Her Last Assassin (29 page)

‘I do indeed,’ she agreed. ‘You and the council advised me that he could prove a useful tool in our fight against Spain. But so far he has been nothing but an expense on our throne. If Don Antonio is demanding more money, he can go whistle for it in the streets. I do not care if the man is destitute, I shall not grant him a penny further until he can prove his worth to us.’

‘He is not destitute, though near to it,’ Burghley told her drily, ‘but that is not why I mention him. The council has had intelligence of another Portuguese gentleman living within the walls of London, a rogue called Ferreira who was once in Don Antonio’s pay. It seems he has turned his coat and now offers his services to Philip as a spy – and possibly a murderer.’

She frowned. ‘And this has become common knowledge?’

‘It seems he fled from his master once his treachery had been uncovered. Now he takes refuge in a Portuguese home in Holborn. But his secret is known only to a few, and we would like it to remain so. With the mood of the people so ugly these days, their hand turned against any foreigner whom they suspect of treason, we would risk Ferreira being killed on the streets if his guilt became more widely known.’ He hesitated, glancing at her. ‘Lord Essex feels this matter is worth investigating further. He would like a warrant to arrest Ferreira quietly, take him back to his master Don Antonio in Eton, and question him.’

‘Why does Lord Essex wish to take this traitor all the way back to Don Antonio? If the man is already in London, surely Robert could question him more conveniently at Essex House?’

Burghley cleared his throat delicately. ‘It appears my lord Essex has little command of the Portuguese tongue, and Ferreira is not exactly fluent in English. His lordship believes that Don Antonio will be able to provide a translator for this interview.’

She smiled grimly. ‘So this move is not part of Robert’s homespun campaign against the Spanish, a sop to placate Don Antonio who no doubt wishes to have this fellow thrashed and decked in chains?’

‘I could not pass comment on Lord Essex’s motives, Your Majesty. But I do believe we need to take this seriously. Ferreira may already have passed information to King Philip about our defences, even if he has no other information to give. Also, we need to discover whether he has acted alone, or if there is a nest of traitors involved in his plot to betray and possibly murder Don Antonio, whom – we should not forget – England has been supporting in his claim to the throne of Portugal.’

‘A nest?’

Burghley hesitated. His face was troubled. ‘I have not mentioned this to you before, Your Majesty. But there is a troubling connection between this man Ferreira and your royal personage.’

Their horses had walked side by side into the palace courtyard, and through the arched gateway into the inner court. She dismounted, aided by two gentlemen of the stables, just as the rest of the cavalcade filed through the gates, the clatter of the horses’ hooves echoing noisily throughout the courtyard.

‘How so?’ she demanded coldly, preceding her secretary into the chilly maze of corridors that led to the Great Hall.

Courtiers fell to their knees as she passed, their heads respectfully bent, muttering, ‘Your Majesty.’

She ignored them, worrying away at what Burghley had said. They passed through the busy Presence Chamber, crowded with courtiers hoping to put their petitions before her or present their young sons and daughters, but she did not stop until she was safely inside the Privy Chamber and had signalled the doors to be closed against the noise and bustle of the mob outside.

‘I am almost afraid to disclose it, Your Majesty,’ Burghley said quietly, going straight to the hearthside and pouring them both a cup of warm, spiced wine from the jewelled flagon waiting there.

She stripped off her gloves and took the cup from him, inhaling the fragrant warmth of the wine.

‘Speak, old friend, and do not fear reprisals for being the bearer of bad tidings,’ Elizabeth told him impatiently, and met his eyes with candour. ‘I may be famed for my ill temper, and rightly so, but you are exempt from its worst ravages. Besides, after thirty-five years’ service to my throne, surely there can be no need for such caution on your part?’

‘Very well, Your Majesty. The house where this traitor Ferreira took refuge,’ he murmured, ‘is the home of Rodriguez Lopez, your personal physician, who is himself a Portuguese Jew – though he calls himself a Christian.’

Late that evening, fetched to the palace from his London home, Master Lopez was escorted into the Privy Chamber, flanked by four guardsmen with pikes as though she was at risk from this old man.

