“I wish you so much bliss,
Hundreds of years you Stella’s feet may kiss!”
Astrophel and Stella, Sir Philip Sidney
St. Swithin’s Day, Mid-July
GREENWICH PALACE
Sometimes, or truthfully many times, Frances admitted to herself that she achieved what she wanted only to find it wanting. It had happened with her marriage; it was happening again. She sat behind a writing table in her father’s offices like every other intelligencer, though in a corner out of his sight. But now almost every reason for wishing to be there was gone.
Had she won a battle only to lose everything she treasured? Had she lost her father’s love? Had she lost Robert? She closed her eyes to thrust away such painful thoughts, but they crept back upon her nonetheless.
Had she ever been loved? Oh, aye, she’d been needed by her father and by Philip, but her father wanted her to be a replica of her mother—soft, yielding, pale Anne Barnes—and Philip had given his heart to Stella.
No, Frances Walsingham had never been loved for herself, not in the way she dreamed of being loved, and she felt great regret, for in gaining her desire to be an intelligencer she had harmed others.
Her father, in a temper when they had returned from the royal apartments and the queen’s startling decision, had not forgotten to deal with Phelippes. Now the man who hoped to be awarded estates and honors for his work was so cowed, he scarce looked her way, and gave her only deciphers that swallowed her time while producing nothing of real importance.
And Robert was gone, where she did not know. She longed to talk with him, to explain herself if she could, and to ask his pardon for the trouble she seemed always to bring him. As a lady of the presence chamber, she thought of witty things to recount about the court and the queen, but the time for telling them passed, and she quaked to meet him suddenly without preparation. She could not tell him the truth, since she resisted knowing it herself, no matter how many times that truth waylaid her. She could not say that she missed him, wanted to hear his voice. And she could never tell him that she felt happier when he was near, when she could look up and see his head bent to his own work, his hair falling forward so that she wondered what was hidden in his eyes.
He’d been sent on some mission by her father, which no one would speak of—she knew neither for how long nor the nature of his errand. He could be in France, even in London, though that sweltering city was to be avoided in high July, since the three great and deadly scourges of hot weather, plague, and the sweat summered there.
Robert could be anywhere. Perhaps she would never see him again, and if she did, he might avoid her like trouble, or hate her for the many problems she’d caused him. Why wouldn’t he be angry? If he pleased her, he displeased her father…caught in the middle as no man would want to be. If he had ever felt tender thoughts of friendship, they must be extinguished by now.
Restless and heartsick, she twisted a quill in her hands until it broke. She put the pieces aside with several other broken quills.
Frances had not been able to see Robert alone before he left. She had wanted to, rising those first days as he walked by her writing table, knowing not what to say to him but wanting some exchange with him and hoping her words would be welcome. He had acknowledged her by inclining his head with a small smile as he would any lady, but he did not speak or pause to allow any words from her.
Her Majesty and the entire court had left Hampton Court for Greenwich, and soon after, with a huge train of wagons and coaches, she was off for her summer progress to show herself to her people.
Frances had not been invited to accompany the queen, but told to keep to her ciphers, thus saving Elizabeth the feeding and care of one lady of the presence. The queen also relieved her purse of the cost of feeding her entire entourage by visiting her country lords and gentlemen, those who had not fled from the thousand courtiers and servants that trailed Her Majesty. The queen’s great favor had been known to bankrupt entire families.
Frances knew that some, on hearing that they had been chosen for a royal visitation, locked their doors and left their estates behind them until word reached them that the royal train had moved on to another lord.
Disappointing the monarch would not come without cost. The absent lord would need to ensure that his Twelfth Night gifts for the queen were very grand, indeed. Elizabeth always won. At the thought, Frances covered an admiring smile and felt somewhat less dejected.
She smoothed her new blue satin gown with its lace ruff and cuffs and a silver-embroidered brocade kirtle and partlet. She loved the lush color after the endless white gowns Elizabeth demanded of her ladies of the presence.
Phelippes approached. “A message for you came this very morning from Holland.”
