The Spymaster's Daughter (20 page)

Frances nodded, knowing Dr. Dee could speak no more in public about the angel he called through an incantation with a candle before a scrying mirror. Many called it witchcraft, and he had faced harsh questioning once before, barely escaping death in Mary Tudor's reign for the burning offense. Still, Elizabeth often consulted the doctor with worrisome problems and when she wished to know the outcome of a difficult decision. No one dared accuse Her Majesty's astrologer outright, though some muttered against his ways.

“Promise you will get word to Philip in today's dispatches. With a good ship and an easterly gale, he could have it in short days.”

Dee was so obviously distressed and in earnest that Frances could not ignore his request. “I promise you, good doctor, your new chart will be in the dispatches before the Twelfth Night feast hour. Worry no longer. Philip is not foolhardy.” Perhaps in love, she thought, but surely not in battle.

“Pray it is so, since I can do no more,” Dee said, bowing, then walking quickly away, his long tattered-edged robe swirling about his legs, dragging rushes along with it.

Moving into the great hall where tables were being set for the Twelfth Night feast, Frances saw a raised dais upon which the actors in Robert Greene's
Pandosto, or, The History of Dorastus and Fawnia
were milling about.

The play was about jealousy. Essex had obviously thought it a great joke and, just perhaps, a proper lesson for a lady who was unwilling to yield to his charms. The queen must have been easily persuaded, since she, too, loved to watch a pot boil as long as its heat did not reach her. Even a little vulgarity, as long as it was witty, was tolerated in this most perfect of courts.

Looking without appearing to look, Frances saw that the lady Rich was not yet on the stage. Was she ill? Or…more like, did she intend to make an entrance suitable for a baroness and the love idol of Sir Philip Sidney, the captivating Stella?

Frances took a deep breath and advanced on the stage, composing her face into a proud mask as she went, aware that all in the room were awaiting some interesting reaction. She would tolerate neither sympathy nor derision, nor give them more to gossip about. Nor would she have it reported to Essex that his scheme had succeeded. He would get no satisfaction from Frances Sidney this Twelfth Night.

The Baroness Rich was to play Bellaria, the chaste wife of Pandosto, the king of Bohemia, falsely accused by her jealous husband of unfaithfulness with his best friend, Egistus, the king of Sicilia.

Frances, knowing how Essex had delighted in casting these roles, was assigned the part of Pandosto's faithful handmaiden, Helen, who was ordered by the king to poison Egistus and Bellaria. It was a sympathetic part, because Helen could not bring herself to do the deed, a miscalculation on Essex's part, surely.

The playwright welcomed Frances onstage and gave her a copy of the handmaiden's part writ large, a smaller role, and that sure to please the lady Rich.

They began the rehearsal without her.

“Lady Sidney,” Robert Greene told her, “you have a low, projecting, and yet agreeable voice, and it pleases me for you to read the introduction and scene changes, enhancing your small part.” He held out a half quire of paper inked with words.

“Exactly so! Give the charming Lady Sidney more speeches, or she is ill used by this play,” exclaimed a loud female voice.

Baroness Rich paused at the double carved doors, twitching at her jewels so that no one would miss them. At last she entered between bowing servants, her silver gown gold edged and hanging full about her, the gold exactly matching the shining blond of her hair. Her glowing eyes swept the great hall with slight interest until they rested on Frances. Her small smiling mouth, red against pale and perfect skin, opened in recognition. “Ah,” she said, her smile widening to show straight white teeth.

The lady's beauty was all of England's ideal of perfection. Half the women in court used every known cosmetic pigment and ass's milk to approach Stella's flawless perfection, without touching it.

Frances determined anew to stubbornly keep her black hair, even if she stood out as a crow amongst a flock of doves. If she were not herself, she was everybody and nobody.

Although Frances had seen Philip's Stella at court in earlier times, Penelope Rich's radiant face and form seemed enhanced by the babes she had birthed almost every year since then. Was she charmed, beloved of the ancient gods as well as of men?

Frances was sore-tempted to believe the woman a witch, especially since the baroness approached her deliberately, softly smiling, ignoring everyone but Frances.

“My lady Sidney, how agreeable that we meet this Twelfth Night and entertain the court together.”

Without so far uttering a word of our parts
, Frances thought. Yet it would be unthinkable to turn away from the baroness. Frances dipped a curtsy and took her outstretched hand, no doubt disappointing the onlookers, who were leaning forward eagerly, expecting delightful female combat. Frances would never give them that satisfaction.

The rehearsal was over by two of the clock, and Frances escaped, claiming urgent business with her father.

“We will meet again for the masque,” the Baroness Rich called after her.

“We will, Baroness,” Frances replied, making a hasty curtsy. She was determined to keep her mind closed to everything but her part in the play. If Lady Rich would do the same all could be well. If not…

Frances hurried away to deliver Dr. Dee's chart to her father's office before his courier departed for the coast.

Her father, finally returned from attending his hounds at Barn Elms, denied Frances entry to his office. She dared not ask for Phelippes lest she raise her father's curiosity. With Robert gone, she knew nothing of what the intelligencers were finding at the Plough Inn. She passed Dee's chart to a halberdier with instructions that it was to be included in the next diplomatic pouch.

Once back at her chambers, she opened the door, hoping to see Robert returned. Her hope proved empty. Aunt Jennet sat by the fireplace, her body rocking to and fro, her head in her hands.

“Jenney,” Frances called, and rushed to her side. “What is wrong? Are you ill? Come lie down with a cold compress.”

