"I was coming to see you on other business, when this foolishness was
reported to me. Now, as to the other here are two communications that
will interest you. " He handed her two letters, already torn open.
Then he stood there, intending to watch her reaction as she read
them.
"You may go," she said. "I can read them without your help."
With a scowl, he turned and left.
She waited for him to be gone before she felt safe in reading them. The
first was a report from the French ambassador.
dearest daughter,
This is to advise you of the measures recently adopted by Parliament, a
Parliament dominated by the so-called Puritans and other staunch
supporters of all things English. As you know, the Queen's privy
councillors drew up a bond of loyalty pledging themselves to do or die
for her, in the style of old King Arthur and his knights, and thousands
of her subjects signed the bond.
This was prompted by the threat of plots against her, and as a sort of
hysterical reaction to the assassinations abroad. The Queen let it be
known that she preferred it to be a spontaneous act of loyalty rather
than a law per se, but Parliament insisted on making it a law. Thus a
new law is on the books, the Act for the Queen's Safety. It empowers a
panel of judges to investigate any plot or plotters and to punish them
as they see fit.
In addition, Parliament came down hard on the Jesuits. Any priest
ordained since Elizabeth's accession has forty days to leave England,
on pain of high treason. Any layman sheltering such priests is guilty
of a felony.
As if these events were not disturbing enough, yet another
assassination plot surfaced a Dr. William Parry, who claims to have
been commissioned by your agent in Paris, Thomas Morgan, and the Pope,
to kill Elizabeth. He had a letter from the Papal secretary, Cardinal
Como, promising him an indulgence if he succeeded. He arrived armed
with a bullet blessed by Rome to do the deed. As a result, my King has
seen fit to imprison Thomas Morgan in the Bastille. And Parry is to
pay the price of his treason at Tyburn, hanging, drawing and
quartering, and so on the entire bestial procedure. So angry were the
citizens that they demanded a more extreme measure as if anything could
be worse! But Elizabeth said the usual methods would suffice.
It grieves me that I can only be the bearer of such unhappy tidings.
May God be your comfort.
Mary laid the letter down. Her heart was pounding. She felt trapped
in a new and subtle way now; she could be blamed by any madman pointing
a finger at her and implicating her in these wild schemes. It seemed
that assassination fever was sweeping the land.
Do I read this second letter? she thought. She remembered Paulet's
expression of triumph. Both letters must somehow be to her misfortune.
With trembling fingers she pulled out the second document and began
reading.
To the Most High and Mighty Prince, Elizabeth: It having been
considered and examined at length, it has been concluded by us that the
Association desired by our mother, in which we might rule jointly, is
neither right nor desirable to us. Therefore we deem it to our
pleasure that such Association should neither be granted nor spoken of
hereafter.
James VI, by the grace of God King of Scotland.
Official copy certified by Cecil, Lord Burghley & Francis Walsingham
principal secretary. March 2, 1585.
Mary let out a moan and the paper dropped from her hand.
James repudiated her utterly, and had not even the courage or filial
kindness to write directly to her himself. He was almost nineteen now
Damley's age when she had met him, and his father's son indeed.
NINETEEN
The sea wind was filled with stinging salt, and assaulted the leathery
cheeks of Gilbert Gifford as he stood at the rail of the merchant ship
plying the heaving sea between France and England. The ship rolled up
and down, in and out of the troughs of waves, and few of the passengers
were not seasick, but Gifford had always prided himself on having the
stomach of a merman. He could eat food that was tainted, could drink
beer that was spoiled, and never even have a rumble in his stomach. It
was a blessing from God, thought the renegade Catholic.
Oh, there were so many blessings from God, he thought, counting them.
There was, first and foremost, his heritage an ancient and honourable
Catholic family from Staffordshire. There were his relatives his
slippery brother George and his fiery uncle William, all active in the
band of permanent exiles that had set up shop in Paris and lived in a
fevered dream world of restoring England to the True Faith. Yes, a man
should have a mission, no matter how farfetched.
He, Gilbert, had flirted with the True Faith all his life. What an
ordeal, to feel called and yet not called! At length he had had
himself ordained a deacon at Reims, after a trip to Rome. But the
robes had not exactly fit. Meanwhile, his uncle William was embroiled
in the nasty strife between the regular priests and the Jesuits, all
wanting to save England. Gilbert had hied himself to Paris and offered
his services to the "regular" priests there, all of whom were swarming
around the Queen of Scots' little embassy like wasps around a sweet
cake. It was a hive of conspiracy and grandiose plans. Quickly he had
ingratiated himself with Thomas Morgan, the ambassador's cipher clerk,
and Charles Paget, his assistant. Oh, it was a fine life, as it turned
out; much more gratifying and exciting than praying and reading. And
that was another blessing: to have found work he enjoyed.
