The Arbella Stuart Conspiracy, page 21
part #3 of The Marquess House Series
“Burn the note,” instructed Arbella, moving to the large canopied bed and perching on the edge while she thought. “Do we still have the letter that was supposed to have been sent by Cobham?” she asked Bridget.
“Yes, my lady.”
“This evening, when we attend the revels, it must be secreted about my person.”
“Arbel, this is most dangerous,” said Anne from where she was shredding the note into the fireplace.
“Robert Cecil will be in attendance, and I trust Emilia’s words,” Arbella replied. “I shall surrender this letter to him with a few tears, saying I am frightened for my life. This feels like a test of my loyalty.”
“But what if it isn’t?” asked Bridget. “You would be betraying Lord Cobham. He has returned. The feint letter might be all Cecil needs to arrest him.”
“It is my fear that George has broken and revealed his brother’s plot. This is Robert’s way of testing to see whether there is any truth in George’s words.”
“Would George betray his brother?” gasped Anne.
“Under torture, we would probably all say whatever was needed to save ourselves any more pain.”
“Do you think Robert Cecil would try to trap you in such a way?” asked Bridget. “You and he have been friends for so many years.”
Arbella gave a harsh laugh. “It wouldn’t be the first time Cecil has intercepted mail and rewritten it to suit his own ends. But it is our supposed long friendship that I will play upon this evening, and trust that he will not sell me to the king.”
CHAPTER THREE
Above Arbella’s head, the night sky exploded in a shower of brilliant green stars. A fire-breathing dragon flew towards her from its perch atop a wooden tower with a terrifying scream, rockets shot towards the twinkling stars before plummeting back to earth with crashes and shrieks, while two vast girandola — horizontal spinning wheels of fire — lit up the twilight of the summer sky. Screams of fear and excitement echoed around the gardens as the storm of the fireworks broke overhead, adding to the mystery of the revels. Arbella, seated with her most senior ladies and friends, applauded in delight as the extravagant entertainments unfolded around them.
To her relief, Arbella’s health was improving each day, a situation which was being helped by the queen. Anna had taken it upon herself to send fresh figs and spiced wine each morning, hoping these would aid her “sweet Arbel” to gather her strength for the coronation.
The passing days of summer carried an endless stream of dignitaries to Hampton Court Palace in preparation for the double coronation of James and Anna. There were hunts, jousts, river parties and dances. Every evening, the players swirled around, providing entertainment, their words filling the golden air with amusement and intrigue. This evening, a rumour had reached Arbella that the newly named King’s Men would be performing a play.
Taking the shawl handed to her by a concerned Bridget, Arbella selected a spiced cake to nibble while she listened idly to her friends guessing at the possible play to be presented.
“Charles suggested A Midsummer Night’s Dream, but we are well past the summer solstice,” said Penelope, accepting a drink from a page.
“Perhaps Twelfth Night?” suggested Dorothy, arching her eyebrows in amusement.
Arbella laughed. “A play about deception, most appropriate.”
“As we are about to attend a coronation, do you think it might be one of the histories?” suggested Bridget.
Arbella grinned. “It depends on Will’s mood,” she said. “Things are never as they seem in Mr Shakespeare’s plays, as is so often replicated in the life of the court. When he invited my late husband to a showing of Richard II — the story of a feeble and indecisive king who allows the country to fall into ruin — it inspired poor William to go ahead with his siege. Whichever of his repertoire we are treated to there will be a hidden message, whether it will be Will’s choice or the king’s. We shall soon see.”
Dorothy wandered from her seat to the fire pit beside Arbella and, while warming her hands, said in a soft voice, “The king rode to meet my husband at Syon House this morning. He wished to partake of our deer parks. While they were riding, he spoke with Henry at length about his alchemy and other experiments.”
“Really?” said Arbella, surprised.
Dorothy’s husband was known as the Wizard Earl, but Arbella had never really thought Henry had managed to make more than foul smells and the occasional explosion.
