The assassination of Shakespeare’s patron : investigating the death of the fifth Earl of Derby 9781604977370, 160497737X

Table of contents :
The traditional story, the revisionist story, and the story --
And for the golden crown award, the winner is --
Richard Hesketh and other spies --
On the road with Hesketh and Baylie --
The fatal meeting --
Brewerton Green --
Hesketh's arrest, interrogation, arraignment, and hanging --
Queer Street --
Insults and injuries --
"Bearing himself so haughtily against my Lord of Essex" --
Ferdinando, Essex, and the throne --
The day after April Fool's Day --
Passion, poison, and putrefaction --
The documents in the case --
"This for poison" --
This for witchcraft: "touching the death of the Earl of Derby" --
This for public consumption --
Rounding up the (highly un)usual suspects --
The other --
The missing gentleman waiter --
Epilogue: on the Fleet Prison night-watch with John Golborne.

Citation preview

Investigating the Death of the Fifth Earl of Derby

LEO DAUGHERTY

Copyright 2011 Leo Daugherty All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Requests for permission should be directed to: [email protected], or mailed to: Cambria Press 20 Northpointe Parkway, Suite 188 Amherst, NY 14228 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Daugherty, Leo. The assassination of Shakespeare’s patron : investigating the death of the fifth Earl of Derby / Leo Daugherty. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-60497-737-0 (alk. paper) 1. Derby, Ferdinando Stanley Earl of, ca. 1559–1594—Death and burial. 2. Great Britain—History—Elizabeth, 1558–1603. 3. Conspiracies—Great Britain—History—16th century. 4. Literary patrons—Great Britain— Biography. 5. Elizabeth I, Queen of England, 1533–1603— Adversaries. 6. Catholic Church—England—History—16th century. 7. Great Britain—Kings and rulers—Succession—History—16th century. 8. Shakespeare, William, 1564–1616. I. Title. DA358.D43D38 2011 364.152’4092—dc22 2010044979

For the women in my life, Lee Graham, Mollie Virginia Daugherty, and Virginia Daugherty, and in memory of my dear mother, Mollie Repass Brown Daugherty (1900–1966)

TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Mechanics

xiii

Loomings

xvii

Chapter 1: The Traditional Story, the Revisionist Story, and the Story

1

Chapter 2: And for the Golden Crown Award, the Winner Is …

17

Chapter 3: Richard Hesketh and Other Spies

35

Chapter 4: On the Road with Hesketh and Baylie

59

Chapter 5: The Fatal Meeting

69

Chapter 6: Brewerton Green

87

Chapter 7: Hesketh’s Arrest, Interrogation, Arraignment, and Hanging

95

Chapter 8: Queer Street

111

Chapter 9: Insults and Injuries

125

Chapter 10: “Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex”

137

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Chapter 11: Ferdinando, Essex, and the Throne

155

Chapter 12: The Day after April Fool’s Day

173

Chapter 13: Passion, Poison, and Putrefaction

179

Chapter 14: The Documents in the Case

193

Chapter 15: “This for Poison”

203

Chapter 16: This for Witchcraft: “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby”

211

Chapter 17: This for Public Consumption

217

Chapter 18: Rounding up the (Highly Un)usual Suspects

233

Chapter 19: The Other

249

Chapter 20: The Missing Gentleman Waiter

261

Epilogue: On the Fleet Prison Night Watch with John Golborne

277

Appendix: The Written Instructions Hesketh Memorized

281

Notes

287

Works Cited

319

Index

335

FOREWORD COLD CASE

This book investigates a famous murder that took place in 1594. The victim was a man who most scholars believe to have been Shakespeare’s patron. A cold case if ever there was one, nearly 420 years old and counting at the date of this writing. As a Shakespeare teacher, I began examining the mystery more than fifteen years ago, inspired by the realization that there were quite a few extant documents on the case, documents that were written in the 1590s, which no one at the time or since then had ever put together. It would have been impossible, though, for anyone, no matter how famous and powerful or how curious, to compile these documents as evidence at the time of the murder because the documents were private—private letters of nobles, state papers, notes between spies, and so forth. Moreover, no one since that time has pieced these documents together because no one appears to have known that such documents are indeed extant and that they do indeed make coherent sense when studied collectively.

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I have been encouraged by the investigative Elizabethan-era biographies of such modern luminaries as Charles Nicholl, who has given readers wonderful studies of Shakespeare and his contemporaries Thomas Nashe and Christopher Marlowe; A.L. Rowse, whose hundred or so stimulating books, some wonderful (Elizabethan Court and Country) and some not (Shakespeare the Man), have instructed, delighted, and enraged thousands; and Dennis Flynn, whose brilliant but still controversial work on the life of John Donne and his connection with the Catholic nobility has broken new ground. Barbara W. Tuchman remains a constant inspiration, particularly because of her all-too-neglected The Practice of History (1981). I should also mention the amazing Erroll Morris. His investigative documentary films (The Thin Blue Line, The Fog of War, and Standard Operating Procedure) are legendary. But I was particularly inspired by a long three-part piece he wrote for the New York Times—“Which Came First, the Chicken or the Egg?”—in which he investigated the real story behind two before-and-after sepia photographs taken by Simon Fenton in 1854 during the famous charge of the Light Brigade of the Crimean War. In this book-length essay, Morris showed how tiny moments in time can be recaptured and put together a century or more later, in a way that reveals what really happened during, between, and after those moments—provided that one is sufficiently fascinated by the question of what really happened and is compelled to dig at and scrutinize the material in microscopic detail repeatedly until what is there emerges. (There is, of course, never any guarantee that anything important will be uncovered—or that anything ever even existed. One simply follows one’s educated suspicions as far as they will go, disallowing one’s wishful thinking about fruitful outcomes.) Years after I began investigating the murder of this supposed patron of Shakespeare’s company, who in 1594 was on schedule to become the king of England, I discovered that Morris had given me the perfect model for arranging all of my minuscule pieces of evidence pertaining to the murder into a story that somebody might want to read. I owe this discovery to my friend, the preeminent photographer of Asia, Nevada Wier.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I gratefully acknowledge the help and support through many years of fellow and sister Shakespeareans: Bob Bennetta, friend and jazz pianist extraordinaire of Charlottesville, who had the good fortune of studying Shakespeare with Marguerite Young at Fordham; John G. Conover, a friend of forty years and a most excellent theater administrator and actor; John L. Lanham, M.D., a good and funny friend and a stalwart playgoing companion in trips up to the American Shakespeare Theatre in Staunton; Thomas and Margaret Merriam of Basingstoke (United Kingdom) for their thirty years of friendship, camaraderie, and indeed, true inspiration; Steven Shaviro, brilliant cultural studies chair-holder at Wayne State University, for being my unswerving friend but also for being one of the most down-to-the-ground, decent people I have ever known; Lloyd T. Smith Jr., his wife Ashlin Smith, and their learned son Garrett Smith, all of Charlottesville, for the sheer joy of their company but especially for the all-too-infrequent experience of discussing Shakespeare with them; Comrade Alan G. Nasser, dear and beloved friend despite the fact that he is all too obviously the world’s greatest expert on food, jazz, and

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philosophy—carrying things not quite so far as our mutual hero, Professor Irwin Corey, who for sixty years has billed himself simply as “the world’s greatest expert”; and my long-suffering academic mentors, the late professors William T. Jack, Charles E. Linck Jr., and Morse Peckham. For their help at several crucial points in this research, I am deeply in debt to several learned benefactors: Louis A. Knafla for help with Sir Thomas Egerton and some handwriting-identification problems; Daniel Kinney for assistance with some difficult (for me) Elizabethan manuscripts; Carol Curt Enos for reading and critiquing an early version of the manuscript and particularly for her expertise on the Church of England; Ian Wilson for his graciously shared and truly valuable information, his much-appreciated encouragement, and most of all for granting permission to use his 35mm color photograph of the painting of Ferdinando Stanley as this book’s cover; Barrett L. Beer for sharing his unrivalled knowledge regarding John Stow; and the late Herbert W. Berry for his expert responses to my questions regarding the London stage in and around 1600. For their remarkable expertise and their willingness to share it, I thank with pleasure Benjamin Longsden, senior archive assistant of the Sheffield Archives; Bruce Jackson of the Lancashire Record Office; Claire Muller of the Lambeth Palace Library; and David J. H. Smith, curator at Berkeley Castle. I also wish to acknowledge the help and inspiration of my witty and indispensably helpful 24/7 coconspirators at FedEx/Kinko’s in Charlottesville, Donna Tirino, Joyce Fedor, and Billie Jenkins. My lifelong intellectual debt to my beloved, history-loving, good-leftist, but otherwise incomprehensible father, Frank Soden Daugherty (1886–1968), is too great to be described adequately in words. He did what he could with what he had—in both of our cases. Last, but certainly not least, thanks to my terrific Shakespeare students over the centuries at the Evergreen State College and now at the University of Virginia.

MECHANICS

I have tried to tell this story in a way that would be accessible to any interested readers but which would, at the same time, be satisfactory to specialist scholars. I have modernized sixteenth-century manuscript texts in cases where I thought it would be helpful for nonspecialist readers; in other cases, I have printed them in their original form. I also use “new-style” dating throughout, as opposed to the “old-style” dating of Shakespeare’s England, in which the New Year began on 25 March. Thus, for example, the old-style date of 1 February 1593 would be 1 February 1594 in this book. The following frequently occurring abbreviations will be found in the notes section beginning on p. 287. The books on this list (e.g., ODNB— Oxford Dictionary of National Biography) are also included, with full reference information, in the sources section beginning on p. 319. These abbreviations refer to the following repositories and publications: AGR/PEA—Archives Generates du Royame (Brussels)/Papiers d’Etat et Audience APC—Acts of the Privy Council

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BC—Berkeley Castle Muniment Room BFC—Bacon Frank Collection at the Sheffield Archives BHO—British History Online CAMDEN—Annales CAREY—Sir George Carey’s letter to his wife Elizabeth announcing and discussing the death of Ferdinando Stanley. A copy of the original manuscript is in the Gloucester County Record Office, MS MF 1161, Letter Book 2, no. 12. Carey-Egerton-Leigh—Talbot Papers, Lambeth Palace Library, where it is catalogued as MS. 3199j 713-14-15. Also referred to herein as “Touching …” BL—British Library BODL—Bodleian Library CCALSS—Cheshire and Chester Archives and Local Studies Service CRS—Catholic Record Society publications CSP Dom—Calendar of State Papers Domestic CSP Rome—Calendar of State Papers for Rome DHB—Derby Household Books E of D—The Earls of Derby and the Verse Writers and Poets of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries EKC ES—E. K. Chambers’ Elizabethan Stage EKC SG—E. K. Chambers’ Shakespearean Gleanings EKC L—E. K. Chambers’ Life of Sir Henry Lee EKC S—E. K. Chambers’ Sources for a Life of Shakespeare ESTC—English Short-Title Catalogue GCRO—Gloucester County Record Office GOLBORNE—John Golborne’s official report of the death of Ferdinando Stanley: “A True Report …” Berkeley Castle Muniment Room MS. SL II, fol. 79 HATFIELD—Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most Hon. Marquess of Salisbury, vols. 4, 5, 12, and 13 HMC—Historical Manuscripts Commission HMSO—Her Majesty’s Stationers Office

Mechanics

xv

HTL—Huntington Library Quarterly IGI—International Genealogical Index (http://www.familysearch.org) JEAYES B—Isaac Herbert Jeayes’ Descriptive Catalogue of the Charters and Muniments … at Berkeley Castle JEAYES G—Letters of Philip Gawdy LFC—Lancashire Funeral Certificates LPL—Lambeth Palace Library LRO—Lancashire Record Office NA—National Archives NQ—Notes and Queries ODNB—Oxford Dictionary of National Biography OED—Oxford English Dictionary PRO—Public Record Office, now the National Archives SA—Sheffield Archives SP—Documents in the State Papers, National Archives SR—Stationers Register SS—Stowe’s source. This is the manuscript upon which John Stowe based his revised account of the death of Ferdinando Stanley. It is BL Harl. MS. 247, fols. 204–205, article nos. 57 and 58, titled “A Brief Declaration …” and “A True Report of such Reasons and Conjectures as Caused Many Learned Men to Suppose Him to be Bewitched,” respectively. Despite its two titles, the manuscript is one continuous document written in one hand (not Stow’s). STOW—John Stow’s Annales of 1600

LOOMINGS

1

Ferdinando Stanley had everything in the early spring of 1594. He was a youthful thirty-five, he was handsome, and he was married to the beautiful daughter of the wealthiest commoner in England. He had three lovely daughters of his own. As the fifth earl of Derby, he held the ancient title of Lord Strange (pronounced to rhyme with sang) and he had inherited from his father the largest and most splendid court in England after the Queen’s own, plus the three brilliant palaces that went with it: Lathom Hall, Knowsley Hall,2 and New Park, which were known collectively throughout the realm as the “Northern Court.”3 (Until recently considered lost to history, images of Lathom Hall have now been rediscovered.)4 First as Lord Strange during the 1580s and then as earl of Derby after inheriting the title upon the death of his father in 1593, Ferdinando served as patron of the theater company which was fortunate enough to include Shakespeare. He was its patron during his many years as Lord Strange, and then, during the brief period in which he held the earldom (from September 1593 until his death in April 1594), he served as the company’s patron for at least two separate productions.5 He was also

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the patron of some of his country’s (and the world’s) brightest literary stars, including Thomas Nashe, Edmund Spenser, and Robert Greene. Ferdinando even wrote poetry which was highly esteemed by Edmund Spenser, who, as the author of The Fairy Queen, was thought by many in those years to be England’s greatest poet since Chaucer. Perhaps most important of all, in the early spring of 1594, Ferdinando was considered to be the first-ranking heir to the throne, possessed of a pure and powerful double-sided bloodline claim. Queen Elizabeth was sickly and was thought to be near the end (although she would actually live and reign strongly, thanks in part to her brilliant surrogates, for the next nine years). She had the legal right to name her own successor—a right she guarded obsessively—and in the winter of 1593 and 1594, just before his death, many knowledgable and influential people believed Ferdinando was the first in line to inherit the crown. Born around 1559, the eldest child of Henry Stanley and Margaret Clifford Stanley, Ferdinando became Lord Strange when his father ascended to the earldom of Derby. Today, it is by the title Lord Strange that he is best known, because of his famous patronage of the theater company of which Shakespeare was a member—Lord Strange’s Players. Henry and Margaret Stanley were unhappily married, owing in whole or in part to the facts that Margaret spent Henry’s money with abandon and repeatedly got him (and herself) into trouble for her continual astrological inquiries as to how long the Queen would live and who would succeed her, knowing that she, Margaret, was the lead successor in terms of bloodline-right alone. Elizabeth openly broadcast the fact that she despised Margaret and thus would not allow her succession. Henry and Margaret, married in 1555, separated in 1567 when Ferdinando was seven or eight, five years before Henry assumed the earldom. Meanwhile, in or around 1570, Henry took as his common-law wife one Jane Halsall, who turns out to play a big, if previously unrealized, part in this story.6 In keeping with the ‘breakup of the family’ policy insisted upon (and enforced) by Elizabeth and her chief counselor Wiliam Cecil, Lord Burghley through which they wanted to ensure that presumptive future earls from religiously suspect noble families would be educated to be

Loomings

xix

Church of England believers and loyalists, Ferdinando was taken by Elizabeth as a toddler to be educated at court.7 From boyhood, Ferdinando was one of the Queen’s favorites, and he distinguished himself at the annual tilts given in her honor, as described in a well-known poem by George Peele, “Polyhymnia” (1590). In fact, the portrait on this book’s cover depicts him decked out for tilting day, as he was considered the finest tiltsman among Elizabeth’s earls. The painter of this portrait finished his work and dated it March 1594. It is thus possible to deduce through simple calculation that the portrait was completed only five to eleven days before the young earl was given the poison that killed him. (See note 3 on p. 317 for the arithmetic.) The poet George Peele painted a memorable verse picture of Ferdinando, in which he is described as wearing white armor and carrying a golden eagle (“Stanleys olde Crest and honourable badge”), entering Elizabeth’s annual tilt of 1589 or 1590. He is accompanied by twenty men on horseback, “Suted in Satten to their Masters collours.” Coming before the Queen, he bows, while also bowing his eagle’s head to her, as if to say “Stoope Eagle to this Sun” (Peele A3). Although the fact has been long forgotten, Ferdinando repeated his mother’s spendthrift ways as a student at St. John’s, Oxford and then persisted with this reckless behavior all the way through to his death, continuing to endanger the family’s financial stability. According to Sir Henry Lee (Elizabeth’s official “champion” at the tilts until he was of great age), Ferdinando was the most profligate young nobleman of the age, even miraculously outdoing the best known of the time, his friend Gilbert Talbot, the heir to the Shrewsbury earldom.8 In 1591, during one of Elizabeth’s progresses, Ferdinando regaled her by dressing as a pastoral “hermytt” and running the length of the field at full speed.9 He had married Alice Spencer (whose name was pastoralized by her kinsman Edmund Spenser as “Amaryllis”), the youngest of the nine daughters of John Spencer, who was reportedly the wealthiest commoner in the realm. Edmund Spenser dubbed Alice’s young husband “Amintas,” knowing that Ferdinando had written some good pastoral verse (four of his poems survive)10 and that he had also been given that pastoral name by Thomas Nashe, among others.11 Most importantly

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for this story, Ferdinando’s literary interests also extended to patronizing a company of players. From sometime in the 1580s onward, he served as a patron of Lord Strange’s Men, who by the early 1590s had the brilliant beginner William Shakespeare writing and acting for them. Ferdinando remained their patron until his death in April of 1594. Speaking of which, one day, not just any day but the April Fool’s Day of 1594, at least according to an ancient manuscript in the British Library, an eerie peasant woman, seeming from her description to be one of the legion of local Lancashire witches, dared to speak to the great Earl Ferdinando as he was walking outside the most magnificent of his three local ancestral seats,12 Lathom Hall. The house was one of the most famous castles in all of England, rivaling any of the Queen’s own. In addition to its surrounding deer park, it featured two spacious courtyards and nine turreted towers furnished with ordnance and expert marksmen who were instructed to fire at will and shoot to kill. In the center stood the tallest and most fabled of these towers, the sky-reaching Eagle Tower. Slightly smaller but more intriguing was the mysterious Tower of Madness. The whole estate was surrounded by a stone wall two yards thick, and the wall was surrounded by a moat eight yards wide. If the witch was awed or intimidated by any of this, she did not let on to the earl or the companions who were strolling with him. (She had likely seen it every day of her life.) It was cold that day, and Ferdinando was probably wearing his heavy floor-length cape and his beloved tall black beaver hat when he met her outside the wall. Being Ferdinando, he almost certainly did not doff his hat to such a lowly person, woman or not. The woman asked him if she could be permitted to lodge very near him for a while, in order that she might be able to quickly pass on the messages God was sending her on a daily basis about Ferdinando’s welfare. Ferdinando declined, audibly mumbling something about the damnable sin of blasphemy. Four days later, the famously sturdy Ferdinando, who had experienced no previous illnesses in his life, suddenly began vomiting. The vomiting would not stop. The substance was filled with “rusty matter” and “fatty matter.” It stained the silver bowls into which it was retched,

Loomings

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and the stains could not be washed away. His urine, however, did stop— immediately after another local witch asked his secretary if his “water had stayed.” Rectal bleeding began. All of the substances coming from his body reeked to such an extent that the smell could hardly be borne by any who came near him. Manuscripts written at the time (which are extant) tell of several hideous visions Ferdinando claimed he saw. All of the other hundred-odd specifics of his nearly two weeks of illness were recorded in equally excruciating, nauseating hour-by-hour detail in these same manuscripts. Four of the best physicians in England, attending at his bedside, said they had never seen anything like it. The lead doctor, Ferdinando’s old friend and tutor John Case of St. John’s College, Oxford, stated immediately after his death that the cause was “flat poisoning … and no other but”—news that was afterward not only withheld but deep-sixed in favor of a less bothersome, less damaging cover story.13 For months after Ferdinando’s interment, no one could get close to his crypt because of a lingering smell from his body which violently nauseated all of those who attempted to approach it to pay their respects. His silver vomit bowls were sealed up and interred with him.

CHAPTER 1

THE TRADITIONAL STORY, THE REVISIONIST STORY, AND THE STORY

Since the early 1960s, there have been two rivalrous stories—the story told by mainstream historians and the story told by (some) Jesuit historians and their followers.

TRADITIONAL The mainstream view of specialist historians runs as follows. Starting around 1590, the leading Catholic exiles abroad began to entertain serious thoughts about replacing Queen Elizabeth with a Catholic successor—no matter what it took. They knew that if they waited until her natural death, she would have by then named a non-Catholic successor. Thus, they turned to thoughts of assassination and the Queen’s replacement by a Catholic monarch of their choice. The laws governing both the Catholic

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exiles and the Queen in this matter did not, to put it mildly, lead to any possibility of agreement between the two. The Queen had the legal right to name her own successor, needing only to provide a credible bloodline claim, and she guarded this right fiercely. In contrast, the Catholics abroad (just like their counterparts in England) felt they were ruled by a papal decree which amounted to a virtual “hit order” upon Elizabeth, as she was, in the view of Rome, sitting upon her throne in defiance of God. The Catholics believed that God’s will was that the English monarch must be Catholic, as such monarchs had always been before Elizabeth’s own father, King Henry VIII, took over the English church and established it as such—the Church of England. To put things only a little differently, the leading Catholic exiles considered it their primary sacred duty to place a Catholic upon the English throne as soon as possible—a duty which, in their perfectly logical conclusion, mandated assassination. They viewed such action as urgent, too, because the Queen was old, sickly, and thought to be near the end—whereas she actually outlived Earl Ferdinando Stanley by nine years, ruling strongly in those years and cheating death until 1603. There were some tender-hearted Catholic leaders who felt that she might be captured and imprisoned for the rest of her life, but the experienced players on both sides knew that this was so unworkable a solution as to be laughable. The Catholic exiles, in the view of mainstream historians (although this view is denied by most Catholic historians), thus launched a series of plots against the Queen’s life. The plot to kill her and then put the earl of Derby on the throne in her place, launched early in 1593, was the chief of these—and it is the best remembered today. It has always been known as the “Hesketh Plot,” as the agent who was chosen to travel from the continent up to Lancashire to sound out the earl was one Richard Hesketh, a native of the shire who had gone abroad (for debated reasons) two or three years earlier. Again according to the standard story, these high-up “senders-on,” as one spy later termed them, were Sir William Stanley and Father Thomas Worthington, probably in close collaboration with Cardinal William Allen, Father Robert Parsons, Father Hugh Owen, and Father William Holt.1 Reliable English intelligence also reported that

The Traditional Story, the Revisionist Story, and the Story

3

the Hesketh Plot had the backing of King Philip of Spain and the pope. (Sir William Stanley was a beloved relative of the fourth and fifth Derby earls, Henry and Ferdinando, respectively, who at this time were in fact standing as guardians to the famous traitor’s two young sons, both of whom lived with the earls.) I say Hesketh was sent to “sound out” Henry because the Catholics had a problem with the then-sitting Derby earl: they were not sure that he was Catholic. They were also worried about how long heHenry Stanley—would live himself, as he was getting on in years and was rumored to be sickly. If he succeeded Elizabeth and then died on the throne, his eldest son, Ferdinando, as the fifth earl, would succeed him as the king. And therein lay another problem: the Catholics were even less sure of Ferdinando’s religion than they were of his father’s. Sounding Henry out thus meant getting an answer to two questions: First, would he accept the Catholics’ offer to put him on the throne if they assassinated Elizabeth and, using their army combined with the earl’s own, took over the country? Second, if he was not a Catholic, would he swear his oath before they took this action that he would become one before assuming the throne, that he would immediately return the English “realm spiritual” to the pope, and that he understood that they would dethrone him by any means necessary if he betrayed this oath? Hesketh, again according to the standard story, landed in England in September of 1593. Upon arriving, he met a fellow wayfarer named Richard Baylie, who had served as a trumpeter under the Earl of Essex in the low countries, and quickly engaged Baylie to serve as his man on his trip up to Lancashire. Hesketh is reported (by one known spy and another apparent spy) to have been stout, middle-aged, yellow-haired,2 and dressed in yellow fustian (cotton) “in the English manner.”3 The two men rode north, reached their destination, and knocked on the door of the earl’s great house at New Park. They were met by the earl’s brother, Sir Edward Stanley, who told them that the earl had just died earlier that day. Sir Edward, acting in the late earl’s stead, took the papers Hesketh then presented to him. These included the formal letter from the leading

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Catholic powers abroad offering the Derby earl the crown and also, as required by law, Hesketh’s own passport for the earl to approve and sign. Specialist historians differ a bit as to whether Earl Ferdinando and Hesketh spoke briefly at that exact time. In any event, Hesketh was put off for a few days, with Ferdinando citing his “sorrows” for the delay.4 Ferdinando asked Hesketh to join him for a visit at Brewerton, forty miles south of New Park, on 2 October, and Hesketh of course kept the date. After his arrival, in the evening, Hesketh wrote letters to his wife Isabel and his brother Bartholomew explaining that he would be delayed in reuniting with them because Ferdinando apparently delighted in his company and wanted more of it. On the next day, 3 October, Ferdinando told him he desired yet more of his company, asking Hesketh to leave with him immediately for Windsor Castle, where he was going to visit the Queen. Hesketh soon realized that he was actually under arrest. Ferdinando turned him over to the Queen and her authorities, telling her that Hesketh had brought him a treasonous letter from Stanley and Worthington abroad offering him the crown. Hesketh was moved around for a brief period, during which time he was interrogated by Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley’s son (and successor), who turned him over to the government’s main “cracker” and clerk to the Privy Council, William Wade (Waad), who greeted Hesketh on 15 October with the words, “Her majesty is informed that you had a letter unto the earl of Derby.”5 Hesketh at first protested his innocence but soon confessed to everything, agreeing, in what he hoped would be a clemency deal, to write two letters to high-placed Catholic exiles abroad containing Crown disinformation. As he did so, he told the authorities how to disguise the letters (by predating and other means) so that his recipients would believe them to be genuine and not written under duress. He was soon telling everything he knew, all too cheerfully proclaiming himself now to be “Her majesty’s honest spy.”6 On 5 November, Wade interrogated Trumpeter Baylie, who testified that he had first met Hesketh at the Bell Inn in Canterbury shortly after their arrival and had agreed to go into hire as Hesketh’s man, whereupon Wade seemed satisfied and Baylie was released. Hesketh was speedily tried and sentenced to death. On 29 November, he was executed by hanging.

The Traditional Story, the Revisionist Story, and the Story

5

This story—again, as mainstream secular historians tell it—turns now to Ferdinando, who, up in Lancashire, was quite pleased with the proceedings. Once again, the man who had everything had done everything right. He had every reason to believe (as many knowledgeable people today do) that if his luck and impeccable behavior continued on course, Elizabeth would name him her successor. According to the will of Henry VIII, Ferdinando’s mother, Countess Dowager Margaret, was technically the first in line, with Ferdinando standing second. But, as was earlier noted, Elizabeth, who had the legal right to name her successor, hated Margaret and would never have named her. Thus, if Ferdinando expected a normal life span in early 1594 (he did not get it), and if he also expected at that time to outlive his aged mother (he did not), he would have believed himself, as long as he remained in Elizabeth’s favor, to be the front-runner. So would most other insiders—of whom, in one way or another, there were all too many in the eyes of the Queen and her chief minister, Lord Burghley. This brings the story back to where it left off, on April Fool’s Day 1594, with Ferdinando standing in front of his castle at Lathom listening to the local witch, who claimed to have a channel to God. The works of Elizabethan historians, gossips, and official reporters then take over the traditional narrative with their all-too-brief account of Ferdinando’s next sixteen days on earth. On the night of the fourth, a Thursday, Ferdinando had horrible dreams in which he saw the death of his wife, Countess Alice, and imagined himself being attacked with knives and swords. His cries awakened the other sleepers in the house. Awakening himself, he remained convinced that the dreams were real until he had been fully conscious for some time—and until he was assured that his beloved Alice was fine. Having been pronounced the very model of health by his physician, dear friend, and former Oxford tutor, Dr. John Case, who had been visiting at Lathom, he went with the doctor and his secretary John Golborne to visit a small private hunting lodge—a “seclusion lodge”—at his nearby second great house, Knowsley Hall.7 Case was riding along with Ferdinando on his way back to Chester (Knowsley lies between Lathom and Chester). As these men rode through the lodge’s arched entryway, they may have

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glanced up at the words in the center of the arch above them, words that are still there: “Bring Good News and Knock Boldly.” That afternoon, Earl Ferdinando fell ill upon seeing a tall male apparition in his private chamber while he was alone there with Golborne— who did not see the apparition when the earl pointed to it. Ferdinando then suffered a bad night. The next day, Saturday, he decided to ride back home. Evidently feeling well enough that morning to do without a doctor, he told Case to go on to Chester. He and Golborne returned to Lathom. But the next day, Sunday, he was much worse. A rider was sent to fetch Case back, and the doctor, riding hard, made it back to Lathom that same day. Upon examining Ferdinando, Case was astonished at the sudden, shocking change in his health. From the perfect physical specimen of only a few days earlier, Case found his friend the earl transformed into a man who might well be dying. He remarked that he had never seen such a sudden change in health with no obvious or apparent cause. The earl’s urine had gone from perfection to putrefaction. He repeatedly vomited a mixture of blood and “rusty matter,” he was jaundiced, and he manifested a wide array of other alarming symptoms. Case advised a blood-letting in order to stop the bleeding or perhaps divert the blood from his patient’s mouth (from which blood seeped sporadically even when the patient was not vomiting), but Ferdinando refused. On 10 April, a Wednesday, a servant, one Master Halsall, swore under oath that he had found a wax image (some reports say it was an image that was framed in wax) in Ferdinando’s room while he was attending him there. He also swore that he immediately threw the thing into the fire in order to counteract its evil effects upon the earl (as was recommended in such cases by local folklore), and he swore that the flames immediately consumed it. No image, or any part of one, was ever found. On the next day, Thursday the eleventh, Ferdinando realized he was dying. He summoned lawyers and high-placed local relatives to his bedside in order to revise his will—and to make sure the revision was done right. His obvious purposes for doing so—reasons that have been undisputed from that point up to now—were to make sure that his wife, Countess Alice, and his three young daughters received his entire holdings,

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including the Isle of Man, in an undivided state; to establish a 1,000-year trust to pay off all of his debts; and, in order to ensure that those outcomes were achieved, to disinherit his younger brother William, whom he knew would shortly be the sixth earl of Derby. (For reasons that remain unclear to this day, William, although beloved by the common people and nobles alike of England, was despised by the leading living members of his own family and their spouses—although there is no reason to believe that his father, biological mother, or stepmother shared these views.) Then, on 14 April, a Sunday, another witch appeared outside the palace. Her name was Jane. She saw the earl’s major secretary, Golborne (the same man to whom Ferdinando had said he had seen a tall male apparition a few days earlier when they were at Knowsley). She asked him if the earl felt any pain in his lower parts and if his “water had stopped.” At the very moment she asked Golborne this, it was reported (on the same day), the earl lost the ability to urinate. After much more suffering, Earl Ferdinando summoned Countess Alice to his bedside to say good-bye. He did so with the much-quoted words, “I am resolved presently to die, and take away only one part of my arms, I mean the Eagle’s Wings, so will I fly swiftly into the bosom of Christ my only saviour.”8 (As several historians have observed, this flowery farewell is worthy of the dying hero in a Victorian romance novel.) At around 4:00 p.m., he died. Elizabeth heard of the death within a day or two. She was inconsolably aggrieved, saying to Sir George Carey (who was, coincidentally, Ferdinando’s brother-in-law) while walking with him in the cool evening that she “thought not any man in the world loved her better than [Ferdinando] did”—“that he was the most honourable, worthiest and absolutely honest man that she had in her life ever known.”9 On 19 April, a Friday, she charged a top-ranking team to investigate the death, as people were starting to gossip all over England, and especially at court, about poison. There was also talk about the likely perpetrators, the feared and despised Jesuits, whom many thought had ordered Ferdinando to be killed, both to revenge Hesketh and also to execute the earl for committing the mortal sin of refusing a crown the pope had,

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through surrogates, offered him. As the organizers and leaders of this investigative team, Elizabeth named Vice Chancellor Thomas Heneage, Master of the Rolls Thomas Egerton, and Carey. Heneage, who was the senior ranking member but old and sick, handed the job off to Egerton, who then formed a working subcommittee made up of himself, Carey, Secretary Golborne, and the earl’s private chaplain, William Leigh (the last two of whom had ridden full tilt to court from Lancashire to report the death). At some point between the nineteenth and the twenty-second, Sir Edward Fitton, the sheriff of Lancashire, and other justices began to examine the witches around Lathom, as they had come under suspicion because of their reported earlier avid interest in the earl’s fortunes, beginning on April Fool’s Day. (In the decade from 1587 through 1597, prosecutions for witchcraft reached the highest point in all of English history; everybody believed in witches and witchcraft, and they believed especially in the power of the “Lancashire witches”—most of all in Lancashire, of course.10) One standard test administered to witch suspects was to demand that they swear oaths of innocence which must then be immediately followed by a recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. It was an article of faith in Lancashire that no witch could successfully say the entire prayer after telling a lie under oath, even if she were provided with its text orally or in writing. Fitton reported that one witch could not say the line “Forgive us our trespasses,” even when she was repeatedly prompted by the justices. This woman is usually linked with the “Jane” who had asked Secretary Golborne if the earl had not yet lost the ability to urinate at precisely the same time, as was authoritatively reported, that he lost it. She was known in the community and would certainly have been a prime suspect if one were considering witchcraft as the cause of the earl’s death. She was then jailed. Her fate is not known, but in light of subsequent events, it can easily be imagined. On 28 April, a Sunday, only sixteen days after the earl’s death, Sir George Carey wrote to some of his superiors in the investigation that “owing to a letter found by chance” at Lathom, he had determined that witches and their witchcraft were almost certainly the culprits, not poisoners.

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He made sure that the Queen’s long-term chief advisor, the all-powerful Lord Burghley, heard this news. Implicated with the witches was a servant at the palace, one Robert Doughtie, who had fled the scene and been sighted in London. Carey asked that he be given the power to arrest and interrogate Doughtie. But nobody went after Doughtie. And nothing more is ever heard about any investigation into the death of the fifth earl of Derby. Amongst Tudor historians, only one, John Stow, the government’s semiofficial chronicler, bought into the murderby-witchcraft theory—or said he did. The rest, led by the great William Camden, believed that the earl had died of poisoning, and their consensus opinion was that the Jesuits were responsible. Most of the people in England agreed—and they remained, according to several contemporary sources, outraged. By the time James came to the throne in 1603, nine years later, the entire matter had apparently been forgotten. In the end, nothing even remained of the glorious palace called Lathom Hall. Upon Oliver Cromwell’s victory, the Puritans burned it to the ground in their ascetic fury, and with hammers and anything else they could find at hand, they smashed every decadent, idolatrous “icon” therein—that is to say, everything, with not a wrack left behind.

REVISIONIST The second, rivalrous version of the story is that put forth by the Jesuit historians and their followers, starting with the well-known (to scholars) 1962–1963 essay by Christopher Devlin, “The Earl and the Alchemist.” Most influential accounts since that time, Jesuit and non-Jesuit, have depended in whole or in part upon this essay. Their argument can be briefly summarized in one sentence: The Jesuits abroad did not send Hesketh to offer the crown to the Derby earl, and neither the Jesuits abroad nor the Catholics in Lancashire had anything to do with his death. Rather, Hesketh was coming back on his own to visit his wife Isabel and his large family in Lancashire after having fled England to avoid being jailed for inciting a riot and murdering one Squire Thomas Houghton in the process. Because he was still wanted for the murder and thus could not

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obtain a legal passport through ordinary means (according to these historians’ accounts), he was surreptitiously pardoned by the government and then supplied with a passport by Lord Burghley or one of his high-placed minions. Burghley had heard from his own spies abroad that Hesketh was homesick and wanted to return to England as soon as possible. Knowing that Hesketh would have to visit the earl in order to present his passport upon arriving home in Lancashire, Burghley sensed a rare opportunity to get some much-desired information about the intentions of the Derby earl about the succession. He decided to create a forged letter from Sir William Stanley (a close kinsman of both Ferdinando and his father who had entrusted his two sons to their care owing to his absence from the country due to treason) and Dr. Thomas Worthington, perhaps also “signed” by Cardinal Allen, and to send that letter to the earl via the “innocent courier” Hesketh. This, Devlin said, was the typical Burghley method of creating spies and other secret agents. After landing in England on 9 September 1593, Hesketh lodged in a Canterbury inn, the Bell, where he met William Baylie (an “innocent lad,” Devlin described him) and hired him to be his man. The two traveled toward Lancashire, stopping over at the White Lion, an inn at Islington. Then, on the morning of 16 September, while the two men were leaving the inn, a crucial event happened. A boy named Waterworth, who was in service at the inn, handed Hesketh a sealed letter addressed to the Earl of Derby. He said the letter was given to him by one Mr. Hickman (identified by Devlin as William Hickman), who had asked the boy to deliver it to Hesketh, whom he had heard was on his way to Lancashire. Hesketh could deliver the letter to the earl when he presented the earl with his passport—a formality the letter’s initial deliverers knew that Hesketh must observe by law. Hesketh, without thinking twice, agreed. The envelope contained the forged letter, supposed to be from the Catholic leaders abroad, offering the earl the crown. But Devlin and his followers believed that this letter was actually from Lord Burghley (or, just barely possibly, from the Earl of Essex, who will enter this story prominently later). They believed that the letter was part of an elaborate scheme to test the earl’s loyalty. If he declined the offer, they would

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trust him more than they currently did to be neither a crypto-Catholic nor (much more importantly) a plotting usurper. If he accepted it, they would at last know the truth about his beliefs, they would have proven him to be an archtraitor, and they could then almost immediately try and execute him and thus be done with him at last. Hesketh arrived at the earl’s palace at New Park on 25 September, a Tuesday. He learned that the earl (Henry) had just died that morning. He decided that it would be inappropriate to disturb the household with his petty business, so he went to visit his brother Bartholomew for two days. Then, on Wednesday or Thursday, he went back to New Park and knocked on the door. He was met by Sir Edward Stanley, the late earl’s brother, who looked over his passport and letter and said he would show them to his grieving nephew, Ferdinando, the Earl of Derby now for only two days. Hesketh, having done his obligatory duty, waited briefly for the earl to sign his passport and return it to him. Instead, he was asked to stay over for a few days, and he readily agreed; in a subsequent letter to his wife, he seemed very surprised and flattered that the earl had taken a liking to him and desired his company. But, just as in the mainstream version of the story, Hesketh was wrong. Ferdinando took him to the Queen at Windsor and turned him in, telling her that Hesketh had brought a letter from abroad offering him the crown if he would agree to turn Catholic and lead an uprising to take the throne from her. Thus far, the mainstream account and the revisionist account of what happened are fairly close, except for the element of the Waterworth/Hickman letter. Then, however, the stories begin to differ. The Catholic version says that the letter, which Ferdinando had presented to the Queen, was quickly destroyed (or perhaps hidden away) in order that it could not later be proved to be a forgery. It also adds the theory, presented as fact, that Ferdinando was told to go home and that from that day forward, he was kept totally out of the investigation—in order to implicate his complicity during these proceedings without his bothersome presence and contradictory testimony. Later that year, according to Devlin’s reading, Burghley wrote that Hesketh had “persuaded” Ferdinando to take the throne. Devlin asserted

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that “persuaded” meant “actually talked into.” But it is clear in context— incontestably clear—that Burghley’s meaning, in late 1593 usage, was that Hesketh had “tried to persuade” Ferdinando (of which more later).11 Devlin argued that the evidence of Ferdinando’s treasonable agreement was leaked by Burghley and had some desired influence in discrediting the earl among prominent players. Much, much later (a hundred years or more), a good-sized document (which is extant) was found amongst Burghley’s private papers: an enumerated list of “talking-points” written out for Hesketh to use on his ill-fated journey to Lathom to see the earl. It was a virtual instruction manual for Hesketh to follow (after having memorized it) when he was trying to “persuade” the Derby earl to take the throne—and it seems to have been written by Dr. Thomas Worthington. (The reader may remember that Worthington and Ferdinando’s kinsman Sir William Stanley were two of the high-ranking Catholic leaders abroad who are thought by mainstream academic historians to have designed the entire plot and to have sent Hesketh to implement it.) Devlin called this document “an obvious forgery.”12 It is summarized later, and its full text is provided as this book’s appendix. In other words, the claim that was first launched by Devlin and then embraced by his followers is that the entire “Hesketh Plot” was in actuality not just a government test of Ferdinando launched in the hopes that he would fail it. It also included a corollary, “fail-safe” plot to destroy him anyway in case he passed—which he did when he turned Hesketh in. That method was to imply, in the reports of the official private testimony that would be made public after Ferdinando’s death (which the plotters would engineer), that Hesketh had indeed talked Ferdinando into accepting the deal, but Ferdinando had then backed out. Lord Burghley & Co. could thus seriously besmirch Ferdinando’s posthumous reputation by reporting that he had agreed, for the ten days or so between his conversations with Hesketh and his turning him in, to commit the highest and most heinous of treasonous acts. What they thought they could get out of this, these historians have implied, was the dampening, or hopefully even the stemming, of public outcry about any suspicious circumstances that might accompany the death of such a popular, near-deified young nobleman.

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They could say, in effect, that Ferdinando had been involved in Jesuit treason and that it may have caused his death—most likely at the hands of the Jesuits, who were furious that he had gone back on their agreement and turned in their beloved agent Hesketh, sending him to the gallows. The logic behind the Jesuit narrative attempts to answer an obvious question: Why would the government leadership, unbeknownst to the Queen, do this? First, these historians have argued, they wanted to ensure that Ferdinando never became king. The leadership did not like him, they did not trust him, and they were terribly afraid that if a powerful territorial earl got the throne, it would lead to renewed civil war—more of their dreaded so-called “Barons’ Wars”(that is, civil war in England with various powerful earls [barons] leading large and strong armies). Second, Devlin implied that he believed a report from the (innocent, in his view) exile leaders Sir William Stanley and Sir Roland York that Burghley had had Ferdinando killed in order that his younger brother William might then become the Derby earl. They knew that Burghley knew that William had no interest in being the king (he was reportedly a “nidicock”— that is, a fool—who would soon be spending all of his time writing stage comedies after having frittered away much of his youth in adventurous foreign travel).13 Also, they believed that Burghley, the Queen’s semiofficial matchmaker, having knocked off Ferdinando, would then marry the new Earl William to his own granddaughter, Elizabeth Vere, the daughter of the earl of Oxford, thus placing his surrogate in what one scholar termed “the power seat of the Stanley-Derby empire.”14 Devlin was arguing after the fact here, knowing that this marriage, which did indeed take place, was solemnized nine months after Ferdinando’s death.Hesketh confessed on 28 November. Devlin thought the confession (which is extant) was forced and untrue, being made only in Hesketh’s hope of getting clemency—or, at the very least, in an effort to protect his wife and children from government reprisal, official or unofficial. On the same day, there was a fast trial, prosecuted by the greatest legal mind of the age, Sir Thomas Egerton. (Devlin believed that Egerton, along with several other eminent Burghley minions, was in on Hesketh’s railroading.) The next day Hesketh was hoisted at Tyburn.

