Roses Have Thorns: A Novel of Elizabeth I

NINETEEN

Year of Our Lord 1586

Windsor Castle

The Palace of Whitehall

At the New Year’s celebrations that year, the offerings to Her Majesty were particularly thoughtful—and expensive. Lord Howard of Effingham, one of the queen’s many cousins, the lord admiral of her navy, and a quiet Catholic, gave her a beautiful amulet of a phoenix emerging from a bed of ashes. Inside were eleven jeweled letters: Semper Eadem. Always the Same. It was a particularly touching gift, as semper eadem was also her mother’s motto. She caught my eye and held it when she handed it off to me, then glanced down at the locket ring I’d given her and winked so only we two could see. I winked in return.

As I sorted through her gifts, deciding which would be passed along to others, which she would keep, and which she would soon wear, I said as I drew near, “This is a particularly beautiful prayer book, Majesty.” The book, bound in gold, was strung with gold chains that could be securely fastened upon Her Majesty’s waist girdle. “On one side is enameled a serpent, with a quote from the book of Numbers.” I turned it over. “And on the back is the Judgment of Solomon.” I read the passage from the book of 1 Kings quoted in enamel print: “ ‘Then the king answered and said, “Give her the living child, and slay not: for she is the mother thereof.’

“The first side rather puts me in mind of a story of Aesop I’ve told my young Elizabeth of late,” I said as I clipped it to her girdle with her nodded permission. “And reminds me of your cousin Mary of Scots.”

The queen, more sensitive than ever, said, “Indeed?” with the particular edge to her voice that alerted us to proceed with caution.

“Go on,” Mary Radcliffe urged me.

“There once was a strong, benevolent lady who was walking through a frozen rose garden in the grievous chill of winter when her slipper brushed against something on the cobbled path. She saw that it was a snake, stiff with cold and nigh on dead, having run the fool’s errand of leaving its own nest to seize a better one.” The room grew quiet but I continued. “Forswearing her initial hesitation, the lady placed the serpent close to her bosom, where it quickly warmed. When it revived, the serpent resumed its natural nature, bit its benefactress, and poisoned her with a wound unto death.

“ ‘Why have you done this?’ she cried. ‘I have only sought to assist you!’

“ ‘You knew full well what I was when you drew me close to your heart,’ replied the cunning viper.

“ ‘I am justly rewarded, then,’ the lady sorrowed, ‘for pitying a serpent.’ ”

There was no happy outburst at the end of my tale, as there had been when I’d shared of Idun. This was a much more serious matter and the queen knew I meant the lady in the garden to represent herself.

“And do you have a story at hand for the other side of this prayer book?” she asked with irritation as she flipped it over. “We have no doubt that you must, as you are rarely in want of something to share.”

I heard the edge to her voice; she did not like to be instructed by anyone, though, in fairness, she could be counseled by almost anyone she trusted.

“Of course! The other side, of course, represents you, Majesty. Always the good mother, always willing to sacrifice yourself for the well-being of your child, England.”

At that she smiled, because she knew that I had parried with a compliment to blunt the sting, but that I’d meant both.

The queen’s councilors came then, and we ladies were dismissed. Before I retired, I heard Walsingham say that they had found the husband of Eleanor Brydges, she who had tried to poison the queen and had poisoned herself instead, involved in treasonous Catholic activity. He had just crossed to the Continent before they were able to apprehend him.

I retired to my own chamber, troubled. Was there a snake in my own garden? Where had Thomas come upon that ring? Was he, like so many of his family, still secretly Catholic at heart?

I would have said, “No, no, never, this is my husband and I know him well.” But we had grown distant from one another. It had been two years since Bridget was born and we rarely slept together. We did not share a bed, we did not share dreams, and he did not often attend church with me, though he was bound by law to do so; and he did not tell me, any longer, to where he was riding or share details when he returned.

Perhaps he was a better player than I had ever imagined.

A person’s leanings did not make him a traitor, and as had been proved with Norfolk and Mary, there needed to be hard evidence of action. Walsingham had once told me, with Eleanor retching from poison down the gallery, that by sharing my concerns I could forestall anything terrible from happening.

