Authors: Ken Follett
After four days he joined a group of pilgrims going to St Albans Cathedral. That took another three days. Then he took a chance and walked alone the last seven miles from St Albans to his destination.
King Henry VIII had confiscated Hatfield Palace from the bishop of Ely, and had used it as an occasional nursery for his children. Elizabeth had spent much of her childhood there, Ned knew. Now Queen Mary Tudor, Elizabeth’s older half-sister, liked to keep her there. Hatfield was twenty miles north of London, a day’s walk or half a day’s fast ride: Elizabeth was out of London, where she might have been a nuisance, but close enough to be watched. Elizabeth was not exactly a prisoner, but she was not free to come and go as she pleased.
The palace was visible from a distance, atop a rise. It looked like an enormous barn built of red brick with leaded windows. As he climbed the slope to the entrance arch, Ned saw that in fact it was four linked buildings in a square, enclosing a courtyard big enough to hold several tennis courts.
His apprehension grew as he saw the busy crowd in the yard, grooms and laundresses and delivery boys. He realized that even though Elizabeth was out of favour she was still royal, and she maintained a large household. Probably lots of people would like to work for her. Perhaps the servants turned applicants away every day.
He walked into the courtyard and looked around. Everyone was busy, no one noticed him. Cecil might be away, he realized: one reason the man needed an assistant was that he could not be at Hatfield all the time.
Ned went up to an older woman placidly shelling peas. ‘Good day, mistress,’ he said politely. ‘Where might I find Sir William Cecil?’
‘Ask the fat man,’ she said, jerking a thumb at a well-dressed heavy-set figure Ned had not previously noticed. ‘Tom Parry.’
Ned approached the man. ‘Good day, Master Parry,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see Sir William Cecil.’
‘A lot of people would like to see Sir William,’ said Parry.
‘If you tell him Ned Willard from Kingsbridge is here, he will be glad of the information.’
‘Will he, now?’ Parry was sceptical. ‘From Kingsbridge?’
‘Yes. I walked here.’
Parry was unimpressed. ‘I didn’t think you’d flown.’
‘Will you be so kind as to give him my name?’
‘And if he asks me what business Ned Willard has with him, what shall I say?’
‘The confidential matter he and I discussed with the earl of Shiring on the Twelfth Day of Christmas.’
‘Sir William, and the earl, and you?’ said Parry. ‘What were you doing – serving the wine?’
Ned smiled thinly. ‘No. But the topic was, as I mentioned, confidential.’ He decided that if he submitted himself to any further rude interrogation he would begin to seem desperate, so he ended the conversation. ‘Thank you for your courtesy,’ he said, and turned his back.
‘All right, no need to take umbrage. Come with me.’
Ned followed Parry into the house. The place was gloomy and somewhat decrepit: Elizabeth might have a royal income, but clearly it did not stretch to refurbishing a palace.
Parry opened a door, looked in, and said: ‘Do you want to receive a Ned Willard from Kingsbridge, Sir William?’
A voice inside answered: ‘Very well.’
Parry turned to Ned. ‘Go in.’
The room was large, but not richly decorated; a working office, with ledgers on shelves, rather than a reception room. Cecil sat at a writing table, with pens and ink, paper and sealing-wax. He wore a black velvet doublet that looked too warm for summer weather – but he was sedentary, and Ned had been walking in the sun.
‘Ah, yes, I remember,’ Cecil said when he saw Ned. ‘Alice Willard’s boy.’ His tone was neither friendly nor unfriendly, just a little wary. ‘Is your mother well?’
‘She’s lost all her money, Sir William,’ Ned replied. ‘Most of our fortune was in Calais.’
‘Several good men have suffered a similar fate. We were foolish to declare war on France. But why have you come to me? I can’t get Calais back.’
‘When we met, at the earl of Shiring’s banquet, you said you were looking for a young man a bit like myself, to help you in your work for the lady Elizabeth. My mother told you I was destined to work in the family business, and therefore unavailable – but now there is no business. I don’t know whether you found someone . . .’
‘I did,’ said Cecil, and Ned was crestfallen. Then Cecil added: ‘But he turned out to be a bad choice.’
Ned brightened again. ‘I would be honoured and grateful if you would consider me for the position,’ he said eagerly.
‘I don’t know,’ Cecil said. ‘This is not one of those posts that exists to provide an income for a courtier. It requires real work.’