“A compress will not cure this ache,” Jennet said without looking up.

“Come, Aunt, what can be wrong?”

“I am accused!”

“Accused? How? Of what?”

“I do not know. Your father will not speak to me, but commands that I keep to these chambers.”

“What have you—”

“Nothing! I have done nothing against my conscience.”

That answered none of Frances's questions. It raised another. “But have you stood against the queen's law?”

Jennet stubbornly kept her silence. “Jesu help you!” Frances murmured, realizing the prayer was earnest, her first in months.

Jennet took a deep, trembling breath. “I have sent a note to a man who will help me to leave Whitehall and flee to France.”

Frances dropped to the settle beside the hearth as if an unexpected blow had deprived her lungs of breath. Her eyes closed tight in pain. Pieces of her life seemed to be crumbling away.

Jennet searched for Frances's hand and lifted it to her lap. “My child, I have loved you like a mother for all these years, but I cannot forswear the true faith. Don't ask it of me. I fear the devils in the Tower may tempt me beyond my body's endurance soon enough.”

“It cannot come to that, Aunt.” The words were almost another prayer. “Who is this man who will help you?”

“I have never met him. A gentleman gave me the name if I was ever in danger of being accused.”

Frances pulled at Jennet's oversleeve. “A gentleman…by the name of Sir Anthony Babington?”

Jennet's body jerked upright, her eyes wide and staring into Frances's face. “How do you know that name? Is he suspected?”

“A guess only. His family is known Catholic, though they pay the fine for not attending the English church.” Frances rose quickly and went to Jennet's bedchamber, lifting a small chest from under the bedstead and throwing in gowns and cloaks and night shifts. “You must leave for Barn Elms at once. I will speak with the queen, beg her—”

“Never! It must not be known that you helped me…or know anything of this.” When they heard a faint knock, Jennet turned her face toward the outer door. Fiercely, she clasped Frances to her, then grabbed up the small chest and disappeared into the darkened corridor, where a man in Babington livery waited to take her to safety before Frances could object further.

She sat down upon the bed, clutching at the bolster, her body shaking with sobs.

Robert found her thus short minutes later.

“What has happened, Frances?” he asked, kneeling before her.

“Jennet…is accused.”

He looked about him. “Did she run?”

“Yes,” Frances said as if with her last breath, “but where?”

“To a safe house, but running is an admission of guilt,” Robert said, his face tired and dirt stained from hard riding.

She began to shake and clutch at Robert's sealskin cloak, which had shed much of the rain that was falling hard outside. “What can be done? What will my father do?”

He bit down on his lower lip. “There will be a hue and cry.” He took a deep breath. “I must report what news I have from Plymouth and the south coast. We must keep a closer eye on Spain. Word comes from Cádiz that the harbor is full of shipping and provisioning. They will attack us when they have finished with Holland.” His voice softened. “When I speak to Mr. Secretary, I will try to discover what I can about this sad business with your aunt.”

“You came to me first?” She dared not make it a statement.

“I promised you to return this day.”

“Did you? I had forgotten.”

He laughed. “For an intelligencer, you are not a great pretender, my lady.”

She smiled at being discovered…and changed the subject before she revealed how happy she was to have him close again. “I must play in the masque within a few hours and be at my best. Essex's sister…”

“Yes, Lady Rich will be there, but you will play your part well, as difficult as I know it to be.”

His hands were warm on hers, and she believed him, lifting her chin.

R
obert had never seen a more fearless woman. She was full of worry for her aunt and yet was forced to face the woman who had her husband's heart in front of the entire mocking court. Still, she went on with the tasks before her. When other women would have fallen in a faint, Frances remained strong.

For a single moment, he did not cast blame on Essex. What man could not love her…beautiful, stubborn, and resourceful? And married, he forced his mind to add another truth to the silent tribute. Yet he didn't blame himself for this hopeless love. He was a man and no saint. And she would never know from him how deep she had burrowed into his heart. He wouldn't heap his torment on her slender shoulders. He did not want her pity. Or would it be dismay?

He knew one thing: All the world's women, and he expected there would be many in his future, would never remove her from his heart. Robert acknowledged that he would search for one more woman to love and accepted that he would not find her.

He had ridden hard to return to Whitehall to keep his promise. The wintry roads from Plymouth were like Irish bogs, but with each labored, sucking hoofbeat, he had leaned forward, urging himself and his horse on past exhaustion toward the spire of St. Paul's rising above London in the distance. Toward Frances Sidney.

“My lady, I must report to your father,” he said, standing and stepping back from her when he found his will weakening. “I will see you at the masque.”

S
he nodded, her eyes following him to the door of her outer chamber. Yes, the masque!

Mere hours later, the great hall was full of revelers. As Frances and her changing maid entered the door to the tiring room behind
the raised dais, she could hear the musicians playing a lively galliard and dancers stomping, already full of ale and wine.

The music stopped, and with a scramble of feet the dancers returned to their benches.

Behind the scenes, Frances donned her flowing white gown of clinging silk, waited for her cue, then stepped onto the stage. Her eyes searched for the reassuring sight of Robert, but she could not find him.

Queen Elizabeth, magnificent in a jeweled gown under her royal canopy, turned toward Frances and lifted her hand in the royal signal to begin. Frances curtsied low, took a deep breath, and spoke the play's prologue.

Frances turned toward the queen seated alone at her high table, almost surrounded by servers from her kitchens. She took watered wine and waved them away.