I could bring the ring to Thomas himself, but if he were truly given to the Catholic faith, and freeing Mary, I would only be warning him to be more cautious in his planning. And if Thomas had already acted and been branded a traitor, he would be executed. If I were in some way implicated by not bringing forth evidence when I knew of it, and I clearly now did, the law declared that I could be executed as an accomplice. My children would be orphaned, their parents attainted. Francis Throckmorton, a good man caught up in sudden religious zeal and the charm of Mary of Scots, had neglected to consider what would come of his wife and ten-year-old son were he caught, and caught he was.

At the moment, I loathed England and its steady storms of treachery. My faith felt far and foreign to me, used by this side and that for nothing that resembled Christ at all. I had no idea if I could trust my husband, but I could not leave my children unsheltered. And perhaps, perhaps if suspicions were raised by Walsingham, whom Thomas respected and feared, there was time to warn him off from any foolery.

Some hours later, after wrestling with my conscience, I sent one of my lady maids to Sir Francis Walsingham with a note. An hour later, I heard a knock upon the door.

“My good lady marquess?” he said as he took a bow. I flinched, not only at the man, but at his appropriation of Her Majesty’s nickname for me.

“Come in, Sir Francis,” I said. “Please, have a seat.”

I had dismissed my servants, so I served him a goblet of wine myself. “I have some . . . concerns,” I said. “About my husband’s family. And perhaps about my husband himself.”

He nodded thoughtfully, stroking his long beard. “You can rest assured in my confidence and concern, my lady,” he said. “What you share with me will go no further.”

I explained to him the many heated discussions that had taken place over the matters of faith, loathing myself as the words flew from my mouth. Loyal, are you? I scolded myself in my head. In truth? Traitor. Liar.

“Do you have any other concerns?” he asked.

“Well, after Thomas had left for the Netherlands, I found this in his drawer,” I said. I handed over the recusant’s ring.

“Yes, I’d heard you’d found one,” he said.

At that I displayed my shock and he held back a smile. Who had told him? Surely not Mary Radcliffe, who trusted me implicitly after the Eleanor Brydges situation. But I had told none other.

Then I recalled, Sofia had seen me with it. Had it been her? Or had she told someone who told someone?

I said nothing, but as I handed it over to him I wondered what would have become of me if I hadn’t called for him, since he knew I was cherishing this ring at my bosom.

“You have always proved most loyal to the queen,” Walsingham said as he stood to leave. “That shall not go unrewarded, no matter the cost, and I shall keep the concerns of your family, and children, uppermost in my mind.”

“I bring this to your attention, Sir Francis, so that you can defuse a wick that is likely not yet lit, if it even exists at all. You told me, during the Eleanor Brydges affair, that if I let you know what I knew, you could arrest ill will before it kindled at my door. I expect you to keep your word.” I opened the door for him and drew myself up, head held high, and said with a trace of sarcasm, “You are like a master hawker, Sir Francis: breaking us all to hand, keeping a blind hood on us till you decide where you want us to hunt, and fly, and kill.”

He laughed. “Well said, Lady Northampton. I, like you, hunt only and ever for one mistress: the queen.”

“That’s true, Sir Francis,” I said. “I’ve been serving the queen for more than twenty years. And you?”

“Seventeen,” he said, bowing stiffly before he took his leave.

After I let him out I sat upon my bed and cried, and then I was filled with cold dread; it sank in my belly and would not be dislodged even after I spent nearly an hour sobbing. How had it come to this? Had I just condemned my husband to death, or had I rescued him from folly? Had I protected my children from being orphaned and living with the curse of an attainted father and mother, or had I broken their home?

I sensed we had many deceptions between us now. Each was like an inch, or a foot, or a mile that parted us. I considered for a moment the idea of telling Thomas of all this. But I could not. In my heart, I knew he would never forgive me for putting the queen’s interests above his own.

I could only hope and pray that naught should come to pass.

• • •

If some had chanced upon me exactly ten summers earlier—when I was drunk with love for Thomas and he with me, we two, so ready to bear the wrath of the queen or anything else to be together—and told me that ten years hence our love would have grown cold, I should have laughed. I did not laugh now. Like a river that had been blocked of its natural course, our affections had taken a sharp turn, and though I stood in the middle and tried to redirect the flow, time and circumstance overflowed me.

