Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

Feria said: ‘The war is almost won.’

‘King Felipe must be pleased.’

‘And most grateful for the assistance of his English subjects.’

Cecil nodded acknowledgement and got down to business. ‘By the way, count, have you been in touch recently with Mary Stuart, the queen of the Scots?’

Ned was surprised by the question. Cecil had not told him in advance what he planned to say.

Feria was surprised, too. ‘Good lord, no,’ he said. ‘Why on earth do you want me to communicate with her?’

‘Oh, I’m not saying you should — although I would, if I were you.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, she may be the next queen of England, even though she’s a mere girl.’

‘One could say the same of Princess Elizabeth.’

Ned frowned. Feria had misjudged Elizabeth if he thought she was a mere girl. Perhaps he was not as sharp as people said.

Cecil ignored the remark. ‘In fact, I understand that King Felipe has been asked to support Scottish Mary’s claim to the throne.’

Cecil paused, giving Feria the chance to deny this. Feria said nothing. Ned concluded that his guesswork had been accurate: Swithin and Reginald had asked Felipe to support Mary Stuart.

Cecil went on: ‘In your place, I would ask Mary Stuart for a very specific commitment. I would want her to guarantee that under her rule England will not change sides, to join forces with France and Scotland against Spain. After all, at this stage that’s just about the only development that could prevent Spain winning this war.’

Ned marvelled. Cecil’s imagination had come up with just the right fantasy to scare Feria — and his master, the king of Spain.

Feria said: ‘Surely you don’t think that’s likely?’

‘I think it’s inevitable,’ Cecil said, though Ned felt sure he thought no such thing. ‘Mary Stuart is technically ruler of Scotland, though her mother acts as regent on her behalf. And Mary’s husband is heir to the throne of France. How could she be disloyal to both her countries? She is sure to turn England against Spain — unless you do something now to prevent it.’

Feria nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I’m guessing you have a suggestion,’ he said.

Cecil shrugged. ‘I hardly dare offer advice to the most distinguished diplomat in Europe.’ Cecil, too, could be smooth when necessary. ‘But, if King Felipe really is considering a request from English Catholics to support Mary Stuart as heir to the throne of England, I do think his majesty might first ask her for a guarantee that, as queen of England, she will not declare war on Spain. He could make that a condition of his support.’

‘He could,’ Feria said neutrally.

Ned was confused. Cecil was supposed to be talking Feria out of supporting Mary Stuart. Instead he seemed to be suggesting how King Felipe might overcome the main problem. Was there yet again something here Ned was not seeing?

Cecil stood up. ‘I’m glad we had the chance to chat,’ he said. ‘I only looked in to say bon voyage.’

‘It’s always a pleasure to see you. Please give my respects to the lovely Elizabeth.’

‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be glad.’

As soon as they were outside, Ned said: ‘I don’t understand! Why did you make that helpful suggestion about asking Mary Stuart for a guarantee?’

Cecil smiled. ‘First of all, King Henri of France will never allow his daughter-in-law to make such a promise.’

Ned had not thought of that. She was still only fifteen: she could not do anything without approval.

Cecil went on: ‘Second, her guarantee would be worthless. She would just break it after she took the throne. And there would be nothing anyone could do to hold her to it.’

‘And King Felipe will see both of those snags.’

‘Or, if he doesn’t, Count Feria will point them out to him.’

‘So why did you suggest it?’

‘As the fastest way to alert Feria and Felipe to the hazards of supporting Mary Stuart. Feria won’t take up my suggestion, but he’s now thinking hard about what else he could do to protect Spain. And soon Felipe will be thinking about it, too.’

‘And what will they do?’

‘I don’t know — but I know what they won’t do. They won’t help Earl Swithin and Sir Reginald. They won’t throw their weight behind the campaign for Mary Stuart. And that makes things a lot more hopeful for us.’

Queen Mary Tudor departed her earthly life gradually and majestically, like a mighty galleon inching out of its berth.

As she got weaker, lying in bed in her private apartment in St James’s Palace, London, Elizabeth at Hatfield received more and more visitors. Representatives of noble families and rich businesses came to tell her how unhappy they were about religious persecution. Others sent messages offering to do anything they could for her. Elizabeth spent half the day dictating to secretaries, sending a blizzard of short notes thanking people for their loyalty, firming up friendships. The implied message in every letter was I will be an energetic monarch, and I will remember who helped me at the start .

Ned and Tom Parry were in charge of military preparations. They commandeered a nearby house, Brocket Hall, and made it their headquarters. From there, they liaised with Elizabeth’s backers in the provincial towns, preparing to deal with a Catholic uprising. Ned added up the number of soldiers they could muster, calculated how long it would take each group to get to Hatfield, and wrestled with the problem of finding weapons for them all.

Cecil’s sly intervention with Count Feria had been effective. Feria was back in England in the second week of November. He met with the Privy Council — the monarch’s most powerful group of advisors — and told them that King Felipe supported Elizabeth as heir to the throne. Queen Mary, in so far as she was able to do anything at all, seemed to have accepted her husband’s decision.

Then Feria came to Hatfield.

He walked in all smiles, a man with good news for a captivating woman. The Spanish were the richest people in the world, and Feria wore a red doublet delicately pinked to show the gold lining. His black cloak had a red lining and gold embroidery. Ned had never seen anyone looking quite so pleased with himself.

‘Madam, I bring you a gift,’ he said.

In the room with Elizabeth and Feria were Cecil, Tom Parry and Ned.

Elizabeth liked presents but hated surprises, and she said guardedly: ‘How kind.’

‘A gift from my master and yours, King Felipe,’ Feria went on.

Felipe was still Elizabeth’s master, technically, for Mary Tudor was still alive, still queen of England, and therefore her husband was king of England. But Elizabeth was not pleased to be reminded of this. Ned saw the signs — her chin raised a fraction, the ghost of a frown on her pale brow, a barely perceptible stiffening of her body in the carved-oak chair — but Feria missed them.

He went on: ‘King Felipe gives you the throne of England.’ He took a step back and bowed, as if expecting a round of applause, or a kiss.

Elizabeth looked calm, but Ned could tell she was thinking hard. Feria brought good news, but delivered it with magnificent condescension. What would Elizabeth say?

After a moment Feria added: ‘May I be the first to congratulate you — your majesty.’

Elizabeth nodded regally, but still said nothing. Ned knew such a silence to be ominous.

‘I have informed the Privy Council of King Felipe’s decision,’ Feria added.

‘My sister is dying, and I am to be queen,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I feel a kind of defeated joy, gladness and sorrow equal in the balance.’

Ned thought she had probably prepared those words.

Feria said: ‘Queen Mary, despite her illness, was able to ratify her husband’s choice.’