The Spymaster's Daughter (16 page)

Her aunt clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles red from squeezing too hard. “Have you spoken of your suspicions to your father?” she asked, her head bowed, her chin pressing the pleats of her neck ruff flat.

“No. But I must warn you—”

“There is no need.” Jennet sat rigid, staring into the fire. “I was but a young girl, but I remember the burnings at Smithfield during Queen Mary Tudor's time, and I heard of those when Henry the Eighth forsook Rome.”

“Jenney, the queen would never…”

“Never? I take no chances. Long ago, I had a physician make some poison capsules for me to kill rats. I have them always with me.”

Frances shivered. “But you would not—”

“I will tell you, niece, what I would not, and that is…burn. I haven't the courage of those who have done so. I would recant and lose my life and heaven altogether.”

Frances put both hands high on her stomacher to press against her heart. “Aunt, think what you say! Her Majesty has not given up all Catholic ways. The Chapel Royal has many candles and fine glass windows from the old days, a preacher who wears an alb…and choristers. It is even whispered that she keeps a crucifix in her cabinet, but she is queen…and you are not.” Frances took a breath, her last argument on her tongue. “She is much criticized for these practices by the Puritans.”

“One of them is your father, my brother-in-law,” Jennet replied,
her mouth drawn into a straight line. “I cannot forget, nor forgive this queen who has replaced the Holy Virgin Mother with herself, a false virgin.”

Though Jennet had kept her voice low, Frances looked about warily, nervous in a palace where so many doors and walls had spies listening. “Have a care with such speech, Aunt.”

“I have had much practice in hiding my speech.”

Frances forged on. “Promise me that you will outwardly practice the new faith, or…”

Jennet pulled herself up in the chair. “Or? Would you report me, niece? See me sent to the Tower into the tender hands of the queen's torturers?”

Though her aunt's voice was low and calm, Frances was startled. “You know I would not,” Frances answered, “but others could. My father has enemies. And now I have enemies. They look for all ways to reduce Walsingham influence and raise their own.”

“Through me? A spinster nobody, unwanted, unneeded!” Jennet attempted a scornful laugh, but it strangled in her throat.

“Jennet! That is untrue, and you must know it. Why do you torment yourself so? Now promise me what I ask.” Frances allowed her voice to rise, more fearful than ever for Jennet, who scarce hid her defiance. “You concealed your recusant ways at Barn Elms. It is even more important to hide them at Whitehall. Don't you realize that my father knows who plots against the queen's majesty? Should any plotters approach you, turn them away at once!”

“And deny my faith.” Jennet nodded sadly and stood, her eyes half-shut as she looked long at Frances. “The pupil always becomes the teacher in the end.” She drew a deep, trembling breath. “I will obey as I can, of course. I have no other choice, or lose my bed and bread.” She dipped a knee. “May I be excused, my lady?”

“Jenney, please don't…”

Aunt Jennet, head high, body unnaturally stiff, walked toward her chamber, casting a large receding shadow against the paneled
wall until she passed out of the light, her wooden heels thudding against the stone-paved floor.

What more could Frances do? She could send her aunt back to Barn Elms, but her father would object and question her. As for Jennet, she would never agree to return to Surrey, where she would have no meaningful occupation, and a good reason could not be found to put her there. Frances feared a distance had opened between them, one that might never be breached.

At once, she knew she could enlist Robert's help. He heard everything spoken and guessed at the unspoken. He would know whether Jennet's name was being used by other recusants, or was under suspicion in her father's office. Robert would not betray her father, but he would find a way to warn her. She knew that as surely as she knew she could trust him in all things. She wondered briefly when such trust had come to her, but she could not remember being without it.

Frances finished her wine, so sweet on her tongue at so bitter a moment. She sighed, stood, clutched up her skirts, and went to her writing table, moving the brazier closer as she went. Her shawl lay over the back of her chair. As she sat down, she snuggled into the thick, soft material.

