With shelves overflowing, volumes were stacked on every surface, heaped on the floor, on chairs. His desk was covered with papers, letters, maps, and codebooks—everything he needed for the work that consumed him.

The door opened and Walsingham looked up from his desk, the frown on his face disappearing as he recognized his visitor and lifted his arms to embrace him. “You look terrible. Don’t they feed you in Paris?” He pushed back to get a better look at his younger brother. “How are your studies? Learned the secrets of the universe yet?”

William smiled, tired but at ease. “Not yet.”

“You study theology and these are dangerous times to be questioning the ways of God. You must take care of yourself.”

“My needs are simple.”

“But are they safe?”

“I do what I must, brother. You know that.”

“You’ll dine with us?” Walsingham asked. “You’ll lodge with us?” Two women, mother and daughter, all smiles and dimples and beautiful gowns entered the room.

“William!” Mary exclaimed, tumbling into her uncle’s arms.

“Look at you. All grown up.”

“I’m twenty, you know,” she said, eyes bright with innocence.

Walsingham’s wife, Ursula, came forward, raising an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, an unasked question on her lips. “William. This is a pleasure.”

“I’ve been away too long, ma’am,” he said.

Mary took his arm and started to lead him out of the room. “You come with me, William. There’s much we need to discuss.” As they left, heads bent together, laughter following them out the door, Ursula met her husband’s eye. “He’s not still a student, is he?” Walsingham did not answer but took her arm and steered her down the winding staircase toward the sound of his daughter’s voice.

Mary and William were already comfortably ensconced in the hall, he sitting by the fire, she at the small table that held her virginals. She started to play, first a bright fantasia by William Byrd, showing off her quick fingers, then cycled through a stack of popular songs. Her voice was a sweet delight, and her father would have been content to sit quietly listening to it.