The Spymaster's Daughter (47 page)

Robert looked away and spoke softly. “How did you find the Earl of Essex as you broke your fast?”

“You are yet an intelligencer, Robert.” She smiled, though her lips trembled at the edges. “He had information that Philip's wound has worsened. I must leave for London and take ship from Deptford for Holland.”

Robert looked shamefaced for his taunt, and his hands clenched against his breeches. “I am sorry, Frances.” His face set in polite concern, he asked, “Will you be wanting me to accompany you to Holland?”

Frances looked down at her own trembling hands buried in the folds of her gown. “I would want it, but doubt my father would, or could spare you. My maid and groom will go.”

“Of course, my lady.” He nodded, not looking at her, and she saw his face was set into the servant's lines of obedience yet again, a pulse pounding behind his burn scar. It would always give away his true emotions to one who knew him well.

There was a hubbub in the room, people shifting, turning, looking up, and nudging one another. Frances followed their gaze to the doorway, where Mary Stuart stood. Her steward and physician, one on either side, assisted her with the stairs, and a maid of honor carried her train. She was dressed in black velvet with a gauzy white veil over her widow's cap, though she lifted it from her face before stepping down. A file of halberdiers walked beside the procession. As Mary descended, she winced with pain, her rheumatic joints obviously impairing her, not to be eased in this drafty, ancient castle.

Many in the room, peers of England, high magistrates of the land, and courtiers, all gasped. Mary's storied beauty had been part of her legend, but little of it remained. Instead, a very tall, fleshy, bewigged woman of forty-two with only a small vestige of her youthful attractions entered haltingly.

As Mary passed down the lines of onlookers, standing in respect though accusers all, Frances curtsied, bowing her head. Mary hesitated, and Frances looked up to see a small, sad smile of recognition and concerned lines form beside her eyes before she moved on to the center of the chamber.

Forgive me,
Frances thought, watching Mary's retreating back.

Her head bowed, Frances knew that if she could live again these last months, she would change nothing. Duty and loyalty to one's own sovereign were a part of her, though she would always feel regret that this moment had to be. Intelligencers did not choose the punishment of those they exposed. And, thinking of Babington's end and possibly Mary's, she thanked the blessed Lord that this was so.

Queen Mary was escorted toward the center of the great hall, where a high-backed chair had been placed below a dais holding a throne covered by a gold cloth of estate, as if Elizabeth meant to sit there. Frances knew Her Majesty never would be a part of this, would keep her hands as clean as she could.

The Scots queen paused and looked up at the royal throne. “My place should be there,” she said. “I am myself a queen, the daughter of a king, and the true kinswoman of the queen of England. As an absolute queen, I cannot submit to orders; nor can I submit to the laws of the land without injury to all other sovereign princes. For myself, I do not recognize the laws of England. I am alone without counsel or anyone to speak on my behalf. My papers and notes have been taken from me, so that I am destitute of all aid.” Yet, after these words, she composed herself and sat in the smaller chair, looking about her. “All these councilors,” she said,
“and none for me.” It was not a question, for the answer was plain to see.

Frances knew that Mary's protests would do her no good. Her complaints, her very regal presence were about to be erased by a mountain of evidence.

The sergeant-at-law laid out the details of the Babington plot, including the ciphers that had gone between the plotters and Mary.

Painfully, Mary rose to her feet and objected in her French-accented English. “I do not deny that I have earnestly wished for liberty and done my utmost to procure it for myself, but I knew not Babington. I never received letters from him, nor wrote any to him. If you have such proof, produce them signed with my own hand.”

Both Burghley and Walsingham could not help themselves. They smiled.

Mary lifted her head into a stately pose and added, “It may be that Babington wrote them, but let it be proved that I received them. I say Babington lied. Other men's crimes cannot be cast on me.”

The cipher letters she had written were now produced one by one and read out to the throng. Mary sat suddenly, her astonished expression revealing a sense of having stepped into a neatly laid trap.

Frances felt Robert's hand close about hers behind her billowing gown.

