The Spymaster's Daughter (18 page)

She walked to Phelippes's desk, withdrawing the cipher and her deciphered copy from her stomacher. She laid both on his table.

“The Scots queen is deep in a plot, Master Phelippes.”

“Let's see what you have for me, Lady Frances. Pauley, bring a chair for my lady.”

When she was seated, Robert produced a small glass of ale and placed it by her hand. The chief cipher clerk stared at her written words, his lips moving. “Excellent…excellent. My lady, you do have the brain of an intelligencer. Mr. Secretary would be proud.”

“Master Phelippes, such knowledge might worry him and aggravate his kidneys.” She wanted her father to be proud, but it satisfied her that his chief secretary admired her work. And Robert. He was smiling at her. Yes, he truly knew what this triumph meant to her; he was the one person in the world who did. She felt less alone for his regard.

“Pauley, put more men to watch the Plough. Now is the time to get a man deep inside the group—Bernard Maude is a good choice…and he must let it be known that he is sympathetic to Mary Stuart. Maude should be to Temple Bar, close to the Inn, within the hour.”

“I saw my lady break the cipher and sent our agents an hour ago…Maude for the inside and another to watch Maude,” Robert answered.

“Good man.”

Phelippes slapped the table, his blond hair still unruly from sleep, his face grim. “Mary Stuart will not escape us this time. This cipher will convince the queen, else I will…” He stopped short of finishing the thought and looked up as if remembering Frances of a sudden.

Will…what?
she wondered. “What would it take, Master Phelippes, to convince Her Majesty to…” She could not say the words
order a queen's death
, but that was Phelippes's intent, she was certain, and no doubt her father's as well.

He shuffled paper sheets on his table and pretended not to hear her.

Apparently, the next move was not for her to know just yet, and so she did not press him. “Do you have another cipher for me?” she asked.

“Not now, my lady, but soon. Please go about the court as if you know nothing. If we have a traitor in these offices or close, he must not be aware that we have any knowledge of him.”

Or
her
, she thought, unable to remove the idea of Jennet's clinging to the old religion.

She nodded, hiding her fears for Jennet. “Knowing nothing, Master Phelippes, will take no great ability. What do I know of what you plan?” Trying not to show her true disappointment, Frances stared at Robert. His answering look said without words to press the matter no further.

Robert opened the door for her, whispering, “Well-done, Frances. Phelippes is impressed.”

“Not as much as I wished.”

“Have patience. I will speak for you. For now, we must find our traitor.”

She looked up into his face, his strong features lit by lantern light. He was her friend, but he was a man, too, with a man's limited expectation of women. “I will earn a position here, Robert.”
She saw he believed her and that he was troubled by the knowledge.

Frances left him and hastened to her apartment. “Aunt,” she called, and Jennet appeared, also dressed and holding Frances's cloak.

“Have you been abroad this morn, Jennet?” Frances asked.

“Why would I be abroad on a cold morn when I have no business?”

“Last night, then?”

“Do you now think me a layabout woman?”

Frances had no answer without revealing why she asked. “Jennet, I must be with the queen.”

Her aunt did not question Frances further, as she once would have done. There was a new understanding between them. They were less than they had been, and Frances regretted that, though it gave her more freedom.

“You will need your warm cloak, niece. The tennis court will be cold, and the winter garden is frosty and swept with icy breezes.”

Obviously Jennet had overheard all of Essex's conversation last night, and Frances wondered what more she had heard, or seen, or guessed. She huddled inside the cloak, allowing Jennet to presume nothing. “Aunt, please accompany me to the royal chambers. I will feel easier for your presence.”

“Sensible,” said Jennet. “It is not wise for even married women to be in public alone, lest there be risk of rude talk.”

Frances smiled, not as angered by Jennet's lapse into needless instruction as she once would have been.

Jennet left her with Her Majesty's other ladies of the presence gathered in the antechamber under the arras and a huge, overbearing portrait of the queen's father amid a cloud of varying scents. In minutes the gentlemen pensioners opened the wide double doors and the queen stepped from her privy chamber, faultless in dress, every feather, fur, and jewel catching and holding the light.