“James claims to have an interest in witchcraft. He felt Henry’s experiments would help him to understand sorcery.”
“Does the king plan to arrest your husband for heresy?” asked Arbella.
Through the Ladies of Melusine, they were aware of James’s fear of and fascination with the occult. In 1597, he had published a dissertation on contemporary necromancy entitled Daemonologie. It had followed a famous case in Scotland known as the Berwick Witch Trials.
“The king’s true interest is gunpowder,” replied Dorothy. “He believes it is a form of magic. Henry has been working on a new way of producing it, a method which he believes makes the process less volatile.”
Arbella noted the edge of irritation in Dorothy’s comment and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Are things well between you and Henry?” she asked.
“Henry is as prickly as before we had our reunion; I would hate for him to lose his temper and be rude to the king. James takes offence easily, and my husband is quick to remonstrate with anyone who disagrees with his pronouncements.”
“Would you like me to ask Charles to intercede?” said Penelope, referring to her lover Charles Mountjoy, the newly created earl of Devonshire. “The king has become so attached to him he can barely allow him out of his sight. Charles has the skills of a diplomat and can soothe most troubles.”
Before Dorothy could respond to her sister’s offer, Anne Bradshaw emerged from the shadows, her face glowing with excitement. “My lady, your graces, I’ve been sent to fetch you,” she announced. “There is to be an entertainment and we have been requested to move to the entrance of the fountain park where we should await our surprise.”
“Surprise?” asked Bridget, and Anne nodded.
“How very intriguing,” replied Arbella, smoothing down her skirts as she stood.
“Come, Arbel,” said Penelope, offering her arm. “Let us see what mischief is in the king’s heart this evening.”
Arbella allowed the conversation to ebb and flow around her as they traversed the gardens. Flaming torches positioned along the pathway beckoned them forward, drawing them towards the eerie lilt of piped music as it floated over the song of the cascading water. Despite her fears and the constant rustle of the letter hidden in the lining of her sleeve, Arbella could not help but smile with delight at the magical world that had been created in the gardens of Hampton Court. A shadow fell in front of them, causing Dorothy and Bridget to gasp in surprise.
“I am Cobweb,” said the fairy, who had flowing white gossamer wings and was clad in shimmering, clinging fabric. “Follow me.”
The sprite danced in front of the women, guiding them to an enchanted clearing. Silken awnings were draped above seats piled with cushions. Torches flamed, throwing wild shadows into the sky, and coloured lanterns swung in the trees.
“Welcome to Fairyland,” trilled the sprite. “I must away to join my friends.”
“Ladies, you are well met by twilight,” called a voice, and the slim form of Edmund Shakespeare emerged from the shadows. He turned a perfect cartwheel, landing in front of Dorothy. “Countess,” he exclaimed, “let me lead you to your lord.”
In turn, he took each of the women and delivered them to the seat beside their husband or lover, until only Arbella remained.
“My lady,” said Edmund, returning to collect her, “you will be most pleased with your choice of companion.” He flipped a somersault, landing with practised ease in a bow, before taking her hand and leading her in the first steps of the pavane. As Edmund capered around her, he whispered, “Laugh at what I am about to say, then our kingmaker will not be suspicious. George Brooke has given up his brother; you must distance yourself from Henry Cobham’s plot.”
Doing as he had commanded and laughing, Arbella looked at him with terrified eyes. He continued the charade, but for a moment his face set in an expression of the utmost seriousness. Then he led her forward. “My lady, may I present you to Sir Robert Cecil, the Lord of Misrule,” exclaimed Edmund, his face once again a mask of mischief.
“Arbella, how wonderful,” said Cecil, as she took the chair beside him.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the tent, she saw she was seated to the right of Queen Anna, with Cecil on her other side. The queen’s face was glassy and expressionless. It surprised Arbella when she felt Anna’s cool fingers slip into her hand and squeeze, as though seeking reassurance. A moment later, Arbella understood why. On Anna’s other side was her husband, but James seemed oblivious to the presence of anyone other than Philip Herbert.