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When it comes to Ferdinando’s death, Devlin and his followers ended in equivocating mightily. Devlin insinuated that the actual assassins were William and Bartholomew Hickman, one of whom was identical, in his view, to the man who had the fatal letter delivered to Hesketh as he was leaving the White Lion in Islington. He artfully implied at the very end of his essay that these two men rode off northward from the home of their friend Dr. John Dee in Mortlake to commit the murder.15 The Hickman brothers, Devlin indicated, were Burghley agents (like almost everybody else in his story). But Devlin was at pains to say that his main purpose was not, in the end, to accuse anyone in particular of killing Ferdinando (although he had already been at obvious pains to do just that). He even conceded that Ferdinando’s doctors, who, he said, had originally thought that several days of overeating and overexercising had killed the young earl, may have been right after all. (There is no contemporaneous report that the doctors said this, although the government historian John Stow later reported it, and Devlin got it from Stow, whom he otherwise considered to be an unreliable source because he thought he was actually working for Burghley, like everybody else in London. On the contrary, as is now known from Case’s recorded utterance at Ferdinando’s deathbed, their original diagnosis was poison.16) Devlin also conceded, albeit in a bare sentence or two, as noted earlier, that Essex could have been the man who was responsible all along for sending Hesketh and for assassinating Ferdinando.17 What is clear after examining Devlin’s account closely and after reviewing his primary sources is that he wrote only in order to exculpate the Catholics at home and abroad, particularly the Jesuit leadership abroad—a fact he tried to hide with wondrous rhetoric. One of his weapons in achieving this end was to implicate Lord Burghley and the small, secret army that was supposedly working for him toward this end. (As a matter of fact, Burghley did have a small, secret army working for him, but not on this matter.) After having done this work with a vengeance, however, Devlin backpedaled at the end, acknowledging, in a last-minute attempt to seem fair-minded (actually employing feigned vacillation as a rhetorical tool) that he did not really know who

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or what killed Ferdinando. His narrative of the events, going against (and attempting to revise) the versions by both the Tudor-Stuart chroniclers and the mainstream specialist historians of modern times, has as its only actual “protagonist” the created hero of a guiltless, and in fact totally honorable, Elizabethan Catholic leadership at home and abroad. The establishment of across-the-board Catholic innocence appears to have also been the aim of some of Devlin’s most notable followers, particularly Francis Edwards. At the same time, however, several leading mainstream historians and biographers, disinterested in their intent but trusting in Devlin’s authority and fabled scrupulousness, have followed him on key points (notably Paul E. J. Hammer, the leading authority on Essex, as well as Ian Wilson, A. G. Petti, and Nicholl in his earlier work). They have thus accidentally perpetuated Devlin’s errors, some of which are thus regrettably now themselves considered to be “mainstream.”18

THE STORY Both histories of what happened, the traditional one and the Jesuit one, are far from the truth—and are much more boring than the truth, despite Devlin’s creative efforts. The problem with the mainstream account is that far too much crucial information is missing from it, for the simple reason that nobody ever found it and included it. A second, growing problem with it is that it is slowly and subtly becoming polluted by “Devlinism,” albeit in the historical writings of innocent and wellmeaning parties, including those mentioned earlier. The problem with the Catholic version is, at its root, Devlin’s effect again. Devlin made many errors, large and small, in “The Earl and the Alchemist.” Moreover, he went on to make arguments that were based on those errors and which have subsequently been accepted as true by many scholars over the last fifty years. I wish I could say that I am completely convinced that in all cases Devlin went astray as the result of his unconscious overzealousness. Rather, it seems to me upon carefully reading the same sources and the same original strings of words he read that he may have actually manipulated his evidence at a few crucial points in order to reach the

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conclusions he wanted—and to have his readers reach them too. He read too selectively, omitted odd things that are all too present on the page but were unhelpful to his aims, willfully misinterpreted some very clear passages, and made specious arguments based upon his own erroneous premises. In other words, he seemed insufficiently disinterested to have undertaken this research in good faith. I wish I could say otherwise. Meanwhile, the main problem stemming from the inadequacies of both versions of the story is not simply the inadequacies themselves. If it were, and if the real story were not such an interesting and important one, one could probably dismiss the discovery of these inadequacies as nothing much more than pedantry, maybe even only academic quibbling. The main problem is, rather, that a fascinating, historically significant, dark and twisted “true crime” story has never managed to get told at all. I try to tell it for the first time here, in all of its unbelievably bizarre detail.

CHAPTER 2

AND FOR THE GOLDEN CROWN AWARD, THE WINNER IS…

MANUFACTURING DIVINE RIGHT Suppose you were a mass-attending Catholic or an atheist in 1590s England. It was a capital crime to be either for most people. Unless you were awfully good at keeping your beliefs and activities secret—and very few people alive then were that good at it because the government was always better—you would almost certainly be informed upon. Anyone who knew you, and knew about your beliefs and activities, would be afraid not to inform, because, as is usual in such societies, it was also a big-time crime not to inform on friends or acquaintances suspected of criminal activity. You would then be investigated, almost certainly charged, and then, after being found guilty, you’d be severely punished. Public execution preceded by hideous public torture was a not-uncommon punishment—customarily followed by having your head displayed on a high pole.

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Why? The underlying reason is simple. If you were an atheist or a practicing Catholic, you did not believe that God had placed Queen Elizabeth on the throne. You did not, that is, believe in the doctrine of divine right – for her, anyway. If you were an atheist, you held that there was no divinity, and if there was no divinity, there was no divine right. If you were a Catholic, you believed in divine right—but only for a Catholic.1 Depending on the exact year and your exact location in the kingdom, you might be able to get away with being a privately believing Catholic who agreed to go to the state church—and who regularly did so. (People were watching to see if you went to church or not, and they reported what they observed.) Even so, you were always under government suspicion and always being watched. One good reason for the government’s suspicion was the “Deposition Ruling” that was issued by Pope Pius V in 1570 when he excommunicated Elizabeth. That ruling—much like the ayatollah’s of the late twentieth century when he issued his fatwa on Salman Rushdie—called on Catholics to depose the Queen, killing her if necessary, and replace her with a Catholic and only a Catholic. The hit order was essential in the pope’s eyes because it would be a necessary if not sufficient condition to help ensure that a Catholic actually succeeded Elizabeth, rather than waiting for her to die and then trying to have a voice in the succession. With the latter option, the Catholics knew they might well lose—as, with the ascent of James in 1603, with no deposition attempt on Elizabeth’s life having succeeded, they did. This state of affairs meant, for Elizabeth’s chief minister Lord Burghley, that Job One was to keep the Queen alive and on the throne for as long as her natural life should last. Elizabeth was terribly (and famously) paranoid about all of this, and she had excellent reason to be. From the late 1580s until her death in 1603, she was the subject of virtually countless assassination plots and other deposition threats—and the danger continued for two years into James’ reign, when the Gunpowder Plot failed in 1605 because Burghley’s son, Sir Robert Cecil, the heir to his father’s former job, found out about it and foiled it. So obsessed with the matter was Elizabeth that she got passed, or greatly strengthened, two important laws that were relevant to the succession.

And for the Golden Crown Award, the Winner Is…

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The first law gave her the right to name her successor, and she affirmed and guarded that right above all others during the 1590s. She was under some pressure to present a credible succession bloodline, but that posed no problem for her: she believed in the criterion herself, just so long as the potential claimant was not Catholic or someone she hated for other reasons. The second law made it absolutely illegal to speak about the succession, either in public or in private, particularly about possible claimants. Elizabeth and Burghley enforced that law with all of their might, no matter how highly placed the perpetrator was. Such speech was, in and of itself, a capital offense. (See earlier section regarding public torture, brutal execution, and the placing of heads on poles.) Ferdinando Stanley, the most viable English bloodline candidate, almost certainly would have had this law in mind when, as the ancient manuscript attests, he was standing out in front of his palace on April Fool’s Day of 1594, listening to the witch-cum-auguring messenger of God who was standing in front of him. He would have known that one highly likely augury of hers would concern the succession. He would not have wanted to hear it, and he had the best of reasons for avoiding it. His mother, Countess Margaret Stanley (nee Clifford), was actually possessed of the strongest bloodline throne claim of any English person, and, as a passionate believer in the supernatural, she had inquired of soothsayers on several occasions as to whether or not she would succeed Elizabeth. She was found out—everybody was always found out, even rich and powerful countesses like Margaret—and placed under arrest by Elizabeth for lengthy periods at least twice. Her convictions and periods of imprisonment were famous, and they constituted one reason, even though they had nothing to do with Catholic heresy, for the government’s enormous suspicion of the Stanleys from the 1580s until William succeeded his brother Ferdinando upon the latter’s death in the spring of 1594. The queen’s top ministers trusted William. Besides, Burghley had married his granddaughter Elizabeth Vere, the daughter of the Earl of Oxford, to William in order, he seems to have hoped, to increase the strength of his powerful earldom. (Devlin therefore rightly

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believed that Burghley wanted to further empower one of the largest earldoms in England by linking it by marriage to that of the powerful earl of Oxford, Elizabeth’s father and also that Burghley, as the Queen’s right-hand man, was doing so in order to obtain more control of both baronies/earldoms in the Queen’s, and his own, behalf. The political game on the part of Elizabeth and Burghley was to give lip service to the claims/rights of Ferdinando’s widow, Alice, while working behind the scenes—where the money was—on behalf of the new Earl William (and thus ultimately for their own gain.) But Elizabeth and Burghley, as well as other powerful earls, especially Essex, had never quite trusted Ferdinando, and Ferdinando knew it. He knew that it had a lot to do with his mother’s divination work with her soothsayers on the succession question and with her arrests and imprisonments. He also knew that it had a lot to do with his Catholic (but previously trusted loyalist) cousin Sir William Stanley, who had turned out to be the most famous traitor of the age. After taking the town of Deventer in 1587 while commanding his huge regiment of English troops, Sir William had immediately (and enthusiastically) handed it back to the enemy, Spain, and joined them, thereafter becoming the main agent of the attempts to wrest the throne from Elizabeth—attempts which included several assassination plots. Ferdinando also now knew that he and his father, Earl Henry, had made a big mistake in assenting to Sir William’s request that they take over the official guardianship of his two young sons while he was away fighting under Leicester (and then for King Philip of Spain and the exiled Cardinal William Allen). The fact that these boys lived with Ferdinando at Lathom Hall was also widely known and had led to yet more guilt by association from the government. There were actually a large number of plausible claimants—plausible in their own minds, anyway—far too many in the minds of Elizabeth and her chief ministers. But almost none, for various reasons, was really viable. Ferdinando’s mother, Margaret, as mentioned, was never in the running. First, she was a woman. People had horrible memories of Elizabeth’s sister Mary, “Bloody Mary,” being on the throne, whereas

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many believed Elizabeth to be the finest monarch in English history. The upshot was that nobody much took to the idea of having three queens in a row. Detesting the one but loving the other with all their hearts, the people did not want to take a chance on getting another Mary, and they felt at the same time that they would have a small chance of getting a successor queen who had anywhere near the perceived excellence of Elizabeth. Faulty as the logic may have been, there it was. Second, Margaret was also a famous divorcee, having separated from Ferdinando’s father, Earl Henry Stanley, the fourth Earl of Derby, in the 1560s (even before he became the earl). And, to make matters worse for her claim, she was the instant devotee of any fashionable soothsayer who won her confidence.2 Most important of all, Elizabeth hated her, mostly because she knew Margaret had used these soothsayers to learn if and when she would succeed Elizabeth. (While she was still married to Henry and living at Lathom, Margaret had commissioned a huge astrological screen— perhaps more like a sculpture—which she and any visitors could use to “attain wisdom.” She also commissioned the old house poet Thomas Chaloner to write occultist verse both on it and about it.)3 But she had been out of the limelight for many years, and when she died in 1596, outliving her son Ferdinando by two years, she was nearly forgotten. However, the “woman factor” also effectively ruled out one other bloodline possibility, the flighty, eccentric, willful young Arbella Stuart (the cousin to the eventual winner, James VI of Scotland), whose paternal grandmother had been Henry VII’s daughter. Her chances were also dimmed by the worry that as queen she would come under the power of whichever nobleman she eventually married. She had one other problem, too: her virginity, or lack thereof. She was rumored to have had one or more affairs, one of them with her loopy spoiled brat guardian Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury. An unmarried noblewoman in England needed to be a virgin, or at least to be thought to be one, in order to qualify for the throne. As for the rest of the candidates, almost all of them had at least one seemingly insurmountable problem in terms of realpolitik in 1594.

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For example, Lord Beauchamp, who has been forgotten today but was prominent in his time, had a very strong blood claim, but the claim was clouded by “bastardy.” Elizabeth was apparently thinking of him and of his illegitimacy when she was upon her deathbed where, still undecided, she said, “I will have no rascall’s son succeed me.”4 Sir Francis Hastings (whose claim Ferdinando needlessly worried about, as shall be seen) was viewed in 1594 as too distant in the bloodline to be in the running, although he had been taken seriously by Burghley years earlier when Elizabeth was feared to be dying of smallpox. The Spanish infanta’s claim was more than adequate, but Isabella was ruled out not only because she was another woman and a Spaniard but mainly because she was a Catholic—and especially because she was known to be the favorite candidate of the exiled English Catholic leadership abroad and of all of the Catholics at home. (Anything they wanted, Elizabeth did not.) The Earl of Northumberland’s claim was also far too distant in the bloodline, and he was also a northern earl, which fact once again brought with it all of the old worries of civil war—raising memories of the Wars of the Roses, or the “Barons’ Wars.” The earl eventually saw the light and came down strongly for James VI of Scotland, who of course won out in the end. (His illegal private correspondence with James about the succession, written after he was certain James would be the king, actually still exists.)5 James had the strongest viable claim of all, logically, as the son of the executed Mary, Queen of Scots, but Elizabeth (who never met him) and her ministers had their doubts about his viability because he was seen as a “foreigner.” Besides, his wife was a Catholic, and some people amongst the highest levels of English leadership also feared that if he became king, he would try and then execute everyone who had been in any way involved in his mother’s recent conviction and execution. This list was thought to include several of the prominent players in this book, including Earl Henry Stanley, Ferdinando’s father, who had chaired the committee that tried Mary and found her guilty. Perhaps the toughest two strikes against James were that he was barred from the succession by the will of King Henry VIII—a stipulation which was further legitimated by

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an act of Parliament—and he was also barred by an ancient law dating to King Edward III’s time which stated that no one could succeed who had been born outside “the allegiance of the realm of England.”6 In his favor, however, was one powerful factor: James was a king. Elizabeth and her men may not have counted this for so much in 1594, but, when the Queen was on her deathbed in 1603, James’ kingship had come to count for much in their minds, and their misgivings about him, which turned out to be unfounded, had subsided. And then there was the wild card: Essex. William Cecil, Lord Burghley, may have been the most powerful man in England de jure during the early 1590s, but almost everybody believed, with good reason, that young Robert Devereaux, the Earl of Essex, was Burghley’s unofficial equal—or perhaps even his superior. Why? Because the aged Queen was in love with him. He was her confidante in almost all matters. He was proud, arrogant, vain, brilliant, and romantic. Because of his (apparently unprecedented) charisma, he was so very popular with people of all classes that he could accurately be considered the first major male celebrity in England. (Elizabeth had been the first major celebrity.) He was also one of the richest men in the realm. His claim to the throne was distant, but everybody took him seriously because they knew he had become the Queen’s “favorite” by 1594 and they knew that ultimately, she could name as her successor anyone she wished. They also knew about his extreme ambition; he could not have hidden it if he had tried. He publicly supported James early on, and he maintained his public support of James until the time of his own famous failed attempt to gain the throne in 1601. Although he leaked the intelligence that he wanted only, eventually, to succeed Burghley upon James’ succession, he was suspected by many of those in positions of power of aiming for the crown from the early 1590s and of using James as a front and as a stalking horse. In 1601, at Essex’s trial for treason, the man who did succeed Burghley, his brilliant son Sir Robert Cecil, was the first prosecutor. As such, on the trial’s opening day, Sir Robert charged that Essex had actually been aiming for the throne since the early 1590s.7 One of the things he knew (which is also known now from several sources which were then private)

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is that Essex had been so pessimistic about the Queen’s health in those days that he had said privately that she would likely not last a year.8 Some people did not believe he was “pessimistic” at all about this possibility, but rather quite the opposite. Even more critically, Sir Robert possessed a most damning piece of spy intelligence revealing what Hesketh had said to Ferdinando about Essex at either their first or second meeting in Lancashire. Father Hugh Owen, the Jesuit spymaster in Brussels, had told his spy Thomas Phelippes that Hesketh had reported that when Ferdinando had asked if Essex would support him in an uprising against the Queen to take the throne, Hesketh had answered that Essex would not, because “the earl of Essex wisheth to have the crown for himself.”9 Phelippes had passed this information on to Sir Robert, for whom he was also working as a double agent, and of course Sir Robert never forgot it. How could he? In any event, although Elizabeth may have flirted with the idea of naming Essex before his failure in Ireland and his 1601 uprising against her, so much did she love and admire him, she probably would not have. As an earl, he too brought up too many fears of the territorial “Barons’ Wars” civil strife, and she knew that he exacerbated those fears by already appearing to be extremely controversial and divisive. She thought he was in the perfect position where he was. He, of course, did not agree. All of this left Ferdinando, still standing there, in the mind’s eye, in front of his palace at Lathom, trying to dodge trouble from this apparent witch and her prophesies. Amongst the English contenders, he had the strongest viable blood claim, and that claim was double-sided—he was “blood royal” on both sides. His father’s (Earl Henry’s) great-uncle was Henry VII, and his mother (the aforementioned Countess Margaret Clifford Stanley, who wanted the throne herself) was the daughter of Henry VIII’s niece, Eleanor Brandon. Perhaps most important of all, Henry VIII had laid down the “official” bloodline claim in his will—according to which Ferdinando’s mother, Margaret, would technically become the first in line in 1594, followed by Ferdinando.10 However, as mentioned, Margaret was not viable. But Ferdinando was. To all appearances, and according to everything the Queen said, she loved him. Counting against him were

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the facts that he was another earl and that there was uncertainty about his soundness of religion. Counting for him, and outweighing the negatives, were the facts that Elizabeth adored him (or kept saying she did), that she knew (or kept saying she knew) that he also adored her and was totally loyal, and that she and the Cecils were not overly concerned about his possible Catholic sympathies because they had taken him from his parents when he was young and raised him at court, being careful to see that he got a strongly Church of England, strongly anti-Catholic education. And, if their intelligence about him as an adult in Lancashire was any good— which it was—they knew that he was in fact both a fierce Church of England man and a fierce anti-Catholic. (Private letters still exist between Ferdinando and his own father-confessor, Bishop Chaderton, in which he condemned both the English Catholics and those who were tolerant of them, especially his own father: “I am through with my father,” he wrote to Chaderton.11) Elizabeth was right: he was firmly on the side of the Reformation—and he called it that himself.12 Still, because Lancashire and Cheshire were so heavily Catholic, as the earl-apparent and then as the earl, Ferdinando had to present a public front of Catholic toleration whenever he could do so without sacrificing his own principles and beliefs, and this he did—grudgingly. The real truth of the matter seems to be that he could accurately have been called a “crypto-anti-Catholic,”(that is, pretending to be a Catholic sympathizer when he actually hated them) for he did not want all of the people in Lancashire, Cheshire, and the entire north—particularly all of the high-ranking Catholic royals and near-royals there, upon whom he depended for political support—to know how much he loved the Reformation and hated the Counter-Reformation. The 1590s were a period of literal succession mania in England, and mania is probably the perfect word because of the literal meaning it carries of actual psychological disorder. This is exactly what it was: the one thing nobody could talk about was the one thing that was on everybody’s mind. The Queen was old, she was frail, and she was often reported to be ill. She must have been something of a fright with her painted white face, her blackened teeth, and her pink (or sometimes bright red) bejeweled wigs. Behind her back, in one of his many snits, Essex loudly hissed

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that she was crook-backed and foul-smelling. At the time of her death in 1603, she had served longer than almost all of the English population had been alive; she was beloved, and she steadfastly, obstinately refused to name her successor. Because everything depended on who had the throne in the England of that time (as is the case in most places at most times), the matter obsessed almost everyone. Would they inherit chaos or might they, with unbelievable good fortune, see the present blessed cosmos continue whole, ordered, and unified after Elizabeth’s death? They feared the former, hardly dared to expect the latter, and for the most part prayed for something that would prove to be bearably in between. Ferdinando was, many people felt, the answer to their prayers. In the crucial years 1593 and 1594, those prayers had a good chance of being answered agreeably.

SUCCESSION MANIA

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SHAKESPEAREAN SPIN13

Ferdinando’s main claim to fame in the last two centuries has been the sole fact that he was the Lord Strange of Lord Strange’s Men—and by that fact alone he is of immortal Shakespearean fame. But what has not been realized until lately was how much Shakespeare bent and spun his source material in the early 1590s, sometimes inventing entirely new dramatic episodes in the history plays in order to glorify and defend Ferdinando and his family. As Catherine G. Canino explained in her indispensable book Shakespeare and the English Nobility, the emerging, remarkable fact (although it should not be a surprise) is how much Shakespeare figured his royal patrons would care about how their families were represented on the raucous “common stage” of the early 1590s. He figured they would care a great deal—both about the portrayals of their famous ancestors and about how they themselves would likely be perceived in any topical allusions. It is unclear if Shakespeare was right or wrong about that in general, but my own best reckoning, based on the past decade or so of scholarship, is that he was absolutely right when it came to the dramaloving, politically troubled (and therefore politically sensitive) Stanleys. The history of Lord Strange’s Men from the late 1580s until sometime in the early 1590s, including Shakespeare’s connection to that

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troupe, is a bit tangled. Yet it is slowly getting sorted out as theaterhistory scholars discover new documentary evidence, take a closer look at the older evidence, and slowly move toward supporting the emerging consensus, which holds that Shakespeare was almost certainly with Strange’s men and created pro-Stanley “revisionist” history for the London and court stages during that time. Some of these scholars believe that Shakespeare was working under Ferdinando’s patronage for the whole period prior to the earl’s death in April of 1594, whereas others believe that he moved from Lord Strange’s company in or around 1593 to that of Lord Pembroke (William Herbert, the third earl) before joining the Lord Chamberlain’s troupe. Some of the latter scholars believe that Pembroke’s was formed as a touring company, as playing in London had been temporarily outlawed by the government due to a severe plague outbreak, leading some members of Strange’s troupe to regroup temporarily under the third Earl of Pembroke’s patronage. Even if the theory about Pembroke’s Men is correct, it is nonetheless true that Strange’s company outlasted them by a bit, that the two companies seem to have reunited for one last production, and that Shakespeare was probably there for that production. His Titus Andronicus was also apparently first played by both groups, either separately or in combination.14 Ernst Honigmann argued in a very influential book that Shakespeare served Ferdinando nonstop for eight years, beginning in the 1580s.15 After Ferdinando’s death, Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part 2 seems to have been immediately rewritten and restaged as the much less politically charged First Part of the Contention, suddenly dropping much of the material that was favorable to the late earl’s image. While Ferdinando and his father Henry lived, it is an undisputed fact that, in Canino’s words, “[t]he Stanleys, more than any other noble family of the sixteenth century, were responsible for keeping a large part of the players and poets employed.”16 Ferdinando’s patronage of Lord Strange’s Men and Shakespeare is significant in its own right, but even more significant is the extent to which the playwright revised his historical sources in order to provide favorable political spin for his noble young patron and his family—particularly in

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plays like Henry VI, Part 1 (which Ferdinando’s company both bought and performed), Henry VI, Part 2, and Richard III. It would appear that this revisionism was really and truly helpful to Ferdinando and his family. As Canino stressed, the popularity of Lord Strange’s Men in London and at court during this particular period “placed [Ferdinando’s] family above the social and political rumors that surrounded them”—that is, the rumors of Catholicism, disloyalty, and strictly illegal throne-seeking.17 What did Shakespeare’s pro-Stanley revisionism actually amount to? The most drastic examples can be found in Richard III, in which the playwright greatly enlarged and glorified the part of Ferdinando’s greatgreat-grandfather Sir Thomas Stanley, transforming him into the narrative’s main supporting actor hero.18 In Sir Thomas, Shakespeare created a Stanley who was secretly supporting the real hero of the play, Richmond (Henry V), in his mounting struggles against the malevolent Richard— even, as one critic put it, “orchestrating his rise.”19 In the First Folio version of the play (which was written when Ferdinando was still living and serving as the troupe’s patron), Stanley also serves as the matchmaking go-between for Richmond and his fair Elizabeth York. In opposition to his sources, Shakespeare also presented a Stanley who leads his army in support of Richmond against Richard at the end of the play. Yet, because Richard is holding Stanley’s young son George hostage because he (correctly) doubts Stanley’s loyalty to him, Shakespeare was careful to make worries about George’s welfare uppermost in his father’s mind during this dangerous tightrope-walking time, thus telling his audience that Stanley was first and foremost a good and loving father. Shakespeare was also quick to let Stanley—and the audience—know that George is alive and well at the end. The fact would not have been lost among many in the audience, especially the nobles, that George, like Ferdinando, had borne the ancient title Lord Strange. In fact, as Canino astutely observed, Shakespeare exaggerated just as much as he could possibly get away with here, even transforming Stanley into the surrogate father of the young man who will become the new, good king. Second, Shakespeare also transformed Stanley and his army into the deciding factor in Richmond’s successful battle against the king,

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whereas in fact the real-life Stanleys did what they always did in such situations: they kept their armies hidden and at a safe distance until they could determine the winner of a battle. Then, they would swoop in to take the side of the winner just soon enough to give the appearance of great and courageous helpfulness. Following his sources, Shakespeare had Sir Thomas Stanley place the crown that had so recently rested upon Richard’s (now-decapitated) head upon the head of his surrogate son, the new king, as the smoke begins to clear on the battlefield, saying as he does so, “Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it” (V-v-7).20 The speech is pure invention, and in fact, Sir Thomas was hardly even on the scene, for it was his forgotten brother William who finally screwed up his courage enough to lead the Stanley army into battle.21 Third, Shakespeare added fictional touches to the play that would tend to place the current Stanley earls in a favorable light. He referred, for example, to Stanley as “Derby” well before the Stanleys got the earldom under Richmond (Henry VII)—thus reminding the audience of the current Earl of Derby, Henry, and his illustrious son and Shakespeare’s patron, Ferdinando, Lord Strange. Even more interestingly, Shakespeare made up a scene in which the Queen has a quarrel with the wife of Earl Derby. In this, he was probably alluding to the then-current feud between Queen Elizabeth and Ferdinando’s biological mother, Dowager Countess Margaret Clifford Stanley, in a way that would have been clear to everybody in London at the time, so well-known was their longstanding enmity. The fictional argument clearly dissociated Ferdinando from Margaret. (As noted earlier, Margaret was the main bloodline English claimant to the throne, and she had been caught engaging in illegal correspondence with soothsayers, wizards, and sorcerers in trying to discover if and when she would succeed Elizabeth—for which actions Elizabeth jailed her at least twice. At the time of the play’s performance, she was living ostentatiously in London, having been estranged from Earl Henry for more than twenty years.) In other words, Shakespeare rewrote history in such a way as to show that it was the Stanleys who had put Henry V on the throne and ended the War of the Roses.

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Another critic, Laurence Manley, saw Shakespeare doing strong pro-Stanley revisionism with respect to Margaret in the slightly earlier Henry VI, Part 2, zeroing in on the playwright’s portrayal of Lady Eleanor Cobham.22 Some scholars see the three Henry VI plays and Richard III as an actual intended tetralogy, and I am one of them. In the words of one editor, “It is as if Shakespeare had begun his career with the Ring Cycle.”23 As Manley showed, Shakespeare clearly wanted this play’s London audience to see in Lady Eleanor another full-blown allusion to Ferdinando’s biological mother Margaret, once more in relation to the charges of witchcraft, sorcery, and prophesy that had been brought against her in connection with the succession (with which she tried to meddle in other ways as well)—charges which, again, had led Elizabeth to jail her, illustrious as she was. But, even as he drew a clear connection between Lady Eleanor and Countess Margaret, Shakespeare was also at pains to revise his sources in order to soften the character and lessen her crimes. Even so, he took even greater pains to dissociate Ferdinando from his mother. As noted earlier, Margaret had the best bloodline claim of anybody in England, and she badly wanted to be Elizabeth’s successor. As also noted, Elizabeth hated her from the 1570s until Margaret’s death in 1596.24 Earl Henry had hated her for even longer, and that hatred was certainly mutual. Did Ferdinando feel the same way? The documents give no indication of affection on his part for her—or on her part for him. It can be inferred that he must have condoned Shakespeare’s allusive portrayal of her on the London stages in Richard II and Henry VI, Part 2—and Shakespeare must have known that he would feel that way, providing that he was careful to distance the son from his mother. Otherwise, he would not have dared to so portray her in his early history plays—twice—while Ferdinando was his patron. Also, as Ian Wilson (who accepted the tetralogy theory) recalled in his 1993 biography of Shakespeare, “Although the Stanleys historically hardly figure in the reign of Henry VI, Shakespeare has Sir John Stanley act as a gaoler to the Duchess of Gloucester on the Isle of

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Man” (which the Stanleys owned) in the first two Henry plays. In the third one, “he has King Edward IV promising a reward to Sir William Stanley.”25 Other literary historians and critics over the past hundred years have noticed Shakespeare’s favorable allusions to the Stanleys in the comedies. These can be found most notably in Love’s Labor’s Lost26 (in which some scholars believe that Ferdinando is figured as, and quite possibly played, its king), The Taming of the Shrew (in which Wilson found mischievous joking allusions to Henry Stanley and his two spouses, Margaret Clifford Stanley and Jane Halsall27), and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which was possibly written and performed for the marriage of Ferdinando’s younger brother, William Stanley, who succeeded him upon his death. The theory that A Midsummer Night’s Dream was written for the Stanley wedding in January of 1595, long a subject of scholarly controversy, received a strong endorsement in the pages of Shakespeare Survey from Bruce Erlich, who also believed that the theory had become regnant amongst scholars. If so, the fact that A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one of only three Shakespeare plays which lacks a literary source presents the possibility that the playwright may have created it from scratch in part to flatter the new Stanley earl—particularly in figuring him as King Theseus, as most of those scholars who have accepted the theory are also friendly to the idea that Theseus is in some sense a romantic personation of Earl William. It is well to remember, too, that in the months following Lord Strange’s death, nobody was quite sure what would happen with the patronage of Shakespeare’s company, and Earl William was known to have a strong interest in drama, even writing plays himself. Also intriguing, if farfetched, is Wilson’s suggestion that Shakespeare referred back to the Derby earls in his most famous tragedy, Hamlet, implying that there is a direct allusion to the murder of Ferdinando in the murder of Hamlet’s father by poison.28 Thus, Ferdinando and his family are getting a fresh, long-overdue look from literary critics and historians—a look that places them, and particularly Ferdinando, into more accurate proportion as shaping factors in Shakespeare’s early playwriting.

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In the rhetorical question of Wilson, Now if we are to ask who in Elizabeth’s Court … would have gained the greatest public relations value from [all of this, but particularly] that scene of a Stanley crowning Henry King of England [thus founding the whole Tudor reign, culminating in Elizabeth], there can be only one answer. This was Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, son of Margaret Clifford.29

WITH FRIENDS LIKE THESE … When Ferdinando died so suddenly, violently, and agonizingly in April of 1594, the underlying cause was a perception problem. Not only was he perceived by the majority of English people to be the answer to their succession prayers, he was also perceived by the exiled Catholic leaders on the continent, owing to wishful thinking and bad intelligence, to be the answer to their succession prayers. Those hopes and prayers were the beginning of what doomed him. The men in the Catholic leadership were frustrated. Try as they might, they could not find out to their satisfaction what Ferdinando’s real religion was. Some said he was a devout follower of the English Church, some said he was a Catholic, some said he was a Puritan, some said he was of no religion, and some sneered that he was all four at once.30 Of course, he had to be a Catholic to qualify for the crown in the Catholics’ eyes. Indeed, it was said at the time that the Catholic leadership, including the pope, did not care if the future king of England was made of “clouts” so long as he was a Catholic, and there is much truth in this.31 (“Clouts” was a sort of cheap cotton; rag dolls and puppets were famously made of it.32) It is a bit odd that they did not have a better read on his beliefs, as his relative and formerly beloved friend Sir William Stanley, one of the three or four main leaders among the exiles all through the 1590s, had known him well before he left England. Furthermore, as mentioned, Sir William had trusted him (or his protective power) enough to leave his two young sons with him and his father, who served as their guardians from the late 1580s until Earl Ferdinando’s death.

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Sir William was infamous as the greatest traitor of the age because while he was in command of Deventer, which he and his army had just taken, he surrendered the town back to the enemy by choice. He had suddenly switched sides from England to Spain, or, more likely, he had come to realize during a brief period he spent under the Earl of Leicester in the Low Countries, precisely where his true loyalties lay: with the pope and not with the Queen, Leicester, and the top players in their government, whom he viewed as unprincipled “Machiavellians.” Indeed, it had to have been partly because of Ferdinando’s known close kinship with Sir William that Shakespeare felt the need to “valorize” him and his own (loyal) branch of the family on the stages at the time, contrasting him with his hated traitorous kinsman. Sir William dedicated the rest of his long life to overthrowing Elizabeth (and then James) and returning England to the pope. In the succinct words of Canino, [Sir William] inspired a torrent of concern and speculation in the last Elizabethan decade … [being] genuinely and rightfully feared as an immediate threat against Protestant England. He knew far too well the strategies and weaknesses of the English. And he seemed to be everywhere, courting every Catholic monarch and plotting from every Catholic port. Within the space of two years he was reported to appear in Rome, the Low Countries, and Ireland. There were constant rumors that he was about to invade either England or Ireland, and his troops grew larger with each retelling.33

This flagrant, ostentatious behavior caused many people in England to distrust the Stanley family in Lancashire with a passion; Burghley’s torturer of choice, William Topcliffe, shouted at the time, “All the Stanleys in England are traitors!”34 Burghley’s intelligence, good as it usually was, should have been a lot better in this case, for Sir William may in fact have been, after 1590, the only one. Stanley and Worthington, backed by Cardinal Allen and Fathers Holt, Owen, and Parsons most likely with the blessing of the pope and the support of King Philip of Spain, sent Richard Hesketh to knock on the earl of Derby’s door and see if he would declare himself a Catholic, accept their offer of a “hallowed crown,” and return England to the

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pope’s fold.35 If he said yes, they were sure they had sufficient armed power, along with the earl’s own army and the presumed uprising of the English populace that would take place in his support, to make him king. If he said no, they would at last know the truth and could immediately turn their attentions elsewhere. Hesketh’s solicitous knock came on 25 September 1593. Unbelievably, Ferdinando’s long-ailing father, Earl Henry, had died earlier that day. If his father had lived, he would probably have received Hesketh’s offer, as the powers abroad seem to have reasoned that Henry would be the better short-term bet, as he was the long-time Earl of Derby; the vigorous but untested Ferdinando could take over the throne upon his father’s death. A little more than five months later, on April Fool’s Day, Ferdinando would get his second and last solicitation, virtually if not literally on his front stoop at Lathom, from the accused witch who wanted him to furnish her with close-by lodging in order that she might furnish him with God’s prophetic word on a daily basis. To Ferdinando, as with you or me, it would have seemed that all three events came out of the coincidence-ridden blue. But there had already been, and would yet be, many other strange coincidences in this business—so many, and so twisted and tangled and yet so symmetrically structured, that this story could easily be made to read like a carefully plotted novel or screenplay or could easily be turned into one. But this is not fiction.

CHAPTER 3

RICHARD HESKETH AND OTHER SPIES

Because the greatest Elizabethan magus of the age, Dr. John Dee, cast his horoscope, the date of Richard Hesketh’s birth is known: 24 or 25 July 1553. He was of the Aughton Heskeths, one of the three sons of Gabriel and Jane, the other two being Bartholomew and Thomas. Because of tangled, previously misreported genealogical data that have been passed from his own time down to the present, no one before has had an accurate, or even adequate, Hesketh family tree to work with in studying either the man or the scandal of which he was a part and which bears his name: the Hesketh Plot. Moreover, no one has had any idea as to how the Hesketh family history relates to that of the Stanleys, Careys, Leighs, Halsalls, Houghtons, Gerards, and many other families in Lancashire and Cheshire. These people, almost all of whom were members of big, then-prominent but now-forgotten families, intermarried, separated, remarried, romanced, bore illegitimate (“natural”) children, and murdered or otherwise betrayed one another at an incredible rate during this fifty-year period.