“Thank you, Master Phelippes. Is that where Robert has been sent?”
“I cannot say, my lady, or risk Mr. Secretary’s great anger.” He returned to his table.
Frances drew the message across the table. The letter was sealed with Philip’s signet. It was a grille of only a few lines, though he said nothing of her grille to him. And so short, unlike Philip, who often had instructions for her about the care of his estates that required two close-written pages. What few words had needed to be ciphered?
Wife, I will be going into battle soon.
If I return to you, I will be a loving husband.
Philip
Her hand trembled as she put the letter aside. If I return…Was it a forewarning or a soldier’s natural caution? Or was she being a foolish and remorseful woman? The words Philip had written would once have thrilled her, but this day they left her full of guilt.
She longed for clarity, yet nothing was clear. As though seen in an unpolished steel mirror, Philip’s image was blurred to her. He had been gone for near a year, and now even his miniature brought him no closer. When she tried to recall her early love for him, nothing moved in her heart. Too much hurt had come between them, too much betrayal. She bit her lip in remorse.
Perhaps her father had been right long ago when he had remonstrated with his child: “Frances, you always want what you cannot have. Why can you not be satisfied with what God has given you, what He has made of you?”
Because then I would be nothing.
The outer door opened with a burst of talk, and her father and Robert strode in, bringing with them the scent of clean channel wind from the river Thames.
Frances stood and approached her father for his blessing, which he gave somewhat hurriedly. He was heavy-lidded, his eyes sunken; he looked inexpressibly tired. His sickness could come upon him again at any time.
She did not look at Robert. If she saw coldness in his face, she could not bear it.
“Attend me,” Mr. Secretary commanded, and every intelligencer crowded about him and the table upon which he’d spread a crudely drawn map. “What I am about to speak, let no one breathe outside this office on pain of most wrathful death.” He paused and looked into every startled face before continuing. “We have recently had great intelligence from our people at the Plough Inn, especially my man Bernard Maude, who has gained the confidence of the plotters. He reports that they plan to free the Scots queen and assassinate Her Majesty Elizabeth. The exact dates are closely held by a very few men. Assassination is what they have always wanted, but now they plan to do it soon, perhaps in the next weeks…or days. You see the import of this news.”
Phelippes shifted his feet and Frances saw others swallow hard. But each bowed, indicating that they knew very well.
“Pauley, here,” continued Walsingham, laying a hand on Robert’s shoulder in fatherly pride, “has developed a plan to prevent Mary Stuart from escaping Chartley and save us from popery, while we keep the treasonous young cockerels checked at the inn. The plan is a dangerous one…most perilous.”
Frances felt her heart beat faster. Had Robert agreed to put himself in danger to regain her father’s confidence?
Robert’s face showed nothing.
Walsingham took a deep breath and continued. “We knew that the Scots queen was planning something, but she has grown ever more cautious. What we are intercepting are messages meant to calm us into believing that she has abandoned any thought of escape or raising a rebellion. There has been no word to Sir Anthony Babington, who is the prime conspirator. Yet the Catholic plotters remain at the inn day and night awaiting her messages. Why? They are certainly not there to faithfully fill her orders for new night shifts….” His face turned a deeper red and he added the familiar “That devilish woman!”
The intelligencers shifted their feet and nodded politely.
“She has obviously found a second and better way to get her messages out to Chateauneuf in London and to Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris. Pauley will tell you the rest, as much as he can. Remember you are sworn to strictest silence.”
Robert stepped to Walsingham’s side and pointed to the map. “The Scots queen is here at Chartley, the Earl of Essex’s manor in Staffordshire. She is in need of a different cipher she can feel secure in using for her new escape plans. She will fear to use the one she has been using now for too long. This new cipher will be delivered to her from the nearby town of Burton by a Catholic sympathizer, who is willing to risk all for her…and for a hefty purse. She would never trust him unless he was bought with her gold. This brewer and real traitor is currently residing in luxury at the Tower of London.”
Every man laughed.
