The Arbella Stuart Conspiracy, page 29
part #3 of The Marquess House Series
The days in the Tower passed with surprising speed. Each morning, Arbella expected to be interrogated by Robert Cecil but the summons never came and she was left in peace. After a week, she was allowed to visit Bess and Walter Raleigh in their vast apartments in the Bloody Tower. Upon arrival, she was amazed at the comfort of their rooms, which were furnished with tapestries and belongings from their home. Raleigh’s key members of staff were in attendance, along with their son, Wat.
“James will soon release you,” Bess assured her. “The warrant was dreamt up by Cecil but his plan has led nowhere and the cousin of the king can only be held for so long without causing a scandal. Have you heard? The wonderful people of London are already writing ballads about you and your plight. Soon you will be a national heroine, all of which helps with our cause.”
Walter coughed and said, “Remember where we are, my dear — let us be wise with our words.”
Visits to Henry Brook were also allowed and he too seemed certain her freedom would be secured within days. “You are too valuable a member of the royal family to remain here,” he said. “When you are free, the new plot will continue, there are already missions to Spain to gather assistance.”
That meeting left her more nervous than reassured and she chose not to hurry back to Cobham’s apartments.
“There must be action soon,” she complained to Bridget a month later. “James can’t keep me here indefinitely.”
“Yes, he can,” Bridget replied. “He’s king.”
Arbella flounced across the room in irritation. “You would say that,” she muttered. “You’re enjoying being reunited with Tom.”
Bridget blushed and Arbella noted she did not deny her renewed closed with Thomas Grey, another prisoner in the Tower. Noticing a pile of books placed on the table beside her favourite chair, Arbella nodded towards them. “What are these?” she asked.
“To prove you’re not forgotten,” replied Bridget.
Arbella shot her a curious look, then picked up the top publication: Hugh Holland’s Pancharis. Opening the cover, she saw it had been dedicated to her. The others in the pile all contained similar dedications. “This is humbling,” said Arbella, sinking into her seat.
“Arbella, you are a beacon of hope for many of the noble English families who have been usurped by James and his Scottish interlopers. There is far more unrest than we first suspected. The king, in trying to unite the uneasy factions of English and Scots, has suggested we all be known as Britons, a proposition that has caused even more of a division. There was a fight in the Presence Chamber when a Scot struck an Englishman but what has really caused a furore is the murder of the earl of Northumberland’s page by one of the new Scottish courtiers.”
Arbella stared at Bridget. “And we are stuck here, unable to act.”
“For now, my lady,” said Bridget, pausing in her sewing, “this is the safest place for you to be — no one can accuse you of being involved in any plots.”
Two days later, Dorothy Percy came to visit Arbella.
“Arbella, my dear, these rooms are sumptuous,” exclaimed Dorothy as she glided into the parlour Arbella used during the day. “You’re so close to Bess and Walter — it must be most pleasant to walk together in the gardens.”
“There are far worse places to be incarcerated,” Arbella admitted. “Or even be forced to play childish games.”
Dorothy paused in removing her elegant blue leather gloves. “You are wise to be away from the turbulence of court,” she sighed. “Penelope is forced to play ludicrous games all day and wait on the queen. Anna is a pleasant woman but she is in constant competition with James, trying to prove her court is more sophisticated than his and there is much unrest.”
“I have an area outside for my own private use,” said Arbella. “Would you care to take refreshments in the sunshine?”
The two women linked arms and strolled through the large doors into a long rectangle of garden where silken awnings were strung to offer shade from the late autumn sunshine.
“It reminds me of Richmond Palace,” said Dorothy, settling herself on a chair piled with brightly coloured cushions. “When you were staying with Helena and Thomas.”
“How are they?” asked Arbella.
“Not well. They dislike this new regime.”
“And Lizzie Brooke, how does she fare?”
“She remains at Osterley House with Lady Gertrude and is becoming close to Gertrude’s son, Francis. He has been most attentive since her loss of status and the death of her husband.”
Arbella tried to hide her surprise. Lizzie and George had been devoted. But, she reasoned, a woman without a husband was a burden to her family, especially one who had young children to support.
“My husband and his cousin believe she is wise to make a good match,” said Dorothy. “Henry has been working closely with Francis Reed and he has a high opinion of his scientific knowledge.”
Arbella leaned closer to Dorothy. “Do you have news?” she whispered.
“Yes, the most exciting imaginable.”
“Tell me.”
“The Yorkshire man, Fawkes, has returned from Spain. He carried a variety of letters and messages from men at court, not all of whom were Catholics, who oppose the king and have suggested that with a small amount of military help, the new court could be overthrown. The Spanish have once again agreed to back these plans with the assurance of your complicity. There is also a new scheme to remove you from the Tower and take you to a place of safety. This way, when the battle to remove James begins, you will be far from danger and, when it is over, you will be able to ride into London in triumph once you have been declared queen.”
The thrill of this idea no longer appealed to Arbella in the way it had before her capture. Yet, the idea of bringing peace and stability back to the realm she loved, which was currently splintering into unhappy factions, gave her a sense of purpose far beyond what she now viewed as her vain wish to wear the crown the previous year.