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The first important new fact to emerge from this genealogical research, and by far the most ironic one reported in this book, is that the woman who was Richard Hesketh’s biological mother was also the Jane Halsall who was Ferdinando Stanley’s stepmother—and therefore Richard and Ferdinando were virtual stepbrothers.1 Jane and Richard’s biological father, Gabriel, had separated for reasons unknown, and both went on to marry other people. It is not certain that Jane and Gabriel were ever legally married; what is known is that following their separation and after she got together with Earl Henry Stanley, she was known as Jane Halsall (later Dame Jane, courtesy of Henry). Both of her marriages could well have been common-law. She bore Gabriel several children, and then after joining Henry, she is recorded as having borne four more, including Dame Ursula Stanley (who went on to marry the Welsh poet and patron Sir John Salisbury, who has a wellknown Shakespeare connection through “The Phoenix and the Turtle”).2 The last of Jane’s children was born when she was forty-seven. (It is to Henry’s credit that he openly acknowledged this second family, taking care to ennoble them all with various titles and to leave them huge estates when he died in 1593, on the day Hesketh arrived at his door. He was especially generous to Jane.3) Because Ferdinando was taken to Elizabeth’s court at a very early age to be trained as a Protestant, he may not even have known his biological mother Margaret, as she and Henry, himself not yet the fourth earl, had separated when Ferdinando was seven or eight. Did Hesketh and Ferdinando know each other personally in Lancashire in the 1580s? A small bit of circumstantial evidence has always suggested that they must have—including some dinner visits by the Heskeths at Lathom Palace with Earl Henry and his family, as recorded in the Derby Household Books. Some historians have wondered about this fact because they could not understand why Henry and the young Lord Strange would be socializing so intimately with known Catholics, and even suspected recusants, like the Aughton Heskeths. Now it is clear why they did: Jane was the mother, “biological” and “adoptive,” of Ferdinando and Richard Hesketh, respectively. As such, she knew (and quite possibly loved) them both. One important sentence in one surprisingly forgotten book from late 1594 explicitly states that they knew each other well: “[Hesketh] was

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well-acquainted with the said Lord Strange [Ferdinando’s title before he became the earl].”4 This sentence was written by the most powerful man in England, Lord Burghley, in his True Report of Sundry Horrible Conspiracies of late time detected to have (by Barbarous murders) taken away the life of the Queene’s most excellent Majesty… . The sentence’s purpose, in context, was not to taint Ferdinando with guilt by association with Hesketh (the historian Christopher Devlin’s statements to the contrary aside). Rather, it was to make clear that Hesketh used this acquaintanceship to give him an “in” with Ferdinando when he returned to England on his mission in 1593—and had perhaps been picked by the Catholic leaders who sent him specifically because of this acquaintanceship.5 In fact, Burghley praised Ferdinando highly, writing that he was “wise and dutiful”6 in turning Hesketh in, thus sending him to a certain doom. The book was apparently widely read in London in the winter of 1594, just after Ferdinando’s death, and it was immediately translated into French and published in Paris as well, garnering even more readers.7 For all of the readers who thought Burghley was credible, the late Ferdinando would be exculpated. Ferdinando Stanley and Richard Hesketh, though not exactly Mark Twain’s prince and pauper, were close to it. Ferdinando was the prince of the north, so to speak, from his birth until his untimely death, but fate would cut him short. (As noted earlier, his tripartite kingdom—including the three great halls Lathom, Knowsley, and New Park—was commonly termed the “Northern Court.”) Richard, like almost everybody else in Lancashire and Cheshire, was far below Ferdinando in social class, though he was certainly not a member of the peasant underclass. He was clearly from the county squirearchy, perhaps even from its high end. Among the Catholic families in the area, his was prominent—so much so that his brother Bartholomew Hesketh was included in Burghley’s fairly exclusive list of “dangerous persons” at the time, as he was known to have personally hidden Father Edmund Campion in his house in 1581, shortly before Campion was caught and executed.8 His brother Thomas Hesketh, certainly no Catholic and not even a sympathizer, rose quickly in the law and became one of the Crown’s most effective enforcers of

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religious conformity in the area. He eventually became a prominent lawyer at Westminster, a member of the Court of Wards, and Elizabeth’s attorney general for Lancashire. He became close friends with Sir Robert Cecil after Sir Robert had succeeded his father as lord chamberlain, making him the executor of his will and providing for him generously in it.9 As for Richard Hesketh, he was apprenticed out as a boy to one Hugh Fayerclough and then, in 1578, at the age of fifteen, he was made a freeman in the London Clothworkers Company. Three years later, as an eighteen-year-old merchant in Antwerp, he was working for his friend Dr. John Dee, managing his correspondence and searching for the rare books for which Dee had his famous passion and with which he filled his great library at Mortlake—the largest library in all of England. The friendship of the great magus and the young Hesketh is known because of Dee’s entries in his private diary.10 Eight years later, in Lancashire, Hesketh had married Isabel Shaw, and the couple had many children.11 In October of 1589, the first of two turning points in the life of Richard Hesketh occurred. (Authorities then and now have disagreed about the exact importance of the first event. However, all of them have agreed that although it was important, it was less so than the second—the moment in early 1593 when Hesketh committed himself to carry the treasonous offer of the crown to Ferdinando, the moment that sealed his fate.) In 1589, Hesketh was closely associated with one Thomas Langton, a fascinating character who has gone almost unnoticed by historians. A known Catholic who was on Burghley’s list of dangerous persons, even rating his own house on Burghley’s dangerous-persons map with a Catholic cross atop it, Langton was (and still is) referred to as the selfstyled “Baron of Walton and Newton.”12 In actuality, he did hold the barony of Newton, if not of Walton, although he may have thought that he held both.13 Even Ferdinando, as revealed by a letter he later wrote to the Cecils about Hesketh, did not believe Langton’s baronial claims and actually sneered at them—although he may have done so only to distance himself from Langton in the Cecils’ eyes while trying to help both himself and Langton out of a tight spot with the government.14 Langton was a poet and a patron of poets, and the young poet, antiquarian, and

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actor John Weever was raised in his house.15 The eminent scholar Ernst Honigmann believed Weever was Langton’s biological son.16 Weever, who was a near-dwarf, acted in Shakespeare’s company, and good evidence suggests that he played Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night (it also suggests that one does not fully understand the play if one does not know that Sir Toby was diminutive in Shakespeare’s first production of it).17 Under Langton’s leadership, Richard incited and helped lead a riot at Lea Hall near Preston, the seat of Thomas Houghton, who was killed. Langton was life-threateningly injured (a fact which did not stop Crown officers from arresting him in his bed). The riot-inciting quarrel between Houghton and Langton had gone on for far too long, slowly escalating all the while. Then, one dark night in the autumn of 1589, some of Houghton’s men stole some of Langton’s cattle, and on another dark night soon thereafter, Langton, Hesketh, and some other of Langton’s men tried to steal them back. “Range warfare” ensued. There were many arrests, all of which are recorded.18 It was a big event, and Earl Henry Stanley, Ferdinando’s elderly father, went to great pains to get Langton out of trouble, ultimately succeeding. For reasons unknown, he appears to have loved Langton, as did Ferdinando in his turn, and both earls proved that love in difficult situations, imperiling their standing with Elizabeth and her government by so doing. Earl Henry told Burghley in 1591 that he had found it impossible to empanel a jury to try Langton and his men. He argued that as a result, although there had been arrests and indictments of many of them (including Langton), and although some of them had spent two years in jail, he could not proceed. Thus, they were all released at Henry’s behest, and all were pardoned. Some commentators, then as now, claimed that Henry had experienced no such difficulty and had simply blocked the trial of Langton and his men out of loyalty to Langton. Burghley at first sought a compromise with Henry: because Langton and all of the men under him were known to be guilty, trial or no trial, he wanted them to suffer the minimal punishment of being burned on their hands before being set free. In this too, Henry stood firm. He thought this punishment would be both unfair and dangerous to the government—unfair because some of the

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men were illiterate (then considered such a disadvantaged position that it rendered them almost as helpless as children with Henry having a paternalistic obligation toward them) and dangerous because some of them were “great in kindred” and “stored with friends.” He wrote to Burghley, If they should be burnt in the hand, I fear it will fall out to be a ceaseless and most dangerous quarrel between the gentlemen [Langton and the many surviving male Houghtons] tha[n] any county of her Majesty’s hath this many years contained.19

Ferdinando would soon find an occasion to go to the wall for Langton himself. But the plot thickens. While researching these local families, I also learned that Richard Hesketh had a younger sister, Elizabeth, the daughter of Gabriel Hesketh and his Jane (the same woman who later became the common-law wife of Earl Henry). When Elizabeth Hesketh married, she married Alexander Houghton (d. 1581). Alexander’s parents were Sir Richard de Houghton (1448–1559) and his second wife, Alice Morley. Thomas Houghton, the high-ranking Lea Hall squire who was killed in the battle that was led by Langton, in which Richard Hesketh participated, was actually Sir Richard and Alice’s son. Sir Richard’s first wife, however, was Alice Ashton, and they had also had a son named Thomas Houghton (1518–1580). For the sake of convenience here, if indeed any is possible, I hereafter call the son of Sir Richard and Alice Ashton “Thomas Houghton 1,” only because he was the older, and I call the son of Sir Richard and Alice Morley, the one who was killed at Lea Hall in 1589 by the Langton gang, “Thomas Houghton 2.” The second Thomas was probably named to honor the memory of the first, who was an exiled Catholic priest. After Thomas Houghton 1 died in 1580, his first wife Catherine (nee Gerard) married Alexander Houghton—the same Alexander who was mentioned earlier in this genealogical jungle of a paragraph. After she died, to come full circle, Alexander married Richard Hesketh’s sister Elizabeth, with whom this paragraph began. The previous paragraph, frustrating or confusing as it may be, ultimately points to two important facts. The first is that Alexander Houghton

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and Richard Hesketh were brothers-in-law. The second is that Alexander Houghton kept players, one of whom, according to some scholars, was the young William Shakespeare.20 When Alexander died without children in 1581, he passed this young servant, some “play clothes,” and many musical instruments on in his will to Thomas Houghton 2, instructing him to pass them on to Sir Thomas Hesketh of Rufford if he did not wish to keep players. (This Sir Thomas Hesketh is not to be confused with Richard Hesketh’s brother Thomas, who was not knighted until the early seventeenth century.21) The young servant was named William Shakeshafte, and he has been identified by several reputable scholars in the last hundred years as Shakespeare. Thomas Houghton 2, to whom Alexander Houghton passed Shakeshafte, the costumes, and the instruments in 1581, was the same man who was killed by Langton and his gang in 1589—with Richard Hesketh avidly participating. Thomas Houghton did indeed pass the young player and the instruments on to Sir Thomas Hesketh of Rufford, but Sir Thomas was imprisoned shortly thereafter for recusancy. Followers of this theory about Shakespeare believe that, faithful to the will of his dear friend Alexander Houghton, Sir Thomas then passed the writer on to the most obvious person: Ferdinando Stanley, who in his capacity as Lord Strange made this young man a junior member of his famous acting troupe, Lord Strange’s Men.22 It is known that, somehow or other, Shakespeare was indeed with Strange’s men from the 1580s until at least 1593. After all of these events, where was Richard Hesketh, Langton’s henchman, left? That question has been difficult to answer until now, and several supposedly authoritative opinions have been offered in the hundreds of years since the autumn of 1593 (when the government’s investigation of the recently arrested Hesketh took place).23 One modern answer above all, Devlin’s, has been the source of much controversy since it was first published in the early 1960s. It is known that in the autumn of 1590, Hesketh left England for the continent.24 (He was gone for three years.) One contemporary said he fled for religious reasons having to do with his Catholicism, perhaps only in order to practice it legally.

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Yet another contemporary, Henry Leigh, who was himself later implicated in the Hesketh Plot on good written evidence, testified in fear of his life that Hesketh had fled because of his involvement in the Langton-Houghton cattle feud, particularly because of Houghton’s resulting death.25 But Leigh’s testimony is thrown into doubt for several reasons. First, as a recusant who was suspected of being involved with Hesketh’s mission, Leigh would have been reaching for explanations that would serve to distance them both from Catholic motives for doing anything. (The context of Leigh’s interrogation was, after all, the investigation of an accused Catholic traitor.) Second, Richard waited for a year and a half after the incident to flee; he was apparently not worried about any charges stemming therefrom. But another of Hesketh’s old friends, Thomas Bell (also known as Thomas Burton), told another tale. In 1603, he wrote a book claiming that Hesketh, whom he “knew well,” had originally fled England in 1590 to escape his creditors.26 According to Bell, Hesketh had then been “Jesuited” by Father Allen and made a “junior” Jesuit, and he had come back to Lancashire in 1593 in order to dethrone the Queen and put Ferdinando on the throne—and by so doing, to make enough money to pay off his creditors. Of these three Elizabethan-era accounts, Bell’s is the most credible. Bell was a former leader of the Catholics in the north. He even openly styled himself “Bishop of Chester” in the early 1590s, thus daring to set himself up, if only symbolically, against the Church of England’s Bishop of Chester, a friend and confidante of the Stanley earls. Before the Hesketh affair, Bell had been caught and turned in allegiance due to coercion by Burghley. It was, in fact, from the government-confiscated “Bell’s Book” (a notebook that Bell kept which held a great deal of confidential information) that Burghley derived his list of dangerous persons, consisting of recusants, open Catholics, and secret Catholics in Lancashire and Cheshire, including Baron Langton and Richard Hesketh’s brother Bartholomew. This book was also the source of the Cecils’ infamous “Catholic map” of those counties (aforementioned), with its drawings of known Catholic homes, each with a cross sketched atop it.27 Moreover,

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Bell was closely involved with the 1593 Hesketh Plot, possibly as a Cecil agent in the north masquerading as a Catholic compatriot—an involvement which is clearly evidenced by contemporary documents.28 And he had known Hesketh, as he stated in his book: This Hesket I knew very well; in his life, conversation, and profession. In the end his creditors came so roundly upon him for his manifold and huge debts that he was enforced secretly to depart, and to take England on his back [i.e., to carry a few possessions in his knapsack]. Not long after, he became so deeply Jesuited that he must needs be a glorious popish martyr; viz. an errant and most bloudie traytour. He thought & sought [that] by murdering his naturall sovereign to have gotten gold, money.29

But Devlin enthusiastically bought into the claim that Hesketh had fled in fear of the consequences relating to his role in the Langton-Houghton affray, particularly the resultant death of Houghton. Devlin may have believed it when he wrote it, but he also knew that this particular version of things was necessary to the larger argument about the Hesketh affair that he wanted to advance, for much of that argument hinges upon the acceptance of what Henry Leigh told his interrogators in 1593—plus his own (dubious) interpretation of Leigh’s testimony.30 In brief, Devlin argued, again on no evidence, that Hesketh was wanted in England for Houghton’s murder. Thus, he could not have reentered the country in 1593 without a passport being furnished to him by Burghley. Thus, according to Devlin, such a “special dispensation” passport was given to Hesketh for the purposes of letting him back into the country so that he might, as a secret Burghley agent, offer the Earl of Derby the crown in order to entrap and destroy Derby.31 Devlin’s theory has been followed by most historians and biographers since the 1960s, although two (Barry Coward and Richard Brinson) ignored it and got things right—at least insofar as identifying Hesketh’s motives for coming to England and going to see Derby.32 In fact, Hesketh had no passport problem at all. Carol Curt Enos’ research shows that he had not been charged with anything and was not a wanted man.

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All of the evidence suggests that he came with an ordinary passport in order to offer the Earl of Derby the crown—although he certainly had religious motivations and quite possibly financial ones as well.33 As soon as Hesketh reached the continent in 1590, he traveled through Germany on his way to Prague. There, a group of English exiles led by another ex-Lancashireman, Sir Edward Kelly (or Kelley), had banded together under the powerful, lucrative patronage of Emperor Rudolf II, and it was to Kelly that Hesketh went upon arriving in the city. The men had probably known each other in Lancashire, and both had a long-standing interest in alchemy. Years before, Hesketh had shopped for alchemical materials, books, and other esoterica for his friend Dr. John Dee. Dee and Kelly had been partners of a sort in Prague and had toured Europe together giving public and private séances. Dee, as mentioned earlier, was the most prominent magus of the age; he was famous amongst cognoscenti throughout the Western world for his knowledge of philosophy and religion, but he was known primarily for his alchemical abilities and his skill at summoning spirits. He was in demand by most of the crowned heads of Europe, including Queen Elizabeth and Lord Burghley of England, who hoped that he could transmute base metals into gold for them. Kelly had been Dee’s “skryer” for years. That word, archaic now, was in common usage in the sixteenth century. It referred to someone with the gift of talking to the spirits a magus had summoned, transcribing and interpreting what they said. The skryer also was an expert at reading the expensive crystal balls which generally only well-off magi could afford to buy, but which many magi, including Dee, had trouble reading themselves. Kelly famously performed both of these services for Dee. But Dee and Kelly had fallen out after several disagreements, one of which apparently centered on the wife-swapping experiments which Kelly had told Dee that the spirits demanded of them—and, of course, of their mystified spouses. In Lancashire, long before he partnered with Dee, Kelly had had his ears cropped not only for his “blasphemous” alchemical activities but also for “coining” (making his own coins, possibly in connection with alchemy but also perhaps through counterfeiting). Getting caught in

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these activities was serious enough, but Kelly had also been caught digging up corpses—as part of his ongoing research project of attempting to bring the dead back to life. (He was only released because one of the fourth Earl of Derby’s powerful sons, either Ferdinando or his younger brother William, both of whom were friendly to alchemy and personal friends of Dee’s, interceded on his behalf.) But Dee and Kelly had enjoyed enormous success in Prague and had been greatly favored by Emperor Rudolf, who was probably the leading and most powerful “New Age” guru of his day and who even knighted Kelly. In May of 1591, Kelly fell from Rudolf’s favor and was jailed. His circle of mystical and Catholic exiles was seriously threatened as a result. With Kelly in prison, Richard Hesketh and the other exiles in Prague were taken under the (much less substantial) protection of Father Thomas Stephenson, the leader of the exiles there. Stephenson was a Jesuit and a member of the College of the Clementinum. By 1592, still associated with Stephenson and the Jesuits, Hesketh joined the military staff of Sir William Stanley—the man who had surrendered Deventer—and began fighting on the side of Spain in Flanders, fighting against the English. In “A Census of the King’s Pensioners Attached to the Regiment, 1587– 1603,” Hesketh is listed as being paid 30 escudos for his services to Stanley.34 When he was in Brussels, he was also on the Catholic payroll there.35 Richard Brinson, one of Hesketh’s few reliable biographers, believed that at this time he began doing intelligence work for Stanley and the exiled Cardinal Allen (who were by then long-standing friends and allies). By 13 June 1593, Hesketh was mentioned as a dangerous potential “secret agent” by the spy Emanuel D’Andrada (Andrada, de Andrada) in a letter from Calais that was received by Lord Burghley in London on that day.

CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER: SPY VERSUS SPY IN THE LOOKING-GLASS WARS What follows is a reconstruction of events based on scattered primarysource documents. It is surreal, fantasy-like, farcical, and completely unbelievable. But it (or something very like it) really happened.

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Burghley’s letter from D’Andrada, informing him of the imminent arrival of a fat, fiftyish, and yellow-fustian-wearing man—Hesketh— was based on another letter which D’Andrada had stolen from another Burghley spy in Calais, Anthony Standen, who was carrying it for yet another Burghley spy in Rome, William Goldsmith, who had apparently intercepted it. This intercepted letter would appear from the extant evidence to have been written by the ace double agent William Sterrell, who was then in Leige, to the Burghley and Essex spy-runner and cryptographer Thomas Phelippes, who eventually got it after Goldsmith had copied it.36 In other words, one English spy (Sterrell, posing as a Spanish spy in Leige) had written it and sent it off to Phelippes in London, but it was intercepted by Goldsmith and copied before Phelippes got it. Goldsmith obviously suspected Phelippes of being secretly pro-Spanish, or else why would the “Catholic spy” Sterrell have been writing secret messages to him? One thing Sterrell complained of in the letter was that the real Catholic spies were so good that none of his many aliases, noms de guerre, and disguises worked anymore, and he knew many of his previous letters to Phelippes had been intercepted, copied, and then sent on. But the crucial information in the letter is that all kinds of correspondence and people (the latter almost all priests, some of them Jesuits) were crossing the channel from Calais, getting to England, and heading to Catholic Lancashire: “Thither all go.”37 Sterrell added the all-important piece of news that amongst these secret letters to Lancashire, “there is certainly intelligence between Strange [Ferdinando] and [Cardinal] Allen.” Goldsmith had given this letter to the English spy Standen to carry back to Burghley for him, and it was while Standen was waiting in Calais that D’Andrada, yet another English spy, stole it from the boatman-courier minutes after Standen had given it to him to deliver— “when,” as Standen would later testify, “my back was turned.”38 Neither Sterrell nor Goldsmith knew that the other was a Burghley spy. Analogously, neither D’Andrada nor Standen knew that the other was a Burghley spy. (In a postscript to his letter to Burghley, D’Andrada said he had managed to “learn” from some Spanish spies who were also then lurking in Calais, spies who claimed to know Standen, that Standen was a

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traitorous English spy working for Spain who earned 30 crowns a month from King Philip and who had previously made a pile of spy-money from the king while he was in Madrid. D’Andrada added that Standen went regularly to mass in Calais and consorted with Jesuit spies there.39 In other words, the hilarious fact is that both D’Andrada and Standen, Burghley spies, erroneously thought the other was a Catholic agent.40 Standen, traveling in disguise (which obviously did not work) as a Frenchman named Monsieur Le Faye, was in actuality a crucially important “spy coming in from the cold,” in the words of the historian Paul E. J. Hammer, alluding to the famous John Le Carré title. He was coming back to England from Spain to be debriefed by Burghley and his intelligence staff after serving for many years as a secret government agent on the continent. (He was actually working for all sides, including the Spanish and Essex, and his English bosses were sophisticatedly aware of the fact. Burghley knew he was a double agent, but he hoped that Standen’s real allegiance was to England. He did not like it, but it was one of the necessary evils inherent in the use of double agents.) Burghley had authorized Standen’s return. The matter of the return was deemed so important that he even went so far as to inform Elizabeth of it in order to get her approval. He delegated the responsibility of planning the details of Standen’s return to his chief spy-runner at the time, Anthony Bacon, who had been running Standen and a good many others. (Bacon was also working for Burghley’s rival Essex at the time, which fact Burghley may or may not have known.) Bacon sent one of his most trusted minions, Nicholas Faunt, an old-school tie of the Bacon brothers, to meet Standen when Standen arrived in Dover from Calais. Standen was carrying the letter from Goldsmith (the letter that was originally written by Sterrell to Phelippes) to pass on to Faunt upon his arrival. Faunt waited for days in Dover for the prearranged signal from Standen, but it apparently never came. In a subsequent letter to Burghley (which does not seem to be extant) written two or three days after his first, D’Andrada provided details he had gleaned from his Spanish contacts about Standen’s voyage from Spain to Calais. D’Andrada also said that Standen was getting all of his money by boat from “a gentleman in

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Dover Castle,” who is now known to have been Faunt, and that Standen was sending messages to Faunt by boat. (D’Andrada could have been wrong about the latter item, for it is known that Standen did not want to send messages to Faunt in Dover for fear of being caught.) But Standen finally made a move. He hired a boat to send the letter he was bearing to Faunt, apparently in order that Faunt might then send it back to the government in London as soon as possible. However, a man later described by Standen as a “Fleming,” who was almost certainly hired by the crafty and ever-alert D’Andrada, got a faster boat, gave chase, caught the slower boat, boarded, and wrested the letter from the courier bearing it. The Fleming immediately took the letter back to D’Andrada (who was later described by Standen to Burghley as a Spaniard, but he was actually Portuguese), and D’Andrada paid a Frenchman to translate it from English into French so he could read it. (D’Andrada could apparently neither read nor write English.)41 D’Andrada then synopsized the just-stolen letter for brief incorporation into his letter to Burghley, adding his own information about the returning “great traitor” in Calais, whose real name he had found to be Anthony Standen. The original part from Sterrell contained the information that there was constant traffic in Catholic (including Jesuit) persons and letters between the continent and Lancashire via Calais—no real surprise there. This traffic, however, included “certainly correspondence between Strange and the Cardinal.”42 This was big news. D’Andrada also wrote that he had heard Standen say in Calais (before he stole Standen’s letter) that he, Standen, had heard an espariente of Sir William Stanley’s say that Richard Hesketh (whose actual name was perhaps not yet known by the espariente) was en route to England to cause “much disturbance.”43 (The word espariente is apparently Spanish or Portuguese, and having no literal translation into English, it was sent by D’Andrada to Burghley untranslated in the belief that he would understand it as a foreign word that was familiar during that time period. It appears to have meant something like “servant,” “retainer,” or “underling,” and it was perhaps a military term. D’Andrada wrote all of his letters in Spanish, not being able, as noted, to read or write English.)

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D’Andrada told Burghley that Standen, perhaps after being found out, had described himself as a “great papist” and a “traitor” to the English who was going home after twenty years abroad to face the consequences. This was disinformation, of course, used as a final, desperate effort to confuse D’Andrada, as Standen was in fact a trusted English agent who was heading home for debriefing. Paul Hammer agreed, arguing convincingly that Standen put out this disinformation in order to try to get some credibility with the Catholic spies and travelers in incredulous Calais.44 Again, the keen irony here is that neither D’Andrada nor Standen knew that the other was actually working for Burghley. Hammer understandably misread the third-person transcript of the D’Andrada letter, thinking the “person of much understanding” to be Standen. But this reading makes no sense when it is read in context and parsed closely. The thirdperson English transcription of D’Andrada’s brief but confusing letter contains the key phrase “as he hears,” and this “he” has to be Standen as referenced by the transcriber. Therefore, Standen could not be the en route agent of “much understanding” sent to “cause disturbance.” The transcription (and translation) of D’Andrada’s letter follows: Arrival [in Calais] of an English gentleman called Anthony Standen from the court of Spain, who says he left the kingdom twenty years ago a great papist and traitor.… [Standen arrived] twelve days ago [1 June 1593, although Standen actually arrived on 28 May or earlier].45 All the advances Standen receives come through a gentleman in Dover Castle [Faunt], whence money has come to him. It is determined to send into [England] a person of much understanding who can cause disturbance, as he hears from the ‘espariente’ of Sir William Stanley, a stout man 50 years of age, clothed in yellow fustian with lace in the English [manner]. Will endeavor to get information from the governor [Sir Robert Sidney] as to his design—from Calais.

It is not known whether or not Governor Sidney provided further intelligence to D’Andrada. (Probably not.) But one can sure that Sidney did not know that the “stout man … clothed in yellow fustian” was Hesketh, come to offer Ferdinando the crown.

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Burghley, as it turns out, already knew about the debacle because Standen had at last successfully gotten a letter off to his man Bacon about it, bypassing Faunt, before finally getting out of Calais. Bacon had immediately told Burghley, and this letter beat D’Andrada’s to Burghley by several days. (Standen sent it sometime before 12 June, probably several days before, because that was the day on which Standen finally met up with Faunt in Dover, and he testified later that he had mailed it before departing.) This letter (which is extant) is filled with mea culpas, for Standen was sure that his cover had been blown by the letter’s interception. He said he knew that its contents had been shared with Spaniards— one of whom was probably the man who translated it from English to Spanish in order that D’Andrada could read it. Burghley had to assume that after the highjacking of Standen’s letter at sea, everybody who mattered in Europe now knew, or would soon know, of Standen’s real identity. He was thus no longer of use to the English government as an agent. In the end, Elizabeth flew into a towering rage at everybody when she heard the news—at Burghley, Bacon, Standen, Faunt, and Essex (for whom Standen had sometimes worked, and for whom Bacon was currently working on other projects, although he did not want Burghley to know it). The Queen stayed mad for months, and Burghley fulminated over it all of those months as well. Christopher Devlin argued that it was on this day, 13 June 1593, with this letter about Hesketh and his mission on his desk before him, that Burghley first launched his plot against Hesketh—and, much more importantly, against Ferdinando. This is a weak argument on the face of it, but at least four additional, separate facts show it to be (assuming the best of Devlin) a false inference. First, as has already been shown, on that same date exactly a year earlier to the day, 13 June 1592, Burghley’s ace spy “Barnes” (in actuality the nom de guerre of Sterrell) wrote to his runner Thomas Phelippes—who was at that time, like Burghley, in London and working for both Burghley and Essex—“There is certainly intelligence between [Lord] Strange [i.e., Ferdinando Stanley] and the Cardinal [i.e., William Allen].”46 Second, on 13 June 1593 again, Henry Walpole, who was locked up in the Tower on a charge of succession-related treason,

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confessed to Burghley’s interrogator of having Catholic hopes and plans for Ferdinando. He specifically testified that he had been asked by the traitor Sir William Stanley to find some great priest who could get to Ferdinando and soften him up regarding Catholicism, optimally converting him. Stanley had told Walpole that the best man in Europe for the job was the brilliant, intrepid, persuasive Father John Gerard.47 Third, on 11 July, the hapless but ever-hopeful spy William Goldsmith sent another letter to Burghley (this one was not intercepted, apparently) telling him that he had managed to insinuate himself into the confidence of Father Philip Woodward, an attendant upon Cardinal Allen. He told Burghley that Woodward was passionately interested in the English succession question, implying that Woodward’s boss, Allen, was interested as well, and that he was especially keen to know of Ferdinando’s own interest in attaining the crown and, hence, of Ferdinando’s current standing with Elizabeth: “There is not any words of his interest?”48 Woodward also asked if the ancient Catholic nobility of England were not discontent at being kept under the heel of commoners such as “the Lord Keeper, Sir N. Bacon, the Lord Treasurer, and others, with [Goldsmith’s editorial phrase] evil speech.”49 Woodward then said that Ferdinando, even if he were “of no religion,” would, if he but gave the word, get a title that was greater than all of those held by the usurping commoners he had just mentioned—that is, the title of king. (I infer from Woodward’s quoted words that he knew of a plan that was in progress to send an agent to Ferdinando with an offer, and to whom Ferdinando might then give the word.) Fourth, although it has been previously overlooked as important evidence, it is known from an extant letter written by Ferdinando to Burghley following Hesketh’s arrest and interrogation that Hesketh had told Ferdinando, during one of their meetings, that Stanley had sent him. Ferdinando mentioned this fact in passing to Burghley—who, along with the Queen, of course already knew it—while he was worriedly seeking political advice from him about what to do with Stanley’s two young sons, to whom he was then serving as the sole guardian.50 This story must momentarily leave Burghley at his desk on that day in June as he sat staring at his intelligence documents and wondering what

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to do about them, in order to take a look at something else that was happening in the early spring of 1593—something which is key to understanding what happened during the next twelve months to both Hesketh and Ferdinando, dooming both. It mainly concerns the spy “Barnes,” mentioned in the previous paragraph, and in addition to its probable relevance, it also provides another Carrollian aside showing that little if anything has changed, spy-wise, between the time of “Barnes” and the time of Le Carré. It gives another hint of how strangely convoluted the whole business was (and is). “Barnes” was one of the many aliases used by the aforementioned William Sterrell, a career agent (starting during his days at Oxford), described by his biographers as the most important agent for the English between 1592 and 1605. Sterrell was, like all of the spies of his day, also working from time to time for all sides at once, and he was a man of many names and identities: among these were Robert Robinson, Giles Martin, Bartolomio Rivero, M. Chaumont, Henry Wicham (Wycham), M. Franquelin, Anthony Rivers, and Peter Hallins. (Letters written to him from Burghley were usually addressed to “Hallins,” with Burghley signing himself as “William White.”) 51 As a crypto-Catholic all along, Sterrell was possessed of a primary loyalty that may or may not have been to England. In the spring of 1593, he was being run by Thomas Phelippes, who, like his own best paymaster Essex, was working for both Essex and Burghley at the time, though primarily for Essex. (Phelippes, known in spy circles by the sobriquet “The Decipherer,” was the greatest code cracker of the age. He was red-haired, pockmarked, and nearsighted, and he almost certainly wore wire-rimmed glasses in order to labor at his work as long and as hard as he did—work for which he was infamously slow and deliberate. His is a whole fantastic story in itself.) In late April of 1593, between the date of his much-read letter described earlier and the Standen debacle of June of 1593 which featured that letter, an that was event of probable significance to this investigation happened: Sterrell wrote to Phelippes that he was badly in need of cash and that he and his “lord” were parting ways. He wrote that his

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lord’s alienation from him was, in whole or in part, caused by Essex, who would not speak “a word in his favor” to this lord—that is, the Earl of Worcester, Essex’s friend and close ally.52 Sterrell may not have known quite so early (in terms of days) that Essex was at this same time also ditching Phelippes in favor of Anthony Bacon, the brilliant and eccentric older brother of Francis, from whom Essex thought he could get better continental intelligence.53 After a year or so, Essex took Sterrell back, transferring him to work under William Wade (Waad), who was at the same time officially working for Essex’s greater intelligence rival, the all-powerful Burghley.54 By 1595, Essex was again employing both Phelippes and Sterrell, and he did not stop using them until he left England for the Azores in 1597 and was afterward squeezed out of the intelligence business by the Cecils.55 But this year of “falling out” between Essex and Sterrell (from the spring of 1593 through the spring of 1594) was a period of unexpected separation which upset Sterrell greatly, made him short of always necessary spy cash, and caused him to blame Essex for his circumstances in a scrap of correspondence that is still extant but has gone unnoticed by scholars previously. This private note to Phelippes, which directly concerned Hesketh, may well provide evidence that is relevant to the question of who killed Ferdinando, the fifth Earl of Derby, in April of 1594, exactly one year later.56 To this note we shall return. At some point, Sterrell somehow, unbelievably, managed to convert the seriously cynical and canny Phelippes to the Catholic side, and Phelippes subsequently sent Cecil (and perhaps Essex too) some disinformation mixed in with his good intelligence.57 Years later, back in England and under King James, Sterrell and Phelippes were discovered by the government to have been in secret, comradely, indeed treasonous correspondence with the Catholic leadership—specifically with the key player Father Hugh Owen58—for the entire time they had been working as English spies. Sterrell argued in his defense that Queen Elizabeth and the Earl of Essex had known all about it and had approved. It is not known what his evidence was, but the king and his men believed it. Sterrell’s old friend Phelippes, who was charged along with him, was

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subsequently sentenced to nearly five years (on two separate charges) for his dealings with Owen.59 But Sterrell was released, and his biographers in the past decade or so have believed on good evidence that he was protected by his longtime patron and friend the powerful Earl of Worcester, by whom he had been so protected all along (save for the crucial period in 1593 and 1594 that was described earlier).60 Worcester had been a strong Essex ally all through the 1590s, but he was not involved in Essex’s doomed uprising in 1601. Worcester was on the Privy Council from 1601 on, and Elizabeth had also given him the prestigious position called “Master of Horse.” As Sterrell’s biographers have pointed out, one of James’ very first acts, during the first week of his reign in 1603, was to award Sterrell a favor which is of previously unrecognized literary importance, probably as payback to Worcester: the king made Sterrell the keeper and then the landlord of the Palace of St. John of Jerusalem in Clerkenwell for life. St. John’s housed the Office of Revels. These buildings were central to the arranging of court entertainments, and there, year after year, the King’s Men [with Shakespeare as their longtime principal playwright] must have spent almost as much rehearsal and preparation time as they did at the Globe. Sterrell’s important position and association with theatrical matters reflected his patron’s [Worcester’s] great prominence in court pageantry and entertainment at the end of Elizabeth’s reign and through most of the reign of James.

It was probably on the very same day that Shakespeare and his company were licensed by James (as the King’s Men). James immediately gave Worcester “a special role in approving and financing court masques and entertainments.…”61 As the greatest historian of the Jacobean stage, E. K. Chambers, put it: [T]he organization of the masques, on which Jacobean Court extravagance centered, was not entrusted to the Revels at all, but to some nominated officer under the direct supervision of … the Master of Horse, who received funds directly from the Treasury.…62

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That “nominated officer” almost certainly had to be Sterrell because of his close, “special relationship with [Worcester], not to mention the Office of Revels.”63 This brought Sterrell very near to Shakespeare on what may have been close to a daily basis after 1603, for he was “in a position to influence strongly whose plays and masques were to be performed.…”64 Indeed, he was soon knighted by James. His biographers have argued strongly, citing new evidence, that Sterrell was also the longtime friend and associate of Thomas Thorpe, the famous (or infamous) publisher of one of the best known and most mysterious books in the world, ShakeSpeares Sonnets, in 1609.65 For it was Thorpe, not Shakespeare, who dedicated that book to “Mr. W. H.,” setting off centuries of speculation and controversy. Meanwhile, the story returns yet again to Burghley at his desk on 13 June, complaining incessantly about his “quaternion ague,” groaning from its discomfort, and poring over the intelligence his spies had sent him. It was bad enough that he had learned a few days before from Standen’s letter that the whole “return” plan had blown up (also blowing Standen’s cover forever, and with it his career as a spy), but now there were other problems. First, there was the letter from D’Andrada containing new information about the plot concerning Hesketh, the “stout man” in “yellow fustian with lace in the English manor [sic],” whom Stanley, Worthington, and others would soon be sending to Lancashire to make the Earl of Derby an offer which, they hoped and prayed, he could not refuse. Second, there was the letter he had finally received via Phelippes, written by the spy Barnes one year earlier to the day, informing him of correspondence between Strange and the cardinal. Burghley would have put two and two together, seeing what one can now see along with him, for the first time since 1593, as an obvious truth: Stanley and Allen, who were known to be in frequent correspondence with each other as early as June of 1592, were also in correspondence with Ferdinando at that time. This correspondence would have been about the succession, as Sterrell implied. In June of 1593, however, Stanley and Allen, along with such other chief Catholic exiles as Fathers Worthington, Owen, and Holt, were looking not so much to Ferdinando as their immediate hope to become

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the new English king as to his father, Earl Henry. They had no idea that Henry would be dead in three months, expiring only hours before they would take their first concrete step toward putting their plan into action by sending Hesketh to knock on his door. They were looking to Henry’s charismatic elder son Ferdinando only to help his father take the throne—and then, of course, to succeed his father as king, hopefully sooner rather than later, for their ultimate long-term hopes lay with the thirty-five-year-old, highly popular Ferdinando because of his impeccable blood claim. It is odd, however, that they—particularly Sir William Stanley—did not seem to know about, or to weigh heavily, Ferdinando’s secret but apparently passionate anti-Catholic and pro-Reformation beliefs and sentiments. Ferdinando kept these opinions secret because had their extent been known in Catholic Lancashire, he knew that he would have been hated by the majority of the people of all classes there, whereas what he needed (and wanted) was to be loved. As his friend Mary Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury, would put it only a few weeks after his murder, that murder was caused in part by his (successfully requited) need to be “popular among the people.”66 That is, through hiding his anti-Catholicism for such a long time in search of popularity in Lancashire and Cheshire, he had given the residents of the region the idea that he was as tolerant of the “old faith” as his father Henry had been. And his success with this masquerade—yet another masquerade in this twisted story—lessened the fears of those abroad that he might not share their religion. Stanley gave his soldier Hesketh a briefing shortly before the latter left for England on his mission sometime in the summer of 1593. In that briefing, Stanley told Hesketh that his mission had the support of the pope, the King of Spain, and the powerful and influential Dr. Worthington.67 Like most of the exiled continental Catholic leadership (besides Stanley), Worthington was a Jesuit. And the Jesuits at that time mostly (completely?) followed their founder Ignatius Loyola’s major precept that if the pope said something was true, it was ipso facto true. His saying it was so made it so—or, to split hairs, it proved that it was so and perhaps had always “really” been so. Loyola’s most famous example had been of black crows and white crows: if the pope said a

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black crow was white, then it was—and vice versa. Jesuits today are by and large uncomfortable with their founder’s maxim, and many go so far as to depart from it, fearing that it effectively makes those who believe it, and of course those who practice it, Machiavellians. Machiavelli, as most educated Catholics at the time agreed and as all Englishmen did, was in hell, joining the one other person everybody, including Luther and Calvin, agreed was residing down there: Judas. After sailing from Hamburg, Hesketh landed in England on 9 September 1593.68

CHAPTER 4

ON THE ROAD WITH HESKETH AND BAYLIE

After his arrival at one of the Cinque Ports, Hesketh quickly made his way to Canterbury and to a famous old inn called the Bell.1 There, as the traditional story goes, he met another wayfarer who had just arrived, Richard Baylie, a self-described (under oath, later) trumpeter who had recently returned from military service under Essex, in whose service he said he still remained, in the Lowlands. Baylie said he had served directly under the senior Essex trumpeter Francis More. He said he was left in Sluys by More (“my master”) with Sir Nicholas Parker, another Essex man, and that he had come to England a little before Michaelmas and had gone to the Bell. This is where Hesketh met him and hired him on the spot to be his personal servant, “my man,” to accompany him on his journey to Lancashire. The purpose of the journey, Baylie would testify under oath, was for Hesketh to reunite with his family (and, as soon as possible after he got there, to fulfill the legal responsibility of visiting the Earl of Derby to get his passport endorsed). Baylie said he

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had accepted Hesketh’s offer of employment because he was stranded in Canterbury and “destitute.”2 So much for the traditional story. The truth is that this innocent “honest lad” (as he was described by Devlin) was a thirty-nine-year-old Catholic spy who was a part of the Hesketh mission.3 Like Hesketh, he was on the Spanish payroll, and he was constantly praised by his Jesuit spymasters.4 In fact, he was the personal secretary to one of the most pivotal Catholic leaders in Europe, Father Hugh Owen. (It should be mentioned here that to Owen’s great credit, in this international world of counterspies, double agents, and turncoats, he was one of the few men who remained totally constant from the first to the last—and it is known that he was tempted by money and other lures. Right or wrong, for better or worse, he was a faithful Catholic loyalist all the way.) After Baylie had endured interrogation by the government’s toughest cracker, William Wade (Waad), in the following November, he was believed (maybe) and freed. His happy ending may have been the result of his believability; however, it could have been because Essex intervened on his behalf. I say this because Baylie could hardly have gotten away with lying outright about his Essex connection, and he would likely have been too smart to try: Essex was there, on the spot, interested, and probably following Hesketh’s case as it developed throughout the autumn, and Baylie would have known it. Is it possible that he took a great risk and lied anyway? Yes. But it is barely possible. Also, Wade, who was officially the clerk of the Privy Council, was probably (and famously) the hardest person to fool in all of English officialdom, making any argument for Baylie’s truly successful “believability” an implied claim for his having acting skills that would be worthy of an Ian McClellan. Furthermore, Wade was actually in Essex’s service at this time, while he was officially working for the Privy Council and the Cecils,5 and Essex had meanwhile finally fought his way onto the council. After his release, Baylie arranged for passage back to the continent, where he returned to the service of Owen. Owen was described by one eminent modern historian as being in many ways a near equal to the Cecils in espionage, especially considering his small resources.6 Baylie had returned from a “perilous mission” to England, undertaken at the request

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of Archduke Ernest (or Ernst), “to discuss with various people secret matters of great importance.”7 While he was in England, Baylie had received 30 escudos a month.8 In March of 1596, Owen and Father Holt compiled a complete list of the Englishmen they were paying. Baylie was on the list. In annotations accompanying his name is the information that he was serving with Juan de Ribas, the Spanish governor of the Ecluse, that he had been hired because of “the reports of M. de la Motte,” and that his current employment (for which he still got 30 escudos a month) “is in matters of secrecy.” The note adds: “He is a very fine man, he is married and a good worker.”9 Later on, in the early years of James’ reign, Owen was arrested in England by a government official named Edmonds (Edmondes).10 Sir Robert Cecil, who had inherited the lord chancellor’s office from his father, Lord Burghley, knew all about the aforementioned list of spies, knew of some of the names on it (including Baylie’s), and also knew that Owen had turned the list (and a huge number of other espionage-related documents) over to the archduke. Through diplomatic negotiations, Cecil insisted that Archduke Ernest turn the list over to him. Ernest refused outright, saying that the information could not be seen “without prejudice to others” (Baylie prominent among them).11 The diminutive, hunchbacked Sir Robert shrugged his near-nonexistent shoulders and admitted, referring to Baylie, that “hitherto we have not heard his name mentioned.” Either he was not remembering Baylie’s brief period of interrogation by his (and his father’s and Essex’s) man Wade or he had perhaps never been told of that particular detail when he was in the midst of taking over the Hesketh case from his father in the autumn of 1593.12 Two questions immediately arise from this discovery about Baylie. First, was Baylie actually Hesketh’s secret leader in the whole business when they were both on the road in England? It would make sense for him to have been: he was a trusted professional senior man (or “elder brother,“ in the parlance of the time), whereas Hesketh was very much a “junior brother” in the eyes of the leaders who sent them. The terms were in use at the time with respect to the Jesuits, but although Hesketh may have been an apprentice Jesuit at the time of his mission—Sir Francis Hastings, who had known him, claimed a few years later that he was—I

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do not know for sure that Baylie was a Jesuit at all. (The probability is strong.) Second, did Hesketh even know that Baylie was someone other than the “Essex trumpeter” whom they both later testified he had told Hesketh he was? In other words, was Baylie secretly sent by Owen and the other Catholic leaders involved, with his own mission being to guide Hesketh along on his journey without Hesketh’s being aware of it? I doubt it. For one thing, too many small but important matters could have gone wrong or proved problematic, the main one being that with Hesketh out of the loop and with matters left to chance, Hesketh might not have hired Baylie at all at the Bell—even if Baylie had used all his persuasive wiles (which are known to have been considerable) in pushing himself on Hesketh and imploring him to take him on. (Baylie testified to Wade that the day following their initial meeting at the Bell, Hesketh initiated an offer of employment. This testimony of course means nothing, even if the encounter had been staged by the two of them for any onlookers.) Additionally, I think it must be assumed that Hesketh and Baylie had met when they were both serving in Sir William Stanley’s regiment, as it is known they had done.13 (It is not known for sure, however, that their periods of service with Stanley were concurrent or even overlapping.) My best guess is that their journey together was prearranged by higherups, with Hesketh knowing all about the arrangement. If so, did they cross the channel together, or did they sail separately and then perhaps stage an introductory meeting at the Bell for any employees or customers who might be later called by the government (or by them) as witnesses? I doubt that they sailed together—it would have been much too risky, and unnecessarily so, given the number of watchful spies for all sides who were constantly crossing the channel. I think they both knew everything about the mission, traveled separately to England, and perhaps faked a meeting at the Bell for any onlookers (who might be either useful to them or dangerous to them if they were called to witness later). According to Baylie’s sworn testimony to Wade of 5 November, they had set out from Canterbury toward London, traveling through Rochester and Grave’s End, following the river. After getting to the city, they stayed first at the house or inn of one “More” at Paul’s Wharf (who is

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probably to be identified with the Essex trumpeter More under whom Baylie said he had served abroad). Then they went to Hampstead and stayed at an inn called “Mr. Weeks’ House,” after which they pushed on northward to St. Albans. It is very curious indeed that Baylie did not testify to Wade that while they were still in London, they stayed at an inn called the White Lion. This was in Islington, an upscale London-area district at the time, although it was made somewhat déclassé by the fact that it was also a known hideout area for recusants and other Catholics who were in some sort of trouble.14 In fact, Baylie never mentioned the White Lion or Islington at all. But that particular inn proved to be central to Hesketh’s testimony to Wade—because it was a crucial part of his initial attempt at a defense. Baylie merely testified that they had proceeded from St. Albans steadily north toward Hesketh’s home in Lancashire, stopping at (unnamed) inns along the way until their arrival. He ended his testimony by saying that they stayed at Hesketh’s for two days and then went over to see the Earl of Derby, “to whom he [Hesketh] said he had letters,” arriving on the very day Earl Henry died.15 Two days after Wade interrogated Baylie, on 7 November, he interrogated Hesketh for the first time. His very first words to Hesketh are extant: Her Majesty is informed that you had a letter unto the earl of Derby [Henry], which you have confessed [to others, notably Ferdinando and Sir Robert Cecil, who had met Hesketh as soon as he was taken into government custody following his trip to Lancashire].… I am commanded [by Elizabeth, he implied, but probably by Sir Robert on her behalf] to set down the truth from whom that letter came, and what you did with the same, and to certify the same in writing.16

