The King's Deception (13 page)

Oxford was exactly what Matthew Arnold called it.

The city of dreaming spires.

She’d thought about Blake Antrim on the drive. The prospect of seeing him again seemed revolting. He was not a man to let go of anything. His ego was far too fragile to seek forgiveness. How many women had there been since her? Had he married? Fathered children?

Mathews had provided no relevant information on this second briefing, telling her only to head straight to the hall at Jesus College, which sat in the heart of the city, among the shops and pubs. Founded by a Welshman, but endowed by Elizabeth I, it remained the only one of Oxford’s colleges created during her reign. Small, maybe 600 students among undergraduates, graduates, and fellows. She’d always loved its unmistakable Elizabethan feel. She knew its great hall, which reminded her of the one at Middle Temple. Same rectangular shape, carved wooden screens, cartouches, and oil portraits, one of Elizabeth herself dominating the north wall above the high table. But no hammerbeam Tudor ceiling here, only plaster stretching overhead.

She’d wondered about campus access, considering it was a Friday night, but the gate at Turl and Ship streets was open, the hall lit, and a woman waited for her inside—short, petite, her graying blond hair drawn into a bun. She wore a conservative navy suit with low heels and introduced herself as Dr. Eva Pazan, providing a title, professor of history, Lincoln College, another of Oxford’s long-standing institutions.

“I actually studied at Exeter,” Pazan said, “and I understand you attended St. Anne’s.”

Both were part of Oxford’s thirty-nine. St. Anne’s had always been more open to students from a state-education background, like herself, as opposed to the private preparatory schools. Gaining admission had been one of the highlights of her life. Kathleen was curious, though, about Pazan’s age, as she knew Exeter had been all-male until 1979.

“You must have been one of the first women in?”

“I was. We were changing history.”

She wondered why she was here and Pazan seemed to sense her anxiety.

“Sir Thomas wanted me to pass on some details not provided to you in London. Information that is not written down for reasons that will become obvious. He thought I would be the best person to explain. My expertise is Tudor England. I teach that at Lincoln, but I occasionally provide historical context to our intelligence agencies.”

“And did Sir Thomas choose this locale?”

“He did, and I concurred.” Eva pointed across the hall. “The portrait there, of Elizabeth I. It was presented by the Canon of Canterbury, to the college, in 1686. It’s illustrative of what we are going to speak about.”

She glanced at the image of the queen in a floor-length dress. Geometric patterns from the puffed sleeves and kirtle complemented one another, the hem edged with pearls. Two cherubs held a wreath over Elizabeth’s head.

“It was painted in 1590, when the queen was fifty-seven years old.”

But the face was that of a much younger woman.

“That was about the time all unseemly portraits of Elizabeth were confiscated and burned. None was allowed to exist that, in any way, questioned her mortality. The man who painted this one, Nicholas Hilliard, ultimately devised a face pattern that all painters were required to follow when depicting the queen. A Mask of Youth, the Crown called it, which portrayed her as forever young.”

“I never realized she was so conscious of her age.”

“Elizabeth was quite an enigma. Her countenance was strongly marked, though always commanding and dignified. A hard swearer, coarse talker, clever, cunning, deceitful—she was truly her parents’ daughter.”

She smiled, recalling her history on Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn.

“What do you know of Elizabeth?” Eva asked.

“No more than what books and movies portray. She ruled for a long time. Never married. The last Tudor monarch.”

Eva nodded. “She was a fascinating person. She chartered this college as the first Protestant institution at Oxford. And she was
serious about that. Thirty local priests, all fellows of colleges, were executed during her reign for either practicing Catholicism or refusing to recognize her as head of the church.”

She stared again at the portrait, which now seemed more a caricature than an honest representation of a woman dead over 400 years.

“Like her father,” Eva said, “Elizabeth surrounded herself with competent, ambitious men. Unlike her father, though, she remained loyal to them all of her life. You received a preview of one earlier.”

She did not understand.

“I was told you saw a page from the coded journal.”

