The Queen's Gamble (9 page)

“Oh, they have made no secret of their designs. The Queen of France is Mary Stuart, queen also of the Scots since she was a child. She has Tudor blood—she is our Queen’s cousin—and she is publicly trumpeting her native right to sit on the throne of England. She and her young husband, King François, have brazenly quartered the arms of England on their own coat of arms. And they have declared to all the world that they would save England from heresy. They are urging the pope to declare Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth illegitimate, the bastard daughter of the heretic, Anne Boleyn.
Their
words, trust me, never mine. Her Majesty has quite rightly recalled our ambassador from Paris. This is where we stand.”

Isabel shook her head in mild disgust. “Battles of religion, always.” She gave her mother a pointed glance. “A lethal battlefield.”

“Which is why we are building a new country,” her mother said. “One where people will not be persecuted for how they worship God.”

“Is Queen Elizabeth’s new church really so different?” Isabel asked. “Everyone still has to conform. It’s illegal not to.”

“But not a capital offense,” Cecil pointed out. “Our late Queen Mary sent hundreds of poor wretches to the stake to perish in the flames. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth merely imposes a fine. For repeat offenses, imprisonment. She does not kill.”

“A new tolerance?” Isabel asked skeptically. The men who had attacked her at St. Paul’s had shown little sign of it.

“Politics,” Cecil replied smoothly. “When Her Majesty came to the throne she needed the support of both camps, so she forged a compromise, a nationwide religious settlement. Former Catholics still grumble that it went too far, and radical Protestants grumble that it did not go far enough, but no blood has been shed. For this rational arrangement your mother can take much credit. When we were drafting the legislation, she advised Her Majesty.”

Isabel looked at her mother in wonder. “Really?”

“I made a suggestion or two.”

“Ha. She is too modest. Five years ago I asked her to take the young Lady Elizabeth under her wing. She did better than that. She took an unruly princess and turned her into a queen.”

Extraordinary, Isabel thought. Her mother’s letters had sometimes mentioned Princess Elizabeth, but always as though she were a personage whose doings she followed at a distance, with no hint of this close relationship. The five years Isabel had been separated from her mother felt like twenty.

“Ah, Bel,” her mother said, “the new England will be about far more than religion.” She sounded eager to explain. “It will be about learning, about opening minds at our universities. About voyaging for exploration, daring to imagine an English presence in the New World.”

“What? Those lands belong to Spain and Portugal.”

“The lands claimed so far, yes. But English trade with the Indies could open up more. Ask Hawkins of Plymouth, who is building three ships for that purpose with the Queen’s blessing. Ask Adam, who has dreamed of it for years and backs Hawkins’s enterprise. And there are mathematicians, astronomers, musicians, poets, so many inventive souls ready to build a new society.”

Isabel did not doubt her mother’s passion. If only passion could change the world. “I hope it may be so,” she murmured.

“Honor,” Cecil said, “I believe I will accept your invitation for a bite to eat after all. I must ride to Walthamstow today. Left the house with Mildred still abed. Will that be an inconvenience for your cook?”

“Not at all, sir. I’ll tell Ellen you are staying. Isabel, will Carlos join us, too? Ask him, would you?” She crossed the hall to the kitchens.

Left alone with Cecil, Isabel felt rather ill at ease. He had a way of looking at her as if inspecting her. She looked out the window at Carlos and Nicolas, who were now sparring in a swordfight, using twigs as their blades. Nicolas thrust his small arm high to stab his father’s ribs. Carlos dropped to his knees, clutching his side. He toppled in a great show of being mortally wounded and lay on his back, spread-eagled. Nicolas scrambled on top of him, crowing in victory. Carlos rolled him over onto his back and set to tickling him mercilessly. Nico was laughing so hard it seemed he could not catch his breath. His breeches will be all dirt, Isabel thought, not caring, loving Carlos for how he loved their boy. She wanted more children. So did he. A miscarriage in her fifth month almost a year ago had shaken them both. Now she was eager to start another life growing inside her.

“I hope your mother and I do not weary you with our talk,” Cecil said. “These mazes of religion can become a fixation.”

“In truth, sir, I do not give a great deal of thought to such things. I have much to do just to see to my family’s welfare.”

“The issues may be one and the same.”

She looked at him. How much did he know? “May I ask, sir, have you known my mother long?”

“Long enough to know that she would be in danger if the French ever did take England. The Guise family runs France, telling their nephew, the boy king, what to do, and the Dukes of Guise are fanatic enforcers of the Catholic faith. They have burned Calvinist and Huguenot dissenters in the hundreds.”

The message was clear. He knew about her mother’s past, her conviction for heresy. It was why the family had fled to Antwerp when Isabel was a baby, returning only years later. Oddly, it gave her a sense of relief that Cecil knew. And she felt grateful that he so obviously cared.

