The Elizabethan Secret Services E-Book

Alan Haynes

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

The England of Elizabeth was a nation under threat, both from factions within and great powers without. Opposition to the Protestant establishment meant that the queen and her court constantly believe themselves menaces by subterfuge and plots. In this fragile climate, spies and spy networks were of cardinal importance. This is an unrivalled and impeccably detailed account of the 'secret services' operated by the great men of Elizabethan England. By stealthy efforts at home and abroad the Elizabethan spy clusters became forces to be feared. Kidnapping, surveillance, conspiracy, counter-espionage, theft and lying were just a few of the methods employed to defeat the ever-present threat of regicide. This book challenges many stale notions about espionage in Renaissance England and presents complex material in an absorbing way, so that the reign of Elizabeth I is shown in a compellingly new and bold light.

Leseprobe

The Elizabethan Secret Services

Alan Haynes

First published in 1992

This edition first published in 2009

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2012

All rights reserved

© Alan Haynes, 1992, 2000, 2004, 2009, 2012

The right of Alan Haynes, to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7320 8

MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7319 2

Original typesetting by The History Press

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgements

Introduction

One

A

BDUCTION AND

E

XECUTION

Two

H

OME AND

A

BROAD

Three

A

N

E

NIGMA AND

S

ECRETS

Four

‘M

EN MUST DISSEMBLE

’

Five

M

AYHEM AND

M

ONEY

Six

A

GENTS AND

C

ONSPIRATORS

Seven

B

ABINGTON

B

AITED

Eight

B

ABINGTON

S

NARED

Nine

M

ORE

S

PANISH

P

RACTICES

Ten

D

EATH OF A

S

PY

Eleven

T

HE

M

ILD

I

NTELLIGENCER

Twelve

T

HE

L

OPEZ

C

ONSPIRACY

Thirteen

A S

EMI

-O

FFICIAL

S

ECRET

S

ERVICE

Fourteen

‘S

ECRET

S

PIALLS

’

Fifteen

S

PY

M

ASTER V.

C

OUNTER

-S

PY

Sixteen

R

OUTINE AND

R

EBELLION

Afterword

Abbreviations

Bibliography

Notes

Preface

This book gives exclusive attention to the Elizabethan secret services, organized to provide the spy masters of Elizabeth’s Privy Council with evidence of enemy activity at home and abroad. It looks at their work and that of the intelligence clusters over a period of some thirty years – the successes and failures of two generations. To do this satisfactorily it is necessary to pluck out, isolate and probe complex material. There must always be anxieties about the sources, especially the State Papers, which are not easy to follow and interpret. Also, many have been destroyed that would have been cited if they had been allowed to survive, and the manipulation then of those that remain to us now has to be acknowledged. Even so, the long neglect of such a striking topic is still astonishing, and it can only in part be explained by the higher regard of many academic historians for ‘clean’ data. As John Bossy has recently written, ‘spies are taken to be unreliable providers of information on matters in which few historians are interested anyway’. Probably they have also been coy about spying four hundred years ago because of the suspect popularity of spy fiction in the twentieth century; in the eyes of many critics a degraded genre defying serious attention. Indeed, much of it deserves this scorn, but not so the history of Elizabethan espionage. Of course, rarified ideas of historical scholarship and polite truth do not sit easily with mendacity, betrayal, apostacy, double-dealing, false witness, torture and executions.

Michel Foucault described the scaffold as a theatre of punishment, with the ruler present (as it were) in the person of the law. They did not have to be there in person (and if they were they took care to remain unseen) to demonstrate the ability ‘to penetrate and control the natural body of the subject at the micro level of its parts’.1 Even a woman could do this, as a surrogate king. Then villainy was engaged in a secret combat to be overwhelmed, and having subdued the base intentions of traitors by torture and executions, the final evidence of their impotence was the business of castration in public – ritualized sexual derision. In an act of darkness the victims of this revenge had fathered treachery. At the trial of the defendants involved in the Babington plot (1586), the attorney-general, Sir Christopher Hatton, declared that the inspirers of the crimes listed were ‘devilish priests and seminarists’ who seduced those ‘whose youthful ambition and high spirit carried them headlong into all wickedness’. This plot had been aborted by the rapt attention given to it by the greatest of the Elizabethan spy masters – Sir Francis Walsingham. To emphasize at last the powerlessness of these young, virile men, some of them already fathers, their hitherto private parts were humiliatingly exposed and immediately severed before a large crowd.