Phelippes's copy of the substitution cipher from Mary of Scots lay concealed under her tapestry seat cushion.

She had slit one side of the tapestry and slipped the vellum underneath the sheep's-wool padding. The cushion hid the cipher nicely. Only Robert knew where she had put it, and he had nodded his approval. On her writing table she had a quire of paper, a sheet of which she withdrew. She retrieved the cipher and sharpened her quill.

Pulling the cipher to her, she studied each letter, identifying repetitions, though they had been broken into five-letter code groups to further confuse someone trying to break it. Since Phelippes had told her the message was meant for the French ambassador,
Chateauneuf, she chanced that name underneath cipher letters, as they appeared three times together in the message, though all the letters were without spaces, to confuse.

The letters began to blur, and Frances leaned back and squeezed her eyes tight to rest them, then looked again.

G R P O C P J E C J I

Then she saw the same letters repeated three times. Now Frances was certain she was right and had the name, Chateauneuf. Mary had not used a symbol for the name. A mistake!

Now Frances had nine letters deciphered, including two vowels.

On a separate page of the quire paper she wrote the alphabet and the cipher letters she was sure of underneath.

In the next hour, Frances counted the times each letter appeared and put them in numerical order from most instances to least. She knew she must account for a variety of spellings. Searching for repetitions, she assigned an English letter to some of them until she came to the middle of the cipher.

She listed the five-letter code groups meant to disguise the true length of the words.

T P F S T YHCBO GRPFO NWQSG RFOTP WCZCL

There were several Ps, and she put an E under them, but later decided to try As, and saw that the first word must be Mary. Such a number of As would indicate either English or French. She was certain that the language was not Italian, but she would have to determine that no word ended in I to be sure.

At first she puzzled at the placement of some of the Es, in first, second, or last place, which suggested French. But many others suggested English. Thinking, she brushed the quill feathers back
and forth against her cheek. Could Mary Stuart have written in both languages, alternating? The clever Scots queen was full of tricks, having attempted many daring escapes during her near eighteen years of imprisonment in England. Once, she had even tried to slide down a rope from her tower to the ground, jumping the last several feet, only to be caught almost immediately. Mary had no lack of courage, but good fortune did not cling to her.

A piece of sea coal fell from the grate, and a spark sizzled against the stone on the hearth. A quick look reassured Frances that it had not flamed on the turkey carpet placed under the chairs to warm slippered feet.

She stared for a long time at the cipher without making progress. Perhaps she did not have an intelligencer's brain after all. The thought was painful, like a blow to her head, but it might have to be confronted. Just not yet.

Upset and disappointed, her eyes blurring, she stood and paced the room until she heard the case clock strike a new hour. She spread her hands across her bodice against her roiling stomach at the thought of returning the message to Phelippes undeciphered. They would laugh at a woman who thought she had the brain of a man. Oh, they would not laugh in her face, but as soon as she left her father's office and for a good time after. Inevitably, the tale would make its way through the gossips to the entire court, even to the queen, who would think less of her. Elizabeth Tudor did not accept failure, since she never failed herself.

Frances felt her anger rise at the idea of such failure and returned to her writing table, determined not to give up. Not yet.

Staring at the cipher page, she saw something she had passed over. Some of the odd symbols that were not letters were repeated. They could stand for countries or names of rulers. One of them could be the king of Spain…another, the pope of Rome. The Scots queen had sought their help for years.

Where to start? Frances stared at the message until the letters began to blur and shift again. She leaned back against her chair and closed her eyes, only to open them wide a moment later. She had heard that Cordaillot had been appointed secretary to the French ambassador Chateauneuf. Surely, if this was indeed a true message about Mary's cosmetics, it would not be addressed to the ambassador, but to the secretary. And yet the repeated name had an N, meaning an E three letters from the end, and only one repeated letter. It could be an A if she were right and Mary's messages started with her name and title, as was usual for rulers.