Frances sank into a low curtsy as the queen moved into the corridor behind gentlemen pensioners, drummers and trumpeters making way for her. Elizabeth demanded ceremony. No subject within her sight was allowed to forget for one moment that she was queen of these isles.

Frances Sidney could not help but admire Her Majesty. She followed at the rear of the royal entourage and longed for some of the queen's power to rearrange the world. She would elevate Robert to be her chief councilor. She smiled at the idea of always having a friend by her side, one who never scolded, except with good humor.

The entourage moved slowly from the palace into the Thames-side gardens lined with paths of different-colored sands, newly raked before the queen's morning passage. She came to her gardens early most mornings in summer, bringing her shears and a copy of
The Gardener's Labyrinth
with the newly added section on grafting.

Today, some palace gardeners worked between the parterres and fountains. The peach and apricot trees espaliered against warm redbrick walls had lost their leaves, but a few leaves still hung on a row of rosebushes inside the privet hedges. A lone, withered damask rose clung to a branch. The queen snipped it off and held it to her nose.

The Earl of Essex rushed up out of the tennis court and knelt before the queen, kissing her hem. “My lord, you did not attend me this morn,” she said. Her voice was mockingly angry, but her smile was not. She swatted his head with the rose, and its aging petals fell about his shoulders. He plucked a petal off his cloak and, with his handsome young face smiling up at her, ate it, smacking his lips.

The queen smiled at him and playfully swatted him again, this time with her feather fan. All the ladies laughed in their turn. Essex was amusing when he chose to be. There was nothing of the
drunken bad boy about him today, nor any sign he had been deep in his cups not hours earlier.

Her Majesty was still smiling as she passed into the tennis court and took her seat. Essex removed his doublet and laid it on the queen's lap to hold for him. It was a brash move, which could have earned him an angry tongue-lashing, but the queen's humor was high, and she laughed at the impetuous earl and waved him to the tennis court like the naughty boy she liked to think him.

Wondering about the queen's feelings for Essex, whether motherly or womanly or a confusion of both, Frances took a seat on the benches behind the queen with the other ladies. They all waited for the Earl of Essex's next outrage, since he seemed to have no sense of when enough was enough. The striped wooden floor of the tennis court lay below them, well lit with many lanterns and torches.

Frances had never seen a game of tennis, although she had a vague knowledge of the complex rules. Sir Walter Raleigh stood at the far end, his pointed beard and hair immaculately groomed, himself mature and handsome, a dark contrast to his opponent. Raleigh moved within the court opposite Essex. Both the players and their people bowed low before the queen in her high-backed chair. She waved her kerchief, signaling the game to begin.

Frances was surprised to see Robert standing courtside in front of the Essex attendants. As if to mock Frances, Essex shouted,
“Tenez!”
and ordered Robert to toss the ball. Essex needed a server in imitation of the queen's father. King Henry had not tossed his own ball, and neither could this earl be expected to toss a ball for himself. Essex did nothing without calculation. Was he comparing himself to a king for Elizabeth? Or punishing the common man who thwarted an earl's desire? Frances strained forward to look at Robert's face. He showed nothing of what he felt. He was a perfect intelligencer even when away from her father's offices.

Again, Frances leaned forward, this time to see the queen's face. At times she delighted in the earl's antics, at other times not at all. This time Elizabeth's face showed her attention, but nothing of what she thought, which might be more dangerous. Or might not. The queen herself had an intelligencer's face when she wished.

Raleigh threw off his embroidered doublet, which was even more magnificent than the earl's. His fine linen shirt was open to the waist, and some of the queen's ladies gasped at so much bare male chest and dark hair.

Sir Walter was known to spend fortunes on clothes, fortunes won from his piratical voyages to the New World that few nobles could match with their estate rents. Certainly not Essex, who was deep into debt, and owed the queen; his stepfather, the Earl of Leicester; and half the lenders at the Royal Exchange.