In the middle of the sixteenth century the English had the sudden death of rulers at home and abroad perpetually in mind. In 1558, when Elizabeth, the last Tudor of direct lineage, ascended the throne, there were many of her countrymen (we may guess) who groaned inwardly, even despairingly, that the clumsy pantomime of Henry VIII’s marital cavortings had settled so little about the succession question, with controversy ever flourishing. If the new queen remained unmarried, the bewildering search for a secure Protestant successor was sure to torment the politically empowered class. Their vicissitudes drove them to embrace an emerging option – the use of spies to protect a vulnerable woman from the worst her enemies could do. Sickness they could not control, and a chill or fever was enough to have them anticipating disaster. If she had succumbed to smallpox in 1562 the crown would likely have gone to the Catholic Mary, Queen of Scots, whose title derived from the marriage of Henry VIII’s eldest sister Margaret to James IV of Scotland. Henry had himself sought to torpedo this possibility through his effort involving his last will (allowed by the English Parliament), which had it that if his son and daughters died childless the crown should pass to the Protestant Suffolk line of his youngest sister. Lawyers struggled with the constitutional meaning of all this, while others in government found a different mode for ensuring the future. The key appointment was that of Sir William Cecil (Gray’s Inn) as the secretary of state, joined in the new privy council by Sir Nicholas Bacon (also Gray’s Inn), his brother-in-law.

It was the collective agitation among the lawyers that led to their device which, for the purposes of the kingdom and the throne, assigned Elizabeth two bodies. These were the corporeal form subject to time, and also the timeless body politic. For many years she decked out the former with calculated extravagance and, towards the end of her long life, she displayed a particular reluctance to accept its physical limitations. Simultaneously the ‘unerring and immortal’ body politic was anchored in the nation. With her steely collaboration the lawyers annealed state and ruler. She embodied the nation as the Ditchley portrait registers, with her astride a huge map of England. So any threat, random or plotted, to the body of Elizabeth became a threat to the nation at a time when the country ‘was ready to understand power in nationalist terms’. This component of government grew in strength throughout her reign and nourished manifest shifts in the national culture, especially the Protestant political culture, which required some uneasy borrowing and further development of ideas and mechanisms that had originated or been taken up by the city states and rulers of Renaissance Italy.

The case for espionage being the most significant is set out in this book. For those who studied law there was the progressive realization that in the circumstances spying could become an invaluable item in the government armoury – certainly Elizabeth herself came to think so. Yet the older generation, including some who had schooled her, like Roger Ascham, her tutor in Greek, resisted the source and bleated about it a decade into the reign. Nothing Italian merited attention; hence the delay in using spies until the rebellion of the northern earls revealed some shocking truths. By then Cecil, an acute political pragmatist, had decided to employ a man with first-hand experience of living and studying in Italy, where Spanish domination prompted his lively detestation. The son of a successful lawyer, Francis Walsingham had himself been to Gray’s Inn before the Marian diaspora took him to Switzerland and then the University of Padua in the territory of Venice. At the same time, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the glamorous courtier who busily wooed Elizabeth in a spirited personal lunge to secure the succession (a notion that appalled many while it entertained the queen), was intrigued by Italian politics and culture without ever having been there. He was also admitted to a grateful Inner Temple, so all the first and second generation spy masters had a background in law.

These hugely ambitious men were the leaders of the political class, and so had to grapple with the constant shifts and perturbations of the unfamiliar. To do this they turned increasingly to the use of spies at home and abroad. Even then it was a daunting matter to prise out the truth, since paid agents and their myriad contacts might lie and lie. To jettison the dross and uncover more of the truth the spy masters allowed torture and defended its use (or threat of it), whatever more scrupulous men said about it being un-English. Indeed, the infamous rack actually made an appearance in Chapman’s tragic drama, Bussy D’Ambois (1604), as did even more bizarre forms of torture in other Jacobean tragedies set in Renaissance Italy. This was a highly suggestive form of transference, although by then Elizabeth was dead. While now we may recoil from the real and sometimes ugly activities investigated in this book, there were peculiar circumstances that made this dismal feature of the reign an inevitability, especially since she ‘would brook absolutely no challenge to the power inherent in her blood’. The many moments of discovery of a threat to her gave the spy masters and their immediate aides a cold-blooded momentum which helped to correct some of the brittle optimism of official propaganda also pushed out at their command.

Acknowledgements

Much of the first draft of this book was written in the delightful Brittany cottage of Kate and Martyn Chandler. Subsequent drafts were read in whole or in part by Dr Simon Adams (Strathclyde University); Dr Constance B. Kuriyama (Texas Technical University and President of the Marlowe Society of America); and Geoffrey Hodgson (Newcastle Polytechnic). Professor Kenneth Bartlett of Toronto University wrote to give encouragement just when it was needed. Charles Nicholl also took the subject seriously, enthused about it, and nudged me into some radical and unexpected rethinking. I am very grateful to all of them, and David O’Leary, for challenging weaknesses in the book. Of course, as is customary, I absolve them from any blame for the errors and blemishes that may remain. These I attribute to my sources.