‘I’m prepared to work.’
‘Perhaps, but to be frank, a boy from a rich background whose family have fallen on bad times does not usually make a good assistant: he’s liable to be too accustomed to giving the orders himself, and he may find it strange that anyone should expect him to do what he’s told promptly and conscientiously. He just wants the money.’
‘I want more than the money.’
‘You do?’
‘Sir William, two weeks ago we burned a Protestant in Kingsbridge – our first.’ Ned knew he should not get emotional, but he could hardly help it. ‘As I watched him die screaming, I remembered what you said to me about Elizabeth’s wish that no one should be killed for his faith.’
Cecil nodded.
‘I want her to be queen one day,’ Ned said passionately. ‘I want our country to be a place where Catholics and Protestants don’t kill one another. When the moment comes, I want to be with you as you help Elizabeth to win the throne. That’s the real reason I’m here.’
Cecil stared hard at Ned, as if trying to look into his heart and determine whether he was sincere. After a long pause he said: ‘All right. I’ll give you a trial.’
‘Thank you,’ Ned said fervently. ‘I promise you won’t regret it.’
*
N
ED WAS STILL
in love with Margery Fitzgerald, but he would have gone to bed with Elizabeth in a heartbeat.
And yet she was not beautiful. She had a big nose and a small chin, and her eyes were too close together. But, paradoxically, she was irresistibly alluring: astonishingly clever, as charming as a kitten, and shamelessly flirtatious. The effect was hardly reduced by her imperiousness and her occasional bad temper. Men and women adored her even after she had scolded them cruelly. Ned had never met anyone remotely like her. She was overpowering.
She spoke French to him, mocked his hesitant Latin, and was disappointed that he could not help her practise her Spanish. She let him read any of her books that he fancied, on condition that he discussed them with her. She asked him questions about her finances that made it clear she understood accounts as well as he did.
Within a few days he learned the answers to two key questions.
First, Elizabeth was not plotting against Queen Mary Tudor. In fact, she expressed a horror of treason that seemed genuine to Ned. However, she was preparing, quite methodically, to make a bid for the throne after Mary’s death, whenever that might be. Cecil’s Christmas trip to Kingsbridge had been part of a programme in which he, and other allies of Elizabeth, visited the most important cities in England to assess her support – and opposition. Ned’s admiration for Cecil grew fast: the man thought strategically, judging every issue by its long-term effect on the destiny of the princess he served.
Second, Elizabeth was a Protestant, despite Cecil’s pretence that she had no strong religious convictions. She went to Mass and performed every Catholic ritual that was expected of her, but that was for show. Her favourite book was
Paraphrases of the New Testament
by Erasmus. Most telling was her bad language. She used swear words that Catholics considered offensive. In polite company she chose phrases that were not quite blasphemous: ‘blood’ instead of ‘God’s blood’; ‘zounds’ for ‘God’s wounds’; and ‘marry’ for ‘Mary’. But in private she was more profane, saying: ‘by the Mass’ and – her favourite – ‘God’s body!’
In the mornings she studied with her tutor, and Ned sat in Cecil’s office with the ledgers. Elizabeth had a lot of property, and a major part of Ned’s job was making sure that she was paid the rents due to her in full and on time. After the midday meal Elizabeth relaxed, and sometimes she liked her favourite servants to chat with her. They would sit in a room known as the bishop’s parlour, which had the most comfortable chairs, a chess board, and a virginal on which Elizabeth would sometimes pick out tunes. Her governess, Nell Baynsford, was always there, and sometimes Tom Parry, who was her treasurer.
Ned was not a member of this exclusive inner circle, but one day, when Cecil was absent, he was called in to talk about plans for Elizabeth’s twenty-fifth birthday on 7 September, a couple of weeks away. Should they try to arrange a big celebration in London, which would require the permission of the queen, or something more modest here at Hatfield, where they could do what they liked?
They were deep in discussion when a surprise visitor arrived.
They heard the clatter of hooves as several horses came through the arched gateway into the central courtyard. Ned went to the leaded window and peered out through the smoky glass. There were six riders, and their mounts were powerful, costly beasts. Elizabeth’s grooms came out of the stables to deal with the horses. Ned looked harder at the leader of the group and was astonished to recognize him. ‘It’s Earl Swithin!’ he said. ‘What does he want here?’