Mary looked about the room, arrayed with solemn lawyers and nobles, her judges all. She burst into tears. “I would never make shipwreck of my soul by conspiring the destruction of my dearest sister queen.”

Frances wondered whether Mary knew that what she said was untrue. Or did she so desperately want to think herself falsely accused that she could make herself believe a lie?

Walsingham produced the ale keg in which Mary's messages had been sent to Babington and his to her. He placed it on the table in front of her.

The Scots queen's knees buckled, and her ladies helped her to be seated again. “I cannot walk without assistance or use my arms, and I spend most of my time to bed in sickness. Both age and bodily weakness prevent me from wishing to resume the reins of government. What ruler could fear me?”

Robert's hand tightened as he murmured, “She is coming to know that she is exposed…beyond saving herself with protests of sickness.”

Frances took in a heaving breath. The only thing for Mary now was any pity she could gain from the judges, if such was to be had.

“I do not fear the menaces of men,” the Scots queen protested as her silent accusers looked on. “I demand another hearing and that I be allowed an advocate to plead my cause.”

For answer, Walsingham stood and read out her letter to Babington with the condemning phrase: “Fail not to burn this privately and quickly.” Triumphant, Mr. Secretary said: “If you did not seek Queen Elizabeth's death, then why the urgency to destroy this letter?”

Desperate now, Mary sat forward and raised her arms toward heaven. “Mother of God, they wish only to destroy me!”

Walsingham's voice was heavy with scorn. “Heaven does not listen to assassins!”

“Nor to those who conspire against the queen of France and Scotland!”

This brought loud protests of honesty from Walsingham.

Mary, trying again to deny all, spoke in a voice that carried to the entire chamber. “As to the priest, Ballard, I have heard him spoken of, but I protest that I have never thought of the ruin of the queen of England and would rather have lost my life a hundred times than that so many Catholics suffer for my sake a cruel death
at Tyburn.” She drew in a deep, shivering breath. “And you, too, my lord Burghley, you are also my enemy.”

“No,” said Lord Treasurer Burghley, his voice firm and solemn, “I am enemy to the queen's enemy.” He stared at Mary, nothing of compassion written in his face. “These proceedings will resume before Parliament to pronounce sentence.”

Mary no longer asked whether she could plead before Parliament. She knew she was never to see London. But she had final words that caused many to avert their gaze.

“I have desired nothing but my own deliverance.” Her doctor and ladies reached to support her. As she retreated, she said, “May God keep me from having to do with you all again.”

Frances's father, intensely frustrated that he could not bring the Scots queen to confess, walked past her with no pity.

“I must to my father,” Frances whispered to Robert, who went before and parted the crowd, all heads together, whispering their opinion and disappointment. Without Mary's confession, it was certain that there would be no beheading this day, though such a death would come as soon as her father and Burghley had Elizabeth's signature on a document of execution.

As Frances approached her father, he stepped away from Burghley and a group of lawyers. “I am sorry, Father, that you did not receive the sentence you hoped for.”

Walsingham's tired face was also angry. “Delays, daughter, always delays. I fear I will die in my service before that woman dies for her treachery.”

“Father, again I regret to add to your problems, but I must to Holland at once. My lord Essex tells me that Philip has worsened. It is my duty…and wish…”

“Yes, yes, Frances. I have a carriage waiting in the bailey now to take you to London. And, Pauley,” he added, “ride on ahead and gain passage for your mistress on the next ship.”

“Sir, am I not to escort Lady Frances to London?”

“Nay, Essex has kindly offered this service to his friend's wife.”

Frances felt her future closing in on her. She bowed her head. “Then, Father, this is our parting and I ask your blessing.” It was quickly given and she walked to her room, Robert following.

H
e entered her small chamber and closed the door, standing there silent while she threw her belongings into her traveling chest. “I hope you find Sir Philip mending, my lady.” His words were even, and he tried to make them sincere, because he had shut his mind to any thought of harm coming to Sir Sidney. Yet his chest had a sore ache, as if his heart were too swollen for its space. It fair hurt to breathe deeply.