Hesketh picked up his quill, dipped it, and began writing with these words: At my very departure from the White Lion in Islington toward Lancashire a boy of the house, named John Waterworth, in presence of the rest of the servants, as I remember, did deliver to me

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This passage has been interpreted in two opposing ways—one by Devlin and his followers, the other by nearly everyone else who has examined it. First, Devlin believed Hesketh was telling the truth in all particulars. Other scholars have been highly skeptical, based on such evidence as they have managed to find. Second, Devlin asserted—crucially to his case—that in Hesketh’s phrase “one Mr. Hickman, my lord’s man,” the lord is Lord Burghley, for whom Devlin believed the “government dupe” Hesketh was working. But others have found this interpretation to be tortured—in their view, “my lord’s” clearly refers to Ferdinando, who had been the earl for nearly two months, or just possibly to Henry, because he was the still-living earl at the moment when “Mr. Hickman,” if he existed at all, gave Hesketh the letter. I say “just possibly” because Hesketh twice referred to Earl Henry in this brief passage as “my old lord” to distinguish him from Earl Ferdinando. Lord Burghley had not been mentioned in any of the interrogations, nor would he be. Also, Devlin was sure that “Mr. Hickman” was William Hickman, brother to the Bartholomew Hickman who was Dr. John Dee’s first (and as it turns out, last) “skryer.” Thinking (and arguing) backwards, Devlin seemed to think he needed this man to be William because a month after Ferdinando’s death (on 16 April 1594), another brother of William’s, Walter Hickman, petitioned Sir Robert Cecil to give William the post of receivership of wards, for which William had applied. Walter offered Sir Robert a (conventional) bribe and even said that his wife, Lady Dixy Hickman, would throw in four fine matched horses for Sir Robert’s wife. (Devlin misreported this, saying that it was William who petitioned

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Sir Robert and offered the bribe.)18 In other words, Devlin believed (and obviously wanted badly to believe) that this proposed bribe implicated some sort of a quid pro quo arrangement between Sir Robert Cecil and William Hickman, implying that Walter was seeking payback for his brother’s good service at the White Lion in Islington—even though Devlin was at pains to acknowledge one important truth of the matter, that Sir Robert turned Hickman’s offer down. So Devlin’s parsing of the passage proves out in the end, like far too much of his essay, to be so forced—although always charmingly and eloquently forced—as to be not only illogical, but illogical to the point of nonsense. In trying to reconstruct events, it is necessary to carefully examine the brief written testimonies of Baylie on the fifth and Hesketh on the seventh, for Baylie’s subtly undermines Hesketh’s on some key points. First, Baylie said he heard Hesketh say, almost as soon as they met, that he had letters to the Earl of Derby. This tiny bit of testimony, apparently so unrehearsed and innocently given (and perhaps it was), contradicts Hesketh’s version of the story twice. Hesketh testified that he got the letter addressed to the earl from a man named Hickman at the White Lion in Islington (then near London proper, now very much within it). Thus, Baylie’s testimony about the all-important letter that Hesketh took to the earls of Derby implies (or actually says outright) that Hesketh possessed that letter when they first met—in other words, that he had brought it with him when he crossed the channel. It also makes no mention of Hesketh’s having been given the letter to carry up to the earl as he departed the White Lion (presumably accompanied by Baylie, who surely would have noticed). Second, Baylie said “letters,” not “letter.” As subsequent events will show, Baylie was right. Although the first letter that was addressed to the earl does not still exist, the second one does. The extant letter, which implies the first, is very revealing (and gave Devlin some distress as he worked to make his case). Third, Baylie made a point of mentioning two other facts in that same tiny bit of testimony: that he was “destitute” when he met Hesketh, and that he and Hesketh stayed constantly at inns, eating and drinking as well

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as sleeping, as they traveled from Canterbury to Lancashire. This testimony, coupled with the likely fact that the two men were traveling on horses that were procured by Hesketh, implies that Hesketh had plenty of money for the both of them, painting him in fact as an extremely prosperous wayfarer, doubtless raising the question in the minds of his interrogators, “Wherever did Hesketh get so much money?”19 Moreover, this story’s problem with Baylie’s testimony, which even his interrogators could not have known at the time, is that—as previously mentioned—he was not “destitute” at all but was somehow receiving good wages en route from his runner Father Owen.20 Hesketh and Baylie never met again after they both testified in early November. It is almost certain that they had discussed the stories they would tell if they were discovered and captured. It seems virtually inconceivable that they would not have done so. They would of course have taken pains to make sure their two stories matched on all key points. My suspicion is that Baylie, having been involved in such “rehearsal” discussions with Hesketh, then very artfully implicated him (two days before Hesketh gave his testimony, admittedly, but Baylie knew what he would say). If so, Baylie’s reasons could have been two: to distance himself from Hesketh in the minds of the interrogators in the self-interested hope of getting set free, or to distance himself from Hesketh for that reason but also to help seal Hesketh’s quick fate. If he was partly motivated by the latter idea, the motivation would have been instructions he was given long before by Stanley, Owen, and others, all of whom were quite willing to sacrifice Hesketh rather than leave him alive, even in prison, and revealing even more than he eventually did. As things turned out, Baylie was immediately released after giving his testimony, not even detained overnight, whereas Hesketh, who had probably been full of intentions of going to the gallows a Catholic martyr if things came to that pass, ended by talking even more than anyone in the leadership had feared he would. He was still talking on the scaffold.21 He left pages full of confessional testimony, some of which was leaked by the government. About a month after Hesketh’s hanging, the returning spy who had come in from the cold and had now been back in England for more than

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six months, the mostly Catholic Anthony Standen, wrote a brief but extremely revealing note to his fellow Catholic spy William Sterrell about Hesketh’s mission and its fate: “[It was] a worthy piece of work, suitable to the setters-on [i.e., Sir William Stanley and his colleagues], who of the Catholics here at home [England] are accursed.”22 What Standen meant, and what he knew Sterrell would understand and agree with, was that the “elder brethern” who had sent Hesketh had actually managed to get what they wanted from him and thus were happy. At long last, they had desperately needed information about their long-held passionate hopes for placing a Derby earl on the throne: they were baseless, for Henry was dead and they had finally found out for sure where Ferdinando’s heart lay. In running this mission, they had lost only Hesketh, their “younger brother,” their pawn. They had achieved crucially valuable information, albeit negative, at a minimal cost. A little later, Sir Francis Hastings, who had been a minor claimant to the crown himself (but one whom Ferdinando took seriously as a rival, as shall be seen) and who had known Hesketh before he went abroad, elaborated on the same theme as follows: Cardinal Allen, Doctor Worthington and others (as elder brethern) sent Richard Hesketh …, a younger brother, to induce the Lord Strange late Earle of Derbie [Hastings believed, probably in error, that Hesketh was supposed to make the original offer to Ferdinando, not his father Henry] to make a sudden rebellion in England, and to take upon him the title of the crown; assuring him from them and other of treasure and foreign forces to maintaine the same: which treason the Honorable Earle dutifully detected, Hesketh himself confessed, and bitterly cursed his elder brethern [from the scaffold] to make him, a yonger brotherr, to adventure the danger of the treason that they as elder brethern doe teach and devise, farre enough from reach.23

But well within reach, however, presumably still dressed in his yellow fustian suit and with his yellow hair blowing in the September winds of Lancashire, was Richard Hesketh. Before going to see the earl, Hesketh had spent a day or two with his wife, Isabel, accompanied by Baylie, whom he identified to her as “my man.”24

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He knocked on the Earl of Derby’s door at New Park (as opposed to Lathom, possibly because he was Ferdinando’s virtual half-brother and knew him fairly well, or possibly because he might have already heard that Ferdinando was now suddenly earl) on Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of September. As he stood there waiting, he perhaps felt a little awed, even intimidated by this noble, ancient, and almost certainly enchanting structure, as well as by the breathtakingly beautiful park in which it sat. Years earlier, he had been a visitor with some other members of his family at the massive, austere Lathom House, where Earl Henry lived, but he had likely not been to this house before. If he turned as he waited in order to take a look at the scene behind him, he would have seen moats, grazing red deer, and stunning flower gardens bordered all around by what were called “ha-has”—fences that were sunken rather than raised in order not to impede one’s view. If he did stand there looking, he did not have time to look long.25

CHAPTER 5

THE FATAL MEETING

Hesketh’s knock at the New Park door was answered by someone who gave him the distinctly unpastoral news that Earl Henry had just died earlier that day, Tuesday the twenty-fifth—et in Arcadia ego. The newsbearer was most likely a butler or other servant. Hesketh replied (or was told) that he would need to return in a day or two. He left. What he did next can be learned from the testimony of his brother Bartholomew. This brother, it will be remembered, was a Catholic and a suspected recusant who had been placed on the Cecils’ list of “dangerous persons” in Lancashire and Cheshire. He had sheltered the famous Jesuit Father Campion at his home—only a very brief ride from Richard’s own—in 1581, shortly before Campion’s arrest, torture, and execution in London. He was a good friend of Earl Henry’s and occasionally dined with him at Lathom—as did Richard before he went abroad.1 From Bartholomew one learns that Richard showed up at his house on the twentysixth, a Wednesday, the day after he first went to see Derby, and spent the night there. Traveling with him and also spending the night was one of the most important men in Lancashire and Cheshire, Sir Richard

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Shuttleworth (to whom this story will return soon). Bartholomew’s own (somewhat confusing) testimony seems at first to agree completely with Baylie’s. It implies that Richard Hesketh had gone on the previous day, Tuesday the twenty-fifth, to the Earl of Derby’s to submit his passport for approval, but that upon learning of Earl Henry’s departure from this life just a few hours (or minutes) before his arrival at the earl’s home, he departed, saying he would return soon to take care of his business. Hesketh probably did not speak to anyone of importance at Lathom that day, but his own subsequent testimony implies his belief at the time that he had fulfilled the legal technicality requiring him to get his passport cleared before proceeding farther into Lancashire or Cheshire—by telling whoever answered the door that he had come for that purpose. People were required to fulfill the passport law as their very first order of business upon entering such counties as Lancashire and Cheshire in order to help allay government suspicions about illegal Catholic plotters going into those counties—visitors such as Hesketh and Baylie.2 It is not known where Hesketh spent the night of Tuesday the twentyfifth after making his initial try for an audience, but he probably spent it at Shuttleworth’s.3 This was the eminent Sir Richard Shuttleworth of Gawthorpe Hall, presumably an old and trusted friend of Hesketh’s. The connection between these two is interesting, as Sir Richard was the chief justice of Cheshire and a fabulously wealthy and powerful man. He was so very wealthy, in fact, that Queen Elizabeth asked him for huge loans at least twice in the 1590s—and received them.4 My inference is that Hesketh went to see Shuttleworth to seek his legal advice after having learned at Lathom that this was not a good day to bother the brand-new Earl Ferdinando about his passport. As his later testimony implies, Hesketh wanted to visit his brother Bartholomew as soon as he could, out of anxiety over not showing him the proper respect (after years of being out of the country). But he was also anxious about doing so because of the legal requirement that he get his passport approved before going as far into the earl’s territory as Bartholomew’s home. Sir Richard evidently assured Hesketh that it would be all right for him to do so in this highly unusual circumstance—especially after having personally and officially

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informed him, the chief justice. And thus it came about that Hesketh and Sir Richard (presumably accompanied by Hesketh’s “man” Baylie) went to visit Bartholomew on the next day, Wednesday the twenty-sixth, and to spend the night there at his house, as Bartholomew testified. On the morning of the next day, Thursday the twenty-seventh, Hesketh went back to see the new earl at New Park. He knew, as everyone in the area did, that heir-apparent Ferdinando had lived at New Park with his family for years and had not yet even begun—or even, probably, to think about—moving into Lathom, the seat of the earldom. It is thus interesting that he went to New Park the first time, rather than to Lathom. It indicates that he had perhaps heard before going that Earl Henry was near death at Lathom and thus he went to New Park instead to seek an audience with Ferdinando. There is also the outside chance that he went to New Park first because the offer he was bringing from his superiors was actually for Ferdinando rather than for Henry—even though Ferdinando was not yet the earl when Hesketh had been charged with the letter’s delivery—and he was sent away because Ferdinando had just learned of his father’s death at Lathom. (The three great houses were close to one another, especially Lathom and New Park, and Knowsley was only a few miles away.) Hesketh’s knock at the door was once again answered by a servant, who went back inside to find someone in authority. A man soon appeared at the door, an older man who has lain in confused obscurity for well over four hundred years (although he is sometimes mentioned vaguely in the various documents relating to Hesketh’s mission and the deaths of the Derby earls). This was Sir Edward Stanley, and it was to him that Hesketh presented his passport and a letter to the Earl of Derby—probably the letter he later testified that he had been asked at the White Lion to deliver—explaining as he did so that he had tried two days before to do the same thing and was now back to try again. He requested Sir Edward to take the documents to Earl Ferdinando. Almost since the date of this meeting, in the tellings and retellings of the story, although historians have known his bare name, the identity of Sir Edward has been a puzzle—a puzzle which I was able to solve by

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putting a few disparate scraps of documentary evidence together.5 Sir Edward turns out to have been a fascinating character in his own right— and he may just possibly have played a role in the story of Ferdinando and Hesketh, as shall eventually be seen. For one thing, he was actually the late Earl Henry’s younger brother and therefore Ferdinando’s uncle. For another, he was the virtual mirror-image of his close relative Sir William Stanley, who had surrendered Deventer—and who was one of the men who had now sent Hesketh to offer the Derby earl the English crown. Although he was a Catholic loyalist and a man approaching old age, he had been the shining battlefield star for the Earl of Leicester at the Battle of Zutphen. On 6 October 1586, in what Paul E. J. Hammer called “one final piece of heroism,” Stanley had clambered into the breach by himself and fought nine or ten [opponents] at a time in full view of the whole army, “first with his pike, then with the stumpes of his pike, and afterward with his sword.” This inspired his men to win the day.6

This story is not thought by historians to be a romanticized exaggeration. In addition to knighting him on the spot, Leicester rewarded him with 40 pounds in gold and a lifetime pension of 66 pounds a year.7 Sir Edward had always been first and foremost a loyalist to Elizabeth. He was a bachelor, and he had lived at Lathom Palace with his brother the earl for many years, accompanied by only two or three personal servants.8 As the reader may have inferred, the relationship between Earl Henry, Sir Edward, and Ferdinando, all living so close together and probably seeing one another daily, gives a good idea of just how complicated, again, things were in Lancashire. Earl Henry was a Church of England conformist who was tolerant of the Lancashire Catholics even as he was supposedly fulfilling the role of Elizabeth’s chief officer in charge of finding them, telling the government who they were, trying them, and punishing them. (His performance of this duty was sporadic, and he was often lax, perhaps purposely so, strongly irritating many, including his son Ferdinando.) Then there was Sir Edward—a well-known Catholic himself and probably a recusant to boot—who lived with Henry.

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Meanwhile, Ferdinando tried to have a reputation like his father’s with his Catholic-dominated local constituency while being secretly but passionately in favor of the Reformation throughout Europe, particularly in its Church of England manifestation and most particularly in its implementation in Lancashire and Cheshire. Not only that, but Ferdinando was actually anti-Catholic and even anti-“tolerant” (the term that was used at the time for those who were in favor of a live-and-let-live policy with respect to the Catholics, the most prominent proponent at the time being the Earl of Essex). Ferdinando’s real views on religion are known because of an extant secret correspondence between him and the one other prominent gentleman who was residing in the palace at New Park when Hesketh came for his visits—Bishop Chaderton. Ferdinando had written Chaderton, his father-confessor and probably even surrogate father, angry letters about the sad state of the Reformation in England, particularly in Lancashire. He said in those letters that he was especially angry at Earl Henry, even going so far as to emphasize in one confidential epistolary line, “I am through with my father!”9 Chaderton happened to be visiting at the time of Hesketh’s arrival because he had come to be at his old friend Henry’s bedside as he lay dying at Lathom, and he had stayed a few days longer with the new earl and his family. The optimistic idea in Lancashire and Cheshire in 1593 and 1594, as well as in much of England, was that Chaderton would soon be elevated to archbishop of Canterbury and Ferdinando would take the throne following Elizabeth’s death. Like Ferdinando, Chaderton did not attain this goal—possibly in part because he was (erroneously) thought in London to be nearly as tolerant of the local Catholics as his friend Earl Henry was. Sir Edward came back to Hesketh carrying the endorsed passport from Ferdinando, informing Hesketh as he did so that the letter he had brought was nothing more than a list of London plague deaths which some functionary at the White Lion had sent to Earl Henry for his information. (The “Pest” was making a particularly horrible visit to the city at the time.) What happened later on that same day between Hesketh and Ferdinando is not known for sure, but it is known that they met. It is also known that

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they must have talked together for a short while alone, after which Ferdinando asked Hesketh to join him on the next Tuesday, 2 October, at a place forty miles south called Brewerton Green.10 I can think of no reason Ferdinando might have done this unless he desired to have follow-up discussions regarding something that had already been mentioned, and if so, that something was probably the succession offer Hesketh had brought. Was this offer in the letter—the one Hesketh said he had been given at the White Lion to deliver? Was the offer in yet another letter Hesketh had somehow gotten to Ferdinando while he was visiting New Park? Or did Hesketh make the pitch orally from detailed written instructions, as the planned arrangement had ordered? The planned arrangement is known because of an amazing document that still exists. Written in the second person throughout, it gives Hesketh detailed instructions about what to say to the earl when he had the chance to talk with him, in what order to say it, exactly how to say it, and what course to take at the various stages of saying it, according to the earl’s stated or inferred responses to the pieces as he heard Hesketh say them.11 These instructions tell Hesketh how to conduct this all-important interview. They were written for Hesketh to memorize, and memorize them he did. This chapter will return to the question of how the interview probably went, and chapter 6 will turn to the question of how Sir Robert Cecil eventually recovered this letter. The writer (likely Dr. Thomas Worthington, with input from other leaders, including probably Sir William Stanley) gave Hesketh a stepby-step list of detailed instructions on how to proceed with Earl Henry at their first extended interview. The letter gives what was planned as one side of a verbatim interview with the earl, offering him the crown. The late Henry did not provide the other side of the interview, for he was not alive to do so. It is not known, however, if the exact same itemized list was followed by Hesketh in his conversation with Ferdinando. But it gives an exact “recording,” as it were, of what was planned for Hesketh to say to Henry and of what he then probably actually said to Ferdinando. Because of its significance, especially in the value of its minute details, and because it is so direct and simple and unambiguous, I give a

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close paraphrase of the complete document here12 (the verbatim text is provided in the appendix on p. 281): First, tell the earl that you have a special message of great importance for him from “special friends” of his abroad—a message which you have sworn to deliver. Second, tell him that because you have sworn to these friends of his to deliver it, you ask his leave to do so, and that you will take it as implied by his agreement to hear it that he will cause no harm to come to you for having spoken it. Third, if he says he does not want to hear the message, obey him at once without pressing and “get you safely away whence you came,” assuring him that both you and those “special friends” of his who sent you swear that the matter will remain private and that he will be in no way harmed by having met with you, and that both you and they send him all good wishes and assurances. But fourth, if he agrees to hear you, you are hereby instructed both to give him and to receive from him sworn assurances of privacy and faithfulness, each to the other. Fifth, after he has so sworn, he will guess easily exactly what you have come to offer; so pause at this point and wait to see if he encourages you to go on. Sixth, if he does not encourage you to speak, and especially if he forbids you to, ask immediately for his permission to leave him, reminding him that he has sworn to you both privately and secretly, and that he has also sworn to cause no harm to come to you because you have come with this message. Seventh, if he indicates that he will hear you out, “though drily and with small desire,” tell him that “S. W.” is one of those who has sent you, adding that another one is a person “of greater authority than he [S. W.] is,” and then inquire again if you have his leave to speak your message. If not, ask his permission, again, to depart immediately—unless you have any suspicion that he might cause harm to come to you merely because of what has already passed between you. If you do have such a suspicion, ask him for a follow-up appointment on a day near at hand, and, if he grants it, do not go back but instead “shift away” to safety. But! If you find the earl willing to hear you out, tell him, eighth, that you have only been sent after [the writer of the letter implied] the “friends’ ” hopes have faded for Elizabeth’s seemingly imminent death by natural causes in early 1593, placing him easily and

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON naturally upon the throne, necessitating an intervention plan on their part. Tell him that this extensive and efficient backup plan has been in the making for well over a year, that it is now complete, and that it is sufficient to ensure his succession. Tell him that the higher aim is to restore England to the Catholic fold and that he is the chosen instrument for that restoration. Then tell him explicitly what will already be obvious to him: that you have been sent to offer him, as “first choice,” the crown that his “friends” hope and pray he will accept, and that, as a first step, you seek his initial acceptance of the offer. Ninth, tell him that in order to qualify for this great deal, he must swear to become a public Catholic himself [they harbored the bare hope, with some reason, that he may already have been a closet Catholic], and to restore the Catholic religion to England, and to take steps to ensure that that restoration be “perpetuall.” Stress to him that his sworn oath to this criterion is absolutely necessary because it is absolutely the law of God, the law of the Catholic Church, and the secular law of England that the monarch must “keep and maintain the Catholic faith” and that he or she must publicly swear to do so at the public coronation. Stress to him that if he will not so swear at the coronation (even if he swears so to you in private in order to get the crown), or if he does so swear and then goes back on his word, he will be deposed. Tell him that unless he does so swear (to you now, and to the world then), and that unlesss he does become a practicing Catholic, he can expect no help from “S. W.,” from “the P. K. Carey,” or from any of the rest of the powerful “friends.” Tell him that, instead, he will in that event have them and everybody else in the Catholic faith against him. Tell him that, in the minds of those “friends” who have sent you [Hesketh] to him, he is actually the fourth in line for the throne, but that if he will swear to become a Catholic, and then does so become, he ipso facto becomes first in their minds.13

Probably, their other three candidates were already Catholics—such as the Spanish infanta, who was their first choice but who they knew did not stand a realistic chance of succeeding to the English throne. Or, perhaps one or more were Protestants, to whom they would make the same offer they now made to Henry if he turned them down, but who were

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at this time without the Earl of Derby’s political viability. In particular, this could describe King James VI of Scotland. He had much prejudice against him because he was a foreigner and the son of Mary, Queen of Scots, whom Elizabeth had just recently executed. He was suspected of bearing a major grudge on that account against Elizabeth’s ministers, especially the Cecils, father and son, and Earl Henry, who had chaired Mary’s trial—the trial that resulted in her beheading. Nevertheless, as shall be seen, they turned to James with their offer just as soon as Ferdinando turned them down. As to the identity of “S. W.,” those few scholars who have examined this letter tend toward identifying him as Sir William Stanley, which makes good sense. As for “the P. K. Carey,” I have never seen that small puzzle so much as mentioned in the literature on this subject. It strikes me as extremely odd that the whole word Carey got through here if any attempt at identity concealment was intended, and it may thus have been a slip of the writer’s pen. If so, the one person who is pointed to makes no sense at all: the powerful insider Sir George Carey. Sir George lived in a great house called “The Park”14 on the Isle of Wight, which he governed from the late 1580s until his death, and he might have been termed “the P. K. Carey” to distinguish him from his even more powerful father, Henry Carey, Lord Hunsden, who was still alive and also very much a player not just in the political maneuverings but in all aspects as well. The complimentary close of some of Sir George’s personal letters is “From the Park, Isle of Wight.” Sir George was Ferdinando’s brother-in-law, and he played the major role in the government’s investigation of Ferdinando’s murder, to which this narrative will soon come. The reason that the identification makes no sense is that Sir George was known as an ardent anti-Catholic. Was he perhaps secretly a crypto-Catholic, and as such, was he one of the people behind the Hesketh mission? It would be a hard argument to make, or even to begin to try to make, and I will not attempt it here. The letter continues, as I have paraphrased it, Tenth, tell him that in order to reassure completely those here who sent you [Hesketh] to him, he must quickly send an eminent

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON person of great repute and “credit” to give us his sworn word —“to declare his full mind and meaning.” Eleventh, tell him to instruct that person to tell us “what help he requireth” of us, and when he will require it, for “it is by God’s help to be provided,” and tell him that if he requires four or five thousand solders we can have them ready for him “in seven or eight months conveniently.” Twelfth, tell him to reflect deeply on this question: Are we, the senders, doing this to advance God’s cause through you [Ferdinando], or are we, rather, doing it to advance ourselves by putting you on the throne? Tell him that he must be certain that we are motivated solely by the former and in no way by the latter—and that we will neither expect nor ask for any reward of any kind after he is crowned King. Thirteenth, ask him to reflect deeply on the question: Do you think that of all men alive you alone have a purchase on the truth, or do you think there are others who may know it better than you? If you in any way tend toward the former [for the senders were by no means sure Ferdinando was not an ardent advocate of the Protestant Reformation—which in fact he was], read the works of those wise Catholics, known to you, who have made uncontravenable recent arguments against the Reformation. Also, confer with some of these, “men whose sincere and honest life [you] cannot mistake, [and] see whether [you] or they stand in the right way of salvation, considering always there is but one right way.” Fourteenth, assure him that if he takes the crown he need not fear that “strangers” will invade and try to take England from him, and that he should especially not fear the King of Spain or the pope on that score, because (a) they don’t desire to possess England, and (b) even if they did, they know that the Englishmen would win any battle for their homeland. In assuring him of this, tell him that the pope wants for there to be many Catholic kings in Europe, not just one. And tell him that he knows full well that Cardinal Allen, one of those sending this message, is a “true Englishman” who would never condone such a foreign action. Fifteenth, tell him that all of us who send this message pray daily for his conversion to Catholicism. Sixteenth, tell him that “the example of the King of Scots” is one of the factors behind their seeking all these assurances from him. [Presumably, they felt that James in some manner had broken faith with them in a previous plot to place him on the throne.]

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Seventeenth, tell him that it is better to take the throne now than to wait for the Queen to die, because if he waits he will invite competors because of all the political power plays involving the succession that are certain to take place starting the moment she dies. Add that it is better to act now because Cardinal Allen and “S. W.” [again, probably Sir William Stanley] are now able to help, because the current pope is in favor of acting now, whereas his successor might not be. Last, if after saying all this to Ferdinando and being certain of his agreement and commitment, tell him that we think it best that you stay with him until he send the person of great eminence and credit to us to give us his oath, and repeat to him that this person must be of the highest eminence and credit or else we may harbor doubts about your sincerity and commitment.

Hesketh memorized this document, just as an actor of his time (or of modern times) would have memorized a long play speech. Because of information that will be looked at later, it is known that he did not carry it with him—although some scholars have thought he did. The letter was accompanied by a note scribbled in Hesketh’s handwriting on a scrap of paper: “Good father, if anything happens that I die in this journey, let this packet be burnt without being read of any man, for my oath standeth thereupon.” In other words, he had sworn to those who authored the letter to make sure it would be destroyed if it were found on his body by his “father,” who, as shall be seen, turned out to be Father Thomas Stephenson, with whom Hesketh had left the letter in Prague. Immediately, questions arise about the (seeming) existence of two letters carried by Hesketh rather than just one: first, the letter that Hesketh’s interrogator Wade said that Hesketh took to the Earl of Derby, and second, the letter which Hesketh said he received from a man named Hickman at the White Lion in Islington to deliver to the earl. As for the first of these, addressed to the earl, it is known at least that it existed in some form because both Hesketh and his chief interrogator Wade agreed that it did. As for the supposed second letter, it obviously has to be the same as the first. The only question is that letter’s source. Wade did not

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believe Hesketh’s story about that source being Hickman, the earl’s own man, who, Hesketh testified, had given it to young Master Waterworth, ”a boy of the house,” to deliver to him as he and Baylie departed the inn. Neither, apparently, did anybody else involved in the investigation. But because Hesketh soon confessed to being sent to the Earl of Derby by the Catholic leadership abroad, blaming both them and Ferdinando for his fate (Ferdinando for turning him in without good reason, thus sending him to a certain doom), it is clear that the letter, no matter what its source was, contained a crown offer of some kind. After mulling over Hesketh’s story about the “Hickman letter,” I find that his story simply cannot be dismissed. This is because at some point on his journey, Hesketh had to have been given a letter addressed to the Earl of Derby. This is certain because everybody involved testified to the fact that Hesketh gave such a letter to the earl, including Hesketh himself. If this letter was not given to Hesketh at the time he departed the company of those who had sent him, the same people who were responsible for the lengthy list of instructions which has just been examined closely, then it had to have been given to him en route. And no matter whether he brought it from abroad or received it at the White Lion, the question must be asked, if it had nothing to do with the succession, why would it have so disturbed Elizabeth and her inner circle? All this being so, two further immediate questions arise: Where did Hesketh receive the letter, and why was it written and delivered to him at all? The simple and obvious answer to the first question is that he was in fact given it at the White Lion in Islington, just as he testified. And when he so testified, he even went further: he said that the letter had been given to him by the aforementioned “boy of the house,” John Waterworth, and he also said that several of the other inn servants who were standing around had witnessed the event. I do not think Hesketh would have embellished his story with the particular detail about the witnesses unless they had actually been there—for in mentioning them, he was, as he surely knew, inviting his interrogators either to subpoena these witnesses or to send messengers to the White Lion to take their sworn depositions. (There is no record that they did either, although they may have done so.)

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As to the second question, the all-important why question, I think one answer suggests itself, especially in light of Hesketh’s testimony that “Hickman” had identified himself to the young “boy of the house” John Waterworth as (in Hesketh’s words) “my lord’s man”—that is, as Henry’s man, not Ferdinando’s, as Henry was still alive and still the earl on the day that Hesketh testified he had received the letter. That answer must be that one or more highly placed persons in Earl Henry’s circle, knowing that Hesketh was en route and about to arrive, knowing that it had been prearranged for him and Baylie to stop at the White Lion in case their higher-ups needed to update their instructions, and suspecting that Henry’s death was imminent, sent a revised letter for Hesketh to deliver to Ferdinando if he got home and found Henry to be either dying or to have died. I believe, but cannot prove, that this person was Doctor Thomas Worthington, who was certainly one of the Catholic authorities behind Hesketh’s mission and who, as is known from one or two tiny surviving scraps of evidence, had just recently come from the continent for a secret visit to Lancashire himself. (Because Hesketh found himself suddenly under harsh interrogation by Wade, he may possibly have confused the name of the bearer with the name of its supposed source. There was a Waterworth—a rare name—in the service of the Earl of Derby at Lathom at the time, and it is just possible that he was the named source of the letter, with Hickman being only its deliverer. This would make clear why Hesketh, probably having heard each name only once as he departed the White Lion, testified that it came from “my lord’s man.”) It is not known what this letter said. It is certain, though, from subsequent documentary evidence (sworn testimony and letters), that Ferdinando received it from Hesketh and read it. It is also certain that Ferdinando turned it over to one or more highly placed men in Elizabeth’s government, probably Lord Burghley and his son Sir Robert Cecil, at the same time as he turned in Hesketh. What this communication probably said, in a covering note to Hesketh and Baylie, was that Earl Henry was dead or dying, that the previous plan was now altered, and that Hesketh should now address his mission to Ferdinando, in whom the Catholic

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leadership was more interested anyway in terms of its long-term plans for the English throne. There would have been a letter to Ferdinando from one of the Catholic leaders who was personally known to him, either offering him the crown outright or requesting him to listen as Hesketh proceeded as planned with his highly structured (written, but then memorized) interview. As mentioned earlier, the leadership did not know that Ferdinando, who was so unlike his father in some ways, was not soft on Catholicism—that he was, instead, a fervent Reformation Protestant who was not only opposed to Catholicism but was passionately opposed to its restoration in England. Sometime in the afternoon of Thursday the twenty-seventh, according to Bartholomew’s testimony, he met his brother Richard on the road.15 Bartholomew added that one of them—for the pronominal reference is confusing—was accompanied on horseback by friends. (The syntax suggests, if barely, that the brother traveling with friends was Bartholomew, not Richard.) In either event, Bartholomew was riding away from his house, and Hesketh was riding toward it. Richard Hesketh told his brother when they met that he had just come from the new Earl of Derby’s primary residence at New Park, where the earl had approved his passport. However, it is also known from other documents that the earl had done more than that—but exactly how much more is unclear. At some point during that meeting earlier on Thursday the twentyseventh, Ferdinando must have listened to at least some of what Hesketh had memorized to say to him. This is certain for two reasons: first, Hesketh’s testimony indicates that the two men talked, even if briefly, and that they talked alone, and second, there is no other explanation for the “pause” between the two meetings—or even for there having been a second meeting at Brewerton Green. Both meetings clearly took place. But why would Ferdinando, if he had any reason to believe Hesketh to be who he really was, have left him in total freedom for several days after the first meeting, even free enough to travel the forty miles to Brewerton Green to meet Ferdinando again? If Ferdinando did not suspect Hesketh to be who he really was, why would the earl, who was still dealing with what

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he termed his “sadnesse” over his father’s death the previous Tuesday, have had any interest in socializing with Hesketh—even going to far as to invite him to Brewerton Green? My suspicion about what happened has to do with one turning-point item in the list of instructions (paraphrased earlier) which Hesketh’s superiors on the continent had given him to memorize and deliver verbatim. That turning point gave Hesketh four choices as to how to proceed with Ferdinando after having gone a short way down the list with him—after which, the letter says, Ferdinando would know full well what Hesketh had come to offer. The first choice was that if Hesketh perceived that “he utterly reject[ed]” him, he should ask his permission to depart immediately without harm and hope for the best. The second choice, upon which the third depended, was that if Hesketh perceived that “he be content to hear but drily and with small desire,” he should proceed only so far as to tell him that the message had the full blessing of “S. W.” (Stanley) and also that of “one higher than he” (Dr. Worthington, Cardinal Allen, King Philip of Spain, or perhaps the pope). Third, if, after hearing this, Ferdinando denied Hesketh, Hesketh should “either take leave with his favour or, if [he] suspect[ed] any harm, appoint another day and in mean [i.e., in the meantime], either take leave with his favour or … appoint another day [emphasis added] and in mean shift away”—that is, he should run for his life, albeit slowly and unobtrusively. Fourth, if Ferdinando said that he was agreeable to hearing the rest, Hesketh should proceed with him until he had heard it all. My best surmise is that Earl Ferdinando baulked at the fourth point, uncertain as to whether or not he should dare to let Hesketh continue on through his list, instead cautiously agreeing to “appoint another day”— the second of October. My further guess is that a nervous Ferdinando simply took Hesketh up on this offer of a “pause,” agreeing readily to the future “appointment” Hesketh suggested and giving him no reason to have any fears, thus giving him no reason, during the interval between the meetings, to “shift away.” I believe Hesketh at that point used his own judgment to depart from his literal instructions on the basis of what he had seen, heard, and inferred from Ferdinando’s manner, believing

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that the agreed-to “appointment” signaled hope of success. And that was what he was there for: to succeed. No more is heard of the Hesketh brothers until the following Monday, 1 October. Bartholomew later testified that it was on this day that Richard came to his house in the evening and there let it drop that he and Earl Ferdinando had made an appointment to meet the next day, Tuesday, 2 September, at Brewerton (Brereton) Green, about forty miles south.16 It is not known where Hesketh spent the long weekend between Thursday the twenty-seventh (when he saw Ferdinando and Sir Edward at New Park) and Tuesday the second (when he got to Brewerton Green), but it can be inferred from the depositions that it was not at Bartholomew’s house. Most likely, he spent it with Isabel and their many children at home. Wherever he spent it, he made one important side visit related to the mission. It was for the purpose of delivering some espionage “tokens” he had brought from abroad to show to certain persons in Lancashire. This business is admittedly somewhat cloudy. Yet it is possible to piece together documents by Wade and Hesketh in such a way as to make a plausible and coherent narrative. Hesketh went to visit a certain Mrs. Clifton, whom he later described to his interrogator Wade as a widow. This visit was prearranged by Dr. Worthington, Sir William Stanley, and perhaps other men in the leadership before Hesketh left on his mission. He presented her with a token consisting of the secret information, known inside England to her alone, that her son had gone a year earlier to study at Douai and that he had registered there under the alias “Hylton.” When Mrs. Clifton heard Hesketh say these words, she knew he was the man who had been sent to her by the leadership. But she was merely the gatekeeper. Inside the metaphorical gate was a now-obscure man named Ormeston (Ormiston, Ormston, Ormestone). Getting by Mrs. Clifton meant that Hesketh could have access to Ormeston, whose name he apparently got from her. He had to deal with Ormeston in coded tokens as well before Ormeston would give any signal of understanding. Hesketh was supposed to ask Ormeston to write a letter, and hearing the request, Ormeston

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wrote it on the spot.17 The letter was later copied and apparently posted to one or more persons abroad.18 Hesketh swore, even as he was beginning to confess the whole thing to Wade, that he did not read that letter, and there is no reason to believe he did. For one thing, Ormeston would probably not have allowed him to read it for fear that its contents would be revealed if Hesketh were to be captured and interrogated, especially if he were tortured. But the gist of the matter was that Ormeston had been especially touted, or perhaps even unambiguously chosen, by Dr. Worthington and Sir William Stanley to be the Catholic man of eminence and undoubted credibility whom Ferdinando should send to the leadership with his formal acceptance of its offer of the English crown to him—as was specified, without naming that man, in the list of criteria which Hesketh had been instructed to present to the Earl of Derby (paraphrased in chapter 4). Thus, the letter from Ormeston probably consisted of only a sentence or two saying, in essence, over his signature, some laconic and uninterpretable statement such as “I agree”—with perhaps even that little bit in some sort of innocuous-seeming code. Under interrogation by Wade, Hesketh had at first denied knowing anything about anyone named Ormeston. But Wade had somehow learned of Ormeston’s involvement—perhaps (but this is just a guess) from Ferdinando, who had heard it from Hesketh. Hesketh had also apparently testified at first that in none of the conversations he had had with Ferdinando had they talked about the succession. (His aim in stating this was probably only to dissociate himself from the successionrelated charge he knew he now faced.) But Wade pressed him—not just about Ormeston but about how far he had gotten in his succession talk with Ferdinando. Wade specifically wanted to know if Hesketh had gotten further than he (and Ferdinando) had previously testified. Wade was obviously trying to see if Hesketh would testify that the talk had gone further than Ferdinando had evidently told the Queen it had—no one quite trusted Ferdinando by now, it seems, for too many questions had been raised by his testimony when he turned Hesketh in. Quickly beginning to crack (it only took about a day for him to do so), Hesketh

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started talking. One of the things he said about Ferdinando’s connection to Ormeston is particularly riveting: My L. [Ferdinando] thought meet [mete] making no man privy but such as my L. think good of the matter of Mr. Ormston’s life or actions.… I have never been acquainted with [Ormeston].… Never did the doctor [Worthington] make any further relations of him [to me] than [I wrote in] my last letter [to Wade].

What this passage of testimony means is that Hesketh did indeed get far enough with Ferdinando in the interview to be talking about the Catholic man of eminence and credibility whom Ferdinando would send to Hesketh’s superiors to assure them he was in earnest if and when he accepted Hesketh’s offer—and that that man was Ormeston. What Ferdinando was saying was that Hesketh should tell no one about Ormeston except people he, Ferdinando, personally approved. The documents reveal that Dr. Worthington had mentioned Ormeston to Hesketh as a good candidate to mention to Ferdinando at that point in the interview, if he got that far with it, but he had revealed nothing personal about Ormeston. Ferdinando and Hesketh kept their appointment at Brewerton Green. And each would find excellent reasons within the next few weeks to regret it deeply.