My family have made a benign environment for most of the work, and the book is dedicated to them with love and gratitude. Finally, I owe thanks for financial assistance in preparing the manuscript for publication to the Hélène Heroys Foundation (Switzerland).

ALAN HAYNES

Introduction

Treason begets spies and spies treason as Sir John Harington, a godson of Elizabeth I, noted in a puzzled reflection on cause and effect. There were almost as many compelling reasons for being a spy as there were spies themselves – belligerent conviction, self-interest, family necessity, vanity, desperation and perhaps a low threshold of boredom. Those named in this book, rescued from obscurity, were commanded by the great men of the Elizabethan Privy Council through their own secretaries. As reading aloud of any text became less common for the lettered class and the word on the page became silent (akin to secret), so spying became an accepted mode of penetrating this silence. Elizabethan espionage was the work of individuals collaborating, not whole departments. It was controlled by individual officers of state, but ultimately had a collective, that is national, purpose. It therefore shaped Elizabethan society, and grew parasitically on the body of the political nation, flourishing as it is like to do when a certain godlessness takes hold, earthly authority massing to fill the space evacuated. Clandestine debate led to secret intentions and then dangerous actions. To head these off, unfettered assistance was needed by the Privy Councillors who were vigilant, while still sceptical about a female ruler. They were right to be so given the notorious failings of Mary Tudor, Catherine de Medici, and Mary, Queen of Scots, mendacious and flirtatious. The latter was cherished and reviled almost equally, and became an active focal point for treason.

Others with a claim to the English throne were treated by Elizabeth with a cranky vindictiveness that must have made them regret their ancestry. Lady Catherine Grey, who enraged her by a secret marriage to Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, fetched up in prison, along with her husband, who was still arguing the legitimacy of their prison offspring in the early 1590s. The Stanleys had a succession claim through the marriage in 1555 of Henry, Lord Strange, to Margaret Clifford, the granddaughter of Henry VIII’s youngest sister. It could be bettered but not without dispute; Margaret’s behaviour irked Elizabeth and royal irritation ‘must have been intensified by rumours gathered by spies’. The government viewed the Stanleys as trouble, and informants of Sir William Cecil (later Lord Burghley), implicated family members in a plot to liberate Mary in 1570. By July 1571 Sir Edward Stanley was in the Tower with his brother and other prominent men beguiled by the royal refugee-prisoner; the earl of Southampton, Lord Lumley and Thomas, the brother of Lord Cobham.1

Those who planned to dethrone Elizabeth often found the unlikeliest mode, making it hard now to distinguish the real from the bogus. Whatever the follies and flurries in the background, in the foreground of political life and exchanges the queen ‘was consistent in the displeasure shown to her possible successors’. What was worse according to the Catholic writer and activist Richard Verstegen, ‘She had that instinctive malice which makes one prick out for hatred the very persons who have done one a good turn.’ A biased view, but not without a grain of truth. She was sensitive to criticism, and confidence did stiffen later into arrogance, age heightening the bursts of ill-temper, and there were spasms of self-deceit that unleashed cruelty. She ‘dressed to kill’ in the costly, symbolically embroidered jewelled court dresses. In the ‘Rainbow’ portrait (Hatfield House) her cloak is scattered with eyes and ears – as if her extravagant claims made to a French ambassador to know everything that happened in her kingdom were possible through secret surveillance. The dominatrix of the English Renaissance, she pummelled, prodded, pinched and slapped those who aggravated her. When the private woman and public monarch fretted severely against each other, those close to her in council or kinship might suffer more than was appropriate.

Hunting spies for reasons of state, and animals for sport became the grand Elizabethan and Jacobean obsessions. Slaughtering deer which were then dismembered, mimicked the execution and dismemberment of traitors, done with relish for strategic public displays of limbs in London – a bloody routine no less shocking when repeated for many years. Indeed, in the defiant atmosphere of raw suspicion, even the accusation of treason itself became as ritualized as hunting, so ‘feeding the politics of calculated paranoia’.2 No wonder when, in a period of livid religious antagonisms that swamped a weaker eirenism, power found expression in a torrent of tears, sweat and blood. The savagery of Richard Topcliffe, licensed to torture on behalf of the Elizabethan Privy Council, elicited a rictus of agony in the victim and, if he was a Jesuit missionary, very likely a taunting, beatific smile of elevated condescension. In the Constitutions, an intricately detailed account of how the Society of Jesus was to be governed, St Ignatius (or Inigo) of Loyola (d. 1556) had declared that a Jesuit ‘ought to allow himself to be carried and directed by Divine Providence . . . as if he were a lifeless body’. After the attentions of such as Topcliffe this was often very nearly what he was; English Elizabethan Jesuits were haunted by fears of torture and then if captured went on to bear it with great courage. In this sado-masochistic ritual of martyrdom the government provided the whips, chains, rack and gibbet in a grimly obliging manner. Resistance to the Counter-Reformation was at its height after 1570, and it is a measure of its shadowy strength that in the aftermath of the Gunpowder Plot (1605) Robert Cecil, a second generation spy master, made such laborious efforts to find a Jesuit connection behind ‘the devil of the vault’ (Guy Fawkes).

