Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (80 page)

hysterical response his publication of the issue provoked among the Council

and the English people. Burghley promptly drew up a long list of elaborate

precautions for the Queen to take in an attempt to avoid assassination,

which she glanced at with a wry smile, and largely ignored.

Throckmorton perished in anguish at Tyburn, but, to Walsingham’s

intense chagrin, no one was able to persuade the Queen to press the

vague evidence discovered against her Scottish cousin. Mary’s imprison-

ment became as stern and uncomfortable as her gaoler could make it, but

that was all. Walsingham was tempted to believe, along with the founder

of the Jesuit College, William Allen, that the Queen of England had no

religion at all. And Elizabeth, if she dared to admit it publicly, would now

have agreed.

In December she rode from Hampton Court to London, with the

French Ambassador at her side. Men and women knelt in the thick mud,

their sharp, hungry faces blue with cold as they hailed her as a goddess and

clamoured for the punishment of her enemies.

She smiled and waved and called out to them gaily, slowing her horse to

snail’s pace in the icy wind, so that they might all feast their eyes upon her.

It was pagan idolatry of a kind Mauvissière had never witnessed before

and he found it rather unnerving. Elizabeth, watching him from the

corner of her eye and knowing from Walsingham’s discoveries that he

was by no means as spotless in his honour as he pretended to be, turned in

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her saddle and observed with quiet irony, “I perceive not
everyone
wishes

me dead.”

t t t

Mendoza was summoned before the Privy Council. No one rose when

he entered the room; he saw hostility on every icy, chiselled face and

knew the game was up.

In passionless Italian Sir Francis Walsingham enumerated the

Ambassador’s crimes, with his long, yellowing fingers clasped on the table

in front of him and his cold, cod-fish eyes fixed on the Spaniard’s face.

“Don Bernadino de Mendoza, you have abused your diplomatic privi-

leges. You have communicated with the Queen of Scots, encouraging

her to rely on Spain and contriving for her escape. You have assisted

Jesuits, corresponded with the traitor Throckmorton, and made your

home a rendezvous for priests. Her Majesty is no longer prepared to

overlook such preposterous interference within her kingdom and it is her

command that you leave the country within fifteen days.”

Mendoza’s dark eyebrows shot up with outrage.

“I challenge you to
prove
these outrageous charges, sir!”

“Her Majesty feels that would be distasteful and unnecessary,” said

Walsingham calmly. “In short, sir—a waste of time!”

Mendoza lost his temper and began to shriek at the top of his voice.

“Let her look to her own actions before she questions mine! She

encourages revolution among my master’s subjects in the Netherlands—

aye, never think we don’t know it!—she protects scurvy pirates—receives

stolen goods—” His voice broke on a croak of rage and he gulped a

breath. “And in any case I cannot possibly leave England without King

Philip’s express command,” he added irrelevantly.

He stopped and staggered back a step as the entire Council rose to

its feet.

“You,” said Walsingham icily, “are a disgrace to your King and should

count yourself fortunate to be allowed to leave here alive.”

Mendoza began to sweat copiously.

“By God, sir—no one touches me without a sword in his hand!”

Walsingham made an ominous gesture and the Spaniard bolted for

the door in undignified haste, muttering about the base ingratitude

of women.

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Susan Kay

In the doorway he turned and looked back bitterly, his smooth olive

face blotched with purple patches of colour.

“I regret, gentlemen, that I have been unable to please your Queen as

a minister of peace. Pray tell her that I hope to satisfy her better in war

and that I will walk barefoot over Europe to encompass it!”

The door slammed behind him on a room full of shocked, silent men,

and so it was that Elizabeth’s last ambassador from Spain departed from

her country, vowing publicly to be revenged upon her.

468

Chapter 2

W
alsingham emerged from the queen’s private apartments

and walked stiffly down the length of the Long Gallery with a

sheaf of papers under his arm. He was dressed as usual in cheerless black,

unrelieved by bright embroidery or jewels, and his eyes were fixed and

staring, seeing neither the stone and gold ceiling nor the wainscot, whose

thousand beautifully carved figurines regarded him with bleak indiffer-

ence. It was bitterly cold and for once the draughty gallery was empty of

its jostling, gossiping groups of courtiers. No one saw the pale Secretary

pass down the quiet corridors of Whitehall Palace and enter his tiny closet

with measured speed, but, if they had, his narrow, sombre face would

have betrayed nothing of the fierce excitement raging in his brain.

A habitual ministerial calm hung over Walsingham as he padded softly

to his desk, silent in his soft kid house shoes. A medicinal draught awaited

him, but he tidied his papers methodically, as was his wont, before swal-

lowing it with a grimace. He sat and wrote stubbornly until the nagging

pain became a few degrees less insistent; then he laid his pen aside and

leaned his chin thoughtfully on his gaunt hands, quietly congratulating

himself on what must surely be the most effective interview in all his

difficult dealings with his mistress.

The Throckmorton plot against the Queen’s life had been only one

of the many plots he had unearthed with alarming regularity, and he had

explained the only solution to Her Majesty more times than he cared to

remember, without success. But today he had to admit he had surpassed

himself and for once he had managed to make her listen without flying

Susan Kay

into a rage and refusing to discuss the matter further. He sat back and

savoured the memory of his own skill…

“I respectfully submit to Your Majesty that we have enough circum-

stantial evidence to convict the Queen of Scots many times over.”