CHAPTER 6

BREWERTON GREEN

Hesketh rode to Brewerton Green to meet Earl Ferdinando on 2 October 1593. But he did not go alone. He was accompanied by his old friend the baron, Sir Thomas Langton—under whose leadership he had served with the gang that was responsible for the killing of young William Shakeshafte’s temporary patron, Thomas Hesketh 2, in the great Lea Hall affray of 1589, which may or may not have been the cause of Hesketh’s flight to the continent. As mentioned earlier, Langton had been nearly killed in the range war that was set off by cattle rustling, and he was arrested in his bed, although he was near death, the day after the riot. But, even though he was formally charged in the matter (Hesketh was not), he was cleared completely due to the influence of his friends Earl Henry Stanley and his son Lord Strange, Ferdinando Stanley, who also got pardons for all of the other miscreants who were involved.1 At some point in November, a month or so after he and Hesketh took the forty-mile journey south to Brewerton Green, the baron was brought up on another set of charges by Wade, who accused him with having “brought [Hesketh] to the speech of the earl.”2 When one parses Wade’s wording

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in the indictment draft closely—which has not been done before—the question arises whether the wording also implies that Langton had a few days before going with Hesketh to Brewerton, that is, before he “brought” Hesketh to his initial meeting with Ferdinando at New Park. The wording indicates clearly that the government knew Langton had taken Hesketh to Brewerton, because it says so. Yet it also seems to imply that Wade (and the Cecils, for whom he worked, and perhaps Essex, for whom he was also secretly working) believed that Langton took Hesketh to Ferdinando for their first meeting. Ferdinando had already told Hesketh to come to him at Brewerton Green. Wade’s words may imply that although Langton certainly accompanied Hesketh there (with neither man yet knowing that Ferdinando would soon decide, or had already decided, to betray Hesketh), such accompaniment would in itself fall far short of the capital crime of “bringing him to the speech of the earl,” as Hesketh had already spoken with the earl a few days earlier. It is impossible to know exactly what happened here, and it may just possibly be the case that at the time Wade sat at his desk writing out the indictment, he thought that Ferdinando and Hesketh had indeed held their first meeting at Brewerton Green. But if so, he was misremembering badly, because he had already been told by other deponents that the pair’s first meeting was at New Park. If he was remembering correctly, however, it would have meant that Hesketh was not alone when he went to New Park to knock on Ferdinando’s door. It would have meant that Langton had taken him to that door, perhaps by prearrangement. Several other words of Wade’s, and their positioning as well, indicate not forgetfulness but certitude: “He [the baron] knowing Hesketh to be come from beyond the seas, having been absent three years, brought him to the speech of the Earl.” And right before those words, he wrote, “Hesketh was directed to him.”3 So it may be that the letter Hesketh got at the White Lion in Islington contained, as part of any revised instructions, directions for him to see the baron before going to see Ferdinando. Moreover, some of Wade’s other words in the indictment imply a far more serious charge against the baron than his simply riding along with Hesketh. First, Wade charged that the baron was a recently reconverted Catholic (they even knew the name of the

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priest who had “reconciled” him—Father Grisley). Second, he charged that the baron was not only a Catholic but also a recusant (one who did not go to the required English church services and who was suspected of attending extremely illegal masses). Third, he charged that Cardinal Allen and Sir William Stanley were known to have a high opinion of him and that this had caused “evil.” (All of these pro-Catholic charges found their pictorial representation in the fact that the Cecils’ famous Catholic map of Lancashire, with the house of each Catholic marked by a cross, prominently included the baron’s house.) But fourth, and most important, Wade charged that Hesketh was “directed” to Langton when he first went into Lancashire. The words “directed to him” must mean what they say—that Hesketh had received instructions to see the baron before going to see Ferdinando. And Wade’s additional words charging that the baron had afterward “brought him to the speech of the earl” must also mean what they say. If one believes that Wade’s words accurately reflect what he thought, and if one believes that what he thought was accurate, then one is nearly forced to conclude that the baron was a part of the plot—either as it was originally planned or as it was revised and updated in a letter Hesketh received en route. This is yet another reason the so-called “Hickman letter” cannot just be dismissed, as there is indeed cause to believe that Hesketh did receive revised and updated instructions after he reached England. That letter (assuming again that Hesketh was not just making up a lie on the spot about having received it) provides an obvious means for such instructions to have been conveyed. In any event, Wade, on the instructions of his superiors, slammed the baron into jail in London after having been told he was there and where exactly to find him. Ferdinando had told Cecil this information, and Cecil had told his man Wade. It is not known how long the baron was incarcerated, but he was eventually cleared—just as he had escaped the charge of leading the Lea Hall riot three years earlier in which William Shakeshafte’s master, Thomas Houghton 2, was killed. In this regard, the evidence suggests two things. First, it would seem that once again, a loyal and affectionate Derby earl had interceded on the baron’s behalf with the government and prevailed, for it does not seem likely that he

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could have evaded the charges otherwise. But second, it also shows that Ferdinando must have interceded at some further cost to his reputation for trustworthiness with the Queen and the Cecils. It reveals that the earl, at the time he turned Hesketh in to the Queen after meeting with him and the baron at Brewerton Green, either lied about whether Langton had been there with them or else all too conveniently “forgot to mention it.” A month or so later, in November, back in Lancashire and back to being the lord of the north, with Hesketh in jail, Ferdinando was visited by an official courier from Sir Robert Cecil (who had been put in charge of the Hesketh case by his father in the hope of establishing him in the Queen’s eyes). The courier brought Ferdinando an official Crown warrant for the baron’s arrest. He was to be charged and taken before the Privy Council. The warrant does not still exist, but its contents can be inferred because Wade’s indictment of the baron (or a draft of it) does exist, and it has just been examined in the previous pages. Ferdinando sent the courier back with a letter to Sir Robert (which is extant), and it was in that letter that he told Cecil that Langton was in London—and told him exactly where to find him there. Even more importantly, the letter indicates that Ferdinando had learned that he had been somehow discovered regarding a piece of his testimony to the Queen a month earlier, for he was forced to admit that the baron had indeed been there with him and Hesketh. Writing this letter must have caused Earl Ferdinando not only embarrassment but also the beginnings of fear: [Your warrant] makes me call to remembrance that the gentleman did bring Hesket [sic] unto me when he spoke to me at Brewerton; in regard whereof I questioned then with Hesket whether he [the baron] were acquainted with anything or not [i.e., knew anything about the plot]; to which he protested he was not. For I assure you if he had, I would not have failed of informing her Majesty thereof. But not finding he was privy thereunto, I hath forgot to speak of him when I was there, and also till now have thought it needless. But finding [that you have now sent me this warrant for his arrest], I thought it not amiss to send back what I know by [your] bearer. The gentleman is at London, and I have informed this messenger where … he may find him [emphasis added].4

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It is important to note that Ferdinando did not here assert his belief that the baron was innocent; he simply said that Hesketh had told him he was innocent and that up until now, he had accepted Hesketh’s word on the matter. He was hedging, dodging, and weaving, trying at all costs to help the baron escape a charge of having been with him and Hesketh when they spoke. The last thing he would have wanted was for Langton to be tortured and to reveal what the two men had said—especially anything he, Ferdinando, may have replied, even if only tentatively, to Hesketh. And far worse would be for the baron to reveal that a conspiracy had existed between the three, even if only briefly. All of the foregoing information suggests one crucial question: As the Cecils and Wade had discovered that Hesketh had been “directed to the earl” by the baron and the baron had indeed then “brought him to the speech of the earl,” where did they get this intelligence? They could not have gotten it from the letter Ferdinando had shown the Queen at Windsor when he turned Hesketh in, because in that case, it would have been a solidly established piece of documentary evidence—one that neither Ferdinando nor the baron could possibly have lied or equivocated his way out of. (Wade and Sir Robert would have known that Ferdinando was lying simply because they would have known that he had read the letter Hesketh had brought.) The materials that have just been examined in the previous pages make it clear that Ferdinando did not reveal the truth about the baron’s involvement orally. Based on the depositions of Hesketh’s “man” Baylie and his brother Bartholomew, it is clear that neither of them revealed it. That leaves only Hesketh. He must have told Wade. And it turns out that he did.5 Judging from the surviving documents and from ensuing events, it would appear that Ferdinando was temporarily successful in his ruse—on the surface, anyway. The baron was released and the matter was dropped. But the Queen and her men never quite trusted the earl again—if indeed they had completely trusted him before. On 24 November, Sir John Puckering, who was the lord keeper, wrote Sir Robert that he had learned from the Queen that she wished to read or hear some independent witnesses’ testimony about the meetings between Ferdinando and Hesketh.

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She did not get it, and apparently, if Langton had been one of those witnesses, Ferdinando had used his influence to protect him from serious interrogation. From that point on, sometime in late November, Ferdinando’s fortunes changed, and soon they began to decline precipitously. Immediately after his murder in the middle of the following April, Queen Elizabeth went out walking with Sir George Carey in the evening air. Carey reported that she had tears in her eyes when she said to Sir George that “not any man in the world loved her better than [Ferdinando] did, [and] that he was the most honourable, worthiest, and absolutely honest man that she had in her life ever known.”6 But in November, when she talked with Puckering, she had her serious doubts about that. Meanwhile, the story returns to Hesketh on his first night in Brewerton Green—the night of 2 October. Alone in his chamber on that evening, he wrote two letters. The first was to his wife, Isabel, and the second was to his brother Thomas (of whom more will be heard later, for he soon became Earl Ferdinando’s rival and enemy). To Isabel he wrote that he could not come back home as speedily as he had said he would because the earl, having spoken with me some at my first coming [to New Park, not to Brewerton, he made clear], did defer me by meanes of his sorrowes [Hesketh italicized the word, in order to let Isabel know it was a direct quote] and other business, the time from day to day.

That “from day to day” also makes it clear that the initial conversation between the two did not occur at Brewerton Green, for they had just arrived there on the day Hesketh was writing. Hesketh then elaborated on the reason he would be returning home at a later date than he had anticipated: “[The earl] hath taken such liking of me that for his recreation I must accompany him to London or the Court, if by some good occasion I cannot rid myself” (if, that is, he could not make some sort of excuse and get out of going). He added that he had “sent my man [Baylie] back.” He had obviously kept the plot, and Baylie’s part in it, from Isabel, probably in order to protect her. He asked her

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to treat Baylie well and to see to his needs “till my coming.” He added that he had also arranged with Langton for Baylie to stay part of the time with him if he liked, but he had left it up to Baylie as to where he stayed and when. He added still further that in the event Baylie decided to spend most of his time with the baron, he had lent Baylie his “white nag, which he will use well and at no charge to you.”7 The most important thing to emerge from this letter to Isabel is the confirmatory evidence it provides in passing that Hesketh and Ferdinando had indeed spoken at New Park. It is not clear from Wade’s later indictment of the baron whether or not he took Hesketh there to meet the earl, but, as was noted earlier, Wade’s words imply that he did—and that he then accompanied Hesketh to see Ferdinando at Brewerton Green. Hesketh’s second letter was to his brother Thomas, with whom he must have been on uneasy terms. Thomas was a successful lawyer, working both in Lancashire and London (at court), and he was not only a religious conformist (although perhaps bordering on Puritanism) but also an ardent anti-Catholic. To Thomas, Hesketh expressed an apology for not having come to visit him after being away for three years. He said that he was afraid to do so until he was legally allowed to by the earl’s approval of his passport—and until he found out “what the country think of me.” (He had obviously departed Lancashire and England under some sort of cloud, although, as previously noted, the sources differ as to what kind of cloud that was. One thing that has been discovered, however, is that the Devlinist historians were in error in thinking that he was a “wanted man” in England who could not have come home with a regular passport. He could and he did.) Hesketh added that “It has pleased my Lord … to request me to the Court with him for his recreation, which I cannot deny and have granted.”8 Previous scholars have all assumed that Hesketh believed what he wrote in these two family letters about his present and near-future situation. They have assumed that he was flattered by Ferdinando’s attention and even more flattered that Ferdinando would want to take him to court. I do not believe this. I believe, on the contrary, that Hesketh now knew the truth— he had made his pitch to Ferdinando earlier in the day, had

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been turned down, and had then been told he was under arrest and would be taken to Windsor, where the Queen was staying and Sir Robert Cecil was visiting. I believe he was trying, for the moment, to protect his wife from this news, for it is clear from his subsequent testimony that he was very protective of her indeed—and worried about her future. The next day, the baron turned around and rode home. The next documented reference to Hesketh is—only a few days later—that he was in Crown custody.

CHAPTER 7

HESKETH’S ARREST, INTERROGATION, ARRAIGNMENT, AND HANGING

On the morning of 3 October 1593, Earl Ferdinando and his entourage, with Hesketh in tow, set off from Brewerton Green for Windsor Castle to see the Queen and her men. It apparently took them about a week to get there. This is a puzzlingly long time, and I know of no explanation for it. It is possible that they may in fact have arrived earlier. In any event, Ferdinando had scheduled an appointment with Elizabeth on 10 October, and he kept it. Immediately thereafter, Hesketh was imprisoned. Things began to move quickly. Hesketh was held captive at Sutton Park, a royal house near Windsor, and he was soon moved to another such Windsor dwelling, Ditton Park. On the thirteenth, Ferdinando, after his audience with Elizabeth, wrote an extremely self-serving note about Hesketh to Sir Robert Cecil. He began by saying, “I am glad to hear that the lewd fellow hath shown himself as base in mind as he is base

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in manners, because her Majesty may see I have said nothing but truth.” These words perhaps imply that the Queen had insisted upon meeting briefly with Hesketh and was displeased with both his “mind” and his “manners,” but they more likely mean that Sir Robert (who was on the scene) and Wade (who, being summoned, had come) were actually the displeased ones, and that Cecil had told Ferdinando so. The words also show (intentionally?) false logic on Ferdinando’s part as he attempted to dissociate himself from Hesketh: he reasoned that because Elizabeth now knew of Hesketh’s foul “mind” and “demeanor,” she should therefore be assured of his guilt, and, more importantly, of the fact that Ferdinando had said “nothing but truth” about the matter. He was unashamed to add his wish that “such vile men may never have more strenth to stand against the Truth, and I will pray that all men may ever carry faith as myself.”1 Ferdinando’s note is actually irrelevant (except for what it reveals about his mind and his demeanor at the moment he wrote it), because at some point between the thirteenth and the fifteenth, Hesketh cracked.2 (He had begun to crack on the thirteenth, as one document, to be examined soon, makes clear.) He had not signed off on his full confession yet (which is extant), but he was rapidly being flipped by Cecil and Wade (who were employing a “good cop, bad cop” strategy). One obvious reason Hesketh gave up so easily is that he knew the great Earl Ferdinando had testified to the Queen and her men that he had brought a treasonable succession offer. He had no conceivable basis for denial, for he knew that Ferdinando, in addition to being a highly credible nobleman, would have had no reason to testify falsely about the matter—and he knew that the Queen knew it. He had nothing whatsoever to support him. In his testimony to Cecil and Wade (whether together or separately is not known) on the fifteenth, Hesketh provided his confession clearly, repented, and sought mercy: “I most humbly desire your Honour [Cecil] to be a mean[s] unto Her Majesty for me.” He immediately added that this would be clemency “which I most humbly acknowledge in no way to have deserved, in following my affection to others rather than loyalty to Her Majesty.” At first glance, the “others” would appear to be the exiled Catholic leadership abroad, but my inference, from putting this document

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together with a few lines from his formal confession, is that Hesketh was at least in part, and probably in whole, referring to Ferdinando. He wrote that had it not been for “the affection I bear to my Lord [unquestionably Ferdinando] and the hope he would other[wise] have provided for me which soever way he did take the mat[ter] I would otherwise have provided for myself.” He clearly meant that he would not have served as a messenger in this business if he had not loved Ferdinando so much and had not presumed that (no matter which way he responded to the proposal Hesketh brought to him) the earl would have not thrown him to the wolves but would have simply declined the offer and sent him on his way. (This is clearly the way Hesketh had bet, if, as I have speculated earlier, he decided to depart from his rigid instructions as he interviewed Ferdinando in the belief that Ferdinando would do him no harm if he turned him down. His bet was clearly a reasonable one: he doubtless believed that Ferdinando, his virtual half-brother, would not turn him in.) Hesketh then added—bitterly—that “I did my message [the offer] according as I had it in charge with all affection towards my Lord and had obeyed his commandments blinded as many men are with their affections toward noblemen whom they think well of.” He was saying that he had delivered the message because of a naïve love for Ferdinando and that if Ferdinando had simply sent him on his way, he would have obeyed the earl’s demand for complete and total secrecy in the matter because of the (again) naïve love that he and others bore to noblemen they “think well of.”3 Hesketh begged for mercy. He said he “would like to live, in order to make amends in some part.”4 What could he do to be helpful? He stated unequivocally that he was now ready, willing, and able to be “Her Majesty’s honest spy.”5 Sir Robert had probably anticipated this response two days earlier, on the thirteenth, when he first interviewed Hesketh.6 He had requested Hesketh (perhaps implying that he would grant him “favor”) to write two letters to two prominent members of the exiled leadership in Prague, Father Thomas Stephenson and his close friend the Catholic goldsmith Abraham Faulcon. As is clear from the documents in Hesketh’s interrogation record, the letter to Faulcon was written only for the purpose of getting a letter to Stephenson by way of Faulcon.

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This small matter has not been previously understood. Faulcon was Stephenson’s “filter,” through which much of his correspondence, both to and from him, had to be routed, and Hesketh knew this.7 Stephenson had taken over the Prague Catholic leadership when Emperor Rudolf had jailed Sir Edward Kelly. He was a prominent Jesuit author, educator, and scholar. Sir Robert’s purpose for having Hesketh write to him was to solicit two incriminating documents from him by return mail. A secondary purpose was to put out some disinformation that was designed to confuse and mislead Stephenson and Faulcon (and those others to whom they would show or report the letters, including, as it turned out, Cardinal Allen).8 By the end of the day of the fifteenth, Hesketh had written the two letters, and immediately after writing them, he sent a note to Cecil (copied to Lord Cobham) saying that he had done so—enclosing them. In this note, which begins, “In respect of what I told yr honour [Cecil] the other day [the thirteenth]…,” Hesketh volunteered invaluable information about how the two letters could be sent in such a way that neither Stephenson nor his gatekeeper Faulcon would suspect that their actual source was the English government. Hesketh went on to acknowledge to Cecil and his hands-on assistant Wade that he did indeed have conversations with Sir William Stanley and Dr. Worthington in Brussels before he departed. He said he had left notes of those meetings with friends in Prague, and he now wished to recover those notes “for the satisfaction of Your Honour [Cecil] on my behalf”—in other words, to help with his mercy plea. He assured Cecil that these notes, which he had left with a “father” who is now known to have been Stephenson, were of great significance in terms of the present investigation and would reveal much “substance.” He added that “there will come with these a document in my own hand” which was of great importance. Indeed a document did come with the notes, and indeed it was of great importance, for it was the very step-by-step instruction list from Stanley and Worthington to Hesketh telling him, word for word, how to interview the Earl of Derby. It was the document Hesketh had memorized. The connection between these items—the documents Hesketh left in Prague, the letters he wrote in prison for Cecil to Stephenson and Faulcon in

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Prague, the written step-by-step instructions from Stanley and Worthington as to how to Hesketh should conduct his interview with the Earl of Derby, and another very incriminating letter to one Henry Leigh from Father Stephenson (which was elicited by Hesketh’s letter to Stephenson)—has never previously been examined. This is partly the result of Devlin’s having turned the documents, separately and together, into an almost hopelessly tangled jumble in service to his argument; as observed before, most scholars since Devlin have been strongly influenced by his thinking on these matters (and on all others related to the Hesketh Plot). Actually, the connection is simple if one unscrambles Devlin (or forgets him) and puts the extant documents together in service to a narrative that, based on them and only on them, makes sense. Ferdinando had mentioned to the Queen (and then presumably to Cecil) that Hesketh had propositioned him with a formally structured interview. Cecil and Wade then questioned Hesketh about that interview. Hesketh at that point remembered that he had left his script of that planned interview, as it had been dictated to him by Stanley and Worthington in Brussels, with Stephenson in Prague. He knew that if he could somehow trick Stephenson into mailing the written transcript of these instructions in his own hand to him (to his home address in Lancashire, of course, from which they would be forwarded to Cecil in London), he could thus further ingratiate himself with his captors— and, even better, with his Queen. Either in collaboration with Cecil and Wade or all by himself, he hit upon the idea of writing faked letters to both men. Cecil asked Hesketh to write the letters, and Hesketh immediately did so. In his letter to Stephenson, he asked him (at Cecil’s request) to write a letter to Henry Leigh, who was now in Lancashire and who, Hesketh falsely reported, would much like to hear all of the news from Stephenson. (Leigh, a Catholic Lancashireman who had recently been in Prague under the patronage of Sir Edward Kelly, had returned home to Lancashire within the past few months. His departure had been sudden enough to have worried the Prague Catholic leadership.) Hesketh asked Stephenson to send the letter to him at his home, where he was pretending to be located; he said that he would carry the letter himself to Leigh. Cecil reasoned (correctly, it turned out) that if he could trick Stephenson

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in Prague into writing a letter to his dear friend Leigh in Lancashire in response to Leigh’s supposed request to him for news—a letter Leigh would never see because he, Cecil, would have it intercepted—he could get some very interesting results, hopefully incriminating Leigh enough to be able to charge him. Hesketh offered Cecil and Wade some further extremely detailed advice as to how to trick Stephenson and Faulcon into accepting these letters without suspicion, obviously realizing that his own hope of mercy would have a better chance if this unlikely plan involving faked letters actually worked. First, the letters would need to be predated so that even if Stephenson and Faulcon later found out that Hesketh had been arrested, they might be fooled into thinking the letters had been written before he was caught. Second, the letters would have to be sent from Hesketh’s home address in Lancashire, in order that the recipients would think him to be at liberty there. Third, Hesketh advised that when the letters did finally arrive at the door of “Mr. Parvie’s factor” (i.e., his agent9) in Nuremberg, this “factor” should send them to some “assured friend” of Stephenson and Faulcon’s in Prague (who must not be English, so as not to arouse suspicion) by way of some trusted go-between in Nuremberg (who should be Italian, Dutch, or Bohemian) to deliver the letters to Stephenson. Hesketh told Cecil and Wade that if such an “assured friend,” himself unsuspecting of the scheme, were to then deliver these letters to Faulcon, he and Stephenson would be likely to accept them unsuspectingly. He cautioned, however, that the deliverer should make sure not to mention either the name of the “factor” or “Nuremberg,” because Father Stephenson would then immediately know the truth.10 A bit later, Wade decided to use a Cecil agent named Gardener rather than “Mr. Parvie,” and it was thus Gardener’s “factor” who was employed. In an extant progress report scrap written for Cecil, dated 28 November, Wade reported that he had learned from Gardener that the “factor”— whose name turns out to have been Thomas Schol—had successfully delivered the letters.11 Wade reassuringly and self-servingly added, “You may perceive that there is discreet means and diligence used to recover the instructions he [Hesketh] had of Worthington.”12

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Hesketh cautioned that it was especially important, before proceeding with the plan, to find out if Sir Edward Dyer knew of his imprisonment. Hesketh stressed that Dyer, who was now in Prague with Stephenson and Faulcon, must not learn of his arrest. According to Hesketh, if Dyer were to find out, then he or his “men or followers” would immediately tell Lady Joan Kelly, the imprisoned Sir Edward’s wife, and Sir Edward’s brother Thomas Kelly. Then immediately “this goldsmith [Faulcon]” would know it, and “he will tell the Father Jesuit [Stephenson], and the Jesuit the Cardinall [Allen], so shall your Honour never have them, which would be a great hindrance to the satisfaction of your Honour in my behalf.” (I take the words “have them” to refer to the documents, not the persons, although of course “your Honour” would have loved nothing more than to capture these men.) Dyer was an eminent, talented courtier poet whose verse is still today marginally canonical. He was also an alchemy enthusiast, which fact was intended to explain and even justify his near-worshipful attendance upon the supposedly great alchemist Kelly, whom Dr. Dee, who had recently departed for London, had just dismissed from his alchemy and “skryer” service. I say “intended to explain” because Dyer was also, unbeknownst to everybody but the Cecils, one of their most deeply planted spies in Europe. Sir Edward Kelly had at that time been put in jail by the emperor, who had tired of him and who suspected him of illegal activity. Kelly was also a Cecil spy. So had Dee been and, back in England, still was. Hesketh, of course, suspected none of this. In the end, the plan worked perfectly—sort of. Both Stephenson and Faulcon obligingly wrote back affectionate, news-filled letters to Hesketh at his Lancashire address (where a Cecil agent was waiting to collect them and send them on their way to London). Stephenson also enclosed the letter which Hesketh had told him that Henry Leigh would appreciate receiving from him, asking Hesketh to forward it to Leigh. Cecil then had all three letters in front of him, and indeed Stephenson’s letter did strongly incriminate Leigh, who was immediately brought in for questioning. Most important of all, Cecil would shortly receive Hesketh’s verbatim transcript of what Sir William Stanley and Dr. Worthington had

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instructed him to say, step-by-step, to the Earl of Derby when he propositioned him—which Father Stephenson had been asked to send and did. Stephenson was the “Good Father” Hesketh addressed in the document’s “postscript,” asking him to make sure that the document never came to light in the event that he was caught on his mission to England, “for my oath standeth thereupon.”13 This scheme of carefully faked and delivered letters yielded the amazing document that has already been examined in detail (both paraphrased earlier and reprinted verbatim as this book’s appendix). The unbelievably convoluted mess Devlin and his followers have made of the information included in the immediate previous paragraphs makes for a nearly unbelievable case study in the psychology of self-deception and bad faith. If I appear to be frustrated with Devlin, I suppose I must admit that I am—in part because it has taken me nearly two years to untangle that mess just in order to produce these six paragraphs. Abraham Faulcon’s letter, which he misdated 9 September (it was actually written on 8 December, as can be determined from internal evidence in the letter), is brief and newsy. Faulcon told Hesketh that he had delivered Stephenson’s letter to him and that both men rejoiced that he was safe and well. He said that they had drunk a toast to him at Stephenson’s lodgings (which is described as horribly smoky but thankfully warm) with a “pint of bitter beer.” He mentioned the comings and goings of Archduke Ernest of Austria, the son of Maximilian II and one of the main leaders of the Counter-Reformation in Europe. He asked Hesketh to bring him back an English mastiff pup when he returned to Prague—saying that he would be grateful to him for life if he delivered on this favor. He added that as a favor to Stephenson, he had invited a nice man named Samuel Lewkenor to lodge with him. He enclosed a letter (presumably sealed; it is not extant) that was written by Lewkenor to “his Lordship,” asking Hesketh to please see that Henry, the fourth earl, got it if at all possible. Lewkenor was a Cecil spy.14 Stephenson’s letter, dated 8 December, is similar in substance (gossip), length (brief), and style (affectionate). It was also addressed to Hesketh at his home in Lancashire. Its very first sentence, however,

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arouses my suspicions when I consider it within the context of Faulcon’s own misdating: “I received your letter at Abraham[’]s hands, dated the 20th of September according to your count.” (I will discuss the suspicions momentarily.) He promised that he would indeed send back the documents Hesketh had requested. He added that he was also writing the requested letter to Henry Leigh, which he would enclose and which he asked Hesketh to deliver to Leigh. Like Faulcon, he included news of Archduke Ernest. He reiterated Faulcon’s words about his new guest, Samuel Lewkenor, acknowledging that he had asked Faulcon to take him in. He described Lewkenor as “a very proper gentleman” and “an Essex man.” (Catholic exiles such as Stephenson were cautiously proEssex because they knew he was promoting a policy called “tolerance” with respect to Catholics in England—a policy the Cecils would not hear of. These exiles wanted more than tolerance, of course, but they rightfully understood that supporting it would be their best fall-back position in case they were unable to replace Elizabeth with a Catholic monarch.) Father Stephenson closed with the words, “Farewell, good, loving, and beloved Mr. Hesketh.” Stephenson’s letter to the set-up Henry Leigh—the letter Hesketh had falsely requested of him, telling him that Leigh wanted such a letter badly—was longer, more newsy, and even more affectionate than his letter to Hesketh. He began by saying that “our old acquaintance … moveth me to remember you.” I infer that the “old acquaintance” is a person rather than a reference to their long friendship because of what follows in the letter. He explained that he was surprised and worried by Leigh’s recent sudden departure from Prague for England with no word from him or anyone else of his reasons or intentions, adding that he wondered about this departure’s “meaning.” But he guessed now that Leigh “did all for the best,” because he had just learned (presumably from the letter he had just received from the “old acquaintance,” i.e., Hesketh) that things had “fallen out” well for Leigh. He said he had been assured that Leigh had “become a good subject for the present time.” He immediately added, tellingly, “No tales, nor talk, nor flying words shall make my will to shrink, so long as I live, I will not leave dearly

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upon you to think.” Curiously, in light of what is known about the letter’s creation, Stephenson was careful to let Leigh know that the letter he had just received from Hesketh was from London. This makes no sense, as Hesketh’s letters bore a faked Lancashire return address. Stephenson then gossiped a bit, again mentioning the movements of the Archduke Ernest. He closed by noting that he was writing on the eighth, the same day he had received “Mr. K.[’]s letter from his house in Lan[cashire].” Were these three letters, like Hesketh’s, calculated to convey secret messages and to deceive their ultimate recipients—in this case, the Cecils and Wade? Although I would not want to argue firmly that they were so calculated, I find minor aspects of them, as mentioned earlier, that arouse my suspicions. First, there is the curious matter of their dating. Faulcon misdated his by three months, saying he wrote it on 9 September. This could have been a slip of the pen if he had written it on 9 December, but in fact, as the letters indicate, he probably wrote it on the eighth, just as Stephenson did. In addition, there is Stephenson’s odd opening: “I received your letter at Abraham[’]s hands, dated the 20th of September according to your count.” Why the words “according to your count”? In view of the fact that these were letters written between succession operatives, all three of whom were probably part-time spies, I suspect these initial lines in both letters were perhaps trying to communicate something to Hesketh—probably, if so, the fact that they knew he was in jail and that they also knew what his almost certain fate was. (All three would have remembered, as the reader may remember as well, that Faulcon’s erroneous “9 September” was the same date on which Hesketh had landed in England on his mission.) I also find it noteworthy that in all three response letters (including Stephenson’s to Leigh), the writers were at pains to give out information about the whereabouts of Archduke Ernest of Austria. I have discovered in writing this book that Ernest had an immediate interest in the Hesketh mission in support of his overall leadership of the Counter-Reformation: Hesketh and Baylie had both been on Ernest’s payroll while they were working for the Catholic cause abroad. Even more startling, it turns out to have been the archduke himself who picked “Trumpeter” Baylie to

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accompany Hesketh on the mission.15 (The Jesuits were perhaps the most important element in the Counter-Reformation—they had been created by Loyola especially to make it happen—and Ernest knew it. He funded and employed them constantly.) Was this mention of Ernest in all three letters also meant as a signal to Hesketh—and/or as disinformation for the Cecils and Wade about this all-important personage? I also find other small items odd, such as Faulcon’s request for the English puppy. To me, after spending years reading about Elizabethan spy history, this sounds as if it could be a code meant for Hesketh. I do not entirely believe this. But I was intrigued when I first read this sentence, so much does it resemble so many others in the secret epistolary world of this period. The same goes for the sentence’s final words, in which Faulcon said he would remain Hesketh’s “debtor for life” if he received this small favor. Were the words perhaps blackly ironic, signifying to Hesketh what they both may have known—that Hesketh’s remaining earthly life would be very short? There is also Stephenson’s letter to Leigh—a letter that got Leigh into a great deal of trouble and may have nearly cost him his life. I was struck by its own weird opening, in which Stephenson said he had now heard from his correspondent in London, after hearing no word of Leigh since he had fled the Catholic circle in Prague, that Leigh had become “a good subject for the current day”—that is, he had become a loyal Englishman for the convenient moment, even if he had not been one before and was not one later. If the Cecils and Wade were Stephenson’s intended recipients, if Stephenson knew they would intercept the letter, these words would carry a damning implication—that Leigh was a temporizing turncoat whose real loyalty was to Stephenson and the Catholic cause. When Stephenson added the phrase about how, even though Leigh’s rapid departure had puzzled and disturbed him, still “no tales, nor talk, nor flying words” could make him love Leigh the less, it is clear that he was implying to the recipient(s) that he had indeed heard such talk about Leigh’s loyalty (and perhaps not only in Hesketh’s letter but in bruited-about international spy chatter), that it had indeed aroused his suspicions, and that he perhaps no longer really trusted Leigh. Stephenson then proceeded to pour out a long, newsy letter to Leigh in

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such affectionate, loving terms that, no matter what its intention was, it had the effect of enraging the Cecils and Wade. The letter implied that Stephenson not only loved Leigh, but that the two of them had also been bonded by their common commitment to the Catholic cause while Leigh was in Prague. My best guess is that the letter was meant in its entirety to set Leigh up and probably cost him his life at the hands of his government. Leigh’s own lengthy, spirited response to this letter, when a defense was demanded by the Cecils (and apparently by the Queen herself, so high did the worry about Leigh and Hesketh reach), revealed that he too had been a Cecil spy in Prague, working under Sir Edward Dyer.16 The upshot is that the Cecils were outraged by the strong implication that their own spy Leigh had been a double agent who was working for the Catholics when he was in Prague and was supposedly working for the Cecils alone. Stephenson was outraged because he had learned that one of his most trusted men in Prague, Leigh, was a Cecil spy. He may thus have been trying in his letter to imply that Leigh’s loyalties lay more with him than with the Cecils. He also may have been trying to send Leigh to a traitor’s death in England. If that was Stephenson’s purpose, it did not quite work. It nearly did, though. For one thing, Sir Edward Dyer, who had been languishing in one of Emperor Rudolf’s prisons while Leigh was in Prague and had thus been unable to help him or otherwise advise him about Stephenson and his circle, had now been set free through the personal intervention of Elizabeth. He quickly sent a letter to the Queen attesting to Leigh’s loyalty as a spy working under him for her. For another thing, the Cecils entrusted Leigh’s interrogation to Henry Hastings, Lord Huntingdon, in York, where Leigh was living while he was still at liberty but apparently under Huntingdon’s house arrest. But one thing neither Huntingdon nor the Cecils may have known when they first started their interrogation of Leigh was that he was a known Calvinist and had been for years—and as a young man, he may even have known Calvin (whom he termed “my friend” in his handwritten testimony) years before. Leigh soon let them know, telling them that it had been mainly the reading of Calvin’s works that had sustained him during these months of government suspicion.

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This perhaps swayed Huntingdon in his favor, for he was a staunch Calvinist himself. In any event, Huntingdon demanded that Leigh set down the full truth in his own hand, and he told Cecil that he had furnished Leigh with a pen and ink with which to write and that he had made sure that Leigh was “by me” (next to him) all the time that he wrote. Leigh wrote two lengthy defenses, taking up Cecil’s charges (all of which had sprung from words in Stephenson’s letter) one by one. The first defense was a response to an interrogatory that had been given to him by Huntingdon. But then, on 21 February 1594, he asked Huntingdon for permission to write to Cecil directly also, which he was granted.17 In the end, Huntingdon for some reason found Leigh’s words persuasive. He wrote to Cecil, implying that he was now willing, as he prepared to post Leigh’s written testimony and letter, to give him the benefit of the doubt in the matter: “I am now in good hope that he will prove himself an honest man and a true subject to her Majesty. If not, I wish …, as I said to him, that he may have the reward of a traitor.”18 As for himself, the outraged Leigh wrote to Cecil that if the Queen still had any doubts about his loyalty and fidelity, she should let him face the risk of a full-scale state trial. If that trial were allowed to take place, he swore that because he had been so abased by “this base fellow Stephenson in professing such exceeding love for me upon so little cause,” he would “for her Majesty’s better satisfaction of my affection to such fellows, present one of his ears or his head at her Majesty’s feet.”19 Leigh obviously knew that Stephenson had set him up. So, in the end, Leigh walked. And rightfully so, it would seem, as there is no evidence that he had ever worked for the Catholics in Prague or anywhere else. Father Stephenson, in my view, had intentionally tried hard to implicate Leigh with subtle insinuations in his letter to him, probably inferring—rightly—that this was exactly what the Cecils, who suspected Leigh’s loyalty for some reason and expected to hear the worst, had hoped he would do. Leigh had been forced to admit, however, that he had known Hesketh both in Lancashire and in Prague—forced because Father Stephenson, in his letter to Leigh (really to the Cecils), had made it clear that he was

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writing to Leigh only because their mutual friend Hesketh (who was supposedly at liberty in Lancashire when he wrote) had told him that Leigh was sorely yearning for such a letter from him. Leigh was not. In fact, he was probably hoping he never heard from Stephenson or any of the men in his circle again. Although Stephenson and Faulcon both wrote back to Hesketh/Cecil/ Wade nearly immediately upon receiving Hesketh’s letters, and although Stephenson sent the text of the instructions Hesketh had memorized very soon as well, it took more than ten days for those documents to reach Cecil and Wade in London. (Part of the reason, of course, is that they were first sent to Lancashire, then forwarded on to London by the government’s men who were waiting for them at the Hesketh residence.) Even if Hesketh had still been alive when the letters got to Cecil and Wade (around 10 December), it is doubtful that they would have seen any reason to let him read them. But in fact he had been dead for one day before Cecil and Wade even got the letters mailed off to Prague in the first place. On 20 November, Lord Keeper Puckering wrote to Cecil that the indictment against Hesketh was complete and ready to go. He added that it rested only upon the pleasure of the Queen as to what should happen next and precisely when. Elizabeth had taken an unusually strong interest in the Hesketh case, and she had made it clear to her men that she wanted to determine some of the details of the proceedings against the accused, including their timing. Puckering said that he had asked Sir Thomas Egerton, the attorney general, to draw up a summary of the indictment to present to Elizabeth. On the twenty-fourth, Puckering wrote to Cecil with an update. He said that the Queen had read Egerton’s document and liked it, but she wanted it added to the full formal indictment that Ferdinando had apprehended Hesketh and turned him over to the government of his own free will. She obviously wanted the official evidence to show that Ferdinando was formally cleared of any complicity. Puckering implied to Cecil that he had been unaware of that evidence and in any event had no right, of his own accord, to insert it into the indictment, so he asked Cecil what to do. Cecil told Egerton to

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include it, and Egerton did. It is likely that the two of them would have preferred that it be left out.20 On November 28, Wade wrote to Cecil that Hesketh’s interrogation was complete and that Hesketh had penned and signed his formal confession. (The document is extant.) Wade added that there was no need of other testimony against him, as the government had more than enough and in any event, Hesketh had no defense. Thus, there was no formal trial as such, but only an arraignment. Wade informed Cecil that such formalities as there were had taken place earlier that day, during which Egerton (of whom much more will be considered later in this regard) had “laid open all the plot and course of his treasons for satisfaction of the standers-by [the small audience] in very discreet sort”—that is, he had not let slip any Crown intelligence secrets in his argument. He noted that Egerton, in putting forth the government’s case, read excerpts from Hesketh’s confession. He added that the lord chief justice had concluded the session with “a very grave speech” which seemed to move the “standers-by.”21 On the next day, 29 November 1593, Hesketh was hanged at Tyburn for high treason. One early source, Lewis Lewkenor’s Estate of English Fugitives (1595), claims that from the scaffold Hesketh bewailed the fact that he had ever been led into this business by the Catholic leadership abroad, particularly Sir William Stanley, and that he spat out curses against all of them before he was hoisted by the hangman’s rope.22 It is not known for sure if he was drawn and quartered, as was de rigueur for convicted traitors in Elizabethan England. But there are not the scantest historical grounds upon which to hope that he was not. (Lewis, a well-known minor poet of the time and a friend of Edmund Spenser’s, was the brother of Samuel Lewkenor, the pleasant man-cum-Cecil spy who had just been planted with Faulcon in Prague.)23 Four and a half months later, some people in Lancashire would mutter darkly that it had been the shrieking curses of Hesketh from the scaffold that had doomed Earl Ferdinando— the young man who had everything.

CHAPTER 8

QUEER STREET

Consider Ferdinando’s position in late November of 1593. He had done absolutely everything right. He had taken no chances, and he had made no mistakes. His conduct had been impeccable, and the Queen evidently loved him now more than ever. Had she ever suspected him of harboring secret succession interests or of being too close in blood to certain Catholic traitors—or both—he had now proven his complete loyalty to her. He probably felt wonderful. He was probably in a celebratory mood. The future stood open before him. But by the end of the month, starting around the week Hesketh was hanged in London, things started to go awry for Ferdinando in Lancashire and at court in London. Before the month was quite over, his wife, Countess Alice, would write apprehensively and with a sense of urgency to Sir Robert Cecil: I doubt not but my lord [Ferdinando] shall be crossed in Court and crossed in his country, but I imagine his uprightness and honorable carriage will, by means of such good friends as your

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON father [Lord Burghley] and yourself, on whose love and kindness he only doth rely, will be able to support him against any malice.…

She ended by pleading in her own name that they both would do so.1 Ferdinando’s sudden reversal of fortune perhaps was not all that sudden. As all historians of his life and the Hesketh Plot know, some of the earl’s troubles had begun a while earlier. Officialdom had harbored doubts about his true loyalty for some years. (They should have talked with Bishop Chaderton, who perhaps alone knew the truth about Ferdinando’s pro-Reformation and pro-Elizabeth spirit. But nobody knew that the bishop knew. Ferdinando had confided in him as his father confessor, and what he confided remained Chaderton’s secret until he died. It can be determined only because a tiny bit of correspondence between Ferdinando and the bishop still exists.) As mentioned earlier, he was suspected because his mother was suspected—and rightly so, in her case. He was also suspected because the traitor Sir William Stanley was his close relative and friend, and Ferdinando and his father before him had stood as the legal guardians to Sir William’s two young sons while their father was overseas in exile plotting revolution with the Jesuits. In addition, there were odd little bits of damaging intelligence the government kept getting. For example, as late as 24 November 1593, five days before Hesketh’s execution, Cecil received word from his jailhouse spy Anthony Atkinson, who was posing as a Catholic, that he had heard a “fellow” Catholic prisoner, one Edward Pemberton, say that in his circles, “it was talked that the Lord Strange was a good man” (as a candidate for the crown).2 These incriminating spy scraps had begun trickling in at the beginning of the new decade. As the noted scholar of the Stanley family, Barry Coward, wrote, “From 1590 onwards an intensive campaign emanating from Father Robert Parsons and Sir William Stanley was initiated to enlist the support of Lord Strange in their efforts to secure a Catholic succession.” In the melodramatic words of Father Christopher Devlin,

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“Something … began creeping towards Ferdinando in 1591.”3 Its starting point was the infamous “bakehouse” fiasco. As Coward explained, [In the spring of 1591,] two emissaries, Father John Cycell (alias John Snowden) and Father John Fixer (alias Thomas Wilson) were sent by Father Parsons on an abortive mission.… Fixer later confessed that Sir William Stanley “thinkyst in only my L. Strange Catholiques can have hope” after Queen Elizabeth’s death.4

(Cycell had been working with the spymaster Francis Walsingham since the 1580s. He had been Cardinal Allen’s secretary at Rheims, and he wrote spy letters to Walsingham using the alias “Juan de Campo.” Earlier in 1591, he had been with Father Parsons in Spain. Later, after being caught and turned by Burghley, he wrote secret messages to him under the alias “Snowden.” Burghley detested spies even as he used them, and every time he read any correspondence identifying Cycell by his own name rather than as Snowden, Burghley would strike it out and replace it with “Snowden,” for “Cecil” was his own name, of course, and he was miffed by the association. One can sense an exclamation mark following his emendations—“Snowden!”) Even before Cycell and Fixer had managed to land on English soil to start their mission, their ship was seized and the two priests were arrested and taken to Lord Burghley in London. They were, of course, immediately searched, and Cycell was found to be carrying a coded letter from Father Parsons to himself and Fixer, dated either 3 or 13 of April, 1591. In the words of Charles Nicholl, Parsons was “the most senior and troublesome of the English Jesuits on the continent.”5 Therefore, this letter was seemingly quite a catch for the English government; it was immediately sent to Burghley in London. It includes the following crucial passages: I pray you both to have great care to advertise me by the first, and by as many ways as you can … what you find in the man my cousin, whereof Mr Cecyll and I talked so much.… The form in which you may advertise me may be this, and I pray you to note

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON it: “Your cousin the baker is well-inclined and glad to hear of you, and meaneth not to give over his pretence to the old bakehouse you know of, but rather to put the same in suit when the ability shall serve.… I request you that my cousin’s matter be dealt in secrecy, lest it may turn the poor man to hurt, but great desire have I to hear truly and particularly of his estate.”6

In a side margin, the code words are translated in Cycell’s hand: “By his cousin is meant my Lord Strange and the title they would have him pretend when her Majesty dieth.” In the top margin, Cycell wrote to Burghley, “This letter I brought you of purpose, that you might see it was no matter framed of my own head that which they pretend of my Lord Strange.” The so-called bakehouse matter has been discussed somewhat confusingly by those authors who have written about it over the years. These scholars have not made it at all clear that, like so many other people who were working in the spy world then (and now), Cycell and Fixer were double agents whose primary loyalty was to the English government. (Perhaps they did not know this.) It seems obvious to me from reviewing the evidence that although they were certainly captured as they tried to enter England, this capture was merely the result of their having fooled the capturers—initially. As soon as they got to London and saw Burghley, their troubles were over. He knew them well. He did not like them, but he knew them. Even earlier in 1591, they had written to Burghley that there was agitation in France and Spain on behalf of the succession of either Ferdinando or his father Henry if the Spanish infanta’s claim were to fail. (The Spanish Catholics had put her first in line, but they must have known that her claim was not viable as she was Spanish, Catholic, and a woman.) They wrote that one or the other Stanleys would then be “made King by the Catholics unanimously.” Strikingly, they added that the highranking exiles abroad knew nothing of any Stanley interest in the throne but that those exiles “care not who be king, so he be of clouts, if he will be a Catholic.” So, Cycell and Fixer resumed their careers as English agents, and this story shall soon return briefly to consider their intelligence work later in that same year of 1591.