“But I wasn’t told who created it.”

“That journal was masterminded by Robert Cecil.”

She knew the name Cecil, one of long standing in England.

“To understand Robert,” Eva said, “you have to know his father, William.”

She listened as Eva explained how William Cecil was born to a minor Welsh family that fought alongside Henry VII, the first Tudor king. He was raised at the court of Henry VIII and educated to government. Henry VIII’s death in 1547 set in motion ten years of political turmoil. First the boy, Edward VI, reigned, then died at age 15. His half sister, Mary, daughter of Henry’s first wife, then occupied the throne. But she gained the title
bloody
because of her propensity to burn Protestants. During Mary’s five-year reign Cecil kept the young princess Elizabeth, daughter of Henry VIII’s second wife, Anne Boleyn, at his home, where she was raised away from court. In 1558, when she finally became queen, Elizabeth immediately appointed William Cecil her principal secretary, later titled secretary of state, a position that made him chief adviser, closer to her than anyone else. Her reliance and trust in Cecil never failed.
No prince in Europe hath such a counselor as I have in mine
. Over forty years Cecil was the great architect of Elizabethan reign.
I have gained more by my temperance and forebearing than ever I did by my wit
. One observer at the time noted that he
had no close friends, no inward companion as great men commonly have, nor did any other know his secrets, some noting it for a fault, but
most thinking it a praise and an instance of his wisdom. By trusting none with his secrets, none could reveal them
.

Cecil’s first son, Thomas, was more suited to soldiering than government. William himself held the work of an army in low esteem.
A reign gaineth more by one year’s peace than ten years’ war
. William eventually became high treasurer, was knighted and made a baron, Lord Burghley. He served the queen until his death in 1598 when his second son, Robert, became Lord Burghley and assumed the post as Elizabeth’s chief adviser.

“William Cecil was quite an administrator,” Eva said. “One of the best in our history. Elizabeth owes much of her success to him. He founded the Cecil barony, which still exists today. Two prime ministers have come from that family.”

“But aren’t they all Cambridge graduates?” Kathleen asked, with a smile.

“We won’t hold that against them.

“Robert Cecil was like his father,” Eva said, “but more devious. He died young, age 48, in 1612. He served Elizabeth the last five years of her reign and James I for the first nine of his, both as secretary of state. He was also James’ spymaster. He discovered the Gunpowder Plot and saved James I’s life. The great Francis Walsingham was his teacher.”

She knew that name, the man regarded as the father of British intelligence.

“Walsingham was an odd man,” Eva said. “He constantly wore dark clothes and cast himself in secrecy. He was rude and could be quite crude, but the queen valued his advice and respected his competency, so she tolerated his eccentricities. It was Walsingham who uncovered the treasonous evidence that forced Elizabeth to execute her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots. Walsingham who laid the groundwork for the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Eventually, Elizabeth knighted him. I tell you this because I want you to understand the personalities who trained Robert Cecil. Unfortunately, Robert, like his father, left few written records. So it is difficult to say exactly what Robert Cecil may or may not have known and what he truly accomplished. But there is one thing history confirms.”

She was listening.

“He ensured that James I succeeded Elizabeth.”

How all of this related to Blake Antrim escaped her, but obviously it did. Mathews had sent her here for a reason.

So she kept listening.

“Elizabeth never married and never birthed a child,” Eva said. “She was the last of five Tudor monarchs, reigning forty-five years. Toward the end everyone was nervous. Who would succeed her? There were many contenders, and the prospect of civil war loomed great. Robert Cecil made sure it would be James, the son of Elizabeth’s dead cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, now the Scottish king. There is a series of letters between Robert and James that have survived, which detail how that was accomplished. This happened between 1601 and Elizabeth’s death in 1603. The Union of Crowns, it’s called. Scotland joined with England. The beginnings of Great Britain. When James assumed both thrones, this country began to change. Forever.”

“Robert Cecil made that happen?”

“Indeed, but Elizabeth herself confirmed that.”

