‘Is the Queen’s illness so serious?’ asked Nicholas.
‘All reports confirm it.’
‘How can you know this?’
‘Imprisonment sharpens a man’s hearing and they talk of nothing else here. People in royal service hang upon every shift of royal power. My friend, Master Fellowes, who is Clerk of Ordnance here, keeps me abreast of all developments.’
‘Does he know the nature of the Queen’s malady?’
‘Old age is her chiefest complaint.’
‘She is but sixty and takes great care of her person.’
‘That is why the rumour has grown abroad.’
‘What rumour, sir?’
‘The Queen has succumbed to some vile poison.’
‘Poison?’ said Nicholas in surprise. ‘Administered by whom? Only her physicians could get close enough to her.’
‘You may have identified the villain, sir.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Dr Lopez.’
Nicholas was sceptical about the theory but he could see how it must have arisen. Roderigo Lopez was one of the most hated and envied members of the medical profession. A Portuguese Jew who fled the Inquisition, he came to England to practise as a doctor and serve as house physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. His renown as a dietician and a wise counsellor spread until he included the Earl of Leicester and Sir Francis Walsingham among his patients. In 1586 he was appointed chief physician to Queen Elizabeth but Lopez was not content with a solely medical role. He used his position at court to champion the cause of Antonio Perez, the Portuguese pretender. Breaking with the latter, the doctor rashly quarrelled with the Earl of Essex who was the main English supporter of the Perez party. Dr Lopez was later arrested at the instigation of Essex who claimed that he had discovered a conspiracy in which the chief physician was to poison the Queen. Her sickness might now seem to confirm the allegations but Nicholas had severe doubts.
‘Dr Lopez is under lock and key,’ he said. ‘He has not been near Her Majesty for months.’
Carrick shrugged. ‘The poison may be slow-acting. It could have been given to her by Lopez in the guise of some medicinal remedy.’
‘The Queen is watched over with too much care.’
‘Some confederate may have done the deed.’
‘Her physicians have not even said that poison is at all involved here,’ said Nicholas. ‘Dr Lopez is too hastily accused. The charges brought by the Earl of Essex have yet to be proved against him. No treason may have occurred. The doctor has been imprisoned for two other crimes.’
‘What are they, Master Bracewell?’
‘He is a foreigner and he is a Jew.’
Andrew Carrick nodded. ‘You speak well. We show little respect to the stranger in these islands of ours. We despise what is different and see it only as a threat.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘But this anxiety over the Queen has brought reward to some quarters. Your rivals prosper.’
‘Banbury’s Men?’
‘I hear tell of a play called The Spanish Jew. It could not be more timely. Cross out the name of Spain, insert its neighbour country and you have the villain of the piece.’
‘Dr Roderigo Lopez.’
‘The play draws huge audiences.’
‘It feeds on hatred and prejudice,’ said Nicholas.
‘Banbury’s Men have stolen the march on you. Let us hope that their patron does not do the same.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘A battle for the succession would also be a battle for supremacy on the stage,’ argued Carrick. ‘Lord Westfield will support the claim of King James of Scotland who has a fondness for the drama. If he is to be our next ruler, you and your fellows might be translated into the King’s Men.’
‘We are not yet ready to lose our Queen,’ said Nicholas loyally. ‘But what of the Earl of Banbury? Which party does he follow in this matter?’
‘One that will serve him best,’ said Carrick. ‘Pray God that his candidate does not reach our throne. Banbury’s Men would surely triumph then. Your company would be destroyed.’
‘By the new King?’
‘By the new Queen.’
Hardwick Hall was an arresting sight. Even in its present unfinished state, it could stir the spirit and excite the imagination. In little over two years, industrious builders had substantially completed the main structure and they continued to swarm busily over it. Six miles to the south-east of Chesterfield, the house was the brainchild of the redoubtable Elizabeth Hardwick, Countess of Shrewsbury. Widowed by her fourth husband, she was not only the richest woman in the kingdom but one of the most ambitious and powerful as well. The house was to be a lasting monument to her and she emphasised the fact by having her initials carved in stone on top of the four massive square towers of the west front. Restraint was unknown to Bess of Hardwick. In the imposing west front of the house were no less than fifty windows, some of huge dimensions. The quiet Derbyshire landscape had never seen such an expanse of glass.
‘Our visit was worthwhile.’
‘I could have been spared the tour of the house.’
‘Bess is inordinately proud of it,’ said the Earl of Chichester. ‘We must humour the lady.’
‘There is only one way to do that, Roger.’
‘Is there?’
‘Become her fifth husband.’
‘God’s wounds! That would be purgatory!’
‘She is a lusty widow.’
‘Let her vent her lust on Hardwick Hall.’
The Earl of Banbury laughed at his friend’s discomfort. Their carriage was bumping along the drive that cut through the extensive front gardens of the estate. Bending backs could be seen all around as a team of urgent gardeners strove to provide the magnificent house with an appropriate horticultural setting. Symmetry was the keynote for hall and garden alike. The noble travellers hoped that their plans would achieve a similar neatness of line.
‘The girl is ours,’ decided the old soldier.
‘She comes at a fearful price,’ said Banbury. ‘We must suffer that grandmother of hers.’
‘Bess can be managed easily.’
‘Four husbands would disagree with you.’
‘We have our queen. What more do we need?’
‘A throne on which to set her.’
‘It will soon be vacant.’
‘And fit to receive our nominated monarch.’
‘Arabella Stuart.’
‘Queen of England!’
The earls congratulated themselves on the speed with which they had moved and the diplomacy which they had shown. Arabella Stuart was an attractive young girl of seventeen with a claim to the throne at least as strong as that of James VI of Scotland. She was the fruit of a dynastic marriage arranged by the manipulative Bess between her own daughter, Elizabeth, and Charles Stuart, Earl of Lennox. When Arabella was orphaned, she came into the care of her ever-scheming grandmother who considered marrying her to the Duke of Parma’s son, Rainutio Farnese, who had a tenuous link with the English crown through descent from John of Gaunt. During this period, Arabella spent some valuable time at court but the death of her elected bridegroom in 1592 saw her returned to Derbyshire. Inclined to be wayward, the girl was subjected to grandmotherly vigilance of the most intense kind. The visitors from London had been highly conscious of it.
‘Poor creature!’ said Banbury. ‘Arabella cannot draw breath without permission from the old harridan.’
‘A queen will take no orders.’
‘They will still be given, Roger.’
‘Bess can be silenced,’ said his colleague. ‘We will have Her Majesty’s ear without the intervening inconvenience of a grandmother.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘We’ve done it, man! All parties are well served here. England will have her new queen. Arabella will have her throne. We will have supreme influence. Our friends will have their due reward and our enemies will be roundly swinged.’
‘And what of that meddling grandmother?’
‘Bess will be too busy with Hardwick Hall.’