“Their regime is ruthless,” he went on. “They cut out the victims’ tongues first so the poor wretches cannot pray or sing hymns at the stake. The only mercy shown is that those who recant are strangled before they burn. What’s worse, the regime has passed a new law that anyone who fails to denounce to the authorities a person whom he suspects of being a heretic is guilty of heresy himself, and is to be burned.”

Isabel shivered. If he meant to horrify her, he had succeeded. “She talks about mathematics and poetry,” she said, “but poetry will not save her from the fire.”

“Your mother dreams large. She imagines the future. I deal with the present.”

“So do I. I have asked her—begged her—to come and live with me. She and my father. But she refused. She insists on staying.”

He nodded. “She will never leave England again.”

The very words her mother had used.

“Oh, sir. I wish I could do something to help her.”

“Do you really?”

She had made the statement with a sense of powerlessness; he had pounced on it with authority.

“There
is
a way that you can help.” He said this with such a mix of urgency and conviction, Isabel was certain it was the real reason he had come. “In fact, you—with one foot in our world and one in Spain’s—may be the only person who can.”

7

The Test

I
sabel found the great hall of Durham House almost vacant. Gone were the crowds of merchants, petitioners, grandees, and gossipers who had been milling under last night’s candelabra and wall torches. Perhaps it was the hour—at midday most people were at dinner. Or perhaps it was the weather, a cold misty rain that shrouded London. Whatever the reason, her heart beat a little faster as she crossed the hall in the stark light of day, passing a scatter of lounging servingmen and hangers-on, their eyes on her. She felt exposed, almost like an actor in a play. So be it. She knew her role.

“Good day, Señor Ramos,” she said as she reached Secretary Perez’s young clerk. He stood at his desk handing a letter to a porter.

“Señora Valverde.” He bowed, looking mildly surprised at seeing her again so soon, and sent the porter on his way.

Isabel threw back the damp hood of her cloak. “Is Señor Perez available? I come bearing gifts.” She held up a pear-sized muslin bag of candied apricots tied with a gold velvet ribbon. She had told Carlos she was coming to visit Maria Perez, the secretary’s wife. Women’s talk, she had said, so no need for him to accompany her. “A delicacy from my mother’s kitchen,” she said now to the clerk. “Her ladyship’s cook is known for these confections.”

“Charming,” he said. “Unfortunately, Secretary Perez was called away on business. Perhaps I can help you?”

She knew Perez was out. She had timed her visit for it. Perez was an experienced social administrator. This junior clerk would be less so. “No matter,” she said. “Would you see that this is delivered to his wife, with my compliments?”

“With pleasure, señora.” He took the little bag. “Will that be all?”

“No, I am here to see the ambassador.”

“Oh? He did not mention—”

“I have a message from Sir William Cecil.”

His eyes widened a little. Cecil was a name that opened doors.

“Of course, if you feel that my visit would inconvenience him—”

“Not at all, señora. This way, please.”

She followed him out of the hall and down a corridor where a row of portraits of former Bishops of Durham gazed down with such stern looks she almost felt they knew her mission. Rain spattered the narrow windows that overlooked the courtyard. A couple of workmen blacked with coal grime sat in their coal wagon under a makeshift canvas awning, their shovels stilled as they looked out at the rain. Otherwise the courtyard was deserted, all the household chores paused for either dinner or the rain. As Ramos padded ahead of her, Isabel heard her own footfalls echo on the stone floor as though she were alone.

At the end of this chilly corridor he opened a door, asking Isabel to kindly wait a moment. As he went in she saw that the room was a private refuge, warmed by a fire in the grate, plush with tapestries, and bright with the colored leather bindings of two half walls of books. Ambassador Quadra’s library, apparently. Quadra and another gentleman, a florid, paunchy man, looked up from their chess game in front of the fire. The clerk bent and murmured in the ambassador’s ear. If Quadra was surprised, he made no show of it. He said something to his guest, and both men rose as the clerk ushered Isabel in. Speaking in Spanish, she apologized for disturbing their game.

“Not at all, señora,” the guest replied, stretching as though to ease a kink in his back. “I would have had my lord bishop in checkmate within three moves in any case.”

Quadra chuckled. “Sometimes, sir, capitulation is our best tactic. I humbly concede.”

“Very wise,” the guest said genially. “I’ll move on to the chapel, if your fellow here will show me the way?”

When they were alone Quadra invited Isabel to take the chair opposite him. “Baron von Breuner is expert at many things. Chess is not one of them.”

“Then you are a diplomat indeed, sir,” she said as they both sat.

He gave her a sage smile. “Ah, he needs all the entertainment he can get, poor man. He came here in the summer as the envoy of the German emperor to offer the emperor’s son’s hand in marriage to Queen Elizabeth. Her Majesty is still pondering it, so poor von Breuner has been cooling his heels all these months.”