And he did enjoy it. The ciphers. The whispers. The smuggled money.
The danger. Poor old Morgan had run afoul of that. One of the
assassins he had supported, a Dr. Parry, had been apprehended in
England before he could kill Queen Elizabeth, and now Morgan was
languishing in prison the Bastille. But it was not an arduous
imprisonment, and he carried on his plotting from there with little
interruption. This plotting was something that got into a man's blood,
evidently. Life was dull without it. Even Gilbert, in the heat of the
moment, had been sworn into an assassination plot against Elizabeth
with his uncle and a soldier appropriately named Savage. But it had
fizzled out.
Thomas Morgan remained adamant that Mary Queen of Scots should be
rescued, and England re-Catholicized. Now Gilbert was carrying letters
from him to her, vouching for him as a trustworthy carrier and
messenger, in an attempt to reopen her lines of communication. She had
been held incommunicado for several months, ever since she had been
transferred to her new overseer, Paulet. But there must be a way to
get around him and his strictures. The Catholics in the area would
have means, and Gilbert knew them from his boyhood, and was trusted by
them.
It should be an exciting few months, until he tired of it. He was
thankful he had not been ordained a full priest, now that it was
treason for any priest to set foot in England. Yes, the war was
heating up; even the tolerant Elizabeth had passed severe measures to
protect the national religion.
Did he care if England became Catholic again? Honestly, in his soul?
He asked himself that question, as he clung to the rail and rode the
sea like a man on a bucking horse.
Well, it would be nice .... It would be fitting to return to the old
way.
But do you care, truly? he asked himself. Does it matter to you if
it's English or Latin that rises above the altar in a plainsong chant?
More to the point, do you care if it's the Lord's Supper or the
Eucharist? What do you think of it as?
I don't, he answered. But I like working for a cause; it's more
exciting than mending shoes or tending the sick.
He could see the coastline of England ahead. It would not be long
now.
The ship had docked at Rye, a small port in Sussex, avoiding Dover. The
shoals were tricky here, and often there were sandbanks and hidden
currents. But their landing was safe, and Gilbert gathered up his
things and stepped ashore, feeling invigorated. He carried little, to
avoid any suspicion or searching. Just the letters.
As he was making his way through the dock area, past the wharves and
warehouses, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"You have not passed through our inspection booth," a voice was saying,
and Gilbert found himself staring into the face of one of the Queen's
customs officers. "Come, sir!"
"I beg your pardon," said Gilbert smoothly, "I did not see any booth,
nor did the captain instruct me to search for it, as I carry no goods.
I am just a simple passenger."
"Passenger? On business?"
"No, just a native son returning to his home." He managed to sigh. "I
have grown so homesick, and my mother "
"Where were you abroad?"
There was no safe answer. The Netherlands harbored exiles, as did
France. Rome was suspicious, as was Spain. "Paris," he finally said.
Paris could be anything one wanted: school, service to the French
court, culture, women, mercenaries.
"Where's your passport?"
Dutifully, Gilbert presented it. It was all in order; nothing was
forged.
"Signed by Walsingham," the customs man said.
"But it does not say what his business is," said his associate. "How
long have you been in Paris?" he queried Gilbert.
Before he could answer, they grabbed him and began searching him. They
seized his pouch of personal goods. The letters had been hidden
between layers of the leather. But their expert fingers felt the extra
thickness, and a knife flashed in the dull afternoon light and slashed
open the secret pocket.
"So!" They pulled out the documents. "Something to the Queen of
Scots! I think you'd best tell your tale to Secretary Walsingham,
friend."
Although it was only midafternoon, in the short December day Walsingham
had already lit a candle on his desk and now he stared, unblinking, at
Gilbert across from him. The light, yellow itself, made Walsingham's
skin look even sallower than usual. He looked at his quarry with dark,
shiny eyes, moving only them and not his head as he appraised him.
It had the desired effect. Gilbert grew nervous, and began to
squirm.
Verily the man does look like a Spaniard, Gilbert thought. So dark and
saturnine. And still. Utterly still, and waiting. They say Philip of
Spain is the same way. Quiet, calm, always in control.
Why doesn't he speak1, thought Gilbert.
Still Walsingham continued staring. He folded his hands like a man who
deliberates upon everything. Outside, Gilbert could hear the cries of
the London street vendors, calling about Christmas.
"So you are a spy for Morgan and the Queen of Scots," said Walsingham
in a flat, even tone.
"No, not a spy! I was returning home to Staffordshire, and Morgan
asked me to carry a simple letter!" He smiled what he hoped was a
convincing, disarming smile. I'm just a simple country boy, he hoped
to convey. I know nothing of these matters.