Not laughing, Frances briefly felt again the cold, wet stone corridors and slimy steps that led to the cells below, where all hope died slowly and painfully. Unable to keep an urgent question to herself, Frances interrupted, “But won’t Mary’s supporters know you are not the real brewer and…”
Robert’s urgent voice broke into her warning. “I will pose as this brewer’s brother. I can be convincing, since I was once a brewer’s apprentice. I will deliver a cask of ale to Mary that contains a new cipher from her London conspirators; then I will take away an empty cask with her reply…in the bunghole. Even her strict keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, the man Queen Elizabeth has assigned to be her jailer, must not suspect this deception. He will want to deliver the cask, and Mary will never trust anything that comes from his hand.” Robert paused to take breath. “She will trust me…I pray.”
“Aye,” Phelippes said, slapping one palm against the other, “the trap has its bait. The plot is just venal and complex enough to intrigue that queen.”
Walsingham nodded, his eyes gleaming. “We will put the plan into play immediately. She has other means of getting messages out. We must divert her to ours as the safest. In that way, we can have complete knowledge of her plans and in her own hand.” His voice grew husky as if the words caught in his throat. “We must have such direct proof before our queen will order Mary’s death. Pauley, when can you leave for the north?”
“Tonight, Mr. Secretary.”
“Good! I must depart for the queen’s progress to advise her of this plan and other state matters.”
After hearty congratulations and manly shoulder slapping and punching, Robert received a purse of gold for expenses and left quickly.
As he reached the door, he turned for one last look and saw fear for him writ clearly on Frances’s face.
An hour later, Robert heard an insistent knock on the door of his lower-floor rooms, and knew who would be on the other side. “Come.”
The latch was raised and Frances stepped inside. He had stoked the sea-coal fire in the grate, hoping the warmth was a sign of his welcome.
“Robert.”
“Take me with you.”
He was not terribly surprised by her words. They, too, were half anticipated, along with the strength he would need to deny her this desire…or anything.
When she spoke, the word was not a command, but a humble request in her most courteous and pleasing voice. “Please.”
What could he say? Not that it was his earnest desire to take her away forever. Never the truth between them. Instead, he said, “The danger is far too great.”
“Hear me, Robert.” When he did not object, she explained what he had already guessed. “The queen is gone on her progress, leaving me behind to do the intelligencer work I begged for. My father is joining her with dispatches from the Earl of Leicester in Holland. No one will miss me.”
Robert continued to speak not a word, his face set.
She stumbled on: “I will give out that I have taken to my bed with a woman’s complaint.” She closed the distance between them to an arm’s length. “I broke the cipher. I have earned the right to be a part of this important plan.”
Robert shook his head hard, so near was he to being drawn into her wishes. “Such is unthinkable, my lady! Your father would never allow it.”
“But you could.”
His face softened as did his voice, deep and calm. “I could never in this life put you in the path of such danger.”
She had first seen such tenderness when he held his guitar on their trip from Barn Elms, and next seen when he had knelt to hold her after Jennet’s imprisonment in the Tower. Still, his reason had not dissuaded her.
“How could you alone make the deliveries to the Scots queen? No outside men are allowed to see her. Paulet is very firm about that rule.”
Robert turned his back on her. He knew, in frustration, she could have pounded on him with her fists. Instead she used logic, which he admired.
“If you go alone, I have great concern that something could go wrong for this important mission,” she said, hoping a reasonable response would move him. “I am greatly vexed…full of worry.”
His shoulders shook. “My lady, you are happiest when you have something to worry about.”
She could not see his face, but she knew his dark eyes flashed with amusement. Yet she was in no mood to be jollied. She would not beg. Nor would she surrender. If he did not know that, he knew nothing of her.
He was putting himself on the path of danger, yet he meant to protect her when she could help the mission succeed…. She knew she could. And she owed him for the trouble she had caused.
Still, argument was useless. How could any man, even Robert, believe that he needed a woman on a risky undertaking? “Good fortune, Robert,” she said. With no further word, Frances walked to his door, opened it, and shut it softly behind her before rushing to her chambers. She entered, calling for her maid. “Meg!”