R
OBERT
C
ECIL AND THE LORD ADMIRAL CAME CLOSE TO THE BED
. R
OBERT
stood at the foot, the admiral and several other lords on either side
.

“Your Majesty,” the lord admiral said. “We must ask this of you. Who do you desire to succeed you?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Where yesterday they had seemed weak and near death, Robert now saw in them something of the fire this old woman had displayed before taking to her bed
.

“I tell you my seat hath been the seat of kings. I will have no rascal to succeed me, and who should succeed me but a king?”

The words were barely a whisper, but all there heard them clearly. A few of the lords appeared puzzled by the cryptic response, but Cecil understood perfectly, so he asked, “A name, Your Majesty.”

“Who but our cousin of Scotland?”

The effort seemed to tax what little strength she possessed
.

“I pray you trouble me no more,” she said
.

The lords withdrew and discussed what they’d heard. Many were unsure, as
Cecil thought would be the case. So the next day they returned to Elizabeth’s bedside with a larger, more representative group. Unfortunately, the queen’s ability to speak had waned. She was fading fast
.

Cecil bent close and said to her, “Majesty, these gentlemen require a further sign that your cousin, King James of Scotland, is your choice. I beg you to provide them that.”

Elizabeth’s eyes signaled that she understood and the men waited. Slowly, her arms rose from the sheets to her head. Her fingers joined in a circle, forming a crown, which she held there for a moment
.

No one could now argue as to her intent
.

A few hours later, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, died
.

“Cecil was ready,” Eva said. “He assembled the council and informed them of her announced choice. The witnesses who were there confirmed the truth. Then, the next morning, from Whitehall Palace, heralded by trumpets, he personally read a proclamation declaring King James VI of Scotland, James I, King of England. That same proclamation was read all over the land throughout that day. Not a word of opposition was raised. In one clean move, Robert Cecil ensured a swift, bloodless succession from a monarch who left no direct heirs. Pretty skilled, wouldn’t you say?”

“But you’re going to have to explain what all this means in relation to what Sir Thomas wants me to do.”

“I know. And I plan to. The rain seems to have finally abated outside, let’s enjoy the quad.”

They stepped from the hall into one of the college’s grassy quadrangles. Gothic buildings, most of their windows dark, enclosed them on all four sides. Darkened archways and doors led in and out. The rain was indeed gone, the night sky clear.

They were alone.

“Though both Cecils were secretive,” Eva said, “and left nearly nothing in the way of personal papers, there is one artifact from them that survived. I am told that you saw an image of it earlier.”

She recalled the page with gibberish.

“Robert’s coded notebook was preserved at Hatfield House,
where he lived until he died in 1612. Unfortunately, that original volume was stolen almost a year ago.”

One of those thefts her supervisor had described. “I was told a man named Farrow Curry may have solved the code.”

“He may have. Which is why it is imperative that you retrieve whatever data Curry may have accumulated.”

“The page I saw was incomprehensible.”

“Exactly how Cecil wanted it to be. That code has never been cracked. But we have clues as to how that might be accomplished. Would you like to see more images from the journal?”

She nodded.

“I have them inside. You wait here, and I’ll retrieve them.”

The professor turned and headed back toward the lit hall.

Kathleen heard a pop, like hands clapping.

Then another.

She turned.

A ragged hole exploded in the knit material at Eva’s right shoulder. The older woman let out a strangled grunt.

Another pop.

Blood spewed.

Eva fell forward to the stone.

Kathleen whirled and spotted the outline of a shooter on the far roof, maybe thirty meters away.

Who was readjusting his rifle’s aim.

At her.

A
NTRIM APPROACHED THE
T
OWER OF
L
ONDON
. T
HE ANCIENT
taupe-colored citadel nestled near the Thames, the picturesque Tower Bridge nearby. What was once an enormous moat encircling the fortress was now a sea of emerald grass, lit by a sodium vapor glow, that spanned a void between the imposing wall curtain and the street. A cool night breeze, which had blown away the storm, eased off the river.