The Spymaster's Daughter (19 page)

“Oh, yes, I did forget me,” Lady Stanley said over her shoulder as she passed Frances, amusement apparent in her every word and movement. “Her Majesty commands your attendance at three of the clock for a private audience.” She laughed. “Say your prayers well, my lady.”

T
he hands on her case clock seemed to stand still until three in the afternoon. Frances saw no one but Jennet, who said nothing. Frances tried to eat dinner, but her throat closed on the first bite and she gagged on the second. It was useless. There was nothing to do but wait, imagining the worst: packing, calling for her carriage, arriving at Barn Elms in disgrace, the long winter ahead, years of winters stretching endlessly before her. And what would Philip hear? What would she say to him? Would she ever be an intelligencer…or see Robert Pauley again in this life?

Perhaps in this life, but not this day, or this week, as it happened. Word came from Phelippes that Robert had been sent on a mission for the queen to the south coast, his date of return unknown.

Frances did not try to divine what that could mean; rather, she did try, but could not be happy with any of the obvious answers.

She made her way to the royal apartment, leaving Jennet in the corridor before announcing herself. The doors to the queen's privy chamber opened minutes later, and Lady Sidney was ordered to attend upon the queen. She entered the huge room as the queen's ladies of the bedchamber exited through a side door with curious backward glances. Elizabeth sat on her throne chair and said no word of greeting.

Frances made a formal entry with three deep curtsies. She tried not to hold her breath lest she grow faint. Then she tried not to breathe too fast, lest her bosom rise and fall too quickly. A short
prayer seemed to work best. For good luck, she chose one of the queen's own:

O Lord, make thy servant Elizabeth our queen to rejoice in thy strength; give her her heart's desire, and deny not the request of her lips, but prevent her with thine everlasting blessing…from sending me away
, Frances finished with her own words.

“What say you, mistress?” Her Majesty said.

From her tone, it was not an invitation to speak, so Frances held her tongue against her teeth. Elizabeth did not like excuses, and what excuse was there? And for what?

“I have sent your servant away for a time to think upon his duty and upon his station, which I also urge upon you to preserve you from dishonor.”

“Majesty, as you will.”

“Aye, as I will. You do not ask after my lord Essex.”

“No, Majesty, I do not.”

Elizabeth's face relaxed some. “I have sent the young gamecock from the palace. He has fallen into a lapse of judgment, but then, you have full knowledge.”

“And no liking for his behavior, Majesty.” The words had escaped her before she could stop them. Frances then put on a blank face, since relief at the earl's going would not be any more appropriate than agreement with his actions.

“It is his earnest desire to join his stepfather, the Earl of Leicester, in the Low Countries. He wants to be a soldier, as do most young men as soon as they can grow their beards.” The queen sighed and covered her face with her feather fan, the handle sparkling with pearls as white as her face.

Frances noticed that Her Majesty's eyes were sunken and dark ringed this day. This queen felt loss deeply, perhaps the more deeply because she could not speak of it. The Earl of Leicester was her lifelong confidant, and he was in Holland, and now her young favorite
Essex was gone as well. Frances thought the queen suffered their absence intensely.

“My lady, do you have any behavior you wish to confess?”

Frances frowned. “I have behaved in no way to shame this court, myself, or my name, your grace.”

“Knowing the ways of rash young men as I do,” Elizabeth said with a slight lift of an eyebrow, “I have good reason to believe you…in the Essex matter.”

Frances felt her body relax. Perhaps too soon.

“But,” the queen continued, “knowing the hearts of young women as I also do, I have reason to warn you of an even more dangerous association…with your servant, Robert Pauley. There are those who have come to me with tales that make me not rejoice, but worry for your shame.”

As never before, Frances felt the bone chill of the winter cold invading the stone walls of Whitehall Palace. What shame? What tales? She knew a bold move was important now. “Majesty, upon my oath as a Christian woman, I have given no reason for your worry. I do not know what others have said, only that my behavior is without stain. But if it please your grace to give me any and all instruction, I will listen as I would to a caring mother.”

“You are bold today, Lady Frances, but clever, as I first thought. Of myself, I will say this for your ears alone: I have known unsuitable yearnings of the heart for men lesser than I. Although queen, I am a woman.”

Frances bowed her head to hide her flaming face. Was the queen confessing something to her, which in itself was dangerous? Confessors always regretted their honesty. What was the queen intending with this?

Elizabeth rested her nervous fan in her lap. “I have heard of your work on the latest cipher from the Scots queen. Dr. Dee tells me your mind is quick and your desire strong. I do not tell secrets
to those whose faith and silence I have not already tested. I would test yours, Frances Sidney.”

Frances held her breath, not knowing what would come next.

“My lady, you have lost me my partner at cards. You shall take his place tonight for Primera. Come to me with a full purse, ready to fill mine.”

“I am but a poor player at cards.”

“Good!”

“I will come to you with pleasure, Majesty,” Frances replied, forcing a smile. She curtsied, backed to the outer chamber, and made haste to her own.

Robert Pauley stepped from the shadows of her anteroom.

“Robert!” She was suddenly breathless.

