His Dark Lady (28 page)

‘THE CEILING SLOPES
here, Your Majesty. You will need to stoop a little, I fear.’

‘I remember the low ceilings,’ Elizabeth replied in a hollow voice, and bent her head.

Walsingham had led her uncomfortably deep inside the Tower of London, far from the sombre but spacious suite of rooms in which she had been kept during her sister Mary’s reign. The walls of the corridor dripped with water, and the space between them was so narrow, her gown brushed the damp stones on either side as she walked.

She shuddered at the memory of her own unhappy time in the Tower. Nor could she forget that her own mother had ended her days here, out on the windswept green where the glossy ravens strutted and waited for blood. Today she did not wish to think about the anguish Anne Boleyn must have suffered in those last hours, though she had often considered it in her darker moments. If only she had been older, she might have been able to comfort her condemned mother in some way. But she had been so young at the time of the Queen’s execution, only two years of age and unable to understand why her pretty mother was no longer there to kiss her goodnight.

To await one’s death in this terrifying place! It was a fate that should be reserved only for the worst of traitors, she thought, and hoped she would never have cause to put a noblewoman to death in such a way.

Elizabeth drew her cloak closer, the hood hiding her face. There were guards up ahead and she did not wish to be recognized. ‘What is the prisoner’s name?’

‘Gilbert Gifford. My spies tell me he is of an English Catholic family, most of whom live overseas, where they plot and talk endlessly against Your Majesty.’

‘An old story,’ she muttered.

‘But a dangerous one. I believe Gifford studied for the Church for a while in Rome, then was expelled for some perceived weakness of character. Undeterred, he travelled back through France and secured a place at the Catholic seminary in Rheims. There he was made deacon, and received letters of encouragement from that Welsh traitor Thomas Morgan, who should by rights have been brought home long ago for his treasonous dealings, but who remains free to peddle his views in Paris.’

‘So this young Gifford works for Morgan? Why have you brought him here to the Tower?’ she asked, frowning. ‘I thought he was not to die.’

Walsingham had stopped at the iron-barred oak door of the cell. He turned to wait for her, holding the torch high. ‘Nor will he, if the lad is wise and chooses to cooperate with us.’

‘He will not be wise, you may be sure of it. Not if he is a true Catholic.’ One of the guards glanced at her curiously, and Elizabeth lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. ‘These Catholics are stubborn. They will grasp any chance at martyrdom.’

Walsingham shook his head, his expression grave. ‘I hope and pray that you are mistaken, Your Majesty. I have not brought him here to die, but to see what horrors could befall him if he refuses my offer.’

‘What offer?’

‘His life, in return for his service.’ With his customary caution, Walsingham ordered the listening guards to move further down the corridor, then spoke quietly in her ear. ‘Majesty, you must forgive me for bringing you here tonight. I know these walls held you prisoner before you were Queen. But it is imperative that we persuade Gifford to turn in our favour. I believe the sight of Your Majesty, coming to him at night in such a terrible place as this, may inspire some last spark of English loyalty in his heart, and convert the man safely to our side.’

A hint of anger flickered in her voice, lit by some memory of fear. ‘I am not in the habit of converting souls, sir, and this is a dreadful place for any man, whether he be Catholic or not. What is his crime?’

‘We have long known that your cousin Mary yearns to depose you and place the English crown on her own head. But we have never been able to come by any strong evidence of this, nor any letters in her own hand which could link her to such endeavours against your throne. This young priest Gifford landed at the port of Rye a few days back. When he was searched, secret letters were found on his person.’ Walsingham looked at her. ‘Letters addressed to your royal cousin Mary at Chartley House, from certain exiles in France whom we believe to be mounting a new plot against you.’

‘There is no law to prevent them from writing to my cousin, only one to bar her from replying in kind,’ she pointed out caustically. ‘How does this prove anything?’

‘We have been working on a new method of “helping” your cousin to smuggle letters in and out of Chartley, so that we may read them before they pass on to their destination. It has not been possible, before now, to achieve this, since we did not have the cooperation of any of her secret messengers.’