The girl ran into her bedchamber.
“Help me, Meg, and quickly.”
“What would you have of me, mistress?”
“A lad’s clothes. You must know some boy in the kitchens who is about my size.”
“Aye, mistress, but not well enough to take off his clothes.”
Frances held her temper. Everyone wanted to play the fool today. “Buy them for twice what new would cost, cap, boots, and all.” She handed Meg a gold noble. “This should buy his silence, and mind you they are clean and not lice ridden.”
Meg looked at the coin in her palm and gasped. “So much, my lady.”
“Quickly, Meg! You must be back within the half hour.”
And indeed she was. “The boy’s best,” she said, near out of breath. “Never worn, not even on Sundays or holidays. I told him it was for me to act as page. He thinks we are escaping the palace in disguise to meet your lover.”
Frances scarce listened, removing her own gown, kirtle, and undershifts, stepping quickly to the steel mirror. She had always thought her breasts too small, but now, donning the breeches, hose, shirt, and doublet, she was glad of their size. The doublet was large, and that hid her paps all the better. She wound her pocket about her waist, making the breeches fit well enough. She looked again into her steel mirror at her reflection. She scrubbed at her face. “I must remove all traces of the Mask of Youth and cochineal color from my lips and cheeks if I wish to be a proper servant boy. But my hair is too long; it will never remain under this cap. Meg, get the scissors, quickly.”
“Oh, nay, my lady, not your beautiful hair.”
“Quickly, Meg.”
When Frances had the scissors to hand, she held her breath, closed her eyes, and cut off one side of her hair that fell far below her shoulders, almost elbow length. “Meg,” she said, her eyes yet closed against what she must do, and to avoid the strange-appearing boy in her mirror, “you cut the rest, and do not be timid.”
“The same all round, mistress?”
“Aye, Meg. Do it.”
The scissors made cutting sounds, and hair fell against Frances’s hands as they were clasped tight in her lap. When Meg ceased, Frances opened her eyes. She was transformed indeed. Before her sat a boy, not full-grown to man size, but tall and long limbed, with one hose falling down to wrinkles, as with most boys. She reached for her hair, curling up now with the weight of it reduced. She donned the cap and stared into the mirror, scarce recognizing the smooth-faced boy staring back at her. Without her gown and shifts, she looked taller and much thinner, perhaps not strong enough to be a brewer’s boy.
Meg eyed her. “My lady, do not walk so confidently, or someone will notice that your face is not bearded, though your height declares you to be nigh to a man.”
Frances nodded. “Thank you, Meg. Now, take you to a wig maker in London and have a wig made of this hair, a wig like the queen’s, with ringlet curls placed in a large bun on either side.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“If there is inquiry made while I am gone, give out that I am abed with my monthly flux.”
“How long will you be away?”
“It could be a fortnight.”
“I’d better add another flux.”
Frances smiled at her quick wit. “As you will, but do not allow anyone to come in to see me.”
“Measles, then.”
“Aye, but doing well enough. I don’t want alarm to spread among the servants of the palace.”
“I will take great care, mistress.”
Frances reached into her pocket and retrieved a coin. “Give this to your mother for her babes.”
Meg looked her thanks, then showed it: “Let me go with you to the stables so that we look a very maid and her lover.”
Frances smiled her gratitude. “You are experienced, Meg?”
The girl shrugged. “Perhaps, mistress.”
The maid and boy left Frances’s chambers arm in arm, moving along the hall quickly to the kitchen stairs. Everyone glanced up at them, but quickly back to their supper dishes without lingering interest.
They made their way to the stables, where Frances saw a heavy brewer’s cart drawn up in the yard, four great black sturdy and dependable Percheron horses dozing with their heads down, twitching away flies. Meg went on to distract the stablemen while Frances climbed across the tailgate and slid her slender body between the barrels. It was too late to change her mind; nor did she want to, though, to her surprise, her hands shook. She gripped the boards tighter. She had not long to wait.
“I’m off, lads.” It was Robert’s voice. “Did you give these horses feed? Water?”
“Aye,” came the answer from the stables.
