Authors: Ken Follett
Then it was over, and they were husband and wife.
Ned left the cathedral. Now there was no uncertainty and no hope. Ned was going to spend his life without her.
He felt sure he would never love anyone else. He would be a lifelong bachelor. He was glad that at least he had a new career that engaged him so powerfully. His work for Elizabeth quite possessed him. If he could not spend his life with Margery, he would dedicate himself to Elizabeth. Her ideal of religious tolerance was outrageously radical, of course. Almost the whole world thought that the notion of letting everyone worship as they wished was disgustingly permissive and completely mad. But Ned thought the majority were mad, and people who believed as Elizabeth did were the only sane ones.
Life without Margery would be sad, but not pointless.
He had impressed Elizabeth once, by the way he had dealt with Earl Swithin, and now he needed to do it again, by recruiting Dan Cobley and the Kingsbridge Protestants as soldiers in her army.
He stopped in the windy square and looked around for Dan, who had not come into the cathedral for the wedding Mass. Presumably Dan had spent the hour thinking about Ned’s proposition. How long did he need? Ned spotted him in the graveyard, and went to join him.
Philbert Cobley had no grave, of course: heretics did not benefit from Christian burial. Dan was standing at the tomb of his grandparents, Adam and Deborah Cobley. ‘We gathered some ashes, furtively, after the burning,’ Dan said. His face was wet with tears. ‘We brought them here that evening and dug them into the soil at dusk. We’ll see him again, on the Last Day.’
Ned did not like Dan, but could not help feeling sad for him. ‘Amen,’ he said. ‘But it’s a long time until Judgement Day, and in the meantime we have to do God’s work here on earth.’
‘I’ll help you,’ Dan said.
‘Good man!’ Ned was happy. His mission had been accomplished. Elizabeth would be pleased.
‘I should have said yes right away, but I’ve become cautious.’
Understandably, Ned thought. But he did not want to dwell on the past, now that Dan had committed himself. He adopted a briskly practical tone. ‘You’ll need to appoint ten captains, each in charge of forty men. They won’t all have swords, but tell them to find good daggers or hammers. An iron chain can make a useful weapon.’
‘Is this the advice you’re giving to all the Protestant militias?’
‘Exactly. We need disciplined men. You need to take them to a field somewhere and march them up and down. It sounds stupid, but anything that gets them used to moving in unison is good.’ Ned was not speaking from his own knowledge or experience: he was repeating what Cecil had told him.
‘We might be seen, marching,’ Dan said dubiously.
‘Not if you’re discreet.’
Dan nodded. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘You want to know what Swithin and the Fitzgeralds do.’
‘Very much.’
‘They went to Brussels.’
Ned was rocked. ‘What? When?’
‘Four weeks ago. I know because they travelled on a ship of mine. We took them to Antwerp, and heard them hiring a guide to take them on to Brussels. They came back on one of my ships, too. They were afraid they might have to postpone the wedding, but they got here three days ago.’
‘King Felipe is in Brussels.’
‘So I gather.’
Ned tried to analyse this as William Cecil would, and in his mind the dominoes fell one by one. Why did Swithin and the Fitzgeralds want to see King Felipe? To talk about who would rule England when Mary Tudor died. What had they said to Felipe? That Mary Stuart should be queen, not Elizabeth Tudor.
They must have asked Felipe to support Mary.
And if Felipe had said yes, Elizabeth was in trouble.
*
N
ED BECAME EVEN
more worried when he saw Cecil’s reaction.
‘I didn’t expect King Felipe to support Elizabeth, but I did hope he might stay out of it,’ Cecil said anxiously.
‘Why wouldn’t he support Mary Stuart?’
‘He’s worried about England coming under the control of her French uncles. He doesn’t want France to become too powerful. So, much as he wants us to be Catholic again, he’s in two minds. I don’t want him to be talked into making a decision for Mary Stuart.’
Ned had not thought of that. It was remarkable how often Cecil pointed out things he had not thought of. He was learning fast, but he felt he would never master the intricacies of international diplomacy.
Cecil was moody for an entire day, trying to think of something he could do or say to discourage the Spanish king from interfering. Then he and Ned went to see the count of Feria.
