The Spymaster's Daughter (30 page)

Frances stood and approached her father for his blessing, which he gave somewhat hurriedly. He was heavy-lidded, his eyes sunken; he looked inexpressibly tired. His sickness could come upon him again at any time.

She did not look at Robert. If she saw coldness in his face, she could not bear it.

“Attend me,” Mr. Secretary commanded, and every intelligencer crowded about him and the table upon which he'd spread a crudely drawn map. “What I am about to speak, let no one breathe outside this office on pain of most wrathful death.” He paused and looked into every startled face before continuing. “We have recently had great intelligence from our people at the Plough Inn, especially my man Bernard Maude, who has gained the confidence of the plotters. He reports that they plan to free the Scots queen and assassinate Her Majesty Elizabeth. The exact dates are closely held by a very few men. Assassination is what they have always wanted, but now they plan to do it soon, perhaps in the next weeks…or days. You see the import of this news.”

Phelippes shifted his feet and Frances saw others swallow hard. But each bowed, indicating that they knew very well.

“Pauley, here,” continued Walsingham, laying a hand on Robert's shoulder in fatherly pride, “has developed a plan to prevent Mary Stuart from escaping Chartley and save us from popery, while we keep the treasonous young cockerels checked at the inn. The plan is a dangerous one…most perilous.”

Frances felt her heart beat faster. Had Robert agreed to put himself in danger to regain her father's confidence?

Robert's face showed nothing.

Walsingham took a deep breath and continued. “We knew
that the Scots queen was planning something, but she has grown ever more cautious. What we are intercepting are messages meant to calm us into believing that she has abandoned any thought of escape or raising a rebellion. There has been no word to Sir Anthony Babington, who is the prime conspirator. Yet the Catholic plotters remain at the inn day and night awaiting her messages. Why? They are certainly not there to faithfully fill her orders for new night shifts….” His face turned a deeper red and he added the familiar “That devilish woman!”

The intelligencers shifted their feet and nodded politely.

“She has obviously found a second and better way to get her messages out to Chateauneuf in London and to Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris. Pauley will tell you the rest, as much as he can. Remember you are sworn to strictest silence.”

Robert stepped to Walsingham's side and pointed to the map. “The Scots queen is here at Chartley, the Earl of Essex's manor in Staffordshire. She is in need of a different cipher she can feel secure in using for her new escape plans. She will fear to use the one she has been using now for too long. This new cipher will be delivered to her from the nearby town of Burton by a Catholic sympathizer, who is willing to risk all for her…and for a hefty purse. She would never trust him unless he was bought with her gold. This brewer and real traitor is currently residing in luxury at the Tower of London.”

Every man laughed.

Not laughing, Frances briefly felt again the cold, wet stone corridors and slimy steps that led to the cells below, where all hope died slowly and painfully. Unable to keep an urgent question to herself, Frances interrupted, “But won't Mary's supporters know you are not the real brewer and…”

Robert's urgent voice broke into her warning. “I will pose as this brewer's brother. I can be convincing, since I was once a brewer's apprentice. I will deliver a cask of ale to Mary that contains a
new cipher from her London conspirators; then I will take away an empty cask with her reply…in the bunghole. Even her strict keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, the man Queen Elizabeth has assigned to be her jailer, must not suspect this deception. He will want to deliver the cask, and Mary will never trust anything that comes from his hand.” Robert paused to take breath. “She will trust me…I pray.”

“Aye,” Phelippes said, slapping one palm against the other, “the trap has its bait. The plot is just venal and complex enough to intrigue that queen.”

Walsingham nodded, his eyes gleaming. “We will put the plan into play immediately. She has other means of getting messages out. We must divert her to ours as the safest. In that way, we can have complete knowledge of her plans and
in her own
hand
.” His voice grew husky as if the words caught in his throat. “We must have such direct proof before our queen will order Mary's death. Pauley, when can you leave for the north?”

“Tonight, Mr. Secretary.”

“Good! I must depart for the queen's progress to advise her of this plan and other state matters.”