James was lounging on the silken cushions, a goblet of wine held loosely in his fingers, his cheeks flushed while Philip Herbert leaned close to him, their shoulders touching. As they whispered and giggled together, Philip would occasionally feed James a slice of peach, using his fingers to wipe any juice that ran down James’s chin. Queen Anna stared ahead in fury.
A discreet cough drew Arbella’s attention to Robert Cecil. Arbella was unsure how to respond to him. She had seen him so rarely since the succession, but she still considered his behaviour to have been duplicitous. However, her grandmother’s caution was deeply bred into her bones and, despite her own personal annoyance with the man, offending him would be foolish: he was the Lord Privy Seal, one of the most powerful men in the land, and could make her life difficult.
“You are angry with me, Arbel,” he said, his voice as soft as the silken throw he passed her to drape across her legs in the cool night air.
“Do you blame me?”
“Not in the least, but you understand why I had no choice.”
“Don’t justify your subterfuge to me, Robert,” she hissed. “You had a choice. Are you pleased with your decision?” Shooting him a contemptuous look, she was gratified to observe the despair on his pale face as the new king fed his young friend sips of wine from his goblet, his hand resting high on Philip Herbert’s thigh.
“Things are somewhat different than I had imagined,” Cecil managed. “The reports from my spies were, I thought, an exaggeration by the enemies who wished to keep the Scottish monarch from the English throne.”
“And now?”
“He is as the rumours suggested.” Cecil paused, taking his own deep gulp of wine as the king belched then laughed uproariously. “And far less refined than I had been led to believe.”
Arbella narrowed her eyes and shot him a scornful look. “And all because you and your friends on the Privy Council were desperate for a king,” she sneered.
Another high-pitched trill pierced the air and Arbella looked over at Philip, who was holding James’s hand. Despite her own terror that the plot revolving around her had been discovered, she wondered how Anna bore the embarrassment of James behaving so lewdly in public. But he is a king, she thought, and in this world men are able to behave as they choose, especially those who are powerful.
“My lady,” continued Robert Cecil, drawing Arbella’s attention away from the spectacle of the king. “Let us speak of other things. It is a relief to see you returned to health.”
“Thank you, Lord Cecil,” she demurred. Despite his sweet words and silky tone, she viewed him as a serpent, ready to strike at any moment. Before they could continue the conversation, shadowy figures emerged onto the low stage. Torches threw a stylised garden into sharp relief and two gentlemen appeared, ready to set the scene for the coming drama. Seeing their clothes, a cold fear grasped Arbella’s heart.
“Who chose the play we are to view this evening?” she whispered to Robert Cecil.
“I believe it was the king.”
He knows, she thought. This is the strangest play to choose at such a time, and it is the only one he could use to torment me.
“What play is this, Arbel?” murmured Anna. “I am not familiar with this opening scene.”
“It is Cymbeline, Your Majesty,” replied Arbella. “It is a tragic tale of two lovers torn apart after they have exchanged tokens of jewellery: a ring and a bracelet. There are missing princes who were stolen at birth and misunderstandings between the lovers. I believe some of the action takes place in Wales —”
“Milford Haven, to be precise,” interrupted James’s cold voice. “The far-flung port that serves the houses in the Tudor heartland of Pembrokeshire.”
Arbella stared at her cousin. His mismatched eyes glittered with malice.
“What an unusual choice,” said Anna, her voice cold. “You are a constant surprise, James.”
They returned their attention to the story unfolding on the stage and Arbella stared at her hands in horror, not hearing a word of the drama. The message was clear: James had discovered Ennie’s hiding place. This was not simply an evening of entertainment; this was a warning. Milford Haven was only six miles from the village of St Ishmaels, where Ennie now resided in Marquess House. Arbella swallowed her panic. If the king knew of her daughter’s whereabouts, had he also discovered her son’s location?