Ned’s first thought was that the visit must have something to do with the coming marriage of the earl’s son, Bart, to the girl Ned loved, Margery. But this was a fantasy. Even if the engagement had been broken off, the earl would not trouble to tell Ned.
What, then?
The visitors were ushered into the house, taking off their dusty cloaks. A few minutes later a servant came into the parlour to say that the earl of Shiring would like to speak to the lady Elizabeth, and Elizabeth ordered that he should be shown in.
Earl Swithin was a big man with a loud voice, and when he entered, he filled the room with his presence. Ned, Nell and Tom stood up, but Elizabeth remained sitting, perhaps to emphasize that her royal blood counted for more than Swithin’s greater age. He made a deep bow, but spoke in familiar tones, like an uncle to a niece. ‘I’m pleased to see you looking so well, and so beautiful,’ he said.
‘This is an unexpected delight,’ Elizabeth said. The compliment was fulsome but her tone was wary. Clearly she mistrusted Swithin – and so she should, Ned thought. Loyal Catholics such as Swithin had prospered under Queen Mary Tudor, and they feared a return to Protestantism, so they did not want Elizabeth to become queen.
‘So beautiful, and almost twenty-five years old!’ Swithin went on. ‘A red-blooded man such as myself cannot help thinking that such beauty should not be wasted – you will forgive me for saying so.’
‘Will I?’ Elizabeth replied frostily. She never was amused by vague sexual innuendo uttered in tones of jollity.
Swithin sensed Elizabeth’s coolness and looked at the servants standing in the background. Clearly he was wondering if he might get on better without them listening. He was mildly startled when his eye fell on Ned, but he said nothing to him. Turning back to Elizabeth he said: ‘May I speak privately to you, my dear?’
Assuming unwarranted familiarity was not the way to charm Elizabeth. She was a younger daughter, some said illegitimate, and that made her ultra-sensitive to any sign of disrespect. But Swithin was too stupid to grasp that.
Tom Parry said: ‘The lady Elizabeth must never be alone with a man – on the instructions of the queen.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Swithin.
Ned wished that Cecil had been here for this visit. It was risky for servants to stand up to an earl. The thought crossed his mind that Swithin might deliberately have arranged to come on a day when none of Elizabeth’s senior staff were at the house.
What was he up to?
Swithin said: ‘Elizabeth has nothing to fear from me,’ and he chortled heartily. It made Ned’s skin crawl.
But Elizabeth took offence. ‘Fear?’ she said, raising her voice. She resented any suggestion that she was a fragile woman in need of protection. ‘Why should I be afraid? Of course I will speak to you privately.’
Reluctantly, her servants left the room.
When the door was closed, Tom said to Ned: ‘You know him – what is he like?’
‘Swithin is a violent man,’ Ned said. ‘We must stay close.’ He realized that Tom and Nell were looking to him for guidance. He thought fast. ‘Nell, will you tell the kitchen to send wine for the guest?’ If it became necessary to enter the room, the wine would provide a pretext.
Tom said: ‘What will he do if we go back in?’
Ned thought of Swithin’s reaction to the Puritan walk-out at the play. ‘I’ve seen him try to kill a man who offended him.’
‘God save us.’
Ned touched his head to the door. He could hear the two voices: Swithin’s was loud and Elizabeth’s was penetrating. He could not make out the words, but the tones were calm, if not very amiable, and he felt that for the moment Elizabeth was in no danger.
Ned tried to figure out what was going on. Swithin’s surprise visit must have something to do with the succession to the throne. It was the only reason a powerful courtier would be interested in Elizabeth.
Ned recalled that a much-discussed solution to the problem of the succession was to marry Elizabeth to a strong Catholic. It was assumed that she would be led by her husband in religious matters. Ned now knew Elizabeth well enough to realize that such a plan would not work, but others thought it would. King Felipe had proposed his cousin, the duke of Savoy, but Elizabeth had refused.
Did Swithin want to marry Elizabeth himself? It was possible. He might hope to seduce her on this visit. More likely, he might think that if he spent enough time alone with her the suspicion of fornication would make a marriage the only way to rescue her reputation.
He would not be the first to try. When Elizabeth had been only fourteen Thomas Seymour – a man of forty – had indulged in sexual petting with her and schemed to marry her. Seymour had ended up executed for treason, though his designs on Elizabeth had not been his only offence. Ned thought it was quite possible that the foolhardy Earl Swithin might be prepared to risk the same fate.