Revulsion in England against Rome and its agents was at its height as the spy masters in the Privy Council took control of policy implementation, and convinced Elizabeth, who enjoyed exercising visible power, that no other way was safe. It was not a runaway despotism, but opponents with grievances of whatever kind quickly became enemies and they were then characteristically labelled ‘devils’. So it was that the hapless Duke of Norfolk was at length denounced by his own clerk as ‘a devil and no Christian man’, when it was obviously untrue. The more curious and lurid the plots, the more a bitterly puzzled and vengeful government sought ways to undermine them, and as both the violence and invective increased, and the national psyche became more bruised and then embattled, so the position of ordinary Catholics was exposed to threats and punishment.3 The most unruly, desperate men found a harsh comfort in plotting even when previous plots had failed, and after 1580 there was ‘the almost annual parade of demonized conspirators to the scaffold’. The form became that of a sado-masochistic ritual as exampled by the precise form of the execution of the Babington conspirators in 1586 (see p. 95).

There was then a darting distress abroad in Elizabethan England. The greatest dramatist gave it mordant voice in the line ‘the time is out of joint’ – literally and dismayingly true when post-mortem dismemberment scattered the enemies of the state. As the reign reached maturity an official discourse of treason was widely used as propaganda by the government. Above all, it was Cecil’s successor as principal secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham, never liked by Elizabeth, who did not waver in his conviction that a country without a standing army required strong government, and that without it England would slip into a calamitous civil war (such as almost happened in 1569), and find itself then invaded – a notion often contemplated abroad and once prepared for on a grand scale. ‘Some kind of despotism was essential.’ It was more useful then to have spies strategically placed than an army, because they could not band together to threaten the regime and everyone could be kept in a state of permanent anxiety. An abrupt event in nature like the earthquake in southern England in April 1580 reinforced this, with the divines and Puritan pamphleteers grimly discoursing on the terrors of the earth.4 Walsingham’s own gloomiest pronouncement was, ‘There is less danger in fearing too much than too little.’ For a Puritan like him the official abolition in England of Catholic paraphernalia in worship did not seem to diminish the hidden power of Satanic forces – rather the reverse. The export of despised Catholic church furniture became a nice little earner for Girault de la Chassaigne, butler to the French ambassador Castlenau.

The political nation, a few thousand who in some measure had power, paid for their advantages in nervous debility. There was the oppressive sense of enemies observing every move (with chess increasingly favoured at court). ‘Fear eats the soul’ and the priests funnelled secretly into England often claimed in compensation that they could exorcize evil spirits. A text dense with allusions to and appearances by malignant spirits – The Tempest – also has conspiracy as an essential component with Caliban defeated by the invisible Ariel as Prospero’s intelligencer (a term first used in the 1590s).5 It was Francis Bacon, brother of an intelligencer, who viewed all governments as ‘obscure and invisible’. The guardian of Elizabethan state secrets was the principal secretary, within whose title appropriately was buried the word secret. The observable growth of a bureaucracy in the Renaissance state required skilled secretaries, and those who served a great man were involved in a tenebrous world of ruthless and competitive effort. Civil service rules of objectivity had not been established, so a sudden shift of favour, a political misjudgement, even an ill-timed bout of sickness, could expose the secretary to hostile forces. It was the way of the world and particularly dangerous if, in terror of his own fate, a stricken employer sought to shift blame on to his secretary.

Such was the cruel fate of the scholarly, loyal Henry Cuffe in the aftermath of the 1601 revolt devised at Essex House.6 The Earl of Essex had cultivated (in both senses) friends in a manner perceived to threaten Elizabeth, and he had done it with that blurting freedom of speech that Tudor conduct books warned emphatically against. Essex forgot the importance of wariness in public and private utterance, unable to censor his thoughts before friends who, in a twinkling, might metamorphose into enemies. He ignored the superiority of a politically adept mind over a comely physique and natural courage so that Sir Robert Cecil could seize a precious advantage. He brushed aside clear advice from Francis Bacon on how he should conduct himself. The result was a mournful dramatic coda to the reign in a localized metropolitan tangle squeezed into a few houses and streets of the capital. The Essex rebellion fizzed with peculiar private animosities and Sir Gelly Meyrick, his household steward, wrote: ‘We have envy and malice besides, to have it plotted and practised by those that my Lord [Essex] useth so near him.’ The earl’s calamity led Shakespeare to invent a friend for Hamlet, in the play most freighted by those terrifying events, who is the opposite of the agitators who clustered about Essex. Horatio represents that admirable person – the loyal, steadfast, tactful and virtually silent friend. In contrast, Hamlet/Essex under pressure soared into babble, with the earl under arrest in the Tower cravenly seeking the ear of anyone in power who would listen to his denunciations. The ruin of Henry Cuffe was assured.7