Trying to calm her rising fear, Arbella began to plan which of the Ladies of Melusine would be able to provide her with the information she required. Those nearest to her son’s hiding place would be the most useful, but she would avoid direct contact in case Cecil was intercepting her letters. If Henry were indeed in danger, she would move him somewhere more discreet. The letter in her sleeve rustled, and as the players stopped halfway through the play, giving the audience a break for refreshments, Arbella knew the time had come to act.
“Bravo!” called Robert Cecil, clapping along with the others as the actors melted away into the shadows. Arbella smiled widely and clapped with equal enthusiasm.
Bridget leaned forward and said, “I shall fetch you some wine, my lady; you stay in the warmth of the tent.” She left on the arm of a tall, good-looking man.
“I believe Bridget is being wooed by Thomas Grey,” said Robert Cecil, watching the laughing couple walk away.
“He has long admired her,” agreed Arbella, “and this would be a wonderful match.”
“Wouldn’t you miss her if she wed? She would have to leave your service.”
“I would never stand in the way of her happiness,” said Arbella. “We have been friends for many years, and it would delight me to see her married, especially to someone as intelligent and attentive as Thomas.”
“And what of Anne Bradshaw? Is she betrothed? She is an heiress in her own right.”
“Her father is in negotiation with a suitable husband. If they can agree terms, it’s possible Anne will be leaving my service next year.”
“Your women are loyal, Arbel.”
His words held a strange timbre and to her overwrought and nervous ear, they sounded like a threat. Concentrating on keeping her voice light, she replied, “They are my friends first, and friends are loyal.”
“You would stand by them, no matter what?”
Unsure where Cecil was leading her, Arbella took refuge in feigned ignorance. “Robert, my ladies and I have been together for many years; we will always support one another.”
Another long pause grew between them, broken by a servant sweeping upon them with offers of small cakes and spiced wine, which they both accepted.
“What of Lady Frances Brooke?” Cecil asked when they were alone again. His words were like deep dark pools of despair in the bright lights of the stage.
“We have been friends since her first marriage to Henry FitzGerald.”
“And her second husband, Baron Cobham. Are you his friend?”
“No,” snapped Arbella, fear making her respond with a speed she knew had betrayed her.
“Sir George and Lady Brooke? Do you count them as friends?”
Arbella turned to look at Cecil. His face was in shadow. “Robert, why do you ask these questions?” she said, attempting a tone of light-hearted dismissiveness but, even to her own ears, sounding terrified.
“George Brooke has been arraigned for treason,” he said, his voice like velvet in the raucous atmosphere. “He has admitted to trying to apprehend the king, and he told me there was another plot led by his brother, Baron Cobham. He claims his brother wishes to question my decision to place James Stuart on the throne. George suggests there is another Stuart whom his brother would prefer to see wearing the crown of England.”
Arbella did not reply — she was frozen to her chair, her mind blank with fear.
“My men are arresting Baron Cobham as we speak. His wife, Lady Frances, has had the care of the Princess Elizabeth removed and the young royal is now with Lord and Lady Harington. Lady Raleigh has taken refuge with her brother, Arthur, because we have arrested Sir Walter, who is a conspirator of Baron Cobham. Neither will be leaving the Tower tonight, or perhaps ever again.” Cecil placed his hand on her wrist, and Arbella flinched. “We have been friends for many years, Arbel,” he said, and now his voice was urgent. “This plot has been suspected by the Privy Council for many weeks. My dear, do you know anything about it which could be of use to me?”
Arbella could hear the blood thundering in her ears. Despite Cecil’s soft words, she knew the wrong word could cause this conversation to end in disaster. She might still be leaving the party with a royal guard of her own. Thinking of all she had been taught by her grandmother and all she had witnessed at the skirts of those two formidable queens, Elizabeth Tudor and Mary, Queen of Scots, she composed herself. The silence lengthened, then with a tentative touch to his hand, Arbella whispered, “Robert, are we friends?”
“Why, yes, Arbel, of course,” he reassured her.
Taking a deep breath, she pitched her voice to imitate a level of terror that would have impressed the actors had they heard her. “I am in fear for my life,” she gulped.