‘You are dismissed,’ Elizabeth told the guards, and they withdrew, bowing, though she noticed with some irritation that the men glanced at Lord Burghley and his son Robert Cecil for confirmation before backing away.

She remained standing to question her physician, as was her custom in the public chambers, for she disliked being considered weak. Catching Cecil’s astute glance, she nodded briskly to Lopez, who had served as her doctor for many years and been more intimate with her than any other living man in England.

Master Lopez stared about the room in despair, as though fearing he had been condemned without trial. His sombre black robes declared his profession as physician, while a large silver cross hanging from his neck proclaimed him a Christian. His skin was dark, swarthy rather than olive, his eyes a deep nut-brown, and his features were markedly Jewish. She had never considered his personal history before, having once satisfied herself that he was a Christian. Now though she looked at her physician with fresh eyes, wondering if Burghley and Essex could be mistaken in their suspicions.

Surely they
must
be mistaken, though. Master Lopez had attended her for years without causing her or any other person in her household harm. Why would this Portuguese gentleman, having been well rewarded with wealth and respect, suddenly cast aside his many years of loyal service to the English crown to bow the knee to a Spanish king whose claim to Portugal’s throne was tenuous and unpopular?

It made no sense whatsoever.

But no doubt Essex was hungry for success in his long fruitless hunt for a traitor in her household, she thought grimly. She recalled a short comedy presented before her the previous year, entitled
A Knack to Know a Knave
. She now wished fervently that she possessed such a knack. But lacking it, she must make do with asking questions instead.

‘Come forward, Senhor Lopez,’ she ordered him coolly. ‘Do not look so afraid. You are not on trial here, nor accused of anything. I merely wish to address a few questions to you on the subject of your recent guest, Senhor Ferreira.’

Senhor Lopez came forward, cap in hand, and fell to his knees before her. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me,’ he began, his hands clasped together, his face upturned in the firelight. ‘I am a foolish old man. I took Senhor Ferreira into my home because he was a fellow country man who came to my door in the middle of the night, with a tale of having been turned out in the winter cold by his master over some misunderstanding. I had no knowledge that he was a traitor to the most excellent Don Antonio, nor to England, a country I have made my home these past thirty years and would protect with my life. I swear there is nothing sinister behind my sheltering of this man, Your Majesty. My only sin was an excess of charity which I now bitterly regret.’

She listened in silence to this impassioned speech, then asked, ‘I am told you are no Christian, as I was led to believe when you first joined my household, but in fact a Jew.’

‘Not true! I swear by Almighty God that I am a good and devout Christian like yourself.’ Her Portuguese physician crossed himself, then lifted the silver cross at his neck and touched it most reverently to his lips. ‘I was born and brought up in Christianity by my enlightened parents, and am a true believer in Jesus Christ. I call on His most holy and precious blood to open the eyes of those who have wrongly accused me. May I die a thousand deaths in Hell if I have in any way wronged or deceived you, Your Majesty. I am your faithful servant, and no traitor.’

Elizabeth studied him thoughtfully. She did not believe he was a traitor. But as Burghley had suggested, the old man might have been led astray by promises of great rewards if he lent his support to the Spanish cause instead of his adopted country, England. And he did look like a Jew. Those who outwardly professed Christianity but practised their Jewish faith in secret were known as Marranos. Could he be one of those?

Lord Burghley stirred and came forward into the light, as though concerned that her questioning was not stringent enough. ‘This is a Christian country, sir, and a Protestant one. If you are racked and found to be a Marrano and a traitor to your queen, you will die a traitor’s death on the scaffold.’ He waited, but the old man said nothing, staring up at his accuser in horror. ‘Best to confess your crimes now and beg for leniency.’

‘My lord, I have no crimes to confess,’ Lopez answered him, still on his knees. He turned his grey head back towards Elizabeth, and she saw terror in his face. ‘Please, Your Majesty, spare my life. I have done nothing but take in a man from the cold of whose good character I felt assured. Indeed, I still cannot believe Senhor Ferreira to be a traitor to his master and his country. Why would he betray a nobleman who may yet, God willing, rightfully ascend the throne of Portugal?’