The so-frequent mention of plots against Elizabeth in diplomatic and secret correspondence, often presented to her through the attentive, fretting, protective triumvirate of Burghley, Walsingham and Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester, all of whom directed their own private secret services that were yoked to serve the intentions of the regime, seems to have given the queen an authentic frisson, and with the passing years a sense of invincibility not always transmitted to her councillors who criticized her privately, but remained highly solicitous. Their sincere unease can be found too in the writings of the Protestant idealogues who in turn served them, with the official discourse in treason following the example of humanists such as Richard Morison during the years of Thomas Cromwell’s commanding power. Government controls over printing (a developing resource) conferred a huge advantage, and anonymous pamphleteers wrote under the aegis of Christopher Barker, the royal printer. Yet, despite the best efforts of spies, collaborators and pursuivants, the exclusion of forbidden material was far from watertight. The right to search printing houses was renewed in 1576, but it has been estimated that at least 20,000 recusant works were imported into England and sold secretly before 1580. Girault and the French embassy cook, Réné Leduc, were among those involved in the clandestine importation of Catholic books. One of their depots on the Thames was the Half Moon Inn in Southwark. They paid out hefty sums to the landlord and to searchers in ports like Rye.8 Even a historian like the estimable John Stow was raided by Bishop Grindal’s commissioners, and moderates like the queen’s mercer, Sir Thomas Gresham, believed in a hidden Catholic militant agenda for the assassination of Elizabeth followed by national turmoil. Cecil, Walsingham and Leicester had some differences, but on this they shared a view and the spy services took shape.

Cecil would have had an easier public role if the Elizabethan settlement of religion had permanently subdued Catholicism in England. But there remained a large confessional constituency that clung to it, longing to live unmolested, unmoved by the resistance of militant or papal Catholics to Elizabeth’s rule. It was only a matter of time before what was directed from the south of England was challenged by the stubborn north. The region was emphatically Catholic, including not only farm labourers and small traders, but larger landowners and the aristocracy as well. Sir Ralph Sadler, the leading authority on Scottish affairs, after his appointment as Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster in 1568, declared that in the whole area of the north there were not ‘ten gentlemen that do favour and allow Her Majesty’s proceedings in the cause of religion’. Deserted by the church, one Elizabethan bishop complained that ‘God’s glorious Gospel could not take place’ in the parishes where only refugee priests from Scotland and those lingering after being deprived of their livings for being Catholic remained. The secular conspiratorial leaders in the north were the Percys of Northumberland and Nevilles of Westmorland with a huge following among the people – allies of the Duke of Norfolk. They had contacts with the new and fervently papist Spanish ambassador, Don Guerau de Spes, who remained under surveillance even after the government restraints placed on him in January 1569 had been relaxed. As for the French ambassador, La Mothe Fénelon, he was trying to calm English fears, even as he saw hostility spreading like an ungovernable stain through all ranks in society. A trade embargo was imposed on the English in Normandy, and English merchants’ goods in Rouen were seized. Financially it was of little consequence, but before French assurances could reach London, the Privy Council was nervously assessing the possibility of the French aligning themselves with Philip II in an anti-English and anti-Protestant block.

Elizabeth and Cecil made a late decision over an opportunity that was certain to enrage Philip II and the Duke of Alva, his governor of the Spanish Netherlands. In November 1568 a fleet of Spanish treasure ships took refuge in English ports with a vastly tempting shipment of gold stowed on board, intended for the pockets of Alva’s army. The consignment still belonged to Genoese bankers, so the decision to retain it, if not actual theft, was still a risk, and it resulted in a rupture with England’s key export market, because Alva, invested with royal authority in northern Europe, was goaded into closing Antwerp to the Merchant Adventurers and, with the arrest of English traders, important secondary markets in Spain evaporated as well. It was a grave decision, endorsed by Philip, who acknowledged it would cause a great loss of revenue and damage to his subjects. It also did further harm to Anglo-Spanish relations at a time when Alva still believed that ‘a friendly England provided the essential strategic and political link between Spain and the Netherlands’ and was a crucial component in the trade that allowed a buoyant Antwerp to grow. Alva himself knew that de Spes was a threat to the security of this vision, but his injunctions were swept aside by the ardent ambassador whose clandestine meddling did spectacular damage, even though for a time Elizabeth would not allow him into her presence.9