I knew not why, but the queen had canceled her Progress that summer and we spent much of it at court in Windsor, her natural stronghold. I made provision for my children, but with the exception of Bridget they seemed to miss me not at all. They spoke nearly perfect German, thanks to Sofia, whom they conversed much with but heartrendingly little with me as I was so often away. Thomas returned from the Netherlands in late June. In August, the queen sent Thomas north again.

“Shall I come with you?” I asked.

“Nay,” he replied. I packed for him and we lay together but we did not make love; in truth, I could not remember with clarity the last time we had joined our bodies. As he rode away, his long blond hair pulled back in a queue, his body still fit and firm from riding, my own flesh ached for him. I shook it off and returned to court.

I’d been blending a perfume for Elizabeth when she sent for me to come to her council room. I set down my herbs and musk and then wiped my hands on a linen before tucking my hair back into obedience. And then I walked down the gallery.

When I arrived, she sat at the head of a long, thick table. Walsingham and Cecil were there, as were most of her other advisors; Lord Robert was still in the Netherlands. Standing at the end of the table was Thomas.

I nodded to him, shocked that I’d had no idea he had returned. I looked at the council faces; they were grim. He nodded back but did not smile, and I was overcome with fear.

Lord Jesus, protect my husband.

“We thought you would like to be present for this,” Elizabeth said to me, indicating that I should sit upon a chair near, but not at, the table.

I sat down and Walsingham began. “As you know, Majesty, in the early summer months of this year, I had uncovered some correspondence from an English seminary student named Ballard, and also Mendoza, lately rejected from this realm in the last plot against the Queen’s Majesty by Mary of Scots, and now Spain’s ambassador to France. Ballard asked what Spanish support there would be should English Catholics seek to overthrow you. Mendoza replied that there would be an invasion this summer to support it. Ballard recruited young Anthony Babington, a rich and well-born young Catholic man, and told him that while a Mr. Savage would actually carry out your murder, the plan would be successful if there were more men involved. And so our Mr. Babington, who had already served as a runner for letters and other goods from Mary to her supporters while she was at Chartley, agreed to recruit several others in this plot.”

I looked at Thomas, but he would not meet my eye, which made me uncomfortable. I soothed myself that he was here before me and not in chains in the Tower, and so all must be well.

“Throughout the summer, Babington plotted and gathered supporters who debated the best way to murder you, whether it be in your litter, or while you hunted in a park, or perhaps even in your very own Presence Chamber.”

The queen inhaled sharply, but she was no novice to plotting against her and waved her hand. “Continue, Sir Francis.”

“In July, Babington, feeling certain that his communications were private, took Mary into his confidence. They were exchanging letters through waterproof pouches in the caskets of beer delivered to Mary, for her household, and paid for”—he looked at Elizabeth—“by Your Grace. Babington began by writing, ‘My dread sovereign and Queen,’ and then told her that there was a significant plot at home and abroad to kill Elizabeth and replace her with Mary, on the English throne.” He looked down and read from a document “ ‘For the dispatch of the usurper, from the obedience of whom we are by excommunication of her made free, there be six noble gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear to the Catholic cause and Your Majesty’s service will undertake that tragic execution.’ ”

I reached over, by impulse, and took Elizabeth’s hand in mine for a moment, forgetting that we were among the men. She squeezed it kindly, and then withdrew it again to her lap.

“And Mary responded . . . ?” she asked. Though I knew she must have been briefed before this, likely many of the others did not know.

“She did not disagree with or protest in any way the plans laid for Her Majesty. Instead, she wrote, ‘The affairs being thus prepared and forces in readiness both within and without the realm, then shall it be time to set the six gentlemen to work, taking order, upon the accomplishing of their design I may be suddenly transported out of this place.’ ”

Walsingham continued, “Plans were made to meet Mary as she hunted, for a party to greet her and secret her away to a place where she would remain safe while Your Majesty was being murdered. The men would then bring Mary safely to London, where she would be proclaimed queen. One of the men who had gained the confidence of Mary, and was among the plotters with Babington, was John Gorges.”