“Is Catesby still leading this plot?” she asked, warily.
“He is one of many.”
“Who else?
“My husband; Edward Somerset, Francis Clifford, and your uncle, Gilbert Talbot. These men are prepared to name you as monarch.”
“My uncle?” Arbella stared at Dorothy.
“Yes. Your cautious, God-fearing uncle. Even he has had enough of the lewdness and extravagance of James and his court of favourites.”
“And my children?”
“Ennie remains safe in Pembrokeshire.”
Dorothy’s sudden change of tone unnerved Arbella. “Where’s Henry? Did Edmund manage to smuggle him to safety?”
“No. He was discovered at the home of Mary Arden, but do not fret, they are both safe. Henry was then placed with your uncle for a few weeks before James insisted Henry be returned to Oliver Cromwell at Hinchingbrooke House. He says it is for Henry’s benefit — if he is in the household of so loyal a Protestant, he won’t be corrupted by any Papist influences.”
Arbella shook her head in despair at the religious references. This was an excuse but, she knew it could have been far worse. Henry could have simply disappeared. Thankfully, James had shown compassion to her son. Though she did not like Cromwell, thinking him parsimonious, he had cared for Henry well in the past and she knew her son would be safe in his care.
“James is recovering his wits a little, then, if he had the sense to send Henry back to Cambridgeshire,” Arbella said. “All summer I’ve been receiving reports that James has been ill, raving with madness and on the brink of death. Have I been wrongly informed?”
Dorothy shook her head. “The rumours are true, Arbel, but, as we the Ladies of Melusine hid much of what happened with Queen Elizabeth from the court, James’s loyal men do the same. His health is rarely discussed, but when he does appear, he looks pale and he has hardly hunted at all in the past month — a sure sign he is unwell.”
“You’re right,” Arbella sighed. “I have heard rumours he thinks he has been cursed by a powerful witch.”
Dorothy looked unsettled, then she gave a nod. “His doctors claim he is in the throes of an attack similar to those which afflict you and which struck down his mother. James believes his ailments are caused by witchcraft. His son, Prince Henry, is also beginning to show similar symptoms.”
A terrible realisation seeped into Arbella’s consciousness. She fixed Dorothy with her steady blue gaze. “He believes me to be the witch, doesn’t he?”
Dorothy’s sharp intake of breath was enough. Suddenly, her incarceration made sense. Robert Cecil had not wished to question her because he had not wanted to alert her to the real fear in the king’s heart. They did not suspect another plot, as had been suggested — they were too arrogant to think such a thing could happen again — instead, they were holding her here, under scrutiny, to see if she behaved in a manner conducive to being accused of witchcraft.
If James thinks I am a witch, she considered, it is only a matter of time before he creates a reason to bring me to trial. If the plot being led by Catesby was discovered, James would certainly suggest Arbella controlled all these men by magical forces. It was another reason to put her in the Star Chamber and make her account for her behaviour.
“So witchcraft is the root of my imprisonment,” Arbella said.
“Yes,” Dorothy replied. “We discovered these truths only this week. My husband and Francis Clifford attended a play at court and James was discussing his requirements for future works. He called Will Shakespeare aside, asking if he had ever written about witches and their interference in the choosing of a monarch. Shakespeare claimed he had heard an old Scottish legend and would explore the possibility.”
“Did James mention me directly?”
“No, but he was overheard speaking to Philip Herbert, suggesting the dislike of his people was not due to their lewd behaviour but due to a ‘powerful sorceress spreading a pallor’ over his land.”
An uneasy silence grew between them. Arbella began to pace the small enclosure as she processed Dorothy’s words. She had always known about the king’s fear of witches. He had been famous for his persecution and burning of them in Scotland, but the English laws had stayed his hand when he had become king. Her mind flew back over the past year, the many meetings with her cousin, examining them in detail, wondering if this had always been his suspicion or whether it was a new fear brought about by the illness which they shared, the strange affliction running in their joined royal blood. The denial of a plot was easy — as long as there was nothing in her own handwriting, she could parry verbal accusations — but an accusation of witchcraft was different. Simple protestation would not be enough to save her.
With growing concern, Arbella returned to her seat. “How advanced are the plans for my escape?” she asked Dorothy.
“The tide is turning as we speak; it will be high by nightfall. Walter Raleigh has a boatman who brings him beer. When the man delivers tonight, he will take away a cargo of cotton and barley. You will be hidden among the sacks.”
“And where will I go?”
“To Mary Seton.”
“But my children?”
“They will be safe. It’s you who is in danger. Once you are established in France, we will find a way to send the children to you.” Dorothy stood, preparing to leave. “Bridget and Anne will disguise you. Edmund Shakespeare will meet you at the dock. If all goes well, you will soon be free.” Her brown eyes filled with tears. “Until we meet again, my sweet Arbel, know you are our true queen.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The night was dark. The moon had vanished from the sky. It was known as a witch’s moon but Arbella knew even thinking of that was a bad omen. She was clad in the rough clothes of a farm maid. Her lustrous hair had been painted with a dye made up from oak galls in order to dull its auburn hue under a shadow of darkest brown. Her pale skin had been roughened with make-up and her slim frame had been padded to make her look as though she were with child.