It was the capitalist Italian merchants and bankers who tried to build bridges, approaching Cecil who had at that time strong connections with the Merchant Adventurers. The men of his own mind included Governor John Marsh, Thomas Aldersey and other Protestant stalwarts who were optimistic that Emden or more likely Hamburg could be developed as an alternative to Antwerp. The Florentine Cavalcanti brothers, with Roberto Ridolphi, made an approach to Cecil, and Alva himself was encouraged sufficiently to send a Genoese resident of Antwerp, Tommaso Fiesco, to London. His conference was to be with the well-placed Benedetto Spinola, a close associate of the Earl of Leicester, and very possibly the Italian who alerted London to the gold riding at anchor in its ports. Large sweeteners were proposed for Cecil and Leicester, and although both may cheerfully have accepted the bribes it need not be assumed that their decisions were swayed dramatically by a sum approaching £3,000. These triple negotiations, weaving together trade and politics, went on through the summer of 1569, with Fiesco arriving in June; there was a slackening of tension with the limited aim of the merchants being a ‘simple restitution of the wares seized on either side of the sea’. At this time Spanish mariners held under restraint in England were released, and Alva devised a reciprocal gesture when English sailors were taken on the coast of Zeeland. The disturber of these efforts was de Spes who, in July, was using his freedom to intrigue with Mary’s agents, and since he was under surveillance the motive of his watchers was obviously that he should ruin himself and his contacts. The difficulty of the royal interloper was that she could not be assaulted head on, while she was sufficiently vigorous in her Catholicism and adept in manoeuvring that her hopes of dislodging Elizabeth were by no means all pipe dreams. With Gallic and papal support for the Scottish cuckoo, Elizabeth might yet be crowded off the throne if Philip II could be inveigled into the tussle. The main obstacle to his participation was the possible advantage to France and the Guises, who could then attain that dominance in west European affairs which the addition of England to their sphere of influence might allow.

Therefore, it was the irksome presence of Mary that undermined the momentum of the informal exchanges that for a time seemed to presage a diplomatic resolve of the impasse. At the beginning of October 1569 the Duke of Norfolk was imprisoned in the Tower at the insistence of Cecil and his brother-in-law Nicholas Bacon, with the duke’s friends making his case somewhat worse by smuggling letters in bottles, or rolled in black paper for a drop in dark corners. The ‘bosom-creeping Italian’ was also detained – Ridolphi was secretly acting for Rome. The Earls of Northumberland and Westmorland denied being disloyal, but were toppled by words and tears from their wives into action with Leonard Dacres, and Sheriff Norton with seven of his sons, although they were a time in agreeing their future courses. The release of Mary was their first undeclared objective; a clear avowal of this might have pushed Cecil into having her executed, so their public pronouncements were confined to religion and the removal of ‘divers new set-up nobles’ – meaning men like the detested Leicester whose hope of marrying Elizabeth had not been totally blasted. The secret involvement of de Spes, who reported the dominance of Cecil and Bacon in the Privy Council, led to the mistaken notion in London that Alva himself must be poised for some surprise intervention. Extreme disquiet was aroused by the arrival in England of the duke’s second-in-command Chiappino Vitelli, Marquis of Certona, who towards the end of November was privately warned by Leicester, who liked the envoy, that it was thought that he (Vitelli) was forwarding funds to the rebels.10 On 14 November they invaded a welcoming Durham headed by the old device of the Pilgrimage of Grace – the cross and five wounds. After the emotional peak of hearing the mass said again in the cathedral, they headed south without real opposition to a small, fast-moving force that aimed to free Mary, then in captivity at Tutbury.

For some time Elizabeth had suspected the Earl of Sussex, Thomas Radcliffe, of protecting the sullen northern earls – he was after all an old political ally of Norfolk and no friend of Cecil, although he did profess to be Protestant. In the north she had the modest garrisons of the marches, dubiously loyal, and the force commanded by Sussex who was president of the council in the north. But his own brother, Egremont Radcliffe, had joined the aristocratic rebellion and, if he could have been certain of their triumph, the hesitant earl would probably have joined them himself. As it was, he decided to temporize, advising Elizabeth to come to terms with the rebels rather than ‘hazard battle against desperate men with soldiers that fight against their conscience’. As the crisis, ‘more of a popular rebellion than has been supposed’, advanced across England, Cecil was ill, obviously with a stress-related complaint, but he made the crucial decision that Mary should be removed to Coventry with a strong escort that was forced to ride hard. With a sudden snap the rebellion faltered and the earls simply returned north to save their efforts, and to wait for Spanish help. No wonder, then, that there was almost equal anxiety in London, where unusually winter recruiting went on, about Vitelli, who was delaying his return to Europe so as to secure the consent of Alva. The new dizzying rumour went round that his actual purpose was to be on hand to lead an invasion force that would attack the south in the spring. In fact, Alva still wanted to negotiate and the only action taken by him was commercial – he had the Antwerp warehouses of English merchants forced open and emptied of perishable fabrics which were sold over the following year.