“I am not here, but gone to Plymouth these two hours past.”

“The queen said…”

“Aye, she could not punish an earl without placing a harsher sentence on me. Bless Jesu, I am too valuable to send to the Tower, so I am for Plymouth, but I will haste to return for Twelfth Night. You will not suffer that alone.”

“Suffer?”

“Lady Rich will be playing a part with you.”

Stella!
“Lady Rich…with me?”

“The queen is not truly cruel, but she was persuaded to this by Essex as a great jest on the baroness. You must keep your wits about you.”

“But I will need you.”

“No, mistress, you will not. You are brave and quick-witted. You do not need me. But I will ride hard to return in time.” He took her by the arms and held them tight for a moment, his face unreadable; then he was gone, quickly, into the shadows of the corridor.

Frances knew instantly that Robert was wrong this time. She did need him, more than she had ever realized.

N
o no, let him alone.
That line from her husband's sonnet could have been meant for her.

Yet she knew that she could not and did not truly desire to let Robert alone.

He had promised to return from the south coast by this day. Where was he? She felt her anger rise and her heels strike the stone floors a little too hard.

Wouldn't a good servant do as he had promised?

She straightened her shoulders and almost laughed aloud at her own counterfeit reasoning, her own clinging to that obsolete mistress/servant bond that had long ceased to be. Exactly when it had gone she could not remember; nor did she want to remember.

When had it happened that she, a married woman, Queen Elizabeth's lady of the presence chamber, and the daughter of one
of the queen's most trusted and powerful advisors, had become dependent on a serving man? And more than dependent, she admitted, her breath quickening, wondering whether every courtier she passed could guess why her eyes shone so bright. She herself could scarce understand how such feeling had grown and why Robert so rarely was absent from her thoughts, though of late he seemed to stay more often from her presence.

Was she a fool? Did Robert dare harbor such emotions for her? Sometimes she thought there was more in his eyes than duty and admiration, but was this just a lonely woman's wishful fantasy?

Yea, he was kind and cared for her comfort and safety, but weren't those also the acts of a good serving man? What else could she want from him? She dared to answer that question only in the silence of her most secret self, and then to immediately lower her gaze lest it be read and understood.

She tightened her lips and clenched her fists, her nails pressing through her gloves, railing against this constant self-questioning. She knew she was drawing curious stares, even as a group of courtiers bowed and she curtsied in return. “I am on my way to practice for the Twelfth Night masque,” she said in a light voice to explain her agitation, smiling for the curious.

Was the Baroness Rich forced to wait for her? Good! Let her wait, as once Frances had waited for Philip's return, carrying the woman's scent on his doublet and shirt.

The queen had kept her ladies about her long past the usual hour, though there was no formal audience this day. Her Majesty called for endless distractions to ease her mind, playing the lute, reading aloud, dancing a country jig, singing in six-part harmony as she played upon her glass virginals, a wonder of the age.

Lord Burghley had brought the queen distressing news of the war in the Low Countries. Leicester's army was ill fed and unpaid, many deserting because the Dutch refused to contribute their promised taxes or grant the agreed-upon supplies.

“As I knew it!” Elizabeth fumed. “They will beggar my treasury to save their own wealth.” She stomped up and down her privy chamber, herbs and lavender crushed and scattered beneath her furious feet, her ladies staying well out of the way.

The queen sent a secretary to Burghley's quarters repeatedly to see whether a letter to her from Leicester had been mislaid, then stomped about some more, waiting for Burghley's answers that were never to her liking.

Frances had been gladdened to escape the queen's whirling fury, though she found no ease of mind in any place. Now, as she hurried to the entrance of the great hall, Dr. Dee stood in her path, his face troubled, both hands clutching a chart.

“My lady,” he said, somewhat breathless, “I was making my way to your chambers.”

“Good doctor, may we talk tomorrow? I am late now to practice for the masque at tonight's revels.”

He reached for her hand and she gave it to him, allowing him to draw her aside.

“I must get immediate word to Philip, and your father will forward a letter from you faster than I can send it. I hear Walter Williams, Mr. Secretary's diplomatic messenger, is to leave for the coast of Holland later this very day.”

The doctor's voice was urgent.

“Of a certainty, I will assist you as I can, but what troubles you so, Doctor?” As if she needed a cartload of other troubles.

His voice grew softer. “I have drawn up a star chart for Philip—”

“Aye, Doctor,” Frances interrupted, a bit impatient. “Philip showed me the chart you drew for him in his student years.”

Dr. Dee put a hand on her arm, his voice low and urgent. “Yes, yes, my lady, but this is a new chart, made just last night. He must know that he faces mortal danger at age thirty-one.”

“But that—”

“—is his age now, aye. And the very reason he must be warned to take all care in battle. Like most soldiers, he is too eager for glory.”

Frances could see that Dee was distressed, unusually so. “You mean the stars were wrong before?”

“The stars are never wrong,” he answered, his white pointed beard lifting and falling with each urgent word, “but mortal man does not read the stars clearly at an early age.” He looked about and lowered his voice even more. “I have talked to my angel, Oriel, and received this warning.” Dee pressed the chart into her hands.