“What are their names?” Robert asked the stableman.
“The lead horses are Quint and Claudius. The wheel horses are Marcus and Colby. But your barrels are empty, Master Pauley. Why do you need four dray horses for so light a load?”
Robert raised his whip. “The barrels won’t remain empty.”
“So you’ll have drink on that dry road.”
“Aye, but first I’ll stop at every inn along the way,” Robert said cheerfully, to the stablemen’s laughter.
“Quint! Claudius!”
Frances heard the slap of reins and the wagon jerked forward, bouncing her between two rows of barrels, though she had little room to move. She clung to the loosely fitted bottom boards of the dray, which allowed her fingers just enough purchase, and wondered how many bruises, if not broken bones, she would collect through her thin boy clothes, though the wool was woven thick enough to make her itch. Fortune must be with her. God’s grace, the ale barrels were well lashed and did not roll atop her.
Questions raced through her mind, and she damned herself for not thinking of them before. What if the Scots queen’s men had a spy in Walsingham’s office? It was possible, though her father was careful, very careful of new men. If Robert’s mission was known, there could be an attack anywhere along the road.
She shivered a little and prayed that they had only brigands to fear, and not desperate men trying to save themselves from the rack in the Tower.
After what seemed hours, she could sense in the dryer, warmer air that they had moved away from the Thames and into the woods on the road north. Clamping her teeth together, she hung on to the swaying, lurching wagon, hitting every bump and hump in the road. Surely she was being pulled by the most cloddish, ill-gaited horses in the realm. She would complain to Robert Pauley about his taste in horseflesh, if she were still able to speak when they stopped. She grimaced to herself. Perhaps complaints were not called for from an unwanted passenger.
She shivered a little, knowing she could not pretend even to herself that this was a jest on Robert. The road ahead was too full of danger. All the local sheriff’s men could not protect the roads from bands of thieves that would as soon take lives as a wagon and horses with empty ale casks.
Still, she understood why he had chosen the big Percherons. They could pull heavy loads and make seven miles an hour, day after day.
She shifted here and there, but still could not get herself comfortable. Endurance was called for, a quality every intelligencer must have. In this ale wagon, that important skill found her.
Frances guessed it was near three hours, with the sun beginning to sink down to the western treetops, before Robert stopped in an inn yard to water the horses and his throat. She welcomed the opportunity to assess her bruises, though she wondered at her ill planning—a flask of ale, some bread, and cheese had been forgotten in her haste.
Robert had not been so negligent. She heard the sound of ale leaving a flask and making its way down his throat. Next the scent of the sun-warmed bread and ripe cheese reached her, and her stomach rumbled so that she thought sure to be found out. Another hour, she promised herself, her lips pressed tight, and it would be too late to return her to Greenwich…just until the sun was truly gone. She hung on.
Last light was still shining through the wooded verge some time later, when Robert hauled on the reins and the wagon stopped so suddenly that Frances was thrown against the barrels. At her outcry she was discovered.
Robert jumped down from the seat and climbed onto the wagon. “What folly is this?” His hand grabbed hold of her leg and pulled. “Come out of there, boy!”
“Stop!” she shouted, as if he still followed her orders.
He began to shake her hard and her cap flew off. “Frances?” He stared at her, dropped his arms, then reached to touch her hair. “Your lovely hair…”
“Off to the wig maker’s, in anticipation of my return,” she answered, brushing the dust from her breeches, trying to show a casual manner she did not feel. “I asked you to take me,” she reminded him.
“Ah, I see. This deception is a fault of mine.”
She nodded vigorously, trying to hide her fear and rubbing her arms contritely, hoping that the sight of her bruises would elicit some forgiveness.
“I could put you on the next cart going toward the river.”
“Aye, you could, but I pray you won’t.”
He frowned. “Prayer is indeed called for, my lad.”
“I pray that I will be an intelligencer in all ways once in my life.” Her voice trailed away, though he heard her next words, which were scarce more than a breath: “Until Philip returns and I am shut away forever.”