The queen’s enemies might be willing to delay but her commanders were more mettlesome, although it was winter. Resistance to such an effort was impossible without firearms, and Northumberland and Westmorland fled into Scotland in mid-December. Alone Leonard Dacres fought and, after a defeat in February 1570 on the River Galt by Hunsdon and Scrope, he rode for his life to join the exiles. After such a brutal jolt to the system, when disaster was only just avoided, the government’s response was correspondingly severe. Cecil had spent Christmas arranging punishments and was unseasonably unsparing. The leaders were tracked by a spy, Robert Constable, who managed to link up with them over the border. Directed locally by Sadler, and also by Elizabeth and Cecil, the soon-to-be knighted spy tried to lure the fugitives back into England, endevouring to persuade Westmorland that his life would not be forfeited if he did return. Even Constable complained that his task made him a Judas to one who was a relation. Cecil, therefore, offered him a mighty cash bounty as ‘Her Majesty is very desirous to have these noisome vermin’. As for Sussex, with the wider task of rounding up suspects, he seized the opportunity to reaffirm his loyalty, joining the Privy Council in December and, in mid-March 1570, he was sent against the earls with a punitive raid into Scotland. It has been estimated that some six hundred executions eventually took place with ringleaders dying at Tyburn, and the gentry involved receiving regular trials so that convictions could lead to the confiscation of estates. A rebellion that had at first been strikingly bloodless ended in a judicial massacre. Cecil’s comment was abrupt and ugly: ‘Some few of them suffered.’11

The rising stung the government, even though its failure might have suggested that internal Catholic discontent could not now serve as the primary element of a revolution. Many of the ancestral Catholics would probably reject papal denunciations of Elizabeth, even if converts did not, and the fact that the hostile forces were papal, Scottish, Spanish, was helpful, since nationalism could act as a deflecting shield. The concern of the government did not easily dissolve, however, because of this modest advantage, and the discomfiture can be followed in the tone and content of documents of the period. Indeed, the cruelly misjudged action of the saintly but hot-tempered Pope Pius V, provided further evidence (albeit late revealed in England) of Mary’s disastrously provoking presence. Late in February 1570 came the paternal admonition, Regnans in excelsis, a bull of excommunication and deposition, woefully mistimed by a man who for a long time had personally admired Elizabeth.12 Yet now, influenced by men such as Dr Nicholas Sanders, he told distant English Catholics that rebellion was actually a duty and obeying Elizabeth was a sin. The pontiff took on the mantle of aggressor and, in Elizabeth’s mind as well as Cecil’s, the bull identified the religion of perhaps half her subjects with covert treachery. They were particularly incensed that the northern earls escaped immediate retribution, with Westmorland escaping from Scotland during upheavals there and, after an excursion to Spain, fetching up in the Spanish Netherlands under Alva’s protection. The taking of Northumberland only came about because he was surrendered by the Scots, and his execution in 1572 followed a stir involving Lords Dacre and Seaton, who hoped for the support of the Earl of Derby. He had done nothing to aid government or rebels in 1569 and, when he died three years later, their notion that he might lead a rising in Lancashire and Cheshire naturally folded.

Although not published in Spain or France, where the end of civil disturbances along sectarian lines freed Charles IX to support the widely touted idea that Mary should be restored to her throne in Scotland, the sudden appearance of the bull in the summer of 1570 nailed to the door of the Bishop of London’s palace in St Paul’s churchyard, was a sensation. Copies of it were hidden by Ridophi in his employers’ banking premises. It caught everyone off-guard ‘and created new pressures for Elizabeth to strike a workable agreement with Mary’, at a time when Cecil was bidden to make the best terms he could for her restoration to her unwilling subjects. Norfolk’s followers, newly liberated, joined with Leicester in urging this scheme. Cecil and the pungently outspoken Bacon resisted it strongly, but the former could feel the ground slipping from under him in an undulating wobble that sickened him. Had he risked royal disfavour to such a point that Elizabeth would ditch him as she veered bemused and angry from one opinion to another? To try to smooth matters Norfolk himself was released, evidently in the hope that if he continued to correspond with Mary both would saunter into ruin. Cecil’s rickety position was then further aided when the London publisher of the bull, a Catholic barrister called William Felton, was arrested. The grudge against him was deepened by Cecil’s fear that unless he succeeded exile beckoned.13 Felton was tortured but would confess nothing beyond the known facts, even denying having associates. He modified this at his trial with a claim of wide-ranging support among the peers, gentry and commons. His execution was watched by a horrified de Spes and Ridolphi, who may have seen him hand a diamond ring to Sussex, directing that it be given to the queen, with pious hope for her soul.