Ned had met Feria once before, back in the summer, when the Spanish courtier had come to Hatfield. Elizabeth had been pleased to see him, taking his visit as a sign that his master, King Felipe, might not be implacably opposed to her. She had turned the full force of her charm on Feria, and he had gone away half in love with her. However, nothing was quite what it seemed in the world of international relations. Ned was not sure how much it meant that Feria was smitten with Elizabeth. He was a smooth diplomat, courteous to all, ruthless beneath the surface.
Cecil and Ned found Feria in London.
The city of London was small by comparison with Antwerp, Paris or Seville, but it was the beating heart of England’s growing commercial life. From London a road ran west, along the river, through palaces and mansions with gardens running down to the beach. Two miles from London was the separate city of Westminster, which was the centre of government. White Hall, Westminster Yard and St James’s Palace were where noblemen, councillors and courtiers gathered to thrash out the laws that made it possible for the merchants to do business.
Feria had an apartment in the sprawl of assorted buildings known as White Hall Palace. Cecil and Ned were lucky: they caught him as he was about to return to his master in Brussels.
Cecil was not fluent in Spanish, but happily Feria spoke good English. Cecil pretended he had been passing Feria’s door and had merely dropped in to pay his respects. Feria politely pretended to believe him. They danced around each other for a few minutes, speaking platitudes.
A lot was at stake underneath the courtesies. King Felipe believed it was his holy duty to support the Catholic Church: it was perfectly possible for Swithin and Sir Reginald to talk the Spanish king into opposing Elizabeth.
Once the formalities were done, Cecil said: ‘Between us, England and Spain have very nearly defeated France and Scotland.’
Ned noted the odd emphasis. England had had little to do with the war: it was Spain that was winning. And Scotland was almost irrelevant. But Cecil was reminding Feria who his friends were.
Feria said: ‘The war is almost won.’
‘King Felipe must be pleased.’
‘And most grateful for the assistance of his English subjects.’
Cecil nodded acknowledgement and got down to business. ‘By the way, count, have you been in touch recently with Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots?’
Ned was surprised by the question. Cecil had not told him in advance what he planned to say.
Feria was surprised, too. ‘Good lord, no,’ he said. ‘Why on earth do you want me to communicate with her?’
‘Oh, I’m not saying you should – although I would, if I were you.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, she may be the next queen of England, even though she’s a mere girl.’
‘One could say the same of Princess Elizabeth.’
Ned frowned. Feria had misjudged Elizabeth if he thought she was a mere girl. Perhaps he was not as sharp as people said.
Cecil ignored the remark. ‘In fact, I understand that King Felipe has been asked to support Scottish Mary’s claim to the throne.’
Cecil paused, giving Feria the chance to deny this. Feria said nothing. Ned concluded that his guesswork had been accurate: Swithin and Reginald had asked Felipe to support Mary Stuart.
Cecil went on: ‘In your place, I would ask Mary Stuart for a very specific commitment. I would want her to guarantee that under her rule England will not change sides, to join forces with France and Scotland against Spain. After all, at this stage that’s just about the only development that could prevent Spain winning this war.’
Ned marvelled. Cecil’s imagination had come up with just the right fantasy to scare Feria – and his master, the king of Spain.
Feria said: ‘Surely you don’t think that’s likely?’
‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Cecil said, though Ned felt sure he thought no such thing. ‘Mary Stuart is technically ruler of Scotland, though her mother acts as regent on her behalf. And Mary’s husband is heir to the throne of France. How could she be disloyal to both her countries? She is sure to turn England against Spain – unless you do something now to prevent it.’
Feria nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I’m guessing you have a suggestion,’ he said.
Cecil shrugged. ‘I hardly dare offer advice to the most distinguished diplomat in Europe.’ Cecil, too, could be smooth when necessary. ‘But, if King Felipe really is considering a request from English Catholics to support Mary Stuart as heir to the throne of England, I do think his majesty might first ask her for a guarantee that, as queen of England, she will not declare war on Spain. He could make that a condition of his support.’
‘He could,’ Feria said neutrally.