He took hold of the lead horses’ lines and pulled the wagon farther onto the verge, where all four began to crop the grass.
Robert turned his stern face to her. His words were harshly spoken. “Now, lad, we need wood for our supper fire.”
She lifted her head, hope in her voice. “So you will allow me to be an intelligencer in truth and be part of this deception?”
“Since you act deception so well…” He bit down on his angry words, but continued firmly. “I will allow you to get the firewood, boy, and mind you it be dry.”
Frances walked about, gathering twigs as large as she could, piling them in the crook of one arm, almost wishing she had an apron to fill. A little proud, she raced back and dropped them in front of Robert.
“Two times as much,” he said without looking up at her.
He was testing her, and she knew it. However, she was determined not to fail, and this time took off her doublet, filling it with all the dry wood she could find, though it grew darker as she bent to her work, aware with every low bow that she was aching in almost every joint.
“There!” she said, triumphantly emptying her doublet on the ground in front of him, expecting his praise.
“Did you see a stream?”
“Aye.”
“Fill this pot,” he said, pointing to a small black iron pot hanging on a hook from the side of the dray. He rested his back against a tree trunk, a contented smile on his face.
“What are you doing?” she said, tired of being used like a…well, like a servant.
“I am resting, my lad, since I’m the brewer and you my apprentice. It is a position you sought, is it not?”
In ill temper, she snatched the pot from its hook, washed it in the stream, and filled it with water. If he thought to show her a servant’s way, then she would be a good one. An intelligencer, like an actor, must learn many parts.
When she returned with the pot full, he motioned to the buckets hanging alongside the dray. “Fill them several times for each horse. These big horses need thirty gallons a day.”
She held their pails while they drank, lest they turn them over, Claudius nudging her shoulder for more. “You big clod,” she whispered, as he flicked an ear closer. She liked him. He was warm and friendly, and she needed both.
It was full dark when Frances finished, having damned herself a dozen times for this fool’s errand and having no kind thought of Robert. She shivered a little.
“Come to the fire if you need to warm yourself,” Robert said, compassion in his voice. “When the sun goes down it can be cold nights.”
“I am very warm,” she said, watching him throw some grain into the boiling pot hanging from a wood tripod. “I’ve worked like a horse; now will I eat like one?”
“They have been kind enough to allow us some of their grain and dine only on grass.”
“Grain and water?” Her stomach spoke its hunger.
“Perhaps some bread and cheese, as well.” He grinned. “Then I’ll send you packing back to Greenwich on the next decent coach. By this time, I think you are eager to go.”
His words erased her aches. She knelt near him, prayerfully. “Please, Robert, please give me this one chance to show what I can do.”
“I would think you have shown that by now.” He knelt to stir the pot, the grain beginning to thicken. “If I allow you your desire, Sir Philip—your husband—will see I never come out of Fleet Prison.”
She sat suddenly. “He will not care so long as I do not make him a cuckold.”
He did not look at her, continuing to stir the pot. “I cannot promise that.”
Frances stared at him, her heart beating so wildly that he must see it, her lips trembling, all the while searching for something to say and finding only the ridiculous. “Then you make no mind of my short hair.”
Robert handed her a spoonful of hot oats, which she was hungry enough to eat. And another after that. “Can you perform apprentice work with a better will?”
“Yes.”
“And cease to talk when I ask it of you?”
Her answer came more reluctantly this time. “Yes.”
“A lad may be needed. I do not know, but sending you back could make gossip that could reach the Plough Inn and alert the plotters when now they are sure of their success.” He looked into her face. “You make a right handsome boy, Frances, but a far prettier maid.” He knew to turn his back at the look on her face and roll up in his cloak. “We’ll start again as soon as the horses rest,” he muttered.
“Where will I sleep?”
For answer she heard his steady breathing and crawled under one edge of his cloak, her back to his, his warmth her mantle. The earthy green scent of trees and grass cooling after a warm day filled her lungs, reminding her of the woodland at Barn Elms. Behind her an owl hooted.
With difficulty, Robert breathed steadily as if asleep, until sleep came truly.