“Evidence of circumstance may convict a common man, Walsingham—

it will not convict a queen.”

It was at this point that the Secretary’s mental antennae had begun

to quiver with taut anticipation. There was something in her voice to

suggest she was just a little weary of playing target to every would-be

assassin in Europe. Was it possible she was about to take a sane and

reasonable attitude over the “bosom serpent” at last?

He hurried to drive the slight advantage home.

“Madam, the plots grow in number and cunning, and sooner or later I

fear it is inevitable that one of them will succeed. Every intrigue has been

in her favour though, since she has been denied all communication with

the outside world, no longer in her name. However, I am convinced if

she were allowed to communicate once more—under close surveillance,

of course—”

“She would suspect,” said the Queen sharply. “She is not totally

without guile, Walsingham.”

“I could contrive it without any suspicion, madam, be confident of that.

You have said that evidence of circumstance is not sufficient—but what if I

were to bring you proof
in her own hand
that she seeks your death?”

Elizabeth sat down in the chair of estate, pressed her fingers together

tip to tip, and fixed him with an unwavering stare that made him acutely

uncomfortable.

“You are aware of how I would reward forgery, aren’t you,

Walsingham?”

With an effort, he met her gaze steadily.

“Fully aware, Your Majesty.”

“My reputation is of value to me,” she remarked pointedly. “I shall

not use the man kindly who abuses it. Be quite certain you understand

that before we proceed any further with this matter.”

“I understand, madam.” He went down on his knees before her dais.

“And this time, Your Majesty—this time you will take the final act

against her?”

She stared at him, her expression calm and inscrutable.

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“Bring me that proof first, Mr. Secretary. Bring me the proof, written,

irrefutable, and positive—then we will discuss the action.”

And that was all. She had stepped down from the dais, snapped her

fingers to her little spaniel, Perrico, and walked into her Privy Chamber

without a word of dismissal or a backward glance, shutting the door.

Walsingham left her room too absorbed to register that mark of dislike

and see that it was directed at more than a personal level, or even to

appreciate what lay behind her unexpected capitulation on the issue.

Elizabeth had not the slightest intention of delivering her cousin to

execution; her feelings on the subject were as strong as they had ever been.

But Walsingham was right; they could not rely on the careless bungling of

amateur conspirators for ever. Sooner or later her enemies would employ

the services of a professional and her incredible luck would run out. She

had lived under the shadow of assassination for nearly eighteen years since

her cousin’s flight into England and the constant tension was beginning

to tell on her nerves. She had begun to feel of late that for the sake of

her own sanity she must put an end to this increasing welter of intrigue.

It occurred to her now that the only way to do it was completely to

discredit Mary in the eyes of Europe. And to do that she would need

hard evidence—evidence strong enough to elicit a full confession from

Mary. When that confession had been released in Europe and circulated

throughout England, it would then be safe to return her to a Scottish

prison under the guardianship of her covetous son, King James. Remove

the focus of discontent from England and the malcontents would scatter;

there would be peace at last, and peace was beginning to wear an attrac-

tive guise to Elizabeth.

The knowledge that she could manipulate Walsingham’s twisted

zeal to achieve this end gave her a certain private pleasure. It would be

amusing to let him stalk the bird like a hungry cat, snatching the bait away

at the last moment, so that he pounced on nothing and went away with

empty teeth.

She sighed. He was a good servant and she wished she could like him,

for she would never find another spy half so diligent. If only he were

not so bloodless and self-righteous, so convinced he had been personally

singled out by God to stand as the last line of defence against Satan’s forces.

His attitude irritated her beyond bearing, and made her less sympathetic

than she would normally have been towards his ill-health. His face was

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Susan Kay

thin, the whites of his eyes faintly yellow, and his forehead furrowed

with furtive lines of pain. Something burned the life force slowly out of

him, eating away his strength like corrosive acid—she suspected it was his

consuming hatred of the Catholic Church and its figurehead. When he

died, as he quite conceivably could within a short time, she would not

pretend to be sorry.

Walsingham remained in his closet for the rest of the afternoon and

half the night, weaving the threads of a plan which would crown his life’s

work. They had been over-zealous in cutting Mary’s correspondence after

Throckmorton’s plot—now it would be necessary to contrive some means

of secret communication for her. But the Secretary was not a man to let the

grass grow beneath his feet—and he would not have approached Elizabeth

at this point had he not already devised the apparatus for this charade.

By various ways and means—none of them too nice, but that was

business—Walsingham had got his persuasive hands on John Gifford, a

Catholic refugee who had been unfortunate enough to be apprehended

whilst carrying a letter recommending his honesty and faith to Mary

Stuart. Walsingham had had a short interview with him and discovered

that those two sad little deficiencies of honesty and faith did not prevent

the man from being a reasonable fellow, devoted far more to the preser-

vation of his own life and very willing to be helpful.

Walsingham’s toneless voice had settled the tiresome preliminaries very

quickly and Gifford was immediately installed in the pay of the English

government. He had made himself known to the French Ambassador

and then travelled down to make himself a pleasant acquaintance of the

Scottish Queen, hinting broadly that he would be honoured to perform

any little service she might require. It had been almost criminally easy to

win her confidence and now he merely awaited further instructions.

Walsingham stared down at his papers. He would contact Mary’s