After hearty congratulations and manly shoulder slapping and punching, Robert received a purse of gold for expenses and left quickly.

A
s he reached the door, he turned for one last look and saw fear for him writ clearly on Frances's face.

An hour later, Robert heard an insistent knock on the door of his lower-floor rooms, and knew who would be on the other side. “Come.”

The latch was raised and Frances stepped inside. He had stoked the sea-coal fire in the grate, hoping the warmth was a sign of his welcome.

“Robert.”

“Yes, Frances.”

“Take me with you.”

He was not terribly surprised by her words. They, too, were half anticipated, along with the strength he would need to deny her this desire…or anything.

When she spoke, the word was not a command, but a humble request in her most courteous and pleasing voice. “Please.”

What could he say? Not that it was his earnest desire to take her away forever. Never the truth between them. Instead, he said, “The danger is far too great.”

“Hear me, Robert.” When he did not object, she explained what he had already guessed. “The queen is gone on her progress, leaving me behind to do the intelligencer work I begged for. My father is joining her with dispatches from the Earl of Leicester in Holland. No one will miss me.”

Robert continued to speak not a word, his face set.

She stumbled on: “I will give out that I have taken to my bed with a woman's complaint.” She closed the distance between them to an arm's length. “I broke the cipher. I have earned the right to be a part of this important plan.”

Robert shook his head hard, so near was he to being drawn into her wishes. “Such is unthinkable, my lady! Your father would never allow it.”

“But you could.”

His face softened as did his voice, deep and calm. “I could never in this life put you in the path of such danger.”

She had first seen such tenderness when he held his guitar on their trip from Barn Elms, and next seen when he had knelt to hold her after Jennet's imprisonment in the Tower. Still, his reason had not dissuaded her.

“How could you alone make the deliveries to the Scots queen? No outside men are allowed to see her. Paulet is very firm about that rule.”

Robert turned his back on her. He knew, in frustration, she could have pounded on him with her fists. Instead she used logic, which he admired.

“If you go alone, I have great concern that something could go wrong for this important mission,” she said, hoping a reasonable response would move him. “I am greatly vexed…full of worry.”

His shoulders shook. “My lady, you are happiest when you have something to worry about.”

She could not see his face, but she knew his dark eyes flashed with amusement. Yet she was in no mood to be jollied. She would not beg. Nor would she surrender. If he did not know that, he knew nothing of her.

He was putting himself on the path of danger, yet he meant to protect her when she could help the mission succeed…. She knew she could. And she owed him for the trouble she had caused.

Still, argument was useless. How could any man, even Robert, believe that he needed a woman on a risky undertaking? “Good fortune, Robert,” she said. With no further word, Frances walked to his door, opened it, and shut it softly behind her before rushing to her chambers. She entered, calling for her maid. “Meg!”

The girl ran into her bedchamber.

“Help me, Meg, and quickly.”

“What would you have of me, mistress?”

“A lad's clothes. You must know some boy in the kitchens who is about my size.”

“Aye, mistress, but not well enough to take off his clothes.”

Frances held her temper. Everyone wanted to play the fool today. “Buy them for twice what new would cost, cap, boots, and all.” She handed Meg a gold noble. “This should buy his silence, and mind you they are clean and not lice ridden.”

Meg looked at the coin in her palm and gasped. “So much, my lady.”

“Quickly, Meg! You must be back within the half hour.”

“Faster, mistress.”

And indeed she was. “The boy's best,” she said, near out of breath. “Never worn, not even on Sundays or holidays. I told him it was for me to act as page. He thinks we are escaping the palace in disguise to meet your lover.”

Frances scarce listened, removing her own gown, kirtle, and undershifts, stepping quickly to the steel mirror. She had always thought her breasts too small, but now, donning the breeches, hose, shirt, and doublet, she was glad of their size. The doublet was large, and that hid her paps all the better. She wound her pocket about her waist, making the breeches fit well enough. She looked again into her steel mirror at her reflection. She scrubbed at her face. “I must remove all traces of the Mask of Youth and cochineal color from my lips and cheeks if I wish to be a proper servant boy. But my hair is too long; it will never remain under this cap. Meg, get the scissors, quickly.”