He offered Isabel wine. She declined. She noticed at his feet a wicker basket in which a honey-colored spaniel lay contentedly looking up at him. Quadra settled back, crossing one narrow leg over the other. “Now, Señora Valverde, to what do I owe this pleasure? Ramos mentioned Sir William Cecil. I presume you left that gentleman in good health this morning at your father’s house?”

She could not hide her surprise. Did he have the house under watch? Or was it Cecil’s movements he watched?

He smiled thinly. “Sir William follows my schedule with equal interest, I am sure. He and I get along very well.”

“Sir William is a friend of my parents, my lord. Today was the first time I met him. I bring no message from him. Forgive me, but I used his name only so that you would see me.”

She could not tell if the sharp look he gave her spoke of irritation or interest. “And now that you have my exclusive attention?”

“It is about my husband. I would ask a favor, my lord.”

“Ah.” He was clearly used to hearing this kind of thing. She sensed an amiable cynicism in him, having no doubt heard the grandiose ideas people had of their own worth or that of their relatives. He reached down to the basket and picked up the spaniel and set the dog in his lap. “How can I be of assistance?”

“He has served his excellency the viceroy with great distinction, as you know.”

“I do, indeed,” he said, idly stroking the dog. “My cousin Beatriz writes of the high regard in which Don Andres de Mendoza holds Señor Valverde. A bold captain of cavalry. I am aware that without your husband’s daring success in the last rebellion, His Majesty’s authority in Peru might have been destroyed.”

“Thank you, sir. Since then, my husband has sent the Council of the Indies in Seville his application for a seat on the city council of Trujillo. As you know, this requires the assent of His Majesty the King. My lord, would you graciously give him your recommendation?”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “It is good that Mendoza rewarded your husband so generously. A rich
encomienda
with hundreds of vassal Indians, I understand?”

“Yes, sir. We deeply appreciate his excellency’s trust.” This was the real basis of Carlos’s reputation. Military prowess was admired, but only landed wealth marked true success.

Quadra stroked the dog’s ear. “I do not have the pleasure of acquaintance with your husband’s family. In what region of Spain do they live?”

Here was the challenge—Carlos’s base birth. His mother had been a camp follower, a whore, and he never knew his father. If Quadra learned this he would almost certainly decline to help Carlos’s cause. But Isabel had come prepared to work that to her advantage.

“My husband is a fine man, my lord, but his family is not one he can be proud of.” She lowered her head, pretending shame, letting him believe that this evasion of his question was her acknowledgment that she was on shaky ground. Then she looked up, clear-eyed. “I know how the world goes, sir. I have asked a favor of you. Please, allow me to reciprocate.”

A shadow of distaste flickered in his eyes as though she had offered him a bribe. He held up a hand to refuse.

“Information, my lord. I believe it may be of some use to you, and to Spain.”

He lowered his hand. “Information?”

“Eight days ago Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth had a meeting with the Scottish Earl of Arran. He came to discuss marriage. He came in secret, and was hidden in Sir William Cecil’s house on Canon Row.”

Now Quadra was interested. Isabel rejoiced that he had taken the bait. The rebel lords in Scotland backed the Earl of Arran’s claim to the Scottish throne. Adam had told her that, and Cecil had confirmed it—and told her much more.

“The rebels are eager for this alliance with the Queen,” she went on. “Marriage with her would greatly enhance their cause—would make it legitimate in the eyes of many. In the meantime, they have asked for her outright support. Money, men, and munitions.”

A keen new energy was apparent in Quadra. She could see that he had known nothing about the Queen’s secret meeting, and was intensely interested.

She pressed on. “I am pleased to tell you that the Queen refused both. No marriage—she sent the earl home to Scotland with that answer. And no help for the rebels.” The first was true. The second was not yet decided. Isabel had come for this very reason. It was the Queen, through Cecil, who needed information. “Her Majesty wants to send the rebels aid,” Cecil had told her. “She needs them to defeat the French. But it would be a dangerous move, with the eyes of all Europe on her, and before she will commit herself she needs to know Spain’s position.”

“But we
do
know it,” Isabel had said. “As I told you, the ambassador told Carlos that King Philip will remain neutral.”

“A public statement only, the official position,” Cecil had said. “I must know what the King actually intends.”

Quadra set the spaniel back down in its basket. “May I ask, señora, how you know all this?”

“My mother told me,” Isabel said without hesitation. “As I’m sure you’re aware, she enjoys the friendship of the Queen. She arranged the details of Her Majesty’s private meeting with the earl.”

“And yet, Lady Thornleigh is not one to babble secrets.”