Ned was confused. Cecil was supposed to be talking Feria out of supporting Mary Stuart. Instead he seemed to be suggesting how King Felipe might overcome the main problem. Was there yet again something here Ned was not seeing?
Cecil stood up. ‘I’m glad we had the chance to chat,’ he said. ‘I only looked in to say bon voyage.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to see you. Please give my respects to the lovely Elizabeth.’
‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be glad.’
As soon as they were outside, Ned said: ‘I don’t understand! Why did you make that helpful suggestion about asking Mary Stuart for a guarantee?’
Cecil smiled. ‘First of all, King Henri of France will never allow his daughter-in-law to make such a promise.’
Ned had not thought of that. She was still only fifteen: she could not do anything without approval.
Cecil went on: ‘Second, her guarantee would be worthless. She would just break it after she took the throne. And there would be nothing anyone could do to hold her to it.’
‘And King Felipe will see both of those snags.’
‘Or, if he doesn’t, Count Feria will point them out to him.’
‘So why did you suggest it?’
‘As the fastest way to alert Feria and Felipe to the hazards of supporting Mary Stuart. Feria won’t take up my suggestion, but he’s now thinking hard about what else he could do to protect Spain. And soon Felipe will be thinking about it, too.’
‘And what will they do?’
‘I don’t know – but I know what they
won’t
do. They won’t help Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald. They won’t throw their weight behind the campaign for Mary Stuart. And that makes things a lot more hopeful for us.’
*
Q
UEEN
M
ARY
T
UDOR
departed her earthly life gradually and majestically, like a mighty galleon inching out of its berth.
As she got weaker, lying in bed in her private apartment in St James’s Palace, London, Elizabeth at Hatfield received more and more visitors. Representatives of noble families and rich businesses came to tell her how unhappy they were about religious persecution. Others sent messages offering to do anything they could for her. Elizabeth spent half the day dictating to secretaries, sending a blizzard of short notes thanking people for their loyalty, firming up friendships. The implied message in every letter was
I will be an energetic monarch, and I will remember who helped me at the start
.
Ned and Tom Parry were in charge of military preparations. They commandeered a nearby house, Brocket Hall, and made it their headquarters. From there, they liaised with Elizabeth’s backers in the provincial towns, preparing to deal with a Catholic uprising. Ned added up the number of soldiers they could muster, calculated how long it would take each group to get to Hatfield, and wrestled with the problem of finding weapons for them all.
Cecil’s sly intervention with Count Feria had been effective. Feria was back in England in the second week of November. He met with the Privy Council – the monarch’s most powerful group of advisors – and told them that King Felipe supported Elizabeth as heir to the throne. Queen Mary, in so far as she was able to do anything at all, seemed to have accepted her husband’s decision.
Then Feria came to Hatfield.
He walked in all smiles, a man with good news for a captivating woman. The Spanish were the richest people in the world, and Feria wore a red doublet delicately pinked to show the gold lining. His black cloak had a red lining and gold embroidery. Ned had never seen anyone looking quite so pleased with himself.
‘Madam, I bring you a gift,’ he said.
In the room with Elizabeth and Feria were Cecil, Tom Parry and Ned.
Elizabeth liked presents but hated surprises, and she said guardedly: ‘How kind.’
‘A gift from my master and yours, King Felipe,’ Feria went on.
Felipe was still Elizabeth’s master, technically, for Mary Tudor was still alive, still queen of England, and therefore her husband was king of England. But Elizabeth was not pleased to be reminded of this. Ned saw the signs – her chin raised a fraction, the ghost of a frown on her pale brow, a barely perceptible stiffening of her body in the carved-oak chair – but Feria missed them.
He went on: ‘King Felipe gives you the throne of England.’ He took a step back and bowed, as if expecting a round of applause, or a kiss.
Elizabeth looked calm, but Ned could tell she was thinking hard. Feria brought good news, but delivered it with magnificent condescension. What would Elizabeth say?
After a moment Feria added: ‘May I be the first to congratulate you – your majesty.’
Elizabeth nodded regally, but still said nothing. Ned knew such a silence to be ominous.
‘I have informed the Privy Council of King Felipe’s decision,’ Feria added.