Thrilled, she was now completely convinced that the letter was to the ambassador, at least in part, and had some importance. Phelippes had been wrong in that.

The name Cordaillot was repeated twice, and both times the name was run together with other words to further disguise it.

She wrote the name:

CORDAILLOT

She went on to other words that could be French and deciphered most of the name by its vowels. Her head in her hand, she worked on, determining that the Scots queen had indeed combined two messages, one a cosmetic order to Cordaillot, and within the message another, shorter one in English to the French ambassador.

She clapped her hands together in excitement.

“Did you call, my lady?”

It was Robert's voice at the doorway between her reception and her privy chamber.

“I did not know you had returned.”

“You were deep in thought and I did not want to disturb you. May I pour you some ale, since you have been at dry work?”

“A hot cider would be even more welcome, thank you, Robert,” Frances said, pulling her shawl about her shoulders, though she felt warmth enough in Robert's comforting presence.

“At once, as is my duty, Lady Frances.”

She frowned. Why did he insist on such formality when they were alone? She did not ask him, fearing to appear foolish, or worse, in need of his friendship or sympathy.

He brought her a cup of cider. “May I be of any further service, my lady?” His body leaned away from her as he spoke, showing no eagerness to do more of her bidding.

There came a pounding on her outer chamber door.

“Are you welcoming visitors at this hour?”

“See who it is and tell them to return tomorrow, unless it is Mr. Secretary returned from Barn Elms early.” Frances hoped it was not her father. He would require her attendance when she wanted only to work on the cipher, just as she was beginning to triumph over its mystery.

It was not her father at the door, but the Earl of Essex, and from his haughty tone he was in no mood to wait or be delayed by a servant.

Frances quickly slipped the cipher message and her worksheet into their hiding space as Essex, unbidden, strode into her privy chamber, holding his long French sword away from his longer legs. He was wearing a padded codpiece with a jeweled pin holding it to his shirt. From his right ear hung a large pendant pearl, and on his head a tall, pleated velvet crowned hat held a trailing peacock feather. Even in the dim firelight, no adornment could be missed.

“My lord.” She stood and curtsied. “I am happy to see you in health again.”

He put his hand over his heart. “God has answered my prayers,” he said, and grinned in his charmingly boyish way, obviously relieved of the ill humors that had nearly brought an end to
court revelry for a fortnight, dashing so many female expectations. “Lady Frances,” he said, bowing over her unoffered hand, which he reached to grasp. “Great good news! The queen is recovered suddenly.”

“I am gladdened to hear it,” Frances answered, wondering why he would deliver the news in person, trying to remove her hand from his grip without success.

“Her Majesty wishes you to attend her at the tennis court with her other ladies tomorrow morn at ten of the clock.” He beamed, his face proud and confident. “I am to play against that Devon upstart Walter Raleigh. The queen has wagered for both of us. She will never completely lose.” He laughed fondly. “I have promised her that I will win; thus she will win twice, my money and my apology!”

“I am indeed happy that Her Majesty's health is so renewed,” Frances said, attempting again to retrieve her hand.

“And you will be there, my lady?”

“Of course. The queen commands it.”

He stepped closer until she felt his warm wine-scented breath carried on his whisper. “And, Frances, what if I command your attendance?”

She laughed lightly to relieve the tension with which the Earl of Essex always seemed to surround her, hoping to discourage any further advance. “Surely there are other agreeable young—”

He smiled again, his mouth tightening, and came closer still, until she could smell his lavender-scented clothes. “Oh, my lady, there are many women quite agreeable, believe me, beautiful women in plenty in this court. And there are interesting minds. Though it is rare to find both equal qualities in one woman.” He glanced at her writing table. “And,” he added, nodding at Robert, who approached closer, “not nearly so well guarded by a faithful cripple-leg manservant.”

Frances finally pulled her hand away, betraying her anger. “My lord, cruelty does not endear you to me.”

A knowing look swept his face. “Ah,” he said. “You have a woman's gentle heart and feel pity for the man.”