“Toss it well, churl,” Essex called to Robert, loud enough to force a frown from Frances. She quickly made a blank of her face, since several ladies turned to see the effect of the earl's behavior on her.

Body erect, head high, Robert made a perfect toss, which Essex hit with his sheep-gut-strung racket against the three-sided penthouse behind Raleigh, who hit the ball back hard in his turn, and the game was on.

Frances did not know all the rules, but she could see that they were complex and open to argument from the followers of each player.

The queen applauded at every return, choosing no favorite. “Lady Sidney,” Elizabeth said without turning to her, “my father built this court and played the game well…never losing.”

“Yes, your grace, his skill remains legend.”

A triumphant shout went up from the bystanders at both ends of the court. Raleigh had hit a very hard ball that bounced against the penthouse behind Essex and bounded almost to the center line toward Essex. For any other man, the point would have been lost,
but his long legs stretched to reach the ball and pound it back toward Raleigh.

Essex shouted his triumph too soon. Raleigh returned the ball with equal vigor, advancing toward the middle line, menacing the earl's return. Frances could see that Essex was troubled. She knew that his pride would not allow him to lose in front of the queen. What would he do?

The returns of the hair-stuffed leather ball became harder and harder, both men taking chances. Essex had the advantage of legs that propelled him across the court with seeming ease. Raleigh had a steady maturity and broad-shouldered strength, which allowed him to make fewer rash moves. His very steadiness angered Essex into more reckless play that slowly put him on the losing side.

Angrily, he pointed to Robert and shouted, “Cripple-leg, Raleigh has paid you to ruin my game! Your toss is too high, intending for me to lose. Down on your knees and toss the ball well this time, or suffer mightily for it.”

Frances held her breath. Robert was always in control of his temper, but Essex sorely tempted him beyond what a proud man should be expected to bear. Robert said nothing; nor did he comply with the earl's demand. Instantly, he turned his back on Essex and walked slowly toward the nearest door.

The queen's ladies gasped. Essex's face turned a dark, angry red and he grabbed up his sword, unsheathing it as he ran after Robert.

Her Majesty watched intently, as if in her great hall being entertained by her favorite comic actor, Will Kempe, dancing a wild jig.

Essex reached Robert at the moment he turned to meet the onslaught. His voice rang through the tennis court. “My lord, you have the advantage of me in rank and weapon, but such behavior shames you and I will not be party to it. I acted as your server for the sake of Mr. Secretary and Lady Sidney. But I am their man, never yours to ill use.”

The earl, who had taken a step back, raised his sword. His face twisted with fury, his mouth gaping. “You will pay with your life—”

The queen rose to her feet. She stalked toward Essex, her eyes darkly terrible in their anger. “Hold! Dare you to draw a weapon in the presence of your queen?”

Arm raised, the earl froze at the sound of her voice, his face flaming as he saw Frances run to stand in front of Robert, her arms spread wide, protecting him.

The queen's voice raged over all. “My lord Essex, attend me at once!”

He sank to his knees. Regaining his voice from a heaving chest, he said, “Majesty, allow me to explain—”

“Attend me, my lord, without words.
Now!
” The queen's command was not to be denied, and Essex trailed after her like a whipped dog.

Two strong hands on her shoulders moved Frances aside.

“I do not need a woman for shield,” Robert said, his voice not angry, but worse, cold and without friendship.

“I—I am sorry. I could not stand by.”

“Why?”

She stammered out a few words. “I—I don't know.”

“Don't you?”

“Truly, Robert. I feared for your life. I did not think—”

“Always a problem, my lady,” he said, leaving her with those words.

A broadly smiling Lady Stanley approached Frances as she reluctantly joined the other ladies at the end of the queen's entourage. “Lady Frances, you do appear to be the center of all excitement these days. Sweet Jesu, the court cannot allow a day to go by without another whispered tale of your exploits. This one between the earl and your servant will last a fortnight.”

Frances pressed her lips together, saying nothing, her ruff
hiding her reddening neck. She nodded slightly and continued walking.