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For now, though, it is time to “translate” some of the language in the letters that were quoted earlier. First, the “captured” bakehouse letter, which has understandably (because of its syntax and confusing references) been misread by several scholars who have examined it. What that letter says, in modern terms, is this: When you [Cycell] write me [Parsons] back, tell me what you have found out from Ferdinando, of whom you and I have talked so much, regarding our succession hopes for him. When you write me back, if his answer is positive, write in this form: “Your cousin the baker [Ferdinando] is favorably inclined toward the idea of his being king and is pleased to hear that he is your [Parsons’] candidate, and means not to give over his pretence [claim] to the old bakehouse [the throne of England]. To the contrary, he wants you to know that he intends to make that claim when the time is right.”

Devlin and some of his followers thought it was terribly suspicious7 that this letter was not written in Parsons’ own handwriting, and indeed it was not. At the top of the letter, the writer had scribbled as best he could that he was prevented by an “ague” or “indisposition” from writing it himself. They insisted that the high-ranking exiles abroad knew nothing of any Stanley interest in the throne but that those exiles “care not who be king, so he be of clouts, if he will be a Catholic.” But the scholars’ suspicion, although reasonable, turns out to be baseless, for I have discovered that Parsons, at this time, did have a problem with his hands that prevented his writing letters, and he did have them written for him. Indeed, this health problem and others continued until his death in late 1594. Second, as to the letter Cycell had written to Burghley a few months earlier, which included the line that the Catholic exiles “care not who be king, so he be of clouts, if he will be a Catholic”—the word clouts, which is now archaic, literally meant “a child’s rag doll.” When used figuratively, it meant a doll in the form of a man in some sort of position of supposed power, especially a monarch.8 I do not think Cycell was saying that the exiled Catholic leadership dared to hope for an actual puppet on the English throne, as many readers today might infer from the use of this word.

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I do think, however, that they would have been delighted in the unlikely event that God, as they saw it, had given them one. That did not happen. Meanwhile, the Cecils kept getting intelligence reports that could not help but alarm them about Ferdinando’s loyalty. One had come in early 1591 when they heard that “[Sir William] Stanley impressed on Parsons the fitness of his noble young cousin, Lord Strange [to be the Catholic candidate] for King.”9 By early July of that year, after he had investigated the bakehouse affair, Lord Burghley decided to turn over that matter and all else related to the Catholic hopes for Ferdinando to his son, Sir Robert. Both men seemed to have sensed that the plan, along with the government pressure, was building. It was. A few days later, Cycell wrote to Sir Robert to report that he had received a letter from Cardinal Allen. The Cardinal’s “drift” in it, Cycell explained, was “charging us [him and Fixer] by means of John Garrat [the name was usually spelled ‘Gerard’], a preist, to make trial of my L. Strange and see how he was affected to that pretence of the Crown after Her Majesty’s death”—that is, how Ferdinando felt about claiming the throne at that time. Cycell went on to say that Allen had instructed him to tell Ferdinando that “this matter he [Ferdinando] would not communicate to any but [Fathers] Garnet and Southwell, who are Jesuits at liberty [that is, who were illegally living and working] in England.” Cycell concluded by stressing to Sir Robert that “I brought this letter [from Allen], that my Lord [Burghley] might not think that what I told him [the other day] of Lord Strange was a chimera.”10 On 13 June, the spy William Sterrell (the man of a thousand aliases who was discussed earlier, this time using his nom de guerre “Barnes”) reported to his runner Thomas Phelippes in London that “there is certainly intelligence between Strange [Ferdinando] and the Cardinal.”11 Again, things get confusing in this matter because Phelippes was at this time working for both the Cecils and Essex, who were in vigorous competition for political influence with Elizabeth. It would appear that Sterrell passed this intelligence on to both groups. The Cecils certainly got it. Later in the summer, Father James Younger, a priest who had been captured, turned, and made into a Cecil informer, wrote repeated

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warnings to Sir Robert from prison of a planned invasion upon England by Sir William Stanley, whose army would land “upon that part [of the coast] nearest to Ireland,” where Ferdinando and his father, Earl Henry, would meet them with their own army to help.12 In the following year, another captured Catholic priest named Henry or Hugh Walpole, who was also in jail and telling all he knew, testified that he had been asked by Sir William Stanley to find ”some priest that might get access to [Ferdinando] to induce him to the Catholic religion.” Again, Stanley recommended the charismatic Father John Gerard.13 (In his formal confession, Walpole wrote that Stanley had wished to push for the claim of Ferdinando and that he had voiced the wish that “some priest, particularly John Gerard, [would] get access to the earl of Derby and make him a Catholic.” Still later in 1592, Father Parsons declared that a military force was indeed “ready to strike from Ireland” in support of Earl Henry and that he hoped Ferdinando “would be ready to assist.” Parsons, knowing that Ferdinando was in correspondence with Cardinal Allen, seems to have therefore hoped that Ferdinando would be an ally. Both Allen and Parsons believed that John Gerard’s brother, Sir Thomas Gerard of Bryn, a lifelong friend of Ferdinando’s, might convince him to rebel and claim the throne.14 (Sir Thomas was a notorious black sheep who nevertheless retained his influence in England, especially in the North. A littleseen portrait of him and the young Ferdinando, standing arm in arm, exists. Both men are wearing black doublets. Gerard’s hand is resting on a skull.)15 On top of all of this information that was surfacing about an immediate insurrection, including a military invasion, intelligence arrived on Sir Robert’s desk that “[Michael] Moody is come, or will soon come over to kill the Queen.… They [the authorities in the Catholic leadership abroad] will offer the crown to the earl of Derby, with the King of Spain’s assistance.…”16 Then, shortly after Hesketh’s execution in 1593, the eminent Catholic poet, emblematist, and intelligencer Richard Verstegan, writing of Hesketh and Ferdinando to one of his friends, wondered “whether he [Hesketh] were by the earl of Derby detected [emphasis added] or not.”17 Verstegan’s

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wording implies strongly (and would have implied strongly to the Cecils) that Hesketh had certainly gone to Ferdinando with something—or else the earl would have had nothing to detect. Verstegan was one of the smartest and most knowledgeable Catholic operatives of the period, and he seems to have been saying clearly that Hesketh did indeed take Ferdinando an offer—whereas most other Catholic leaders at the time either did not speak of the matter at all or else denied that there had ever been a Hesketh Plot. During this whole period in the early 1590s, Sir Robert Cecil gradually took charge of all succession intelligence regarding Ferdinando, and when his father, Lord Burghley, first learned of the Hesketh Plot in the fall of 1593 (from Ferdinando, of course), he put his son totally in charge of the matter. Knowing of Elizabeth’s strong interest in the case, Burghley felt that if his son were put in charge of it and if he were then to turn it into a triumph, Sir Robert’s success might constitute a strong first step toward getting the Queen to appoint the son to succeed the father as her chief minister upon the latter’s death.18 This is precisely what she did. At the beginning of this chapter, I asked that you consider Earl Ferdinando’s position. I now ask you to put yourself in the shoes of Sir Robert Cecil beginning on the day after Hesketh’s execution in December of 1593. As Sir Robert Cecil, you have been put in charge of the whole mess by your all-powerful (but declining) father, and although Hesketh was dead, Ferdinando in Lancashire was very much alive, and you alone are responsible to the Queen and the realm for making sense out of him. You could not help but be extremely worried. Your intelligence—and there had been a great deal of it—has made it clear to you that all of the leading Catholic exiles have been wishing and scheming for years, and probably still wish and scheme, about how to make Ferdinando the king. You can only presume that a large percentage of the Catholics in England, leaders and laypeople alike, have not lost their enthusiasm in that matter either. You are reasonably confident, your intelligence, that Ferdinando has not yet turned Catholic, and you also have cause to believe that, so strong was his

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Protestantism, he never would. But as to his interest in the crown itself you have your doubts. Two or three factors bother you greatly on that score. The first is that although you know Ferdinando turned Hesketh in, seemingly in the spirit of loyalty, sending him to a certain death for high treason, Ferdinando was a famously reasonable man, and he would have had little or no choice in that matter. You know that Ferdinando could have accepted Hesketh’s offer, but if he had done so, he would have been taking a great and probably unnecessary risk. In September of 1593, Ferdinando had every reason to believe, along with everybody else, that he was the leading candidate for the crown anyway and would soon enough succeed Elizabeth upon her death—which, at that time, because of her age and bad health, seemed imminent. (She would live and reign for another ten years—to the amazement of all and to the delight of most.) You know that Elizabeth loves Ferdinando dearly—or she did before the Hesketh Plot raised her paranoia level—and you know that Ferdinando knows this. You thus know that Ferdinando would have been reasonably expecting that she would name him to succeed her before she breathed her last. Knowing all of those things, you know that he would have felt no need to accept Hesketh’s offer; he could simply play it safe and wait for events to take their course. In the unlikely event that the Queen did not name him, he could simply accept the succession of the chosen one. After all, because he was not himself Catholic, he would have no passionately religious reasons for seeking the throne. In other words, unlike his conniving and ambitious advocates, he was not a zealot in search of a crown in order to wreak his religious will upon his country. But, if you are Sir Robert, does all this reassure you about Ferdinando? It hardly seems likely. How could it be reassuring to know that Ferdinando had turned Hesketh in when you also know that he had likely felt no need of him—and had likely felt at the same time that he could earn credit with the Queen by turning him in? Moreover, you know that if Ferdinando had turned Hesketh down on the assumption that the throne was likely his anyway, he had achieved two other things by so doing. One, he did not have to run all of the risks that would be involved in a

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bloody revolution, suffering all of the losses that would inevitably result even if he won. And two, perhaps even more appealing, he would not, if he got the crown, be beholden to all his fanatical, power-mad relatives and friends abroad, and he would not have to share the power with them—or even with one of them. One other thing probably disturbs your sleep regarding Ferdinando if you are Sir Robert, and it probably disturbed the Queen and your father as well—and you thus know that they are counting on you, as the man now officially in charge, to worry about it for them and to do something about it. Why did it take Ferdinando from 25 September, when he first talked with Hesketh and likely realized his intention, until 10 October to alert the Queen and her government of the plot and turn Hesketh in? True, things moved more slowly in the 1590s than they do in modern times, and it was a fairly long way from Lancashire to Windsor Castle. But fourteen or fifteen days was entirely too long for a trip of that nature. A week would have been too long, given the seriousness of the matter. If you are Sir Robert, you cannot help but believe that Ferdinando should have packed Hesketh off to the Queen on the evening of 25 September with guards and couriers to carry his letter of explanation, telling her that his father had just died and that he would follow as soon as he possibly could. You know that, had Ferdinando done that, you might well have had Hesketh in custody as early as the evening of 27 September. It is not the fact that Hesketh was at liberty for all of those days that worries you so much. The problem was Ferdinando. He was almost certainly dithering, Hamlet-like, as he mulled things over during that period. In your view, with your values and priorities, which you know are also the Queen’s, and which you believe should be Ferdinando’s as well—the new earl should have given the matter no thought. He should have acted—and acted immediately. Why had he not? And all the while you are remembering something Richard Hesketh had said in his testimony—a seemingly small thing that has not yet mentioned here. You know that Wade charged Hesketh with being “Cardinal Allen’s secretary come from Rome,” and you know that Hesketh had

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denied this both to Wade and to you in a letter written on 15 October: “And where Mr. Wade did take me to be Hesketh the fugitive, the same is in Rome with the Cardinal and hath been many years, though of late I have been no less.”19 On 5 November, he wrote to Wade, As concerning that Mr. Hesketh which is with the Cardinal, you shall understand that he is the son of one William Hesketh the elder … of Little Pulton [Poulton] in Lancashire a continual recusant, which William married the sister of Cardinal Alane [Allen] and by her had that son and divers others. This William [the younger, 1568–1622] and I came of two brothers, and there has not been any great familiarity among us.20

In my genealogical research, I have found that Hesketh was telling the truth. Cardinal Allen had decided to send him instead of “Hesketh the fugitive” because the latter, in addition to being his chief secretary, was also his nephew—the son of his sister Elizabeth.21 Therefore, when Hesketh complained later that Allen had sacrificed him as a mere pawn in the game instead of sending “Hesketh the fugitive,” he had grounds for being upset. Allen had apparently done just that. But Sir Robert Cecil in the late autumn of 1593 did not possess this information. He believed that Wade had accused Hesketh correctly and that Hesketh had lied in response. Therefore, he would have had one more reason to worry about Ferdinando’s loyalty. All of his intelligence had suggested (and it was probably the case) that Ferdinando and Allen had been in secret correspondence for years. If Hesketh was Allen’s secretary sent from Rome on an official mission to offer the crown to Ferdinando (which it turns out was not the case), Sir Robert could not help but suspect that the earl was also complicit in the plot with Allen originally and that he had remained complicit until the moment he lost his nerve and rejected the deal. That could have been as late as when he and Hesketh were en route from Brewerton Green, ten or so days after Hesketh had first knocked on Ferdinando’s door. Finally, if you are Sir Robert, you may or may not know one other possible cause of Ferdinando’s delay: Hesketh was the earl’s (beloved?)

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stepmother’s biological son. Additionally, he probably felt lingering loyalty to this whole family of Heskeths, who were longtime friends of his late father’s—and most of them were likely friends of his as well. I do not know that Sir Robert Cecil actually possessed this information, but the odds favor it. His Lancashire intelligence was pretty good, especially when it came to the very important Earl Henry and his family, because of all of the worries about Lancashire and Cheshire being hold-out Catholic strongholds. As noted earlier, Henry’s estranged wife, Margaret, had been a notorious cause célèbre because of her own passionate interest in getting the throne for herself. Cecil was no doubt still keeping a watch on her in London, where she had lived since her separation from Henry, so he probably knew all about the present wife, Jane, Richard Hesketh’s mother, who was living at Henry’s great house Lathom in Lancashire. If he knew much about Jane and her family, he knew that Richard Hesketh was her son. Thus, he may have suspected Ferdinando of delaying out of sentimental family loyalty—which was no excuse whatsoever, in the minds of the Cecils and the Queen, when it came to high treason. So, in the end, if you are Sir Robert, the bottom line is that you now suspect Ferdinando of being vitally interested in getting the throne but of having decided to take his (good) chances and wait for the situation to resolve itself. You do not like this at all. You do not want Ferdinando—or any earl, especially any northern earl—to get the throne. You know that your father, Lord Burghley, feels the same way. Similarly, the Earl of Essex, as much as he may secretly desire the crown for himself, does not want Ferdinando to get it for another powerful reason: he is strongly backing—publicly, at least—the claim of King James VI of Scotland. And so are you and your father. In fact, this is the one thing Sir Robert, his father, and Essex all agree on, at least publicly, rivalrous as you certainly are about other things: James should become King James I of a united England upon Elizabeth’s death. As for the chance that the Queen might actually name Essex to succeed her rather than James, you do not take it seriously, for you know that as much as Elizabeth may love Essex, and as much as you know he wants the throne for himself, she could not

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justify naming him because of the extreme weakness of his blood claim. This was made even clearer when that weak claim was compared to the strong claims of others—namely, Ferdinando and James—who would be perfectly acceptable to the English people. Ferdinando is in the way of James—a big obstacle sitting squarely in the middle of your preferred road forward. And you know, or suspect strongly, that Essex feels the same way, if not more strongly. For you know that Ferdinando is the only viable candidate standing in the way of Essex as well—or, if things came to it, in the way of Essex’s surrogate, James yet again. Based on the documentary evidence, it may seem clear that Ferdinando was not a Catholic, and more importantly, that he was not plotting to take the throne. It may also appear that Ferdinando, knowing his own heart and thinking he had demonstrated it amply by turning Hesketh in, felt completely light, innocent, and optimistic about his future. But there is another point as well, one that is particularly relevant in the wake of postmodernism: it does not matter much in a case like this (or in any case that is susceptible to social construction) what is true—it only matters what the people in power believe or fear to be true. The Cecils and Essex believed, or feared, that Ferdinando might soon be the king.

CHAPTER 9

INSULTS AND INJURIES

Early in the last chapter, I asked that you put yourself in Ferdinando’s position in order to gain a sense, at least in some part, of the joy he must have felt in the first two or three days after he returned home to Lathom after turning Hesketh in. You, Ferdinando, had once again continued in your lifelong tradition of doing everything right, you were certain that your Queen loved you more than ever, and you were thus once again on your way to the English throne—with your position on that road strengthened, if anything. I then asked you to put yourself in Sir Robert Cecil’s position in order to explore, again perhaps in some part, his probable deep doubts and suspicions about Ferdinando during these same two or three days. I now ask you to return to Ferdinando’s perspective one more time, only a week or so after your very few days of joy and glorious expectation—as you suddenly start to wonder, only four or five days later, exactly what is starting to happen to you, and why. For you sense —rightly—that events were about to take a sudden and possibly unpleasant turn. It had only been ten days or so since you turned Hesketh in at Windsor, on 20 October 1593, but everything has begun going wrong for you,

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and it all has to do with the nervous-making, inexplicable actions (and lack of actions) of certain men. Five days before, not for the first time but for the third time, you had written to Lord Burghley asking that the powerful hereditary offices your late father had held in Lancashire and Cheshire be formally transferred to you. These were the lord lieutenancy of Lancashire and the chamberlainship of Cheshire, and these offices were of the utmost importance to you, both because of the power they give you and because of the respect they give you locally (and take away from you when they were noticeably withheld from on high). To these requests, you had not received an answer—nor would you to any of the other letters you would send up to the Cecils in the next five months. On 7 November, upon hearing for the first time (or so you said) that Sir William Stanley had been one of the men who had sent Hesketh, you probably began to worry about your real standing with the Queen and the Cecils in the wake of the Hesketh affair. So you sit down and write the Queen an anxious letter, asking if you should continue to keep Stanley’s two young sons with you and serve as their guardian. On the next day, the eighth, more anxious still, you write Sir Robert to ask his advice on the matter. You ask Sir Robert to confer additionally with Elizabeth and his father, Burghley, about the issue of Sir William’s boys: “[I]n respect to this late action of their father’s [the sending of Hesketh to him], I have forbid them for a time [I will not allow them in my presence].”1 You receive no answer from any of them. You sense that there had been a dramatic turnaround in their behavior toward you, Earl Ferdinando, one of the most powerful and popular men in England, a man supposedly aimed throneward by God. On the very next day, the ninth, Ferdinando wrote to Sir Robert complaining that Richard Hesketh’s Calvinist brother Thomas, a prominent lawyer and subsidy collector for the Crown in Lancashire who also had a busy practice in London, had “crossed” him—meaning that Thomas had acted to thwart some purpose of his. Thomas had done nothing at all to help his brother Richard, as Ferdinando knew when he wrote to Sir Robert, and so he voiced surprise that suddenly, Thomas Hesketh was causing him trouble in Lancashire because “he is angry that I used

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myself so honestly touching his brother.” He haughtily sneered that “I would be loth to be thwarted by so mean a man.…”2 (Thomas served as the attorney to the powerful Court of Wards for much of the period from 1590 to 1610. He was also knighted by James upon his succession in 1603. Although he was considered to be a “mean” man by the new Earl of Derby, he did well throughout his career. And one must remember that he was also, like his brother Richard, Ferdinando’s virtual stepbrother.) Again, Ferdinando heard nothing in response to his letter. By this time, both he and Countess Alice were aware that there was apparently some sort of strong pressure against their interests in the highest of places, but Alice counseled her husband to trust in Burghley. (Neither of them may have known of the close friendship in London between Thomas and Lord Burghley’s son, Sir Robert—a friendship which would last well into James’ reign.) Suddenly, Ferdinando received an answer of sorts: a sudden warrant was issued by the Cecils for the arrest of his dear friend Sir Thomas Langton, the baron, on charges of conspiring with Hesketh and his senders-on overseas to make Ferdinando king. The warrant was handdelivered to Ferdinando by a Burghley messenger who had ridden from London full-tilt with it in his saddlebags. The warrant told Ferdinando that he must arrest this ersatz “baron,” his dear friend, instantly. Because of this action, Ferdinando was forced to immediately write a doubtlessembarrassing letter on 28 November to Sir Robert (as discussed earlier) saying,. “Oh! I just remembered! The Baron did bring Hesketh to me. I temporarily forgot it when I “was talking to the Queen and you because I didn’t think it was relevant.”3 Although it is only a guess, I believe from examining the documents closely and thinking them over that Ferdinando’s problem with naming the baron was probably the same as his problem had been with delaying turning in Hesketh and sending him to a certain death: his sentimental loyalty to his kinsmen and beloved friends. I can think of no other motive on his part, ulterior or otherwise, for his actions (or lack of the same) regarding these two men, although in Hesketh’s case, his knowledge of realpolitik trumped any sentimental bonds he may have felt.

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At this point, still in November, Countess Alice wrote her anxious letter to Sir Robert, partially quoted earlier: I doubt not but my lord [Ferdinando] shall be crossed in Court and crossed in his country [Lancashire and Cheshire], but I imagine [believe] his uprightness and honourable carriage, will, by means of such good friends as your father [Burghley] and yourself, on whose love and kindness he only [solely] doth rely, be able to support him against any malice, and to this let me be a mover.4

Alice was doubtless referring to both the disagreement with Thomas Hesketh and the problem with Thomas Langton, but her words give me the sense that she was thinking of more than that. I am especially struck by her echo of Ferdinando’s word crossed. The earl and the countess had obviously been talking with each other, they were obviously starting to get alarmed, and they obviously hoped (but, for good reason, did not quite believe) that the Cecils were still their full advocates and protectors. They were not. Neither was the powerful Sir Thomas Heneage, of whom not much has yet been seen in this story. Unfortunately for Ferdinando’s hopes, this elderly gentleman did not much like him. He did like and support Essex (even at the risk of his relationship with the Cecils), held great power, and still, in late 1593, had more than a year to live. In fact, it was in 1593 that he became the chair of the Privy Council, on which he had sat for years as its most active member. (Essex had recently become a member himself, after much maneuvering.) One of the things Heneage did best was to use his power and influence to secure political offices for his friends and relations—for which services some (most?) people paid him under the table. But his success with his jobseekers varied widely from location to location, and again, unfortunately for Ferdinando, Lancashire was one of the places in which he had his greatest success. In fact, he was the vice chamberlain for Cheshire in 1593 as well. (The chamberlainship remained unfilled after Earl Henry Stanley’s death, owing to the Cecils’ silent unwillingness to pass it on to Ferdinando, who by late 1593 had written Burghley and Sir Robert three letters requesting it—along with the lord lieutenancy of Lancashire.)

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On 29 November, Heneage wrote a letter replying to one he had recently received from Sir Robert Cecil. Readers of this letter today may discover something that was kept strictly between the two men then: Sir Robert had told Heneage of Ferdinando’s complaints about being “crossed” by the lawyer Thomas Hesketh, the late Richard’s Calvinist brother, and had sought his opinion. (I say “the late” because Richard had been hanged at dawn on the same day Heneage wrote his letter— 29 November.) Thomas Hesketh was, as Heneage’s client (whether paying or not is not known), seeking one of the same appointments Ferdinando was seeking: the chamberlainship of Cheshire. Ferdinando had to know this as well, as Thomas’ going into competition with him for this office was no doubt what he felt “crossed” by. But Heneage took one additional step that reveals as much about Cecil (and his father, Burghley, to whom Ferdinando had written seeking the post): he took the liberty of sharing with his friend and client Thomas Hesketh what Cecil had written to him about Ferdinando’s anger. Then, in his letter of reply to Cecil, he took the further liberty of enclosing a letter Hesketh had written to him (probably at his request, for the express purpose of mailing it on to Cecil) in his own defense against Ferdinando’s complaints. (By sharing this information with Sir Robert, Heneage revealed his clear awareness that Sir Robert would see nothing wrong with his actions in so doing. This arguably indicates something of what the Cecils thought of Ferdinando at the time, and makes it clear that they were not afraid of letting at least one powerful person know their opinion.) Heneage reported to Sir Robert in his own letter that he found Thomas Hesketh’s enclosed reply to Ferdinando’s charges “reasonable.” He spoke very highly of Hesketh. He also inserted a highly politic sentence or two about how much he knew Hesketh loved Ferdinando—a master’s touch. He enthusiastically endorsed Hesketh’s words to the effect that he thought Ferdinando had invented the complaints out of his fancy—that is, that they were baseless figments of his imagination— expertly expressing his endorsement of Hesketh’s implication about the present state of Ferdinando’s mental health. He ended by saying of Hesketh, “I know not a more honest man, nor more sufficient.”5

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Here in this last line, he tried to score one more point with the innocentseeming word sufficient. For he knew that the Queen had been trying, acting silently through the Cecils, to get policies in place that would encourage the appointment of learned lawyers in place of hereditary lords and the like to such powerful positions as chamberlain and lord lieutenant. She told the Cecils that her purpose was twofold: to get men into those positions who were of great legal competence—who were sufficient—and to thus ensure that the positions were used only for the meting out of wise and learned justice, and no longer for the exercise of raw power on the part of the nobles. There is no reason to doubt her motives in this matter—or to assume that her motives were motivated by anything other than a desire to make the governmental power structure at once more competence based and less heredity based. She had voiced this exact hope for many years. The Cecils had no reason to disagree with her, because the more the power of the local feudal lords was reduced, the more power the central government—the monarch’s government—would have. Still, Burghley and Sir Robert did not quite know what to do. It would have been enough of an issue to spring their appointment of Thomas Hesketh out of the blue, giving the Queen’s thinking on the matter (although possibly not attributing it to her, in order to protect her from a powerful, rich, outraged earl). But they knew Ferdinando wanted the position—that he really wanted it. After all, he had already written them three or more letters asking for it, each letter more anxious than the last. Finally, Sir Robert (or perhaps actually his father) made the decision—or thought he had—and replied to Heneage that the government wanted to give the position to Ferdinando. The decision was justified to Heneage in terms of social class. Hesketh’s legal sufficiency was not in question. What was in question was his status as a mere commoner, his status as a “mean” man, as Ferdinando had haughtily termed him in his original letter of complaint to Sir Robert—who told Heneage that he knew of no precedent for giving such an office to such a lowly person. (Hesketh’s status was actually very high comparatively, but he was not a noble or even—yet—a knight.) Heneage sent a counterargument back, causing

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Burghley to turn to one of the most eminent legal minds of the age, Sir Thomas Egerton, asking him to research the matter historically. It is at this point that Egerton enters the story. And, unlike Heneage and some of the other characters, he is in it to stay. Perhaps Burghley was not entirely fair in giving the task to Egerton rather than to one of the other great legal luminaries who were then practicing in London, because he knew full well that Egerton was a Stanley partisan. He had even been a Stanley legal retainer, having served Earl Henry for many years in Lancashire, where he had been on terms of daily friendship with the earl, Ferdinando, and Ferdinando’s young wife, Alice. (He would go on to marry Alice in 1600, six years after Ferdinando’s death, and some believe he had secretly loved her for years. More will be said about their long and complicated relationship shortly.) He was also close friends with the Earl of Essex. But if it was Burghley’s intent to weight the argument in favor of Ferdinando by asking Egerton to write the opinion upon which he would base the appointment of the chamberlain of Cheshire, Egerton failed him—and Ferdinando—perhaps to Burghley’s great relief. Egerton wrote eloquently and learnedly that there had indeed been ample precedent in English law for the appointment of commoners to such exalted positions, but that it had not happened in a long time. He named the longdead legal minds who had held such positions. The fact that such precedents were ancient had the effect in the late sixteenth century of making them more, not less, powerful, and Burghley used this fact and others to make a Solomonesque decision in this painfully sensitive matter. After reading his friend Egerton’s learned opinion, he gave the chamberlainship of Chester on the very same day neither to Ferdinando nor to Thomas Hesketh, but to another commoner: Egerton. The proud Earl Ferdinando and Countess Alice were frightened, angry, and to some degree disgraced by this decision—especially in Lancashire, although the entire court would have known about the decision and laughed derisively, as its Elizabethan habitués seem to have done in response to all misfortunes that occurred to anyone with whom they felt the least social or political rivalry. On 4 December, almost immediately after hearing of the Cecils’ decision to give his coveted chamberlainship to Egerton and almost certainly

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in the foulest of moods, Ferdinando served as the chief mourner at the great public funeral for his father, Earl Henry.6 Elaborate funerals such as this were often delayed by months in the England of those days, and the greater the deceased personage, the longer the wait. Henry was one the greatest men in the land. He was one of the wealthiest noblemen in England, and his court was second only to Elizabeth’s in size and national importance—as was his household. Many mourning garments had to be laboriously sewn for the many official mourners, and the necessary ritual paraphernalia had to be located and refurbished. Also, all of the leading English families had to be written to, in order not only to invite them but also to do all of the necessary calendar coordinations. After this, formal invitations were sent, but with enough time carefully allotted for acceptances or regrets to be written and mailed. It had been a little more than two months since Henry’s death, and this was, for that time, good time. The funeral procession was long and magnificent as it slowly wended its way from Lathom Palace to the official family burial site at Ormskirk. It was a cold day, and an icy wind blew constantly, as it always does in Lancashire in December. The procession was headed up by two black-cloaked “conductors” on horseback. Then came one hundred local poor men in newly sewn black gowns (which they were later given) who made the journey on foot, marching two by two, followed by forty of the earl’s similarly clad yeoman tenants on horses. After this came the official standard-bearer, Edward Warren, accompanied by a trumpeter who “sounded the dole” all the way. These many persons were followed in turn by the first horse, covered with black cloth, led by yet another of the earl’s yeomen in a black cloak. Next came the many men of esquire rank and the servants of gentlemen, walking, followed by the sergeants of knights and barons, all on horseback, all in black cloaks. Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, was next in the procession, accompanied by his servants, all of whom were in black cloaks and on horseback. (Much more will be considered about the eccentric Gilbert later.) The late Earl Henry’s own servants and retainers came next, followed by “the linden horse,” which was led by the late earl’s brother, the valiant old war hero Sir Edward Stanley

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(who had met Hesketh at the door and who had lied to him about the contents of the letter he bore), accompanied by another trumpeter sounding the dole as he strode along. Then came the second official horse of the earldom of Derby, decked out exactly like the first. (The name of this horse’s leader is not recorded.) After this came “the better sort of Gentlemen and Retayners, friends, and kindred, of the defuncte,” also in black cloaks, also on horseback. The earl’s two official chaplains were next, followed by his two prebends, walking two by two. Then came all of the resident and visiting “Doctors of Divinity, and Physic, and Counsellors of Law,” dressed in black and riding horses. They were followed by the earl’s principal secretary, John Golborne (of whom much more later), and his other house officers, followed by the official steward, treasurer, and comptroller, all in black, all on horseback. Next came the guests of all of the invited kindred along with all of their attending children, shepherded by the mayor of Chester and the mayor of Liverpool. Then came the knights and “ancient squires,” all wearing black gowns, all on horseback. After all of this came the bishop of Chester, Thomas Chaderton, who had prayed for Henry’s immortal soul on his deathbed and who had also been visiting when Hesketh arrived. (Like Sir Edward Stanley and the new earl, Ferdinando, Chaderton had looked at Hesketh’s passport and the other documents he had brought.) He would preach the funeral oration. He was followed by his many gentleman ushers and chaplains. Then came the banner of honor, officially called the “Great Banner,” borne by one of the earl’s friends and retainers, a Mr. Osbaldeston. This was followed by a black-cloaked page on horseback carrying Earl Henry’s “guilt [gilt] Spurr on a Staff.” The official Derby helm and crest, borne by the Earl of Somerset, were next, after which came the official sword and targe (a small, usually ancient shield decorated with the family coat of arms), borne by the Earl of Lancaster. Then came the Derby coat of arms, borne by the Earl of Richmond. At last the funeral chariot appeared, drawn by four horses with four black-cloaked pages on their backs, with a separate black-cloaked yeoman leading each horse. Inside, clearly and purposely visible, was

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“THE CORPS,” completely draped in black velvet and escutcheons. (Funeral escutcheons were the armorial bearings of eminent persons.) After the funeral chariot was the official horse of estate, the earl’s own favorite horse, riderless, covered in black velvet, led by the gentleman of the horse, who was black-cloaked, bareheaded, and riding his own favorite horse. They were followed by two gentlemen ushers, “one for the Earle dead, and ye other for the Earle livinge.” Then came “Mr. Garter,” blackclad, riding alone, heralding Ferdinando Stanley, the fifth Earl of Derby, Lord Strange, Earl of Knocking, King of the Isle of Man, and possessed of many other formal titles, also riding alone. He was wearing a great black cloak with a long train, with its peaked hood up. His black train was borne by several retainers walking behind him, aided by two assistants and “7 others.” After him came Countess Alice and the other noble ladies, all in their brightly painted and ornamented coaches—though they were now draped almost completely in black—rolling one by one. Finally came, in order, the usher of the hall, the chief porter, four gentleman ushers, followed by “all the yeoman servants in black,” all on foot. Invited but not attending was Earl Henry’s first wife, Margaret Clifford Stanley, Dowager Countess of Derby, the throne aspirant who had embarrassed and worried her husband the earl by going to astrologers to see if she would succeed Elizabeth—and getting caught at it by a furious government. The two had been separated for thirty years but were still legally entangled. No one was surprised by her absence. Also noticeably absent was Henry’s present common-law wife, Dame Jane Halsall, who had borne him at least four children, all of whom were now grown-up and prominent, including Dame Ursula Stanley. Ursula had married John Salisbury the strongest candidate for being the “Turtle” in Shakespeare’s enigmatic poem “The Phoenix and the Turtle,” with the Phoenix probably symbolizing Elizabeth. Jane’s absence was also not surprising, because the planners of the funeral, along with Dame Jane, were left to assume until the last minute that the dowager countess would attend. One can perhaps easily imagine the foulness of Ferdinando’s mood on the cold, windy December day, but such imaginings are borne out

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by something he muttered during the bishop’s lengthy sermon. Chaderton had first said the following words directly to Ferdinando, looking straight at him: And you, noble earl, that not only inherit but exceed your father’s virtues, learn to keep the love of your country as your father did. You give [have] in your [family coat of] arms three legs. Know you what they signify? I will tell you. They signify three shires— Cheshire, Derbyshire, and Lancashire. Stand you fast on these three legs and you shall fear none of their arms.7

Upon hearing these words directed straight to him, Ferdinando flushed, glowered, and grew visibly angry. Then, in a voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone who were sitting around him in Ormskirk Chapel, he blurted out: “This priest, I believe, hopes that one day I shall make him three curtsies with my three legs.” Fortunately, there is a record of the merry and irreverent Sir John Harington’s translation of these words, for it was he who told the story after the service.8 Ferdinando was saying that he knew that Chaderton’s assumption was that he would be named the next archbishop of Canterbury, and he believed that Chaderton was looking forward to seeing him—even him, Ferdinando—bowing and scraping in his presence. (In the end, Chaderton was passed over for the position.) A day or so after the funeral, Earl Ferdinando and Countess Alice were “invited” (commanded, actually, along with all of the other eminent funeral invitees) to come and live in extended residence at the Queen’s court and attend her at the elaborate annual Christmas festivities. Still smarting from the denial of the chamberlainship of Cheshire (and from seeing it go to a commoner, and a base-born commoner at that), still feeling publicly humiliated by the resulting loss of face at home and at court, and painfully aware that the lord lieutenancy of Lancashire had not been granted to him either, despite his numerous formal requests—it never would be—Ferdinando and Alice stayed home. They apparently sent no regrets. They were conspicuous by their absence, to say the least, but Elizabeth seems to have been more concerned about them than upset

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with them. The documentary evidence (such as it is) suggests strongly that she did indeed love Ferdinando. She just did not know what to do with him. Ten days after the funeral, on 14 December, again with an anger fueled by thwarted pride, Ferdinando made another bad decision. This one too would not help his cause. Just as his position was weak and growing weaker, he decided to take on England’s brightest ascending star: Robert Devereaux, the second earl of Essex.

CHAPTER 10

“BEARING HIMSELF SO HAUGHTILY AGAINST MY LORD OF ESSEX”

Many stories begin with the words, “It all began innocently enough.” The story about the troubles between Ferdinando and Essex is not one of them. Rather, it begins rather suspiciously on a day in late 1593, with Ferdinando in a terrible mood already, when one of the Derby earldom’s longtime retainers, a man who self-importantly styled himself Richard Bold of Bold Hall, suddenly fled his service and went to join that of the Earl of Essex—who immediately took him on. This event was suspicious for several reasons. First, Bold gave no reason for leaving Ferdinando’s service. Second, Essex had no reason to hire him and at least one good reason not to: if one was an earl, one did not take people into one’s service who had just left the service of another earl for fear of offending that other earl. Third, Bold did not need another nobleman’s patronage— Essex’s or anyone else’s—when he left Ferdinando’s service. He was a

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prosperous, landholding Catholic gentleman of Lancashire and Cheshire who held political offices there, including that of justice of the peace. Paul E. J. Hammer, the leading Essex scholar and biographer, wrote of this event that “[Bold] apparently used the protection of the Devereux name to support a longstanding grudge against Ferdinando.”1 Bold did not even trouble to leave his home when he joined Essex’s service; he merely began to wear Essex’s livery around Lancashire and Cheshire in place of Ferdinando’s, ostentatiously identifying himself as being no longer with the local territorial earl but rather, with a powerful rival of the earl’s whose power on the national scale was growing daily. It is not enough to say that Ferdinando was upset with Essex for accepting Bold into his personal service. He was livid. The result was an extended series of bad-tempered back-and-forth missives between the two earls—resembling an epistolary novel in small— which soon drew in Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury; Bold; a man named Nicholas Williamson (who will prove to be a major player in this story); and one or two others. At some point in early December, Ferdinando complained about Bold, Thomas Latham (Lathom), and several others (whom he referred to merely as “Bold and that crue”) who were now officially servants of the Earl of Essex. It did not take long for the word to reach Essex that Ferdinando was extremely angry with him. Essex himself grew angry upon hearing the news (or he pretended to, for the purpose of sending Ferdinando some other insults in order to infuriate him further). Essex sent a letter to Ferdinando about the matter in early December—a letter that is described by Devlin as “a languid letter of mingled complaint and mockery.”2 In it, Essex taunted Ferdinando by telling him that if he had not “broken their friendship, he would have already got his Chamberlaincy of Chester” and would not now be experiencing all of the “crossings” he was now troubled by in Lancashire.3 Essex was implicitly (at least) bragging about his own status as Elizabeth’s favorite, letting Ferdinando know that he had made a major tactical error when he had let his anger about Bold and the others become publicly known. Ferdinando replied—civilly, elegantly, and stoically—on the nineteenth. How else could he reply, knowing that Essex not only had

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 139 the Queen’s ear but was speaking privately to her several times a week, having already done Ferdinando the irreparable political damage he now bragged about? Here are some of his quiet words (one can only imagine the flaming emotions that lay beneath them): I have received your Lordship’s letter, and though I may fail in the true knowledge of some [of its] words, yet I know I do not fail in the understanding of the matter. [I am presently inconvenienced by] the fitness of my present fortune, but triumphs and burials are mere contraries. [Ferdinando was referring to the vicissitudes of life, alluding to the burial earlier in the month of his father, Earl Henry.] For her Majesty’s pleasure of making a Chamberlain of Chester, her will must be my law.…4

He would abide by the Queen’s decision, in other words. But then he came to the point. Noting that Essex in his previous letter had mentioned Ferdinando’s displeasure with Bold, Latham, and the other “faithless retainers,” he spoke his mind: “[You note] that I have of late showed some dislike of them, which they seem to be sorry for [i.e., sorry that he is upset with them], and I think it but a seeming”—that is, he thought the sorrow they voiced to Essex over Ferdinando’s anger was fake. He then subtly referred to some apparent blackmail on Essex’s part: “If I mistake not your Lordship’s letter, you write that in the questions [i.e., troubles] which fall out every day in this country, I may perhaps have cause to incline to you more than another.” In other words, Essex had written that if Ferdinando knew what was best for him as he faced his current local “crossings,” he should be friendly to Essex and to no one else. Essex implied that if Ferdinando did so, he would alleviate his problems. Ferdinando accused Essex of trying to scare him regarding Bold, Latham, and the others, noting that Essex had promised in the previous letter that as the new master of these men, he would deal harshly with them if they did not show Ferdinando all “dutiful respect,” and that therefore Ferdinando should now “use them with favour.” Essex’s logic was twisted in this point, and its problem is the one word therefore. He was

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saying, essentially, that because he had said he would deal harshly with the men if they did not show Ferdinando all due respect, therefore Ferdinando should return his promised favor by taking them back. If he did not do so, Essex implied that he might say even worse things about Ferdinando to the Queen. Reading Essex’s letter in this way (the only accurate way, really), Ferdinando responded: “Truly, my Lord, you shall pardon me for complaining, [because] I can right myself”—in other words, he could take care of himself with respect to the men without Essex’s help and the protection he had implied it would bring Ferdinando. He added that he was certain Essex would soon learn of the “injuries” the men had done in the past and would do in the future from “other mouths than mine.” He then replied to that part of Essex’s letter which complained about the fact that Ferdinando, acting through his bailiff, had “forbidden [Thomas] Latham and other of your servants [including Bold] [from] coming on my ground.” He called them “fugitives” from his own service. He said that he had caught them hunting and hawking in his own personal, private sporting grounds and that he had forbidden them ever to set foot on his property again. He added his certain inference from Essex’s words that this act “makes you jealous that I think ill of them”—in other words, Essex was jealous because Ferdinando was angry at men who were now Essex’s own and because Ferdinando had told them, in effect, that if they trespassed on his land, they did so at the risk of their lives. In this, he had firm legal rights as an English nobleman of the time.5 He informed Essex that the only damage that could conceivably done by his act would be the shaming of “guilty offending consciences”—implying that one of those consciences may have been Essex’s own. He noted the hypocrisy of Essex’s position, pointing out that “your Lordship doth no less at Wanstead than keep your pleasures to yourself, [as did] the Earl of Leicester … at Kenelworth, and the Lord Chancellor at Homeby.” In fact, he said, “all men of any note [forbid this sort of trespass] at their chiefest houses, and I mean to do so at Latham [Lathom].” Ferdinando went on to respond to an important proposal Essex had floated in his letter: that a panel of distinguished, wise men be established

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 141 to adjudicate the conflict between the two of them—including Sir John Savage, Sir Randal Brereton, and Sir Edward Phitton (Fitton). Ferdinando rejected the proposal outright: Truly, my Lord, I will not capitulate, or make a day of holding [i.e., having a trial that was presided over by supposedly disinterested judges] with fugitives from my house who follow you for no love, but [only in order] to be borne out against me.