She waited with a rough bag full of her belongings at her feet. The chill breeze from the wharf eddied around her, lifting the edges of her mud-brown cloak, as she hovered by the back door to the Bloody Tower. Walter Raleigh’s beer delivery would arrive soon and while it was being unloaded, she would slip aboard. Edmund Shakespeare, who would accompany her, was still within the chamber but Arbella had not been able bear the confines of the stuffy room or the acrid smoke from Walter’s pipe. Nerves were already making her feel queasy and inhaling the strong tobacco had made her feel worse. The door clicked and she turned, her edginess making her jump at even the most innocent noise.
“My lady, the man is moments away. Are you ready?” said Edmund, his blond curls darkened by the same gall dye as had been painted on her own.
“Yes,” she replied. “Thank you for risking all to see me to safety.”
Edmund smiled, his green eyes twinkling. “When you are queen, I have rather taken a fancy to an earldom,” he said. “Helping to save your life would surely be worth such an ennoblement.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Arbella could not help but smile at his cheeky grin.
“Possibly a dukedom,” she replied.
“Even better.”
The splash of oars brought their conversation to a halt. A bargeman came into view and hailed Edmund, who knocked three times on Walter’s door: the usual signal for deliveries. Strolling into the dark night as though nothing extraordinary was taking place, Walter and his pipe created a grey cloud against the velvet sky. Checking his hoard, Walter chatted to the boatman while the beer barrels were rolled on to the quay. Crates of cotton and barley were loaded into their place and with a nod from the boatman, Arbella stepped calmly aboard, followed by Edmund.
Sitting on the cold, damp plank that served as a seat, her rough bag at her feet, Arbella felt desperate. When would she return to her home? When would she see her children again? Reaching into the darkness, she found Edmund’s hand and squeezed it, needing the comfort of another human.
The boatman was onboard, there were shouts of farewell to Walter and he raised a hand, before dropping into a deep bow. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Arbella turned for a final look at the Tower of London, then the boatman and his crew steered them through the gate and out on to the choppy waters of the River Thames.
A spectral mist felt its way towards them as the boat edged through the black water. Lights from the lanterns on other rivercrafts were blurred by the obscured air, each tiny flame hovering like a spell in mid-air.
Arbella glanced along the row of glowing dots and hoped the lights were friends rather than foes. Pulling her woollen shawl around her, she shut her eyes, pushing aside the tales she had read about the river: the sacrifices made to its watery demands, the monsters said to swim in its depths and the icy cold waves that her cousin, Charles Cavendish, had once ghoulishly told her could reach into boats and pull unsuspecting river-users to their deaths. She prayed to God, to Old Father Thames and to Isis, the female deity of the dark river, begging them for mercy, for safety and to one day be reunited with her children.
“It’s not far, my lady.” The boatman’s voice came distantly through the mist and her fearful thoughts.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“You will soon be safe, then we can rid our land of this usurper and you can return home in triumph…”
“Enough, sirrah, you forget yourself,” Edmund interrupted, his voice angry, and the man gave a mumble of apology. “A French boat awaits us in the estuary,” Edmund whispered to Arbella when the boatman had returned to the tiller. “Once you are aboard, it will travel to Calais where you will be met by a party of novice nuns bound for the Convent of Saint-Pierre where Lady Seton is assuming the role of Abbess. You will travel disguised as a novice with them to Reims. It will take a week.”
Arbella did not reply. The events of the day continued to swirl around her mind and she suspected the full horror of this second escape attempt would not impact upon her until it was over. At least, she hoped that would be the case. The last thing she needed now was for a bout of her wretched illness to weaken her and make it impossible for her to travel across France.
“And you Edmund?” she asked. “Where will you go?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he smiled. “I shall join a band of jongleurs who I know to be working the coast, then when it is safe, I shall return to London.”
Around them, the calls of the other river users crept through the mist, the muffled shouts as eerie as the cries of the dead. Arbella gripped Edmund’s hand, praying fervently that they would soon be safely aboard the French bark and away from the danger of her life at court.
“This way, my lady,” said the French skipper, Tassin Corvé, as they boarded the ship a short while later. “Your cabin is small but I hope comfortable enough for our trip.”
“Merci Monsieur,” replied Arbella, gazing around the tiny space, taking in the bed fitted into the wall like a cupboard. “I shall be most content.”
“We shall depart within the hour.”
She sank into a chair, dropping her bundle at her feet and felt tears spring into her eyes. “Does the king truly believe I’m a witch?” she asked Edmund. His face creased with unease. “You must know — he spoke to your brother about it at great length.”
“My lady, the king runs mad,” Edmund replied. “You know his fear of plots and of the occult. He has been given his heart’s desire, the throne of England, a country with more power and wealth than his beloved homeland of Scotland. Word has come to me that he thought his new subjects would welcome him but he has found difficulties at every turn. Many members of the Privy Council have blocked his plans. He has been told he must limit his spending and he doesn’t understand why the populace deride and belittle him in their ballads and pamphlets, while they turn to you as their saviour.”