“Oh, nay, my lady, not your beautiful hair.”

“Quickly, Meg.”

When Frances had the scissors to hand, she held her breath, closed her eyes, and cut off one side of her hair that fell far below her shoulders, almost elbow length. “Meg,” she said, her eyes yet closed against what she must do, and to avoid the strange-appearing boy in her mirror, “you cut the rest, and do not be timid.”

“The same all round, mistress?”

“Aye, Meg. Do it.”

The scissors made cutting sounds, and hair fell against Frances's hands as they were clasped tight in her lap. When Meg ceased, Frances opened her eyes. She was transformed indeed. Before her sat a boy, not full-grown to man size, but tall and long limbed, with one hose falling down to wrinkles, as with most boys. She reached for her hair, curling up now with the weight of it reduced. She donned the cap and stared into the mirror, scarce recognizing the smooth-faced boy staring back at her. Without her gown and shifts,
she looked taller and much thinner, perhaps not strong enough to be a brewer's boy.

Meg eyed her. “My lady, do not walk so confidently, or someone will notice that your face is not bearded, though your height declares you to be nigh to a man.”

Frances nodded. “Thank you, Meg. Now, take you to a wig maker in London and have a wig made of this hair, a wig like the queen's, with ringlet curls placed in a large bun on either side.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“If there is inquiry made while I am gone, give out that I am abed with my monthly flux.”

“How long will you be away?”

“It could be a fortnight.”

“I'd better add another flux.”

Frances smiled at her quick wit. “As you will, but do not allow anyone to come in to see me.”

“Measles, then.”

“Aye, but doing well enough. I don't want alarm to spread among the servants of the palace.”

“I will take great care, mistress.”

Frances reached into her pocket and retrieved a coin. “Give this to your mother for her babes.”

Meg looked her thanks, then showed it: “Let me go with you to the stables so that we look a very maid and her lover.”

Frances smiled her gratitude. “You are experienced, Meg?”

The girl shrugged. “Perhaps, mistress.”

The maid and boy left Frances's chambers arm in arm, moving along the hall quickly to the kitchen stairs. Everyone glanced up at them, but quickly back to their supper dishes without lingering interest.

They made their way to the stables, where Frances saw a heavy brewer's cart drawn up in the yard, four great black sturdy and dependable Percheron horses dozing with their heads down,
twitching away flies. Meg went on to distract the stablemen while Frances climbed across the tailgate and slid her slender body between the barrels. It was too late to change her mind; nor did she want to, though, to her surprise, her hands shook. She gripped the boards tighter. She had not long to wait.

“I'm off, lads.” It was Robert's voice. “Did you give these horses feed? Water?”

“Aye,” came the answer from the stables.

“What are their names?” Robert asked the stableman.

“The lead horses are Quint and Claudius. The wheel horses are Marcus and Colby. But your barrels are empty, Master Pauley. Why do you need four dray horses for so light a load?”

Robert raised his whip. “The barrels won't remain empty.”

“So you'll have drink on that dry road.”

“Aye, but first I'll stop at every inn along the way,” Robert said cheerfully, to the stablemen's laughter.

“Quint! Claudius!”

Frances heard the slap of reins and the wagon jerked forward, bouncing her between two rows of barrels, though she had little room to move. She clung to the loosely fitted bottom boards of the dray, which allowed her fingers just enough purchase, and wondered how many bruises, if not broken bones, she would collect through her thin boy clothes, though the wool was woven thick enough to make her itch. Fortune must be with her. God's grace, the ale barrels were well lashed and did not roll atop her.

Questions raced through her mind, and she damned herself for not thinking of them before. What if the Scots queen's men had a spy in Walsingham's office? It was possible, though her father was careful, very careful of new men. If Robert's mission was known, there could be an attack anywhere along the road.