He closed by admonishing Essex to allow him and him alone to deal with the matter and not to intervene on the side of “men so badly humoured, so basely natured and so vilely conditioned.” He made it clear, in the words of Devlin, that “friendship between equals [i.e., between the two of them] is not determined by patronage, still less by threats.” He said that it was now Essex’s decision to choose between “the flattery of base and unnatural curs who having deserted one master would as likely desert another” and his own “true friendship,” as his “love may ten times more steed [help] you than undergrooms’ service.” Devlin argued that these servants, abetted or even led on by their new master Essex, were likely at the bottom of Ferdinando’s increasing troubles—the “crossings” in the court and in Lancashire and Cheshire which his wife had written to Burleigh about earlier, asking for his help and lamenting that these crossings now “fall out every day in the country.”6 Somehow, a copy of this letter ended up at Lyme House, the home of Piers Legh (d. 1590), where it was discovered by the sneering Lady Newton in the early twentieth century. She termed it “a letter of stupendous length,” using it to exemplify her view that writers in those days “were long-winded, and, time having no value, entered into long explanations, protestations, and diatribes, taking several pages to express what might have been said in a few lines”—that is, in her efficient, ultramodern times.7 The original copy survived only because Ferdinando prudently sent it to his close friend Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, (who filed it away) in order both to establish a formal record of it with Gilbert and to seek his counsel. Ferdinando also sent along a cover note to Gilbert in which he explained that his letter was in response to one

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that had been written a few days earlier by Essex. He sent Essex’s letter to Gilbert as well—would that we had it now—asking that he return both letters to him as soon as he had read them, along with his considered advice on the entire matter. Essex responded to Ferdinando on 17 January 1594, nearly a month later.8 It is important to realize that between the times at which these two letters were written, the event which let Ferdinando know exactly where he stood at court occurred: the Cecils awarded the chamberlainship of Chester to Egerton, even after Ferdinando had pleaded with them repeatedly in letters to pass it on to him as a hereditary office. Being named to this office had been of tremendous importance to Ferdinando both politically and symbolically, but he probably experienced the loss of it—the outright denial of it to him—as even more important. Essex knew all about this situation as he took his quill to parchment to reply to Ferdinando (and he would mean-spiritedly let Ferdinando know he knew it in due time). In the letter, he was superciliously courteous but plainly miffed and unafraid to let the latter fact shine through. His tone implies a feeling of superiority—of being in control. My first letter [the one that is not extant] was written to show how unwillingly I would have in my service [any] that should deserve your disfavour, and to offer you the best course I could for your satisfaction.… But I see that [these retainers, now mine] are not to be reconciled to your favour, and you will be, you say, righted by yourself. Therefore I will leave you to your own way.

In other words, whereas he had implied in his first letter that he would not keep any men in his service who were in Ferdinando’s considered disfavor, he now told Ferdinando that he refused to dismiss them and he was not concerned about Ferdinando’s reaction. Essex then laid out some rebuttals to points Ferdinando had raised in his last letter. Noting that Ferdinando had complained that he had taken these men into his service knowing that they had displeased and dishonored both his father, Henry, and himself, Essex responded that he remembered the time of the Stanleys’ altercation with the men, but

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 143 he had never heard any reasons given for the altercation. He had never heard any charges against the men and thus knew of no good reason to dismiss them. He also insisted that he had never known any of the men, or even their names, before retaining them, and thus he could not have known that they had displeased Ferdinando and his father—except, he carefully noted, for Richard Bold. He said he had taken Bold into his service despite his knowledge that Ferdinando and his father had felt some displeasure toward him at a certain time in the past (for reasons, again, he protested he had never heard), and he gave Ferdinando several plainspoken reasons why. First, Ferdinando’s dear lifelong friend, Sir Thomas Gerard (the one who is holding his hand on a skull in the dual portrait of himself and Ferdinando that was mentioned earlier), had given Bold a very strong recommendation. Knowing of Ferdinando’s friendship with Gerard, Essex noted that he had been Gerard’s longtime loving friend as well, and that in fact, Gerard “is so much my friend as without question I should take any man upon his word.” Second, he stressed that he himself had known Bold since the time when they both served under Leicester in the Low Countries, and he had never heard anything but good about him during those years. Third, he countered that although “you call them fugitives from your house … I know not why it is not lawful for any gentleman born a freeman to make his own choice of his master.” Fourth, “[I know not why] your Lordship should think in that point [the right of a gentleman to choose his own master] to have more privilege than all men else.” (I added the emphasis to indicate that Essex’s temper was rising as he wrote.) Fifth, “you say they [only] follow me [in order] to be borne out against you (wherein I see no ground of your opinion).” Sixth, “you protest that themselves were [the only] causes I sought your favour for them.” (In other words, Ferdinando had protested that the underlying reason that Essex had asked him to take the men back into his favour, or his service, was because Essex for some reason wanted these particular men —“themselves”—to be taken back into his service.) Yet, seventh, “you call me to remember what we professed in love to each other, [arguing that if I really] love you … I must not favour

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them”— that is, if Essex really loved Ferdinando, as he had once sworn, Essex must dismiss the men from his service. But Essex said he could not do so because “they now are, and have been a good while, mine; [thus] if I keep them I must in their good causes defend them, and if I discharge them I must see more fault in them than I have yet.” In concluding, Essex took it all a step farther: “If this [the fact that he refused to discharge the men unless Ferdinando agreed to take them back] be cause of jar the fault is yours, whose the first profession of friendship was I cannot but write plainly.” In other words, to be frank about it, the reason Ferdinando was so upset (felt “jar”) lay with himself, not with Essex. In fact, he was the one who had first professed such friendship between them, not Essex. Thus, in saying to Ferdinando at the time that he returned his friendship, Essex was in no way “seducing” him into a relationship with any thought of possible future gains but instead was only responding to his initiatory profession of friendship. Essex then sternly insisted that he was indeed Ferdinando’s friend and would remain so, but only “if it be not with conditions of disadvantage, for which I will buy the affections of no man living.” He promised that “if your Lordship give no more cause of unkindness by being jealous of me, or bitter against my friends and servants,” then “I shall be ever as I professed [when he promised in reply to Ferdinando that he reciprocated his oath of friendship].” It is at this point that other major players were drawn into the epistolary conversation, and the first of these was Richard Bold himself. It is important to remember, however, that the readers of this book are the only people who have ever read all of these letters together, as each was written privately—very privately. Thus, with this knowledge, it is possible to put things together that no one at the time could have done and that no one has done since. On 20 December, a little after Ferdinando wrote his letter to Essex and almost a month before Essex wrote his long reply (the letters just discussed), Master Richard Bold of Bold Hall, gentleman, wrote a short, urgent letter to one of his best friends, Master Nicholas Williamson of Sawley, gentleman.9 Bold said he had heard of a proposal (where did

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 145 he hear it?) to persuade Ferdinando to allow his and Essex’s mutual friend Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, to be the ultimate adjudicator in his (Bold’s) case. It is not known if Bold had heard that Ferdinando, in his letter to Essex, had flatly turned down three other of Essex’s proposed adjudicators. In this letter, it becomes obvious for the first time that Gilbert was being put forward. Knowing that Williamson was the highly placed, powerful “hatchet man” of both Gilbert and his wife, Countess Mary, Bold urged Williamson in this letter to encourage Gilbert to ask Ferdinando to take him out of his “disfavour” and thus reinstate him in his service. In a follow-up letter of 4 January 1594, Bold wrote to Williamson saying he had written a letter to Gilbert about the same matter (probably as suggested by Williamson as a tactic), asking Williamson to deliver it for him. Because Bold added that he was only asking Williamson to do this because he had not been able to find a third-party messenger near his own home to do it, I am led to infer that Williamson had suggested that a third-party messenger might be a more politic way of first approaching Gilbert to make the request that he agree to act on Bold’s behalf. I think Williamson had suggested this to Bold in order to appear to be more disinterested in the eyes of his master, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Gilbert knew, as I have discovered, that Williamson and Bold were actually brothers-in-law—and, as such, they were members of a large and powerful Catholic clan that was headed by one of the most quietly influential men in the country—Lord Lewis Mordant. I will explore this relationship more closely in due time. Meanwhile, it is time to take a brief break and summarize the state of affairs as it now stood between these three letter-writers. Bold, Latham, and a few other longtime retainers of the Derby earls had taken off Ferdinando’s livery and badge and fled his service. One possible reason is that they disliked him strongly and did not wish to serve under him as the new Earl of Derby, whereas they had apparently served successfully under his father, Earl Henry. It is worth remembering, however, that Ferdinando had told Essex that these retainers had caused unspecified trouble to his father as well as himself—and this statement turns out, as

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shall be seen, to have been crucially correct. Immediately upon leaving Ferdinando’s service, the men were welcomed by Essex into his own service; they donned Essex’s livery and badge although they were still living near Ferdinando in Lancashire and Cheshire. Ferdinando quickly heard not just of this (to him) outrage but also that they had had the nerve to come back onto his grounds at Lathom, illegally trespassing, to hunt and hawk in his own favorite personal spots. Already gloomy and furious, Ferdinando overnight grew much more so. Ferdinando demanded of Essex that he dismiss these men from his service. Essex refused to do so unless Ferdinando agreed to take them back into his. Ferdinando refused to do so. Essex proposed several men of high rank as adjudicators. Ferdinando refused to have the matter adjudicated by anyone except himself—and stated that for his part, he had already done so. He insisted again that Essex dismiss the men. Bold somehow heard that Essex was thinking of asking Ferdinando one more time to accept a third-party adjudicator, this one an earl himself (which might have been more acceptable to the snobbish and status-threatened Ferdinando) and a good friend to them both—Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury. Bold than asked Gilbert’s right-hand man Nicholas Williamson—Bold’s brother-in-law—to intercede on his behalf with Gilbert, asking him both to take the job if the two other earls agreed on him and then, after taking it, to act as Bold’s advocate in persuading Ferdinando to take him back. And so, for the nonce at least, there was a stalemate. But the news soon spread around England amongst the upper classes that the two powerful earls were engaged in an angry war of words (so far) over a few mere lowly retainers, that matters were escalating, and that they now seemed to center upon Richard Bold of Bold Hall. It was not just the upper classes who knew about it in Lancashire and Cheshire, though. Everybody who lived there knew about it, just as they knew about Ferdinando’s troubles with Thomas Hesketh, the late Richard’s brother, who was campaigning to be named the chamberlain of Cheshire rather than Ferdinando—and whose claim had the backing of the powerful vice chamberlain in London (who held ten or so high

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 147 government offices as well, ranking just below Lord Burleigh), Sir Thomas Heneage. The irascible Ferdinando took all of this very personally. He thought Bold and Latham were acting only to spite him out of feelings of revenge. He thought the same of Thomas Hesketh, whom he believed to be motivated by anger over the fact that Ferdinando had turned in his brother to the Queen knowing that he faced certain execution for high treason. And, although Ferdinando did not say so, he knew Thomas had more than good reason to be angry, and he probably felt somewhat guilty: Thomas and the late Richard were both biological sons of Ferdinando’s stepmother, Dame Jane (a fact of which everybody in Lancashire was probably aware). As much as he may personally have detested Richard, Thomas was likely to think that Ferdinando had been a family traitor— which he arguably was. Ferdinando also thought that Essex, the rising star of whom he was certainly jealous as he watched his own star rapidly declining, was deliberately taking advantage of Ferdinando’s political decline and accompanying loss of influence everywhere. It is time now to take a closer look at the bustling Nicholas Williamson. I earlier described the now-forgotten Williamson as a “supporting player” in this story, but he could easily be the central character in his own historical novel—or even in his own book of historical fact. Dame Edith Rickert, one of the foremost literary scholars of the early twentieth century, expressed her amazement at finding that “Summaries of the [Nicholas] Williamson papers fill no less than twenty-six pages of the [collected Cecil papers].”10 Anyone who cares to look can find that still other Williamson papers constitute a formidable collection in the National Archives—945 separate records, in fact. Who was this Catholic gentleman? He was first among equals in the large squirearchy beneath Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury; his wife, Countess Mary; and Mary’s mother, the all-powerful Bess of Hardwick, who has been called by one of her biographers the original “material girl.” Williamson’s prominence derived from one fact: he was Gilbert and Mary’s ”main man,” whom I have earlier characterized as their “hatchetman” and “right-hand man,” but who could perhaps even better be called

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their “hammer.” He ran much of the Talbots’ vast real estate holdings for years, often working even more closely with Mary than with Gilbert on property matters, because Mary took charge of much of this area. Whenever Gilbert or Mary needed a (morally, ethically, or legally) questionable job done, they called Williamson, and Williamson was always at the ready. Much of his side income probably came from usury—or so said William Wade, secretary to the Privy Council, in 1594. But Williamson’s two real claims to fame—which, ironically, he got little or none of—stemmed from two things. One was his hands-on leadership of the Weir War for Gilbert, which was an enormous scandal at the time with effects that were felt nationally. The other was his adventurous attempt a short time later to place James VI of Scotland on the throne of England in place of Elizabeth. The Weir War too could fill a book of its own, but I can offer only a synoptical sketch of it here. It stemmed from a huge feud between Gilbert and Sir Thomas Stanhope. These were two very tough Elizabethan men, each with a sizable number of powerful allies, including the Markhams and the Holleses, all of whom got themselves deeply involved in the argument. Each man also had his own small army of local commoners who were ready to be paid-off soldiers—although Gilbert’s was by far the larger. Beginning as far back as 1590, Gilbert had begun complaining about Stanhope’s weir—a gigantic structure that was built by Sir Thomas to provide the necessary power to run his grist mill at Shelford. But Gilbert felt, or rather feigned to feel, that the weir gave Stanhope too much power over the area’s water and property—and therefore over its people. He complained to Lord Burghley about it, asking that something be done and saying that he was acting only for the good of the community in doing so, having received many complaints from residents. Many men in the area sent complaining letters about the weir to the appropriate municipal authorities, and petitions were drawn up and signed. It turned out later, however, that Gilbert had been the source of most of these complaints, both oral and written, using Williamson as his grassroots organizer, in an attempt to produce the impression of a groundswell of public opinion.

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 149 In truth, Gilbert despised Stanhope because of a brokered marriage deal gone wrong, and his made-up controversy over the weir, with the hope that the government in London would have it torn down in response to all of these neighbors’ complaints, was simply a ruse—a way to get revenge on Stanhope. Gilbert’s father, Earl George, had arranged with the exceedingly wealthy Sir William Holles a match between one of his nieces and Holles’ young grandson (and sole heir), John Holles. Earl George and Sir William both died in 1590, and young John chose to marry another girl, Anne Stanhope, Sir Thomas’ only daughter. Gilbert was apoplectic. John had betrayed both Earl George and Earl George’s niece (Gilbert’s young cousin), so Gilbert hated John. But he also hated Stanhope for allowing his daughter to marry Holles when everybody in the area knew about the arranged match. In truth, Stanhope all too willingly betrayed Gilbert because, on the basis of a sheer cost-benefit analysis, he thought young Holles’ considerable fortune was of more value than was Earl Gilbert’s friendship—and his shaky financial base. Gervase Markham, a constant champion of Gilbert and Mary, inflamed things considerably by challenging John Holles to a duel. Wounds resulted. But the quarrel immediately spread to London, where Gilbert’s successful parliamentary candidate Sir Charles Cavendish, along with his retainers, attacked Sir Thomas Stanhope and his retainers in a brawl outside the Three Tuns Inn in Fleet Street. Countess Mary, who of course had also come to despise Stanhope, could not express her rage in handto-hand combat with Stanhope as her brother Charles had done, so she sent Stanhope a message to be read aloud in his presence by her (possibly trembling) courier: “You be more wretched, vile, and miserable than any creature living, and for your wickedness become more ugly in shape than the vilest creature in the world.”11 When his relatively genteel fake petition plan failed, Gilbert turned to a local political solution. A parliamentary election was to be held in early 1593. Sir Thomas Stanhope was standing as a candidate, and his running mate was Sir Thomas Markham. (Now forgotten, Markham was a powerful man in his day. He had been a close friend and advisor to Gilbert and Mary for years, but he and Gilbert had fallen out and at this

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time were on bad terms. He and his entire family were Catholic, and his wife had been Mary Queen of Scots’ best friend; they had always called each other “sister.” He was the sheriff of Nottingham for a while. He was termed “Black Markham,” or sometimes “Niger Markham,” because of his complexion, and his sons, including the reprobate John Markham, were called “exceeding swarthy.” This led Gilbert to write a two-line poem about him: “To Thomas Markham the gentle Squire/Whom Sir Fulke Grevill [Lord Brook] cal’d a grim sire.”) In response to the candidacies of Markham and Stanhope, Gilbert decided to run two men of his own choosing against Stanhope and Markham—his brother-in-law Sir Charles Cavendish and one Philip Strelley. They won because of an outrageous tactical maneuver on Gilbert’s part—a sudden change in venue for the election. Stanhope, again, was outraged. So was Markham. Having the Queen’s ear one day at court while discussing the quarrel, Stanhope and Markham told her that the true cause of it all was Countess Mary—that she was the power behind the earldom and ruled Gilbert in all things. Shortly afterward, Gilbert received a note from his servant Alexander Ratcliff which informed him that the Queen had been heard to say, after she had talked with Stanhope and Markham, that “It is not my Lord’s [Gilbert’s] doing but my Lady’s [Mary’s]; my Lady leads my Lord in all things.”12 That did it. Gilbert turned to the rough stuff: Williamson. Under Gilbert’s orders, Williamson led an army of more than four hundred men, including the militant young Catholic John Markham, another Shrewsbury retainer at the time (who shall be introduced later), bearing arms and heavy tools over to Stanhope’s weir in the middle of the night—Easter Eve 1593—and began tearing it down.13 Stanhope’s own men, surprised and outnumbered, could offer little resistance. The job was huge, and the men could not complete it in one night, so they went back one or two more times, finally succeeding on 10 May, in a massive effort that was even larger than the first, in demolishing the structure. But Gilbert and Williamson were not done. In the early autumn, Williamson and some followers (including Markham), again at Gilbert’s

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 151 behest, broke down the wall of Stanhope’s deer park at Horsely Park, Derbyshire. Williamson then led still another attack on Stanhope’s estate with another mob he had recruited. To say that Stanhope was furious would be a gross understatement, but he lacked the manpower to do anything about it—either in defense or in retribution. He brought charges against Gilbert in Nottinghamshire, charges originating in the Privy Council, but Gilbert again arranged for a last-minute change of venue, and the trial was held elsewhere. When the jurors failed to show up at the (now) right place, no charges were brought against Gilbert, Williamson, and Markham. Instead, the officials cited Stanhope for being a public local nuisance. But Stanhope found a strong ally and champion in Queen Elizabeth. Although Gilbert had always been one of her favorites— for reasons no one has ever made the slightest start at discerning—she turned against him with her full fury after she heard about what had happened and who Gilbert’s ringleader had been. The upshot is that Gilbert and Williamson were charged, tried, and convicted in the Star Chamber on 10 May 1594.14 For Gilbert, this meant little more than a harmless warning, for his own power (again) prevented it from being anything more, but for Williamson it was serious trouble. Following his conviction, Williamson turned to Gilbert for intercessory help, believing (correctly) that Gilbert could get him out of some or all of his punishment. And Gilbert wanted to. Aside from any personal affection he may have felt for Williamson, he needed him. Who else was going to manage all of the (sometimes questionable) affairs that any Elizabethan earl engaged in? But Gilbert was a realist about Williamson’s chances on this score, telling him that he had the reputation for being such a notorious recusant—having been “reconciled” to the Catholic faith “14 years past” (i.e., before) the date of his conviction in court—that he could be of help only if Williamson made “some extended show” of going to Church of England services on Sundays so that Gilbert could report that fact to the government. Williamson refused. Gilbert countered that if Williamson would go to church once and have himself seen there, he would lie to the Queen on Williamson’s behalf, asserting his present conformity. Williamson flatly refused to go to the English church once.15

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Instead, he stayed on Gilbert’s estates for as long as he could without being arrested and imprisoned. Finally, he fled to Holland, then to Antwerp, then to Spain. Gilbert and Mary later said that he had told them he was going to join the service of the Earl of Essex, and there is no reason to doubt it, for Essex was viewed by the English Catholics in 1594 as a “tolerance” sympathizer—which he was.16 In all of the places to which he traveled, Williamson consorted with many in the exiled Catholic leadership. Williamson’s next appearance in the documentation makes it clear that he had been caught and arrested while he was taking a letter written by an exiled Scottish Jesuit, Father Dacre, to King James VI of Scotland in yet another failed attempt to displace Elizabeth and put someone else on the throne. (James was Essex’s candidate in those years—if one believes that Essex was not seeking the throne for himself all the while—and Williamson knew this.) Father Dacre, known well to James, was a go-between who was writing to the Scottish king on behalf of King Philip of Spain. Sir William Stanley was probably involved as well, because the letter Williamson carried to James made him the very same deal Hesketh’s had made to Ferdinando: he must publicly turn Catholic in order to take the throne with their help, taking England back to Catholicism with him, and if he broke his word on this matter, the Catholic leaders would dethrone him. One of this story’s many ironies is that Williamson proved to be an almost spookily direct analogue to Hesketh. Both were the Catholic righthand men of powerful noblemen. Both were directed by those noblemen to lead a night attack upon the person and property of a powerful, hated local rival with an army of common folk, and both succeeded famously in the effort. Both got into trouble for their success, fled England for the continent to join the Catholic leadership, and came back on a Jesuit mission to dethrone the current monarch and replace her with another of the Catholics’ current choice. Both got caught. Yet this irony is not wholly the result of coincidence, for it seems certain that the Catholic leadership abroad, with King Philip at its top just under the pope, now knowing that all of their hopes for Ferdinando were dead (along with Ferdinando

“Bearing Himself so Haughtily Against my Lord of Essex” 153 himself), immediately decided to send an identical mission to James, using the pawn Williamson instead of the pawn Hesketh. There is much more to Williamson’s story, but those are sufficient pertinent facts for the purpose of this story. He will be revisited briefly from time to time as the plot requires, and he does have one more big scene. For now, it is enough to say that where the analogy between Hesketh and Williamson breaks down is in their punishment. Hesketh, of course, was hanged only a couple of months after he was caught. Williamson lingered in prison for years, seemingly dying there in 1604.17 Williamson is important to this story for four main reasons. First, as some readers may understandably need reminding, it turns out that he was Richard Bold’s brother-in-law and advocate—and Bold is central to the story because of his probable connection to Ferdinando’s murder in the following April. Second, the Queen, hearing of Gilbert’s close friendship and association with Williamson, began to suspect Williamson of Catholic plotting with respect to the succession. During his confession, after being caught taking King Philip’s offer of the English throne to King James VI, Williamson totally ratted out his boss, Gilbert, to the government’s ubiquitous cracker William Wade as being involved with him—of leading him—in the Weir War. That did it. The Queen was shocked to learn that Gilbert, who was known to the men in her government as a dangerous Catholic sympathizer, had been associating with this recusant traitor Williamson for years. Her fears that Gilbert might be a plotter came to the fore—and perhaps he was. She turned her back on him, even placing him under house arrest. (Ultimately, though, nothing came of it—as nothing ever did, seemingly, for Gilbert.)18 Third, Williamson had a connection with Essex. He had admired Essex for years—probably because of Essex’s “tolerance” policy with respect to freedom of religion for Catholics in England—and he had yearned to join Essex’s service abroad as soon as he found out that he could not remain in England without faking religious conformity. He made a last effort to become an Essex retainer when Sir Thomas Stanhope promised him that he, Stanhope, would get him out of jail and into Essex’s service if he would only identify Gilbert as the force behind the Weir War.

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(As has been seen, Williamson immediately complied, but it did him no good, for Stanhope could not deliver on his promise. Stanhope had probably made Gilbert the offer in good faith, thinking Essex still owed him a bit more regarding his extended damages at the hands of the earl’s troublesome, perhaps mad, retainer, young John Markham.)19 The fourth reason is one that must be more closely considered. Williamson also told Wade the name of the man whom one of his two bosses, Countess Mary Talbot, had told him in private, only a few weeks after the event, had caused Ferdinando to be murdered. But does the documentary record clearly reveal that name? It does not do so clearly, but it probably provides enough information to infer the man’s identity. We shall come to that. There was one final irony in this portion of the story. In spite of their years of hating each other, fighting each other, and trying to destroy each other, there came a day in the not-too-distant future when Earl Gilbert and Sir Thomas Stanhope would both be inducted into the Privy Council on the same day. One imagines them at the small but exclusive party following their induction, all passion spent, smiling, shaking hands, and heartily drinking a toast to the memory of days gone by.

CHAPTER 11

FERDINANDO, ESSEX, AND THE THRONE

At virtually the same moment in time that the young earls of Derby and Essex were engaged in epistolary high combat, with the Earl of Shrewsbury, Williamson, and Bold joining in from the sidelines, two other related problems came into Essex’s life. The first was the infamous book entitled A Conference on the Succession by “N. D.” This “conference” was one that was purported to have been held in the spring of 1593 by the Catholic intelligentsia in Europe. Its topic, the succession, referred to Queen Elizabeth’s successor—a topic that was of vital interest to the Catholic leadership at home and abroad. It claimed to be the literal report of the commission’s discussions and its conclusions about who should be on the English throne. Its announced author, “N. D.,” was the well-known nom de guerre of Father Robert Parsons, one of the best known of the Catholic exiles. However, the editors of the authoritative English Short-Title Catalogue claimed that Parsons had little to do with the book and that it was mainly the work of two

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of Parsons’ other distinguished colleagues abroad, Cardinal Allen and Father Englefield.1 The book appeared in several revised editions (they were revised in response to changing events in England, including Earl Henry’s death in September of 1593 and Ferdinando’s death the following April). The important thing is that copies that were published in Antwerp were circulating in London in late 1593—and its authors had dedicated the book to Essex. The Queen flew into a violent rage upon hearing this news. Essex himself appeared to be, and probably was, mystified. How could men who were as politically savvy as the book’s three likely authors have dedicated it to him, liking him as they did and yet surely knowing that the dedication would get him into trouble? They liked him, as mentioned earlier, because he was the main proponent in England of the “tolerance” policy. Even though he did not want a Catholic successor and even though he did want war with Spain, he was still by far the most powerful advocate for toleration of the Catholics in England. Toleration was the strong Catholic fall-back position: if a Catholic monarch could not be placed on the throne, at least under this policy Catholics would be able to practice their religion freely in England, meaning ipso facto that Essex was pushing for a Catholic-tolerant monarch. Almost every person who had any real influence with the Queen disagreed with Essex on this matter, and the Cecils particularly disagreed. But the Catholics believed that Essex had the Queen’s ear in 1593 and 1594 as no one else did, and they were probably—at that historical moment—right. Although I know of no scholar who has ever argued that the authors deliberately dedicated the book to Essex to get him in trouble with Elizabeth, I feel the need to stress here that I too believe the authors were sincere in their dedication and that they did not anticipate the reaction of the Queen and her powerful anti-tolerance, anti-Essex supporters. I think they thought the dedication would both please Essex and help their cause in England. I also think they may have thought that if and when Elizabeth saw the dedication to Essex, it would cause her, so much did she love and respect him, to see the book’s conclusions about succession in a more favorable light, thus possibly influencing her own decision in the matter.

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Who did the book’s authors conclude should replace the Queen?2 First in line was, of course, the Spanish infanta. She had an acceptable bloodline claim, and she was the one the Catholics really wanted. (One of the book’s most interesting features is its Catholic-spun genealogical tables.) But they also knew she was not a viable candidate—not unless Spain and England went to war and Spain won. They virtually dismissed the claim of King James of Scotland because, his bloodline claim notwithstanding, he, like the infanta, was simply not English. Next in line for them was Dowager Countess Margaret Clifford Stanley, but they knew she lacked viability because of the strong sentiment in England in the early 1590s that it should not have three female queens in a row—a sentiment that was mainly driven by how much the English people despised Mary of recent memory, but also by how much they loved Queen Elizabeth. The people feared getting another Mary and they despaired of getting another such wonder as Elizabeth. The people also knew that their beloved Elizabeth hated Margaret—although they perhaps did not know how much Elizabeth hated her. The authors of A Conference on the Succession also dismissed the claims of some of the weak internal candidates (Beauchamp, Hastings, Northumberland, and so on). Finally, in the first edition of the book, which was circulating in December of 1593, they concluded that the strongest internal candidate was probably Henry Stanley, the fourth Earl of Derby. However, this edition had been written before Henry died in the previous September. In the next edition of the book, the authors replaced Henry with Ferdinando, who had turned Hesketh in before they could change their minds and revise, publish, and circulate copies yet again. Upon Ferdinando’s death the following April, the authors replaced him with his younger brother William, who had immediately become the sixth earl. The Catholics’ final conclusion, in the book’s post-1594 editions, was that William’s claim was now not only the strongest in terms of blood but the one that would best serve their purposes. Because of the authors’ own close Lancashire connections (and origins), they knew about William’s tolerance, which was so unlike Ferdinando’s diametrically opposed position, of which

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they (and most people in Lancashire) had just recently learned. Ferdinando, as mentioned earlier, had been a deeply closeted anti-Catholic in Lancashire for his whole life, knowing that the political realities there demanded it. In addition to the trouble caused to Essex by the appearance of A Conference on the Succession in late 1593 and early 1594, another problem was now arising. This one was a consequence of the Weir War, involving not only the bitter enemies Earl Gilbert and Sir John Stanhope but also Sir Thomas Markham, who was now Gilbert’s enemy, and his eccentric godson John, who was now Gilbert’s friend and ally because of their common religion—Catholicism. Whereas the Succession matter had centered directly upon Catholicism, this one did not. But it did feature strong Catholic undertones because of the men who were involved. Because the Weir War had been such a momentous event around Easter and in the months following, spreading ripples throughout the country because of the various prominent alliances that were involved in it, the Privy Council had intervened. Some of its members who were touched by the affair themselves prescribed “special and exemplary punishment” against those “lewd persons that did deface the coach of Sir Thomas Stanhope and likewize those … that did [in retaliation] set up certain vile pictures of the Talbot” [i.e., of Earl Gilbert].3 (One can only gleefully imagine those lewd defacements and “vile pictures.”) Stanhope’s coach had been defaced by young John Markham, who was Thomas Markham’s son and Stanhope’s godson as well as a retainer of Gilbert’s. Stanhope had retaliated by writing and circulating poetry of personal attack against John Markham: “Thou crook backte scabed scurvie squyer/Thou playst the knave for flatterie and hyer ….”4 Young Markham wrote and circulated a prose “railing retort” in reply, acknowledging that he was indeed a “crook back” but that at least he was honest and not a “lyinge lybeller” like Stanhope, whom he addressed as an “envious excrement of nature” and a “liar, slanderer, and one worse than the devil.” His complimentary close was, “And now, leaving unexamined myllions of knaveries … from thy godsonne who hates thy damned condycions.”

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But the important thing to be clear about is who was on which side and when. In the early spring of 1593, when the weir was first attacked, on one side were Earl Gilbert, Nicholas Williamson, and John Markham— the attackers. (Gilbert was only the eminence, staying off the scene of battle and well out of the action.) On the other side were Sir Thomas Stanhope and his entire clan, Thomas Markham, and the exceedingly unpleasant John Holles (who was now Stanhope’s son-in-law). It is probably not an overstatement to say that Gilbert was a crypto-Catholic. Williamson was, of course, Catholic, as was his entire extended family (including the Bolds). But it was the Catholic activities of the young John Markham that brought new pressure onto Essex from the powerful Sir Thomas Stanhope at just the same time he was also feeling it from the first circulation in London of The Conference on the Succession with its dedication to him. On 6 January 1594, the spymaster and code-cracker Thomas Phelippes wrote a letter to Gilbert. He warned that John Markham, Gilbert’s former servant, was suspected by the Cecils of serious misconduct while he was recently in France—misconduct which could seriously discredit Gilbert. Phelippes suggested to Gilbert that he should quietly and quickly send for young Markham, speak with him briefly, and then immediately send him to the Cecils in London to answer their accusations. Phelippes cautioned Gilbert that he should reveal the accusations to Markham in “only the most general terms”—the implication being that Gilbert already knew what the accusations were, even though he had not known of the Cecils’ displeasure. On 14 January, Gilbert sent Phelippes a reply. He told him that he had followed his advice in summoning Markham to him and then sending him on to London, but he stressed that Markham had never been his servant but rather had been and continued to be in service to Essex. Knowing that Phelippes would pass on anything he said to the Cecils, Gilbert emphatically added that although he may have known Markham in the past and had heard well of him, he now had nothing whatsoever to do with him: “My selfe beinge (in all manner of respectes) as cleare as crystalle, I will not wittingly have to doe with any that is suspected to be otherwise.” On 22 January, Essex sent Gilbert a reply from Hampton Court. He promised him that John Markham would be treated fairly in the investigation.

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Essex then made a major request that had, apparently, nothing to do with Markham: Would Gilbert agree to arbitrate the dispute between Ferdinando and himself? He enclosed two pieces of correspondence between the two of them (which have been reviewed earlier). Phelippes wrote back to Gilbert on 23 January, giving the earl a complete report of the government’s examination of Markham. He had been charged with treason, Phelippes reported, because of the discovery of certain letters that were written between him and some Jesuits. He also said that Markham had confessed that he had revealed himself to be a Catholic while he was in Dieppe. But he added that nothing had yet emerged which could involve Gilbert. On that very same day, Essex wrote to Gilbert about the matter, also informing him of the charges against Markham but implying that he had confessed not only to having declared himself to be a Catholic in Dieppe but also to every other charge that was outlined in the indictment. The next day, 24 January, Phelippes wrote again to Gilbert from London. He let him know that Essex had been obliged to proceed against Markham because of the great pressure he had been under from Sir Thomas Stanhope and his family to do so. On 29 January, Gilbert wrote Phelippes back, asking him to thank Essex for the impeccable manner in which he had conducted the case against Markham for the government, adding, “I verily thought his trooble had proceeded only from the malicd of somme of his enimyes, but I perceave there is more in it.” He stressed to Phelippes, knowing he would pass it on to Essex, that Stanhope must not be allowed to tamper in the matter.5 On that same day, Gilbert wrote to Essex personally about two subjects: Essex’s Markham problem and Essex’s Ferdinando problem. Of Markham, he said, “I am very sorry for the bad and foolish carriage of the young fellow.”6 As for Ferdinando, Gilbert agreed formally to act as a mediator and judge in the dispute between him and Essex7—while almost certainly knowing privately that Ferdinando hated the idea. A week later, on 31 January, Gilbert wrote to Ferdinando.8 This is an important letter because Gilbert made his first suggestion in it, on

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Essex’s behalf, that Ferdinando should effect a reconciliation by taking Richard Bold back into his service—which was a thing that Essex, for some reason, wanted badly. On 6 February, Ferdinando wrote Gilbert a long and revealing reply. It is the most important letter in this entire collection of correspondence, both for what it reveals and for what it implies. This letter has been briefly summarized before by other writers, but to my knowledge it has never been parsed, or even examined, in its entirety. It turns out to contain several significant new pieces of information. After an affectionate introduction, Ferdinando got to his point, posing a hard question to Gilbert in response to his request that he take Bold back: Your Lordship oute of your deernes [dearness] to my Lord of Essex and myself in love and true affection to us bothe (for so bee your words) doth desire that you may deale betweene us [mediate their dispute]. Truly my Lord I know not of any cause, unless his Lordship be bente to make Bouldes cause his [own] [emphasis added] why we should be dealte betweene, for there has passed no unkindness [between Essex and Ferdinando].

In other words, Ferdinando was saying that he did not understand why a mediator was needed, as he and Essex were not, in his view, seriously fighting. (He knew better, of course.) He was suspicious. Why, he asked, would Essex want Gilbert to intervene with Ferdinando in the matter “unless his Lordship be bente to make Bouldes cause his [own]”? Why should Essex care enough about the lowly Master Bold to do such a thing—especially as there was no compelling reason why Bold needed to be in any nobleman’s formal service? Why, therefore, could Essex not simply dismiss Bold, as Ferdinando so fervently requested? Ferdinando knew that as a gentleman of high local repute in Lancashire (although not in Ferdinando’s opinion, of course), Bold of Bold Hall did not need such a noble sponsor or patron. Still suspicious of Essex’s motives, Ferdinando courteously told Gilbert that although Essex’s behavior in this matter was a mystery to him, he

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knew it might not be a mystery to Gilbert, noting that Gilbert might know Essex well enough not to have any suspicions. But he quickly went on, I will not fayle to knowe myself yf his Lordship deal not like himselfe the more [that] is his faulte, and sure I am yt ys neither a kinde nor a kinsmanly manner to seeke occations against him [i.e., Ferdinando] whom hee [Essex] hathe professed to love.

In other words, Ferdinando would make every necessary effort to ascertain that Essex was not at fault in lying (i.e., in speaking “not like himselfe”—not like his true self). Moreover, seeking occasions to act in this way toward Ferdinando was not a kind or “kinsmanly” (Ferdinando and Essex were cousins) thing to do. He added, in superabundant courteous sarcasm, that “I doubte nott but hee ys more wise and more honorable [than to do such a thing].” Ferdinando then moved directly to discussing Bold. In responding to Gilbert’s last letter, he noted that Gilbert had pointedly asked him “what offences Boulde and that crue have offered me,” sneaking in an inference which may not have been Gilbert’s intention in writing: that because of his words’ context, Gilbert “ys also willinge to deale in that cause.” In other words, he inferred that Gilbert, at Essex’s behest, had suggested that he also examine that “cause”—the specific reason Ferdinando was furious with Bold and would not take him back. Knowing Essex to be behind what Gilbert was proposing, he let Gilbert know he took offense at Essex’s request. Assuring Gilbert that his hesitancy had nothing to do with his loving and completely trusting feelings toward Gilbert in revealing such private matters, he nonetheless stated flatly that he considered it an unwarranted imposition on Essex’s part to seek for that “cause,” that “matter.” He wondered if such imposition might flow from some particular “humor” in Essex or rather, if he was so ill-mannered as to seek this occasion to pry into Ferdinando’s affairs—and his feelings about them. He then made a shocking announcement. He told Gilbert that “one speciall cause that I houlde offense with Mr. Boulde ys by reason hee plotted for my life”—that is, he had hatched a plot to kill Ferdinando.