“She did not, my lord. I overheard a little of it as she spoke with Sir William Cecil. Later, in private, I asked her to explain, and she did. Perhaps because she felt I might ask elsewhere and she wanted to prevent that. In any case, she knows that she can trust me.”

“Can she?” He made no pretence of subtlety.

Isabel matched his bluntness. “Just as I trust you to do what is best for us all. For Spain.”

His gaze seemed to bore into her. Isabel felt her confidence desert her. He doubted her, she read it in his look. Doubted that
he
could trust her, because of her parents. He did not see her as a loyal subject of Spain. He saw her as a Thornleigh.

He stood. “Señora, forgive me, but I must cut short our conference. Baron von Breuner is waiting in the chapel. We are holding a mass in honor of his wife’s safe delivery of a son, so I must bid you farewell. Unless, of course, you would like to join us at mass in commemorating the eternal sacrifice of Our Lord?”

A mass?
Caution prickled her scalp. To hold or attend a mass, the supreme Catholic rite, was an illegal act in this new England. “But, sir, how can—”

“The Queen, wisely, grants this crucial right to me and my Spanish staff.”

But not to English people. She saw that he was setting a test: Would a Thornleigh refuse?

“Do join us,” he said again, and she knew that she was looking into the steely eyes of a bishop. He added, barely concealing his interest in ferreting out her true allegiance, “Unless you have not the time today?”

The chapel was a sanctuary for the senses. Every object soothed the eyes, transporting the worshipper to a place both peaceful and mysterious. Stained glass windows depicting the ecstasies of saints bathed the space with liquid beauty. The Virgin Mary, a sculpture gorgeously painted in azure and gold, welcomed all to her forgiving embrace. Silken banners and tapestries glimmered. A rood screen of delicately carved wood segregated the people from the priest in his lavishly embroidered vestments, and through the screen they watched him at the marble altar, preparing to transform bread into the body of Christ, and wine into His blood. Candlelight glinted off the golden chalice and paten on the altar beside child-high candlesticks of pure silver, and the rood screen was crowned with a shining cross of gold. The only sounds were the shuffling of worshippers’ feet, the priest’s soft Latin prayers, and the gentle tinkle of the sacring bell. The chapel’s aura was the soothing, enveloping security of the womb.

Isabel, though, found it impossible to relax. Yet she needed to, to convince Quadra. He sat beside her, the two of them alone on the cushioned front bench, Isabel on the aisle. His eyes were on the chaplain who was officiating at the altar, the service about to begin, but she felt that his whole concentration was on her, waiting to gauge her response to the rituals of the mass. Four or five other men—Baron von Breuner and some embassy clerks—sat behind them in silent, prayerful contemplation. A stooped old man stood to one side, perhaps still uncomfortable with the benches, an innovation unknown in the days of his youth when the whole congregation stood.

Isabel kept her own eyes fixed on the exquisite reredos behind the altar, two paintings, one of St. John and the other of the Virgin, and focused on their beauty to compose herself. She had been in one of the new Protestant churches, the one in her parents’ parish, and found it bleak. She had heard that at the death of Queen Mary last year the London radicals had attacked the churches and stripped them of all Catholic trappings. They had shattered the stained glass windows, smashed the statues, burned the paintings, shredded the priests’ vestments, hacked the wooden saints with axes and gouged their faces with knives. She shuddered, imagining the mob, the same kind of furious men who had attacked her in St. Paul’s churchyard. Now, by law, all churches throughout England were barren of the trappings of “idolatry”—no carvings, no statues, no paintings. No mass was held, only a communion. The altar was a plain wooden table. The priests wore simple black.

What foolishness to banish beauty, she thought. Although she had seen this happen before. In Antwerp, where she had lived as a child, the Protestants had been ascendant, and strict. When she had married Carlos and moved to Peru, she had accepted Catholicism. The change did not trouble her. The day-to-day demands and pleasures of real life were enough to engross her. The mysteries she left to God.

A sound made her look ahead to a narrow door beside the rood screen that partitioned the chancel from the nave. The door opened and several more people entered the chapel. Perhaps nine or ten of them, men and women, they slipped in through the door with a furtive shuffle. As they filed past Isabel, heading for the benches behind her, she heard a man whisper to a woman, “Don’t fret, Dorothy, you’ll be back before they know you’re gone.” English voices. The man’s cowhide jerkin gave off an odor like that of a butcher’s shop, and the woman wore a plain linen dress and a cap like a maid. Another man wore the satin finery of a gentleman, and a few others were equally well dressed, but there was a young man in an apprentice’s blue smock, and another whose clothes were dusted with flour, a miller or baker. These newcomers seemed to come from all ranks. The humbler folk looked awed but determined. Being English, they were risking fines, perhaps forfeiture of their property, even imprisonment, just by being here. Their bravery moved Isabel.