*Originally written as a high school project*
This story gives an insight into the spy network of Queen Elizabeth I and the Babington plot.
It follows Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State of the Kingdom of England, as he uses his spy network to u...
This could have been a tale of a brave and unlikely hero who lived humbly in the shadows thriving to carry out his honorable duty, or it could have been a tale of a ruthless and forsaken man who mercilessly twisted his sense of duty into something malicious. A tale of bravery, honor and loyalty or treachery, deceit and torture.
However, it is both and yet it is neither.
Francis Walsingham, a man of great discipline and sense of pride, sat gloomily in the Mooner's Tavern. It was another Saturday of May 1568, and Francis had only but one desire: to bathe in his own self-pity, and drink away his problems. The reddish glare of the setting sun filtered into the filthy bar, and painted the shadows with anger.
He looked down at his almost empty cup, and wondered how he had managed to lay himself in such an unsightly situation. He had surely awaken from his bed in an agreeable mood. He had gotten up, had a delicious breakfast, gone to work, and had done such quick job too that he had returned home early to see to his wife. He had planned to surprise Ursula with a nice dinner with the two of them and their daughter Frances. However, what started out as a pleasant day turned into a vexatious one.
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As soon as he had started playing with his one year old daughter, Ursula had thrown a fit, calling him all sort of unpleasant names. He could see the pain in her eyes as she yelled at him, and all of a sudden it was gone, and a blank, empty glaze appeared. Francis knew that look all too well. It was the one of a grieving mother. The incident came back to him at once.
When he and Ursula had been married, she had already had two sons. They were good boys, and Francis had been fond of them. That day they had spent the morning playing in the courtyard next to the keeper, who had been loading the gunpowder. Hansel was a good man, but he was one well lacking in perception, and sagacity, and one of his bad habit had just happened to take a visit. The explosion was a big one, and the three of them died instantly. When they say smoking was a killer, they meant it.
Ursula had fled from the dining room, and after handing Frances to the handmaid he had fled to a bar. He had known for a long time that his work was not one lacking threats, and so had she but it had not stopped her from blaming him; and it had not stopped him either. The guilt colored his soul red, and bells rang in his ears every night.
His marriage now was filled with unwanted tensions and regret, even with the presence of their daughter they could find little solace in each other's company. It would have not mattered to Francis one way or the other if it had not brought back the longings of his first wife. Ann Carteill...Oh Ann Carteill. He had loved her, more than he had ever loved anyone before, and the two years of their marriage was his best years; his absolute best. But whether it was the heavens or hell (for he was not really sure he cared) one had not wanted his happiness to last, and she was ripped like paper from his life. Death seemed to love calling at his door. For that too, he blamed himself.
Now it was only Frances, and the Queen herself who brought him some sort of comfort. Queen Elizabeth I of England was the light of the country. It was her ascension on the throne that had brought him from across the sea back to his home country. A Queen who gave way to the Protestants and their freedom. It was her doing that allowed him to go to worship without fear of being burnt. The Queen was a woman whose strength could bore her way to the core of a diamond, and he would forever stay loyal to her. He would cut down whatever and whoever was in her way even if it meant cutting away apart of his soul. Nothing will stop this Protestant Queen as long as Frances Walsingham was still her faithful spy.
By then the wheels were already turning, setting forth this man's destiny on that most unsightly day, when he was in such a disagreeable mood. At that moment a shadow was cast over his cup, and Frances looked up at the lean boy at his side.
"Sir," the boy whispered, "The Queen has sent me to fetch you. Mary Queen of Scots has just arrived in England."
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