She nodded, and looked at Lord Burghley. ‘I have heard enough, my lord, and am convinced this man has no guilt to answer. Let him return to his duties and his home unmolested.’

‘But, Your Majesty, Senhor Lopez gave succour to a suspected traitor, a man who may well prove to be one of King Philip’s assassins …’ Robert Cecil stared at her, aghast, his voice only falling into silence when his father placed a cautious hand on his arm.

She heard the incredulity in the young man’s voice, but would not relent. ‘Closely question this Senhor Ferreira to discover the truth, as you would any other suspected traitor, and bring your findings before me. But I will brook no more false accusations against my physician. Is that understood?’

Lopez had begun to tremble, no doubt with relief that he was not about to be dragged away to prison and a traitor’s death.

‘I thank you, Your Majesty,’ he managed hoarsely, settling his black velvet cap back on his head as he attempted to compose himself. ‘I knew your mercy and compassion would save me. You are indeed the wisest prince in Europe, a most gracious and Christian queen.’

‘You may leave us, Senhor,’ she told him, her tone not altogether friendly, ‘though in future, you would be better advised to bar your door against those of your countrymen who would trespass against your hospitality.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he whispered, and promptly withdrew, bowing so low his cap tumbled off and he had to snatch it up from the rushes. ‘May the Lord bless and preserve you, Your Majesty.’

Robert Cecil hurried after him, taking his leave in a rushed manner, muttering, ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but an order was sent out to arrest Senhor Lopez’s son, who is at Winchester School. It must be rescinded at once.’

Left alone with her secretary in the Privy Chamber, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him. ‘You were having his son arrested? A schoolboy?’

Burghley had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Lord Essex thought he might be better placed to extract a confession from Lopez if his son was also in custody.’

‘I see,’ she said drily.

‘We have not acted out of malice or prejudice,’ he pointed out mildly, ‘but thought only to secure Your Majesty’s person from a suspected assassin. Senhor Ferreira was unlikely ever to gain access to the court, even in disguise, so his threat was always more to Don Antonio. But if he had been able to influence your physician into some malignant action against you, a man so intimately placed in your household—’

She held up a hand, interrupting him. ‘I understand your motives, my lord, and hold you in no less regard for your zeal in pursuing this matter. But equally it is clear that my lord Essex has not been successful in hunting down the traitor he believes to be lurking here at court, and that the unfortunate Senhor Lopez was to be his lamb to the slaughter, offered up to hide my lord’s failure.’

‘I am sure that was not his lordship’s intention, Your Majesty, any more than it was mine.’

She became stern. ‘Hear me, my lord. I shall not budge on this matter of Senhor Lopez, or not without the strongest, most irrefutable evidence against his loyalty. If you and Essex must seek a traitor at court, take care you search for him elsewhere, not among my most trusted and learned servants.’

Lord Burghley bowed. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘You will convey this instruction to Lord Essex straight away, if you please,’ she told him, then called him back when he turned to leave. Her conscience was troubling her, for she knew Essex’s temper was as sharp and easily roused as her own, and being still young, he lacked Leicester’s charm and diplomacy in times of disagreement. After today’s unsettling events, she did not have the strength to face another show of fireworks between them. ‘Wait!’

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Be sure to tell his lordship that this failure has not prejudiced my belief in his loyalty and good service to the throne. Without his vigilance, this Senhor Ferreira might have continued his treacherous schemes undetected.’ She considered for a moment. ‘Ask Lord Essex to attend me promptly tomorrow morning, if he is able to rise from his sickbed, and we shall discuss his reward.’

Some premonition flickered in Burghley’s face. He stiffened. ‘You surely do not mean to admit his lordship to the Privy Council, Your Majesty?’

‘Is it any of your concern, my lord?’ she demanded icily.

Her secretary bowed, betraying a twinge of pain. Was he unwell again? ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty. I did not mean to be impertinent. I will convey your message to his lordship tonight.’

‘Send a servant with a note,’ she told him, ‘and get you to bed. It is late.’

He smiled wearily. ‘Thank you, Your Majesty. Give you good night.’