To deflect a threatening conjunction of the three strata in society, and to maintain the drive against those who secretly agreed with the dismembered Felton, Cecil wanted an even more significant public victim of government wrath and he found a candidate in an English-born exile stained with Protestant blood from the previous reign: Dr John Story. In the huge compilation history and witness by John Foxe, Acts and Monuments (popularly known as Foxe’s Book of Martyrs), Story was cited as the most brutally zealous of Marian prosecutors, as befitted a lawyer and lay Franciscan brother. The great text was reissued in 1570, and had an extraordinary (perhaps unique) power to influence Protestant opinion, being often chained up in churches for hushed perusal of its horrors.* No wonder the name of Story was excoriated, especially if, as has been suggested, he did influence Philip II into bringing the Inquisition to Antwerp. This may not be so, but then it does not have to be, since few in England would have discounted the possibility, and the Inquisition itself provoked a powerful revulsion in England in 1568 when it declared the entire population of the Netherlands to be heretics and condemned to death. Story was hated as a brutal, meddlesome traitor and he was now in great peril as Cecil scrambled to shore up his own position. He was provoked into the first planned act of covert action abroad – modest in scale, being directed against one man – but sensational in its resolution.

* Along with the Bible, Erasmus’s Paraphrases and Jewel’s Defence of the Apology.

CHAPTER 1

Abduction and Execution

It’s the job of an intelligence service to resolve a nation’s obsessions.’ Against the background of the rebellion of the earls, the Anglo-Netherlands trade rupture, as well as the publication of the contentious papal bull, the first major spy operation abroad under Cecil’s direction was such a success ‘that it set the standard for excellence throughout Elizabeth’s reign’.1 Given the difficulties that left him vulnerable if the queen’s confidence in him ebbed, it was imperative that it should succeed. In addition, as the benchmark for clandestine operations it prepared the way for the future successes of Walsingham when he entered the office of Principal Secretary of State. The capture and later execution of Dr John Story emphatically established in the minds of European politicians that Elizabethn England was not going to be supine before threats. For Cecil’s countrymen it was a stunning coup, underlining the attractions of striking at the enemy wherever possible, even if they were under the protection of Philip II. It was a particularly brutal rebuff for the Duke of Alva for giving condemned traitors like the northern earls, not merely shelter in exile, but as it seemed, active encouragement.

John Story was born in London and took a first degree in civil law at Oxford in 1531. He obtained his doctorate in the same subject in 1538 when he was already a lecturer. His privileged position in the élite of education did not lead him to curb his tongue or temper his views, even when he was elected to Parliament in 1547. In the second session his contentious declaration that rule by a child was a national disaster was strident and offensive, and caused a collective outrage. He was sent to the Tower by the House of Commons and only released after an apology. Since the regime still clearly displeased him, he left England shortly after for exile in Louvain. There he kept company with monks and awaited his opportunity to return to England. This came with the death of Edward VI and the collapse of the flimsy Dudley resistance to the succession of Mary Tudor. Back in England and royal favour, he was rewarded with the renewal of his Oxford lectureship and diocesan appointments in London and Oxford. He played a zealot’s part in the return of the kingdom to Catholicism, notably in the government’s pursuit of Archbishop Cranmer, at whose trial Story was Queen’s Proctor.2

Story’s power ended with the death of Mary. Given his recent public career he could probably only have escaped censure for a short time, but with the aggressive stance of the unrepentant he seemed to court it. Again he spoke in Parliament, this time scorning the Act of Supremacy. Though the government was slow to respond, in May 1560 he was sent to the Fleet prison, until the pressure of legislation meant that he had to try to escape (again?) in 1563. The bill in question was aimed ‘against those that extol the power of the Bishop of Rome, and refuse the oath of allegiance’. Since Story did that his predicament is apparent and he was exceptionally fortunate to be able to enlist assistance in an escape. He and another prisoner managed to get into the prison garden, scale a wall in darkness, and then take refuge with the Spanish ambassador. Having sloughed off the taint of prison he was then spirited to Flanders with the aid of the ambassador’s chaplain. Though he took Spanish citizenship and received a royal pension, it was never enough to maintain his young family of four children, as well as nephews and nieces, and so he fell in with Alva’s offer of sundry work. According to John Marsh, Story was ‘a preferer of all English traitors’ business’ with easy access to the duke. His friends might think being a searcher for smuggled Protestant literature was demeaning, but Story accepted the work.