‘I see.’

‘You must persuade this Gilbert Gifford, Your Majesty, that to serve you and England would be far preferable than to continue serving as raw meat for the hot irons and other instruments of the torturer Richard Topcliffe, who awaits us within.’

‘Topcliffe? That monster?’

‘I am afraid so, Your Majesty.’ Walsingham inclined his head regretfully. ‘Master Topcliffe serves you keenly. And though I deplore his methods as barbaric and inhuman, I cannot deny that he brings results.’

He signalled the nearest guard, who drew back the iron bolts and opened the door to the cell. The guard’s gaze swept Elizabeth’s face, then he dropped hurriedly to his knees. No doubt many came through the Tower in disguise, she thought. And some who came this way would not leave the place alive.

The narrow cell stank of blood and excrement, and was lit by two torches, burning in brackets above their heads. She recognized
Topcliffe
at once, standing by the brazier, his gloating expression repulsive to her. But Walsingham was right. Topcliffe’s cruel methods did bring results, and had already uncovered many Catholic priests who, if left unpunished, would have converted countless more Englishmen to the Roman faith. And since all English Catholics ever seemed to want was a Catholic monarch on the throne, the deaths of such men by public execution had become an unpleasant necessity.

Yet if Walsingham could snare Mary and expose her treason with written evidence, it could mean an end to these endless plots.

The unfortunate young man had been stripped of his clothes, and was now wearing nothing but a blood-stained cloth about his groin. His wrists had been manacled to a bar so high above his head, his thin arms were stretched beyond their natural capacity, and his feet could barely touch the floor. He had no beard, though his chin showed a few days’ growth. Elizabeth thought he was tolerably handsome, but for his weak mouth. Across his pale body were red lines and marks where he had been whipped, and where irons had been put to him, still hot from the brazier.

As they entered the room, the prisoner’s eyes opened and his gaze moved swiftly from Walsingham to Elizabeth. There was terror in his face, and a lack of hope.

She threw back her hood.

Gifford stared at the sight of his queen, then painfully lowered his gaze to the stone flags, as though the true extent of his treason had only just been brought home to him.

‘Your Majesty,’ Topcliffe murmured, pushing the long iron back into the brazier. He sank to one knee before her. There were flecks of fresh blood on his stained apron, still brightly scarlet. His ruddy face, sweating from the intense heat of the brazier, was flecked with blood, too. He wore a simple skullcap, and this he removed to reveal only a little hair, his forehead gleaming. ‘You honour me with your presence here.’

‘No doubt,’ she said drily, and gestured him to rise. ‘You seem to have gone hard about it, Topcliffe. Has the priest spoken yet? Does he confess his sins against our throne?’

‘Not yet, Your Majesty, but he will.’

‘Stand aside,’ she ordered him, and Topcliffe, his gaze shifting to Walsingham’s expressionless face, bowed.

Topcliffe stood against the cell wall, his hands behind his back, his gaze fixed on the prisoner as she examined him. Elizabeth guessed that he had expected more praise for his efforts with these Catholics. But to own the truth, just being in the same room with him made her flesh creep. The way his narrow eyes had burned on her face … If her cousin ever succeeded in stealing the English throne from her, and employed Topcliffe as her chief torturer, he would put the hot irons to Elizabeth with the same vicious zeal he used on all his prisoners, and give no greater thought to her agonies. It was pain he loved; that was his only loyalty.

‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked Gifford.

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he answered, without looking at her, and she caught a hint of shame in his hoarse whisper.

‘My spies tell me you came from France and brought letters with you for my cousin Mary. Are you aware of the content of those letters?’

His gaze lifted now and he glanced in obvious terror at Topcliffe. ‘I … I do not know.’

‘Look at me, sir. Not at your torturer. Those letters were from men who seek to put my cousin on the throne of England, and have me executed as a heretic.’ She met his gaze directly now, challenging him to think about his actions, urging him with her eyes to regret them. ‘I am your queen and such matters concern me closely. So I ask again, were you aware of the content of the letters you were carrying?’