I gasped and coughed. A page was sent for a glass of watered wine, and though I normally drank sparingly, at this I drank my full cup.

Walsingham brought his portion to a close. “Babington caught word of the breach and fled to London, where he colored his skin with the pigment of green walnuts and hid in the forest; he was caught and is now imprisoned along with many of his conspirators. Some, like John Gorges, fled to the Continent before they could be apprehended.”

“Thank you, Sir Francis. And now, Cousin Gorges, I await your report of the capture of Mary.”

I cocked my head and looked from Thomas, to Walsingham, to the queen. Thomas had apprehended Mary?

He stood and spoke, his voice clear and firm. “We rode out toward Chartley, but she had been told that there was a riding party waiting to meet her. She, along with her doctor, her butler, and some others, had planned to kill a fine buck that day. She’d dressed splendidly, assuming, perhaps, that this might also be the day of your death and her victory. Once she saw me, and not Babington, she grew alarmed.

“I approached her politely, on your behalf, and said, ‘Madam, my lady the queen finds it very strange that despite the agreement reached between you, you have conspired against her and the kingdom, which she would never have thought if she had not seen the evidence with her own eyes. As far as she understands, some of your servants are involved. The rest will Sir Amias to say you.’ ”

So Elizabeth had already seen the letters. But of course. She saw them but said nothing. But Thomas had said nothing to me as well?

“Paulet, of course, knew we were to meet her there and ensured that many of her servants were with her. She began to shriek to her men that if they be any men at all they take up arms, immediately, for her defense and installment on your throne. And indeed, her secretary sought to knock me off my horse. But most of them, at that point, knew there was no use. Mary was conveyed to Tixall, nearby, and her secretaries to London. Her quarters at Chartley were searched by order of Sir Francis”—he looked at Walsingham—“and three large caskets of materials were conveyed back to your court.”

This appeared to be the first time that Elizabeth had heard Mary’s response. “She’s a wicked murderess, and her treacherous dealings toward me, the one person who has been the savior of her life for many a year, are unforgivable!”

I, and Thomas, were politely dismissed as the queen and her councilors began to debate where Mary should be held, and when and how she should be brought to trial.

Thomas walked down the long hallway with me and I took his hand in mine. “Please, let me care for you. You’ve ridden hard many hundreds of miles.”

He nodded. “I am tired unto death,” he said.

I took him back to our chambers and sent a servant for hot water. I stripped him of his dusty riding clothes and bathed him. I rubbed his muscles with ointment and mint, fed him, and put him abed.

In the morning, we broke bread together and I tried to speak with him of his journey. “I am so proud of the work you have done on behalf of Her Majesty,” I said. “I should have liked to have prayed for you. . . .”

He did not respond; I understood. It was a secret mission and he was not allowed to share the details. I was just so relieved that he was back, and well, and . . . not treasonous. “You’re tired, I understand,” I said. “We shall have weeks ahead to speak of this, and other things.”

He smiled at me, but it did not seem genuine. If anything, now that this situation was over he seemed more distant to me than when he’d had a secret to keep. I was confused. I moved forward with affection, he parried me with distance. Soon enough, I let my overtures dwindle, confused but unwilling to be rebuffed again and again.

He rested on and off for more than a week, and I did not press him for more information. He seemed pleasant in my company, but cool. I wavered between being faint with relief that he had been in the employ of Walsingham and angry beyond measure that no one had thought to take me into such a confidence: not my husband, not the queen. In my better moments I understood that they had kept it secret to protect my husband from harm should word of his surprise appearance be leaked when he had clearly infiltrated the group, for information, through his cousin. I could hardly be angry, justly, with Thomas, as I had not taken him into my confidence, either.

But Walsingham, that was unforgivable. He let me believe, when I gave him the ring, that my husband might be guilty of recusancy, at best, or treason at worst, perhaps not trusting Thomas himself.

Did anyone at this court ever trust anyone else? Not husband, not mistress, not friend?

No sooner had Thomas recovered than the queen sent him north again. The council had wanted to convey Mary to the Tower, where Babington currently resided. “His wife fled,” Thomas told me coldly. “Abandoned him and left their two-year-old daughter behind, rejecting her family in favor of the crown.”