She turned to him, anguish everywhere on her face, seeing him standing like a statue before her. “Why do I feel so suddenly a stranger to you?” she whispered.

“Because from now on we are but mistress and servant.” Almost against his will his legs carried him forward.

She ran the short space to him. “Robert…Robert, forgive me. There is no other way. Our paths are laid for us by others and sad fortune.”

He kissed her hair, which tumbled about her face as he liked it and would always remember it.

Her lips moved up to his and his mouth was hard upon hers. He sought kisses enough to last a lifetime. At last, gasping and flushed with need, she pulled back, then rose upon her toes to his cheek, kissing his wound, now pink and healing.

“I will always love you, Robert.”

For one last time he crushed her to him, lifting her off her feet. Then he put her down, away from him. He needed the separation at once or he would not be able to allow it at all. He reached for her clothes chest, hoisted it on his shoulder, opened the door, and led the way to the bailey, his stiff leg suffering from the weight of the chest and his heavy spirit.

Essex waited with his horse tied to the rear of the carriage. “My lady,” he said, and opened the door to hand her inside before following her to sit in the facing seat. “Pauley, put the casket above.”

“Aye, my lord,” Robert said. He bowed a moment later as the carriage pulled from the bailey, gathering speed just beyond the moat. He closed his eyes, listening to the horses' hooves pounding down the road, remembering that sound from the road to Chartley and the young lad sitting beside him…always beside him in his memory.

A short time later, after receiving letters bound for Holland from Walsingham, Robert took horse and headed for Deptford, taking faster lanes and roads too difficult for a carriage. Riding through the night and glad of the dark, he arrived the next day at the port of Deptford on the Thames south of London. He soon made arrangements for Lady Sidney's cabin on the merchant ship
Paul
swinging at anchor, a ship that still carried the faint impression of the word
Saint
before the name.

He inspected the tiny cabin, seeing the space that would hold her on her way to her husband. The scar on his cheek pulsed, and he knew that he was indulging in a form of self-torture. He must let her go. He must.

As quickly as he could, Robert rode from Deptford to Whitehall, hoping to see Frances before she took a barge for the ship, and berating himself for such a need.

W
hen Frances arrived at Whitehall, tired and bone-shaken from the long carriage ride on roads already turned from dust to mud, she went immediately to her chambers on the arm of Essex.

“I will at once to Her Majesty and ask that I accompany you to Sir Philip's side, my lady.” He opened the latch on her door.

“My lord, I thank you, but do not—”

He was gone before her remonstrance was fully voiced.

Meg rushed to her, worry making lines on her forehead. “My lady…my lady…”

“We must ready ourselves to leave for Holland within the hour. You and Will, too.”

“My sweet lady, the queen calls for you to come to her immediately.”

“What cause?”

“I know not, Lady Frances,” Meg said, bowing her head, but not before the lie tightened her mouth.

With Will following, Frances quickly made her way to the royal apartments, wishing she could change to a fresh gown, not even knowing whether the one she wore had mud spatters or rain spotting.

“The queen waits,” the liveried guard said, bowing.

Frances entered, making her three curtsies to Elizabeth, who sat on her throne chair with Essex at her elbow. Did she want a personal account of Mary's trial? Yet a different message was in the queen's face….“Lady Sidney, I have sad news to impart. Comes this morning a message from the Earl of Leicester in Arnhem that the grievous wound of your husband, Sir Philip Sidney, turned gangrenous—”

Frances swayed and Essex rushed to her, clasping her in his arms. “Frances…Frances,” he murmured, his lips near her cheek.

“—and it is my unhappy duty to tell you that he died of this wound.” The queen stared, angry and unhappy, at Essex, but continued. “The people everywhere proclaim Sir Philip's courage. I will declare him a national hero and he will have a state funeral.”

Frances heard Elizabeth's words as if from far away. She was overwhelmed with such a storm of emotion, of guilt and sorrow.