‘Your Majesty,’ Gifford replied, his voice shaking, ‘I had no knowledge of any such treason or plot against you. I bore those letters into England in good faith, I swear it. They were written by men I admire greatly and to whom I owe my allegiance.’

‘Do you not owe me greater allegiance, as you are an Englishman and I am your rightful queen?’

Gifford closed his eyes. A tear began to roll down his cheek. Yet he did not answer her question.

Behind her, Walsingham shifted his feet and gently cleared his throat. He did not think much of her interrogation, clearly.

If only she could leave this filthy hellhole and allow Topcliffe to
get
on with his work where she did not have to see the evidence of his cruelty! But she was no coward and she knew what was at stake. Walsingham would never have brought her to this vile place unless he thought her intervention absolutely necessary.

She pressed on. ‘Are you a Catholic?’

Again Gifford blenched and looked at Topcliffe, as though these were questions that had already been put to him. ‘I … forgive me, forgive me. Yes, I am a Catholic.’

‘And a priest?’

‘Your Majesty, yes.’

He was gabbling now, eager to confess. Perhaps he thought death would come quicker if he gave up the struggle to be brave and just confessed.

‘Gilbert,’ she said softly, looking up into his strained face as she used his Christian name. ‘Do you wish to be tortured at the hands of Master Topcliffe, and then be hanged, drawn and quartered for your treason while you are still alive?’

He broke down, weeping openly. ‘No, Your Majesty. No, I do not. I beg you …’

‘Then you will serve me faithfully from now on, and perform whatever you are bidden to do in my service?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘Whatever letters might be put into your hands by my cousin or her agents, you will ensure they are conveyed to Sir Francis before they reach those to whom they have been addressed?’

His hands jangled against his manacles, and he cried out. ‘Yes!’

‘Swear by Almighty God.’

‘I swear by Almighty God and his son Jesus Christ that I shall be a faithful servant unto Your Majesty from now on.’ Gifford sobbed, and there was a kind of relief on his face, as though the poor boy had been playing a part all this while, a part for which his nature had been ill-suited.

‘Release him,’ she ordered Topcliffe, turning away, ‘and do not touch him again. His clothes and possessions are to be returned, and he is to be conveyed to Sir Francis for his recovery. Whatever treason he has committed before this hour, it shall be forgotten. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Topcliffe muttered, outwardly obedient, his
small
leather skullcap in his hand, but she could tell that he was angry at having his victim snatched away before he had finished with him.

She swept from the cell with Walsingham behind her, and left Topcliffe climbing on a stool to release Gifford from his manacles.

Vile man!

The air was chilly, the ground hard with frost. Above their heads, stars lay tangled against the sky like diamonds scattered and sewn willy-nilly on to black velvet. She stared bleakly up at them. How many men like Gilbert Gifford had been caught up in Mary’s perfidious net, or Walsingham’s net of spies, or, God help her, the net she herself had cast when she became Queen and asked men for their hearts and souls?

‘Gifford will make an excellent spy for England,’ Walsingham murmured, and bowed. ‘I thank you, Your Majesty, and I beg your forgiveness for having brought you to this place. But that young man would not have turned his coat for anyone less than the Queen herself.’

Taking deep breaths of air, Elizabeth tried to clear her lungs of the foul stench of the Tower dungeons. Restlessly, she walked a few feet to the wall and looked down at the glint of the dark river as it rolled past below them.

She wished Robert could be here with her, to advise her and lend a friendly ear to her troubles. But he was still in the Low Countries, enjoying his first taste of power rather more than he should. God send that Robert should return safely from that conflict, and with no dangerous, over-reaching ambitions for her crown!

‘Never ask this of me again,’ she told Walsingham, pulling her hood forward to hide her face. ‘Nor involve me in your work. From now on, I wish to hear only what treasons you have uncovered. Not what methods you used to uncover them.’

Four