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Ferdinando sarcastically added that he thought this was “a reason sufficiente for offence.”9 He said that Bold’s dearest friend had confessed this to him in private—a confidence which he was now clearly reluctant to violate, but which he was violating because by now everybody in Lancashire knew about it anyway. “[This action] I cannot forgive nor will forgett,” he stated, not even if Bold were to swear a false oath to the contrary on the Bible. He added that since he had learned of the plot, he had never allowed Bold to be in his presence. He stressed that “all this Cuntrie knowes and has noted” this matter for years—for seven years, in fact—and it still continued to be a topic of gossip even then. He implored Gilbert to agree with him that he needed to write no more explanatory words about the matter, as “yt ys a theame I dislike so much [because] this offence is so great [that] I think it may suffice for this man.” But it need not suffice. In the course of researching this matter, I have managed to uncover most of the story behind Bold’s assassination plot, and briefly it is this. In 1587, Ferdinando had prosecuted Bold’s motherin-law, Agnes Mordant (Mordaunt), apparently for recusancy. Agnes, whose maiden name was Booth, was married to William Mordant of Bedford, a close relative of the powerful Lord Lewis Mordant. She was also highly connected through Dame Jane Mordant, who was married to Sir Thomas Kemp. Agnes was the mother of Bold’s wife, Jane—and also of Nicholas Williamson’s wife, Ann. The whole clan was not only passionately Catholic but passionately recusant as well.10 As a result of this history, the fact that the militantly anti-Catholic Ferdinando had suddenly succeeded his tolerant father Henry as the earl was something Bold could not live with. As soon as he could, in a matter of mere weeks or months, he had fled Earl Ferdinando’s service and gone to that of Essex, taking Thomas Latham (Lathom) and about nine other disaffected Catholic retainers with him. The exact source of Latham’s unhappiness with Ferdinando is not known, but it should be remembered that he was on the same list of government recusants as Ormeston— the man who had been Hesketh’s main contact in Lancashire, to whom he had been sent by Dr. Worthington. Latham was a schoolmaster at Rickston.11 Because of the power and influence of Lord Lewis Mordant,

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the entire 1587 affair between Earl Ferdinando and Mordant’s niece Agnes had been a much-noted event, and as Ferdinando told Gilbert, neither it nor its culmination—Richard Bold’s plot to kill him—had ever been forgotten in Lancashire. As to the rest of “Bold’s crewe,” Ferdinando named two of them, insisting that he had never “used them ill,” even though he had forbidden Latham and one Master Standish, both of whom lived near his private deer-hunting park, from ever setting foot on it again when he had caught them hunting and hawking there after they had joined Essex’s service and begun to wear his livery. He stressed his hope that Essex did not interpret the restrictions he had placed upon Latham and Standish as being in any way unjust or in any way wrong, “but yf so hee [Essex] meane, sure I am they shall not doe so”—that is, they shall not ever trespass there again. He concluded by saying that Gilbert must now surely agree with him that Essex was asking more of them both than he had any reason for doing—in view of the “cause” Ferdinando had revealed to Gilbert for his refusal to reinstate Bold, the “one greate movinge reason I have.” Bold had plotted to kill him. I infer from this letter (as I also think Ferdinando intended Gilbert to infer from it) that Ferdinando had just recently put some apparently disparate facts together. Knowing Bold had plotted to kill him and suspecting him of still intending to harm him (for good reason, as things turned out), he was suspicious about Essex’s being so insistent upon “making Bold’s cause his own.” For why, under ordinary circumstances, would a powerful man such as Essex make a relatively insignificant man such as Bold his cause—especially knowing that another powerful man (Ferdinando) strongly objected? But Ferdinando also knew something else—something he heard in September from the man who had knocked on his door the same day his father died. He knew that during his discussion with Richard Hesketh, he had pointedly asked Hesketh a question that was of great importance to him as he tried to make up his mind about Hesketh’s offer. This secret matter has been revealed because of a private letter—which is

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extant—that was written from the Jesuit spymaster Father Hugh Owen to Thomas Phelippes in London, who was at that time working for both Essex and Sir Robert Cecil.12 Ferdinando asked Hesketh if the Earl of Essex would take his side if he attempted to take the throne. He knew that Hesketh was giving him a straight, honest answer (while knowing that Hesketh’s13 doing so weakened his chances of persuading Ferdinando) because of what Hesketh then told him. No, Essex would not take Ferdinando’s side, Hesketh said, because “the earl of Essex wisheth to have the crown for himself.” In other words, this meant that because Hesketh was about to reveal to Ferdinando that Essex had told him (Hesketh) that he wanted the crown for himself, Hesketh knew that Ferdinando would be less likely to agree to the offer of the Crown that Hesketh had brought because Ferdinando was aware that he would then not have Essex’s political and military help. Saying that Ferdinando had serious suspicions at this point would probably be an understatement. Yet the reader now knows something that he did not know or even suspect at the time he wrote this letter. Bold’s brother-in-law Nicholas Williamson, who had still not fled from England and was still busy on the scene as the main Shrewsbury agent, was encouraging his boss Gilbert to serve as Bold’s advocate with Ferdinando in the effort to get Bold back into the earl’s service, and to continue on until he had made it happen. Meanwhile, as surviving documents show, Essex was sending money from Hampton Court to Bold and the other “faithless retainers” in Lancashire. He did so despite his knowledge that, as Essex’s most authoritative modern biographer Paul E. J. Hammer has written, they had “deliberately provoked trouble” and that they had “apparently used the Devereaux name to support a longstanding grudge against Ferdinando Stanley.” Hammer added that “among Essex’s accounts for 1593-94 is a bill for four pounds and ten shillings for “recognizances of nine gentlemen in Lancashire,” whom he believed to be this same group.14 On 12 or 15 February, in what for him was a rather magnanimous move under the circumstances, Ferdinando sent a follow-up letter to Gilbert offering to “pardon” Bold and the others if Essex were to request

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it as a favor.15 He was not, however, agreeing to reinstate them, and this fact is made explicitly clear in his and Gilbert’s subsequent letters. Around the middle of February, Ferdinando also sent a courteous, diplomatic note to Essex. It was characterized, as one antiquarian transcriber put it, by “spirited remonstrances with kindly overtones.”16 He agreed in it to pardon Bold and the others. Again, it is important to understand that he did not agree to take them back into his service—those were two very different things—and indeed, he implied that he would not do so now or maybe ever. On 24 February, Essex responded with equal courtesy, making overtures of friendship. He told Ferdinando that he was happy with his last letter. But, as the servants were still his and not Ferdinando’s, Essex voiced his insistence that “for my sake you will have no hard hand with them.” Seeming to be in a compromising mood, he said that although he knew that Ferdinando was not agreeing to take them back into his own service, he hoped that “by their good carriage of them selves towardes you they will deserve your service in time.”17 On 16 March, Ferdinando sent Gilbert another brief letter, enclosing Essex’s last letter to him of 24 February. (He had previously sent Gilbert the earlier letter from him to Essex which elicited that reply. He insisted, as he always did, that these original letters be promptly returned.) The gist of what Ferdinando told Gilbert is in one sentence: “I imagine this matter will neede use more troble nowe; but howe soever, I will refer myself to your Lordship.”18 In other words, he knew that this disagreement was not over between he and Essex and would cause him more trouble and travail, but he would follow Gilbert’s advice and counsel. He knew the matter was not resolved because he had not agreed to accept Bold back into his service—and he was fairly certain that Essex would not stop until he got Bold reinstated. He was right. On 29 March, Gilbert wrote Ferdinando the last letter in this series. He was solicitous, gentle, soothing, and kind, but he was firm: Ferdinando must agree to reinstate Bold, Latham, and the other seven men. After a month of hearing nothing from either Ferdinando or Gilbert that indicated that the men would be reinstated, Essex had escalated the matter. He had taken the tactical step of creating an informal

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alliance of other nobles to join him in pressing Ferdinando to take the men back—and in pressing Gilbert to cause Ferdinando to do so. Gilbert told his cousin and fellow earl that these “other knights” were now pressuring him seriously.19 He reported that he had told them that Ferdinando had agreed, in a manner that was “very honourable and reasonable,” not to give a “resolute answer” to Essex (or to himself as the go-between) until such time as he had all of the relevant facts before him. In addition, he would not give this “resolute answer” until he was satisfied that there were no relevant facts of which he was ignorant. It is upon this latter thin point that Gilbert now began (what would be) his final argument. He related to Ferdinando something that he most earnestly hoped would “count” with him as new information that was sufficient to cause him not to deny Essex any longer—that his providing this information would satisfy Ferdinando’s demand to hear something pertinent of which he was previously ignorant. He told Ferdinando that Bold and “younge Mr Lathom,” speaking for themselves and on behalf of the other seven men, had “declared unto me the continuance of their most earnest desires to recover your Lordship’s favour.” They had offered “sundry wayes and meanes” by which they promised to do so. And, he added, “I do assure your Lordship you would well liketh these [suggestions] if you [would come to] know them.” He continued to speak strongly as the men’s advocate: “Surely it appeareth unto me that they have omitted no course [that] them selves or their friends for them, could devise.” One of these suggestions was a letter of propitiation to Ferdinando, written by Bold and Latham and signed by all of the men, which Gilbert said he knew had been delivered and read—and which had in fact already elicited a response from Ferdinando. Their letter and the earl’s reply to them are not extant, but it can be inferred from what Gilbert wrote next that Ferdinando had not said yes to them. He may have said no, and he may have said maybe, but he had not said yes. Gilbert told Ferdinando that having received this reply, they had come to him as a last resort “with all earnestnesse to intreate me that [in the same way in which he had begun his advocacy of their cause] … I would now continew to favour and friend them

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so far as againe to presse your lordship as far for them as I conveniently might” (emphasis added). He strategically added that the men had told him that they believed that the love and respect in which Ferdinando held Gilbert might reasonably sway the Earl of Derby to be persuaded on their behalf by the efforts of the Earl of Shrewsbury—and, moreover, that “my travayle herein would be taken in very thankfull part by their sayd Lord [Essex].” Gilbert here worked in the implied argument that Ferdinando ought now to acquiesce to Essex’s request for Gilbert’s sake, in order to help him stay in Essex’s favor. Although Gilbert was one of the Queen’s favorites, he was not the favorite.20 He was not Essex. He came nowhere near having Essex’s power and influence. And, he and Essex were at the time involved in some large real estate deals which he greatly yearned to bring to a happy, prosperous resolution21 (although he was very high in prestige, he was very low in “ready money”). Moreover, he and Essex had an increasingly touchy relationship because of his beginning, at that very moment, to ally himself politically (and in friendship) with the ascendant Sir Robert Cecil; Sir Robert and his fading father were Essex’s main rivals for power. In fact, Gilbert had begun only a few months earlier to move toward an alliance with Sir Robert. He had done so at a particularly tricky and risky time, for by mid-1593, “the rivalry between Essex and the Cecils was obvious”; in fact, “relations between Essex and the Cecils [had] deteriorated to the point at which each side began to believe that the other might now be hostile.”22 Gilbert was betting on Sir Robert’s ascendancy to triumph over Essex’s ascendancy—and, as events would soon show, he bet right. (One previously unmentioned reason he moved toward the Cecils at this time is that he, like Ferdinando, was also pleading with the Cecils and the Queen to invest him with his late father’s noble offices—particularly the lord lieutenancy of Nottinghamshire. However, the Queen’s scrupulous new policy of giving such offices to fine legal minds who had no vested interest in amassing local power, no matter what their social status was—the new precedent being Thomas Egerton, who had won Ferdinando’s coveted chancellorship of Cheshire—remained in

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effect until James took the throne in 1603.) Other powerful, high-profile nobles were also moving their support from Essex to the Cecils at this time, including Lord Buckhurst, Lord Cobham, and Lord North.23 Still, Essex’s power at this historical moment rivaled that of the Cecils, so Gilbert had to be extremely cautious—especially with Essex. Events had converged upon Gilbert too—although not to the extent that they had upon Ferdinando—and he felt the pressure. He needed to stay in Essex’s favor—at least for a while longer. And he was subtly beseeching Ferdinando to say yes to “Bold and his crewe” because both earls knew that Essex was directly behind these hugely symbolic pawns in the game—and their request. Gilbert continued on an even more personal and emotional note, in seemingly sincere empathy with Bold and Latham: [One last factor] wrought not least with me, which is the vehement protestation of those gentlemen that this their great desyre for your favour doth not proceed from any other respect so much as the sincerity of their hartes in dewty and goodwill not only now againe to move your Lordship on their behalf, but also with all the earnestness [of] one who so trewly loveth and honoreth you as I doe, to press your Lordship to accept of this their offer of submission, and of their dewty and love unto you [emphasis added].

He added that the desire of these men, and of himself, was to receive Ferdinando’s favor now and hereafter strictly in accordance with their “plaine and direct desaringes [desirings] toward you.” He concluded with a straight appeal: If Ferdinando would “harken and yeild [sic] [emphasis added]” to this “earnest motion of mine, this “earnest request,” it would be no other than my self would doo if I were your self [and] I shall take it very thankfully at your hands and it shall greatly confirm the assured opinion I have of your Lordship’s good love and sound affection unto me. And so I will commit your lordship (as my selfe) to the protection of the almighty god.

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Based on later developments, Gilbert would have reason to believe that committing himself to the “protection of the almighty god” had been a smart decision. Ferdinando, in contrast, had understandable cause beginning three days later, on April Fool’s Day 1594, to doubt that the almighty’s “protection” extended to him at all. Was Ferdinando, after reading Gilbert’s letter, tempted to “yeild”—to give in to the demands of Essex and the pleas of Gilbert and Bold on Essex’s behalf? He may well have been, because he had run out of options for countering Essex’s escalation—his forming of an alliance of noblemen who all feared how Essex (and his influence with the Queen) might retaliate against them if they refused his request to join his coalition against Ferdinando over the future of Bold. The answer shall never be known, and the cause for this uncertainty was Bold himself. In the next couple of days, he would act in such a way as to prevent anyone from ever finding out what Ferdinando intended to do next. A little more than two weeks later, Ferdinando would be dead. Meanwhile, however, in the week before Gilbert wrote Ferdinando this last letter on 29 March, yet another horrible, depressing, and frightening event occurred in the lives of the young earl and his wife—an event which in all probability distracted both of them to such an extent that they paid little attention to Gilbert’s letter. During the week right before Easter (which fell on the thirty-first), Countess Alice suffered a sudden miscarriage at two months.24 Obviously, this would have struck them as “horrible” and “depressing”—glancing back at two adjectives I just used—but why “frightening”? It was frightening because the miscarriage was attributed to witchcraft. Also, as it turned out, so was the pregnancy. All of this information was kept private until shortly after Ferdinando’s death a little more than two weeks later, but it is revealed by two extant private letters, both of which were promptly hidden away right after they were written. To the witchcraft and to these letters, this story shall return. But the miscarriage was apparently thought to be a life-threatening illness of some sort (and life-threatening it almost certainly was), probably because neither Ferdinando nor Alice knew what it was when it happened. Ferdinando immediately sent for one of the

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most famous physicians in England, Dr. John Case of Oxford, who luckily was practicing in nearby Chester while he was on leave from the university. Case is now obscure because nearly all of his extensive writing is in Latin, little of which has been translated, but in his day, he was one of the most famous thinkers in England, regarded by educated people as a late-European example of a Renaissance man. He was a doctor, but he was also a philosopher, linguist, theologian, theorist of music, and just about anything else one could name, including a virtuoso performing musician. He had been Ferdinando’s tutor at Oxford, and he was his lifelong friend. Upon getting the call for help in Chester, he rode to Lathom at full speed that same day. But there was little or nothing he could do. Alice survived, but the baby was far too young to be viable.25 Ferdinando invited him to extend his visit, and he did. He stayed over for a week, until the fifth of April. It is not known what the two old friends did or talked of during this visit, but one can imagine that the alienated Ferdinando enjoyed the company of this learned and sympathetic supporter. At some point during Case’s stay, however, Ferdinando—whose understandable paranoia at the time may well have turned into hypochondria—asked the doctor to examine his urine. Case did, pronouncing it after his analysis as perfect and pronouncing Ferdinando himself as presenting a “shewe of the most sounde, perffect, able body that he had seene.” He added that he would be erring in his professional judgment if he prescribed anything to so healthy a man. On the seventh of April, after having cause to examine Ferdinando and his urine again, Case proclaimed that the shocking change for the worse was as dramatic as he had ever seen.26 He immediately found himself in a protracted day-by-day battle to save his friend’s life. His efforts were in vain.

CHAPTER 12

THE DAY AFTER APRIL FOOL’S DAY

The story returns once again to its starting place with Ferdinando: April Fool’s Day 1594. On that day, the old woman, seeing him out walking on the grounds near Lathom Palace, reportedly approached him and asked if she might now begin to lodge very near him in order to tell him of God’s frequent reports to her regarding his welfare—and, on the basis of what God was telling her, to advise him. Ferdinando turned her down, calling the offer “blasphemie.” One day later, 2 April 1594, was probably the most important day in Ferdinando’s young life. On that day, several odd things happened. They were all related, and they were all related to Richard Bold. The first odd occurrence was the delivery of a letter to Ferdinando early in the morning by a courier. The letter was from the mayor of Chester, one David Lloyd.1 A former trusted aide of Burghley’s, Lloyd had taken the prisoner Christopher Marlowe home to London a year or two earlier.2 He and his constables had now intercepted a letter from

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Agnes Mordant—the recusant mother of both Richard Bold and Nicholas Williamson’s wives. He was acting quickly on recent instructions from the Privy Council to be on the alert for any suspicious Catholic activities related to Ireland, including correspondence, based on new information he had received from government spies.3 The government worried incessantly during this whole period about a Catholic invasion through Ireland, and Sir William Stanley was sometimes reported to be there making plans. As Elizabeth and the Cecils did not yet quite trust Ferdinando—why had he taken so long to turn Hesketh in, and how far had Hesketh gotten with him?—they feared, as they had feared for years, that any Irish invasion might come via the Stanley-owned Isle of Man, which lay right off the northwestern English coast. The intercepted letter from Mrs. Mordant was written to another of her Catholic friends, Robert Sefton of Mollington (a village very near Chester). Her courier was one Edward Cowper (Cooper), whom she knew to be en route to Ireland via Chester.4 Cowper had asked her if he might be of use in delivering letters for her to her Catholic family in the north while he was traveling through the area. In this letter, she instructed Sefton to attend a meeting that had been set up by several leading local Catholics. She told him that her nephew, who was also a Mordant and probably a young priest, along with the Mr. Day who was one of Ferdinando’s “faithless retainers” but was now still in Essex’s service, would be at the meeting.5 She told him to be sure to talk with Mordant and Day—that it was important that he inquire of both of these young men about several letters she had recently sent to Sir William Fitzwilliam, the lord deputy of Ireland, and others there. (Fitzwilliam was a genial old man and a beloved public servant who was known for his tolerant policies with regard to both Catholics and the Irish. Essex, however, had always hated him and always would.)6 In fact, this seemed to be Mrs. Mordant’s main purpose—to make sure that Sefton got this information from these men, both for his own use and for hers—as he was asked to report this news back to her as soon as he could. (She also asked Sefton to board Cowper’s horse while Cowper was in Ireland. Other sources indicate that Cowper was delivering two teen-aged boys

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to Ireland, both of whom were with him on his journey. The only historian of Chester ever to look closely into this matter thought they were following an established roundabout way via Ireland to France or Spain in order to enter formal studies for the priesthood.)7 Most importantly, Mayor Lloyd’s letter to Ferdinando told him that the secret meeting was to take place at Richard Bold’s house in Prescot, Bold Hall, an infamous center of recusant activity for fifteen or twenty years and probably the main venue in the area for the (strictly illegal) holding of Mass. He added that young Mordant was Mrs. Mordant’s nephew and that Bold was her son, but this was his error: Bold and Williamson were both her sons-in-law. Ferdinando already knew all of this family information; he had been keeping a close eye on Bold and his family for at least seven years, going back to the time when Bold had “plotted for my life.” Despite his orders from the Privy Council to vigilantly “safeguard the borders” during this time, Mayor Lloyd had found, upon reading Mrs. Mordant’s letter to Sefton, that Richard Bold’s house in fact lay a bit outside of his legal jurisdiction in Lancashire. It was in fact only a few miles from the grand Lathom Hall. The mayor, erroneously assuming that the new earl Ferdinando had inherited the Derby lieutenancy of Lancashire from his father and was thus now the man in charge, sent this early-morning letter to the earl suggesting that he look into the matter. He may also have been nervous about tampering with Master Bold of Bold, for he was a prominent local gentleman who was now wearing Essex’s livery as his retainer. Moreover, Lloyd knew that Bold served off and on as both the sheriff of Lancashire and its justice of the peace during this time—despite his known Catholicism and the known fact that his seat, Bold Hall, had been a gathering place for Catholics for twelve or fifteen years. (It would be for almost ten more.)8 Mayor Lloyd was not aware of everything that was currently going on between Ferdinando and the earls of Shrewsbury and Essex regarding Bold (and his compere Day). He could thus have had no inkling of the shocked fury and fright Ferdinando would have felt upon reading this brief, supposedly routine letter of request. Ferdinando acted immediately.

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Taking a small army with him, he raced to Bold’s house in Prescot, swooping down on it so as to take the men by surprise. Bold was not home, so Ferdinando interrogated the servants. Doubtless terrified and perhaps not knowing what was at stake, they immediately revealed that Bold had just recently gone out and that certain visitors were indeed staying there. Ferdinando told the servants that his men were going to search the house, and they gave their assent. (What else could they do?) But just as he was speaking with them further, as he would write to Mayor Lloyd from Lathom three days later on the fifth, “In came Mr Bowld bringing [with] him those men you writ of [i.e., Mordant and Day] and another … in their Company [i.e., Sefton or Cowper, perhaps both].” In this same letter, Ferdinando told Lloyd that he had been especially struck by the fact that Mordant—almost certainly Agnes Mordant’s son or grandson— was centrally involved. He remembered the assassination threats he had suffered in the late 1580s stemming from the Mordant-Bold family, and he was glad to see this young man in jail: “[I believe, and so should you], that any man bearinge but that name is fitt to be safelie kept” (i.e., should be safely locked away).9 On the spot, Ferdinando confronted Bold and wrote out a document demanding that Bold answer four questions. He then asked Bold to read it, answer the questions, and sign it. In it, he asked Bold if he knew Agnes Mordant, young Mordant, or Day. He asked him if he knew anything about any letters from Mrs. Mordant to Robert Sefton pertaining to Ireland. Bold answered all of the questions in the negative and signed the hastily written deposition (which is extant).10 (It would appear that at this point, the men who were with him had not been asked to identify themselves. They did reveal their identities immediately thereafter, when pressed, after Ferdinando had secured Bold’s signed deposition.) Ferdinando sent them all—except Bold—to Mayor Lloyd in Chester. Along with the letter that was just previously mentioned (the last letter Ferdinando ever wrote to anybody, dated 5 April), he enclosed the deposition plus three or more letters he had found on Bold during an apparent body search following the taking of his deposition. These were the letters that Agnes Mordant had written to Sefton and to Bold’s wife, Jane;

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they were now in Bold’s possession rather than Sefton’s or his wife’s. This last bit of information told Ferdinando, told Lloyd, and tells readers that Bold was not just helpfully and obligingly letting his home be used for this meeting. Rather, because he, rather than the letters’ addressees, was carrying these letters on his person, it can be inferred that it was he who was in charge of the meeting—perhaps even in charge of the whole affair from its outset.11 But Ferdinando nowhere said or implied that he took Bold into custody and sent him to Lloyd and to certain jail. My inference from this fact—and from Ferdinando’s next known act on this same day, the sending of an urgent message to Sir Robert Cecil by a fast courier (this will be discussed in the following paragraph)—is that Bold of Bold Hall probably stood squarely on his rights, knowing or suspecting that Ferdinando did not hold the lord lieutenancy of Lancashire and therefore knowing that the earl lacked the right to arrest him in his own house. I also infer that Ferdinando did not mention this fact to Mayor Lloyd in his letter because he thought it was possible that Lloyd did not yet know that the status of his lieutenancy was still in limbo courtesy of Cecil. Why volunteer information to a locally powerful personage that was potentially damaging and certainly embarrassing? I think he raised the question by his deliberate omission, leaving the mayor to ask it if he would.12 But even more important, owing to a curiosity of Elizabethan law at this time, is the fact that Ferdinando did not have the right to arrest Bold for a second reason: Bold was wearing Essex’s livery. In the words of Maggie Secara, “If you take a nobleman’s livery… you share his exemption from certain laws. Peers cannot be arrested except for treason, felony, or breach of the peace, and neither can anyone in their livery.”13 Ferdinando quickly dashed off a short note to Sir Robert Cecil after arriving back at Lathom that same day, and he sent an eminent, respected courier (whose name is now unknown) to deliver it to him in London. Feeling himself to have no time to write a full, detailed letter of explanation to Sir Robert, he told this courier what to say to him about this fast-developing matter, scrawling only a few lines (which are amazingly still extant), pleading with him to “steed the bearer” (that is, to help the

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eminent messenger) in making his urgent oral case to his father, Lord Burghley.14 What matter? What case? Under the circumstances, I think it can only be the matter of Bold—and the case for the Cecils to grant Ferdinando the lord lieutenancy, even if just on a temporary, “acting” basis, in order that he could arrest Bold, who was still legally at large in Lancashire until somebody, somewhere, would do something about him. Nobody did anything about him. It is not known what Cecil and his father replied to Ferdinando’s courier in answer to the urgent plea he bore or if they replied at all. But nobody did anything about Bold, who remained free. Ferdinando’s letter to Mayor Lloyd just mentioned (the letter of the fifth which he wrote from his palace at Knowsley), is signed in an uncharacteristically weak hand, and the signature lacks the earl’s customary elaborate flourish beneath it—or any sign of one.15 The reason is obvious: he was ill—to say the least. He had just been administered a gigantic dose of poison, almost certainly arsenic.16

CHAPTER 13

PASSION, POISON, AND PUTREFACTION

The passion was in the hearts of those who killed him. The poison was almost certainly arsenic. The putrefaction will be discussed later: sufficient to the moment is the evil thereof. The title of this chapter is adapted from a hilarious little curtain raiser by George Bernard Shaw. I appropriate it because it is descriptively perfect with respect to the hideous events it chronicles. However, the chapter will not be hilarious, except perhaps in an Edward Gorey or Charles Addams sense—a sense which, admittedly, suggested its title to me and now perhaps will suggest it to others. But this chapter will be a curtain closer rather than a curtain raiser, for it will draw the final curtain on Ferdinando’s life. I have debated with myself for some time about how to present this brief (sixteen-day) chronicle the most effectively. The first way would be to present the few (but conflicting) manuscript sources upon which the chronicle is based, interrogating those sources in detail for their veracity as I went along, keeping some and throwing others out, ending with

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a narrative of what probably really happened, and then going back and interrogating that for its veracity. The second way would be to simply tell the story in the way that it has been several times told and retold by others in print—to tell it as a relatively seamless chronicle. Then, however, as no one else has yet done, I could go back and “deconstruct” it, explaining how that apparently seamless chronicle was put together from the few primary sources upon which it is based, then parsing those documents in detail, interrogating them for veracity in the process. Both ways would in the end produce the most reliable narrative it is possible at this time to produce. (Both ways would also lead on to the subject of the next chapter, the elaborate cover-up of Ferdinando’s murder by people in extremely high places.) In the end, I have decided on the second way simply because I fear that the first way, although it is perhaps preferable in a legal sense, would be too boring to be endured by most of the nonspecialist readers I hope to interest. Thus, the investigation now turns to the standard story of Earl Ferdinando’s sickness and death. This version of the tale, as recounted by almost all modern historians, starts where this book began, on April Fool’s Day 1593, with Ferdinando being confronted by a woman outside of his Lathom palace. She offered him a “supplication” or “petition” that she might lodge near him for the foreseeable future in order that she might be able to “reveale unto him such things with speede which God revealed unto her for his good.” It is not explicitly stated in the manuscript source that this woman was, or was thought to be, a witch; yet the inclusion of this item in the source, especially its placement in the text, implies that the writer clearly meant to send the message to his readers that she was indeed a witch. The context of the manuscript is witches and witchcraft as the cause of Ferdinando’s death, and there would have been no other reason for the author to include the information about the woman.1 On 2 April, Ferdinando received the Bold-Mordant letter from Mayor Lloyd of Chester, raced to Bold’s house, found Bold there, interrogated him, caught him in several under-oath lies on the spot, and sent everyone there but Bold to Mayor Lloyd under guard. He then immediately sent a courier to Sir Robert Cecil in London, asking him to listen to the

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courier’s oral argument (which was, of course, Ferdinando’s own) and to help persuade his father, Lord Burghley, to accept that argument. As I have suggested earlier, this argument was probably a most redundant but now suddenly urgent plea to grant Ferdinando the lord lieutenancy of Lancashire and the chamberlaincy of Chester immediately, in order that he might legally arrest Bold at Bold Hall in Prescot.2 Upon going to bed and falling into a deep sleep on the night of 4 April, Ferdinando was heard to cry out loudly. He arose from his bed, still apparently asleep, and began calling for his wife, Countess Alice, whom he had dreamed to be dead.3 But another source tells the story slightly differently: Ferdinando experienced very troubled sleep, at one point crying out that Countess Alice had fallen dangerously ill. He wept and left his bed, screaming for help. He then “sought about the chamber” for her, halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Someone woke him up and comforted him, assuring him that Alice was alive and well. This source adds, “Here, we omit strange dreams, a divination of divers grave men.” This “divination” cannot be explained; the source seems to separate it from Ferdinando’s actual dreams, and yet his words may not actually intend any such separation.4 On the morning of Friday, 5 April, following this horrible night, Ferdinando and Dr. John Case (who was ending his visit on that day) rode several miles together to Knowsley Hall—specifically to a small cottage the earl kept on the grounds there in order to retire completely from the whirlwind of social activity that was standard in the life of such a great house. (Most nobles had such cottages or lodges near their halls and palaces, places to which they could retire from the hubbub of the great buildings themselves, which were virtually open houses at all hours of the day and early evening to others of high rank.) At around 5:00 p.m., as witnessed by his private secretary John Golborne (his surname was spelled in a near-infinitude of ways at the time) in his private study within the lodge, Ferdinando vomited three times (other sources say it was twice).5 One source says the vomiting was immediately precipitated by the earl’s seeing a tall man with a “gastly and threatening countenance”6 suddenly appear, “cross him” two or three

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times, and pass through the chamber, and that the earl began to vomit upon first reaching the place where he saw the tall man’s shadow fall, immediately informing Secretary Golborne of this sequence of events. Golborne, however, did not report seeing any such thing—or seeing Ferdinando react to any such thing. Another source reports that Ferdinando was amazed to hear Golborne say to him that he had not seen the tall man.7 Later, Ferdinando wrote his last letter to anyone—the 5 April letter to Mayor Lloyd containing the details of what had happened at Bold’s house on 2 April and cautioning him about “anyone named Mordant,” the letter with the shaky signature and missing flourish beneath it. He posted it while he was at Knowsley, knowing that it was a good bit closer to Chester than to Lathom Hall. He told Case he was feeling poorly, and Case administered some rosa solis. He remained ill in the evening, eating little but making a brave show of trying to be “merry”—probably for Case’s benefit, as this was their last planned evening together. That night, he dreamed that he was engaged in mortal combat with some enemies and was “stabbed to the heart” (as well as in many other parts of his body).8 On the morning of the sixth (Saturday), Ferdinando rode back to Lathom accompanied only by Secretary Golborne. Some have thought it odd that he would dismiss his doctor while he was still feeling ill, but this had evidently been the plan all along—that he would accompany Case as far as Knowsley as Case made his way back to his “sabbatical” residence and practice at Chester (Knowsley is about midway on this journey), that they would spend the night there together, and that they would part on the sixth, with Ferdinando going back to Lathom and Case going on to Chester. The inference is that Ferdinando felt well enough to keep to this plan, not detaining his eminent old tutor further. Upon arriving home a few hours later, however, Ferdinando was clearly much worse. Riders were sent to catch Dr. Case and bring him back. On Sunday, 7 April, Ferdinando vomited seven times for a total of seven pints, as reported by the persons who were present—who also reported them as being “sootie” or like “rusty iron.” The substance was “gross” and “fatty,” and the smell was “offensive.”9 His urine was “in color, smell, and substance not unlike his vomits.” At this point, Case

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arrived on the scene. He administered a glister in order “to move the humors downward,” causing Ferdinando to feel momentarily a little better. He “wrought [moved his bowels] 5 times.”10 Case also applied a catheter. He rechecked the earl’s urine and was reported firsthand to be amased to see so great a change in so short a tyme; for where a little before he had discerned his boddy to be most healthfull, nowe he founde a contrary appearance and shewe of so many sondry diseases, that he knewe not what to resolve upon.11

That is, he did not know how to diagnose his patient or how to treat him. It will be remembered that Case had checked the earl’s urine while they were at Lathom only a few days earlier to attend Countess Alice. Putting that fact of this sudden change together with the earl’s various and sundry present complaints, Case commented that Ferdinando had become afflicted with many “diseases.” (English medical science at the time did not distinguish clearly between diseases and symptoms; within this context, Case was clearly talking about symptoms, as he had found that he could make no diagnosis yet as to an actual disease or cause.) Case then called in a consulting team of three other respected physicians, plus a chirurgeon, all of whom arrived as soon as they possibly could. Together, they doctored Ferdinando with the broadest range of medical treatments that were available at the time, attempting to cover every possible ailment. Among the many remedies that were employed early on was a powder of both unicorn’s horn and bezoar stone—a mixture that was thought at the time to be the most strongly indicated universal antidotes for poison. But by the time Ferdinando died, nine days later on the sixteenth, Case had narrowed things down to one cause, and in doing so, he was unanimously supported by the other physicians who were standing at his side. To this the story will shortly come. On the following day, Monday, 8 April, the doctors administered rhubarb and vanna in some chicken broth, and the earl “wrought” nine times. Case again applied a catheter, which the chirurgeon “strongly sucked.”12 On Tuesday, Ferdinando was experiencing continual bleeding from the mouth, accompanied by bloody vomits. Case begged the earl to allow

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him to bleed him, but the earl refused several times and never allowed bleeding to be done. (Case’s aim with the bleeding, he explained to Ferdinando, was “to direct and stay the course thereof”—that is, to “stay” the blood somewhat, at least enough to stop it from flowing from his mouth.) Upon being refused, Case administered “fomentations,” oils and plasters, all “outwardly applied” to “stay and comfort his stomach.” On the next day, Wednesday the tenth, at the very witching hour, something very strange is reported. A bedchamber servant named Halsall (probably a relative of Ferdinando’s widowed stepmother, Dame Jane) told another of the earl’s secretaries, one Master Smith, that he had discovered a wax image of the earl in the room at exactly that moment. He said the image had “hair like his honor’s, twisted through the navel and secrets.” He said he had immediately cast this “Elizabethan voodoo”13 doll (as Charles Nicholl termed it) into the blazing fireplace, in the firm belief that this action would “burn the witch responsible.” But the author of the manuscript source reporting Halsall’s action said that “it fell out contrary to his love and affection,” for after the melting of the wax image, “he [Ferdinando] more and more declined.” Smith apparently asked Halsall to swear upon his sacred oath to this sequence of events, for the source says that Halsall did so in his presence.14 Meanwhile, another source reports that there was no wax doll at all, but rather “an image framed in wax.” On the morning of the following day, Thursday, 11 April, Case administered another purge, which “wrought well nine times.” But Ferdinando (who had been of sound mind all through his physical ordeal) realized he was dying and insisted upon revising his will.15 The new will was a 2,000-year trust. He chose as its administrator his old friend Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury (who has been discussed earlier in connection with both Ferdinando and Essex). Other trustees would be Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, the courtier poet and playwright who wrote one of the first real English tragedies, Gorboduc; the earl’s brother-in-law Sir Thomas Leigh of Stoneleigh, who had married Countess Alice’s older sister Catherine; and one Edward Savage, who, some scholars have said, had a Shakespeare connection. One purpose of the new, revised will was

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“to repay his debts from the profit of his estates,” but the underlying purpose was to disenfranchise his younger brother William and to thereby ensure that all of his vast possessions that were not applied to debt would go directly to his wife, Countess Alice, and their three young daughters. Witnessing the will on this day were William Lewin, the archbishop of Canterbury’s local lawyer; Thomas Browne, the local notary public; and—curiously—Lady Alice, Countess of Derby. (I say “curiously” because, then as well as now, it was not considered to be quite proper, and was sometimes held to be illegal, for one of the primary beneficiaries of a will to witness it.) On that same day, Countess Alice wrote to Lord Burghley in London, telling him that all hope had been given up for her husband and pleading with him and his son, Sir Robert, to be “as dear to her and her poor children” as they had always been to Earl Ferdinando.16 That night, Dr. Case administered diascordium with some lemon juice and “scabious water,” resulting in the earl’s ability to finally get a little rest.17 On the next day, 12 April, a Friday, because of the unrelenting vomits made up of fatty, rusty-looking substances and much blood, Case and his team urged Ferdinando to allow them to do something radically invasive—to allow them to scour the bottom of his stomach, with the aim being to cleanse it of “so vile and loathsome matter wherewith he was troubled.” He flatly refused. Case then administered diaphorecion18 to make him sweat, but it “availed not.” That same night, “his watter suddenly staid, to the astonishment of all.”19 But one of the main original sources adds that his ability to urinate “utterlie stopped” at the very moment that one “Jane,” a known witch, inquired of Secretary John Golborne whether “his Honor felt pain in his lower parts and whether he made water.” It adds that “not withstanding all helps … [the stoppage] so remained until he died.”20 On the next day, Saturday the thirteenth, all sorts of desperate remedies were used to “provoke water”—glisters, liquids, fomentations, poultices, “opies,” and “stirrings.” Nothing had any effect.21 At some point during Ferdinando’s last days (but never dated precisely), a woman of around fifty, described in the sources as both “wise” and

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“homely,” who had apparently been in the chamber for some days, was ejected by the doctors, who kept tripping over her and her various herbal potions and brews.22 Her labors had seemed to ease the earl’s symptoms, especially the constant vomits and hiccups, although, it was noted, whenever the earl reported his symptoms to be lessened by her labors, she herself began to be “troubled most vehemently by the same symptoms,” including the vomiting of matter like that he vomited himself. One part of her work was “tempring and blessing” the juice of certain herbs in pots, but one doctor finally tripped over one of the pots, whereupon he commanded her to leave. (It is not recorded whether or not this doctor was Case.) But she would not exit before swearing that she would not “cease to ease him,” noting at the same time, however, that she could not “perfectly help him because he [was] so strongly bewitched.”23 (I note here, with respect to the “homely woman,” that the adjective homely may not have been a haughty doctor’s description of an older woman’s physical appearance. In consulting the online OED, I found that the phrase homely woman was used to denote a female domestic—as the term homely man was likewise used for a male domestic. The significance of this is that the woman may well have been a well-known Lathom family servant. Had she not been, she would hardly have been allowed to work on Ferdinando’s behalf in his private bedchamber for several days.) It is important to realize that she was not inserted into the documentary record because anyone thought she was a witch. As is obvious, they did not. She was inserted into the record to help confirm the later official conclusion that Ferdinando died of witchcraft—because of what she said. Also undated is testimony from one major manuscript source that Ferdinando “cried out all through his sickness that he had been bewitched” and said that the doctors “labored in vain because he was certainly bewitched.” This source states that Ferdinando “cried out often against witches and witchcraft” and said that his “only hope of salvation [not cure] was with Jesus Christ.”24 But this account of what he said is contradicted in strangely similar wording by an equally reliable early manuscript source: “The Erle hymself … from the third day he sickened complayned still [that is, until the

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day of his death] he had a wrong wrest, was ill delt withal: and that his disease was not naturall [emphasis added].”25 (By “wrong wrest,” Ferdinando meant something close to an “evil trick”; see OED n. 2, obsolete. His use of this noun may also have implied that this trick was meant to deceive others as to its cause or source, as it probably carried such a connotation at the time.) This lengthy firsthand report by Ferdinando’s private secretary John Golborne, apparently unread in its entirety from late April 1594 until the present day, does not attribute to Ferdinando any words having anything to do with witchcraft. Nor does it make any mention of witchcraft—or, for that matter, of the supernatural in general. This long-buried document shall be examined in detail shortly. Similarly undated, although it can be determined that it was written toward the end of the earl’s sickness, one source reports that the earl “fell into a trance twice, not able to stir hand, head, or foot, when he should have taken physic to do him good.” The implication is that witchcraft prevented him from receiving medical treatment which might have helped him.26 On the next two days, Sunday the fourteenth and Monday the fifteenth, Case repeatedly tried to use a catheter injected straight into the bladder, which the attending chirurgeon again “strongly sucked,” but again to no avail.27 (Chirurgeons were the forerunners of certain types of surgeons; their specialty was treating diseases by invasive manual means.) By late on Monday, Ferdinando instructed Case, whom he said he “love[d],” to give it up. He said that Case’s fully reciprocated love of him was causing him to labor feverishly in vain. Finally, on Tuesday the sixteenth, Ferdinando sent for Countess Alice to tell her vale—farewell. Bishop Chaderton was already at the bedside, as he had so recently been at Ferdinando’s father’s. So was the earl’s private chaplain, William Leigh (Lee), of whom more will be considered later. When Alice arrived, the earl entreated her to “love his doctor” and to give him a precious jewel adorned with Ferdinando’s name, titles, and arms in order “that he might be remembered.” He then uttered his last: “I am resolved presently to die, [but to] take away only one part of my arms, I mean the Eagle’s Wings, so will I fly swiftly into the bosom of

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Christ my only saviour.”28 At 4:00 p.m. on that same day, Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange and the fifth Earl of Derby, died. The famous historian William Camden, who probably knew him, wrote that for a very long time after his death, even though he and the utensils that were used by his doctors were “wrapped up in seare-cloth and covered with lead … [they still] did so flow with corrupted and stinking humours that no man in a long time durst come neere his buriall place.”29 Thus ends the traditional story of Ferdinando’s death. But left out of that story are a few words his lead physician uttered audibly, apparently only moments after the earl died: “Flat poisoning.” And, he added, “No other but [italics original].” That’s what Dr. John Case said as he stood at his dead patient’s bedside. The other doctors concurred—whether by silently nodding their assent or mumbling “amen” is not known.30 These experienced practitioners knew, as one journalist put it, that “this was no ordinary way to die in Elizabethan England.” Between them, they had seen it all—including all of the “maybe natural causes” theories, which first showed up in John Stow’s 1600 published account and which Devlin and his supporters endorsed.31 (These doctors had seen burst appendixes, septicemia, peritonitis, and so forth—even though they did not know their modern English names or have any way to treat them.) It is not known how audibly Case spoke, but at least five people heard what he said: the three other doctors, who concurred; the earl’s secretary, John Golborne, who recorded it in his official report; presumably Countess Alice (though it cannot be said for sure); and another person or persons, who reported it orally to Sir George Carey in London three days later, implying their unquestioned belief in its veracity. Carey was Ferdinando’s brother-in-law, married to Countess Alice’s older sister, Lady Elizabeth Carey. He immediately wrote his wife a long letter quoting Case’s “flat poisoning” remark, implying that he too believed it without question. Case and his colleagues finally arrived at this diagnosis not only upon the basis of all they had seen during their extensive practices and what they had seen during the progress of Ferdinando’s sickness, but also upon seeing the condition of the young earl’s

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body as he lay there suddenly dead and naked before them. Significantly, Carey also told his wife in this letter that Ferdinando did not die of any “sickness of nature but of villainous poison.” (I note that I have transcribed Carey’s manuscript’s “vichess” as “sickness.”) A few days after Ferdinando’s death, the doctors noticed that “his brest was all spotted and besett with purple pusshes [pustules, boils], and a circle about his throte of like color,” concluding that these manifestations were “nothynge but the very rancore of the poyson.”32 This leaves three questions. First, what kind of poison was used? Naturally, people have wondered about that, and most of them have decided that it was either mercury or arsenic. Specialists who have examined the case in the last few years have decided for “one giant dose of arsenic.” These are the words of one of the two physicians in Glasgow to whom Ian Wilson presented the evidence when he was working on his biography of Shakespeare. (The two physicians concurred in the diagnosis.)33 In 2001, a specialist writing in the British medical journal the Lancet,34 William Jeffcoate, came to the same conclusion after a careful examination of the symptoms. Several physicians wrote letters of response to Jeffcoate,35 all agreeing about poison but some differing about various other aspects of his article. Second, would it not be really difficult to poison a member of the English nobility at this time because of the communal dining practices that were then prescribed at the table? It would not have been very easy, and that is one reason why most such English attempts were made—or said to have been made—with items such as poisoned gloves, poisoned garments, and poisoned saddles. The person directly administering the poison would have the hard job of making sure that only the intended victim got sick. Otherwise, everybody would know that poison was the cause—and that therefore, murder had been committed. Perhaps the only person who could accomplish such a task would be a palace insider, such as a gentleman waiter who was based in the kitchen.36 This is exactly what Robert Doughtie was. Third, was there not a special stigma attached to using poison as a murder method in the England of this time? Yes, there was.37 The use of

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poison was definitely not considered to be a fair tactic. During this time, the English people associated poison with what they considered to be the sneaky, underhanded Italian Borgias. London was full of excitement around this same time because of the case of Doctor Lopez, a physician to the Queen, who had been accused by the Earl of Essex of trying to assassinate Elizabeth with poison. It was probably a frame on the part of Essex and his spies, the motive being not only to advance Essex in Elizabeth’s eyes in his ongoing rivalry with Burghley for favor and influence, but also probably to create a scandal about this near-Italian, near-Spaniard “Portuguese Jew” (for so Lopez was constantly termed) and his hideously un-English choice of murder weapons. In the words of one historian, In his Institutes Coke asserted that no one in England had been convicted of poisoning for a 200-year period. Then, in 1531, there was a conviction, and Henry [VIII] was so angry and horrified that he proclaimed that poison should be considered a special case of murder and categorized as treason. (The convictee was to be dipped in boiling water slowly, starting with the tiptoes, so that the agony could be prolonged.) Some people were so penalized in the sixteenth century. One witness to such an execution, an MP, said he was taken as a child to such an execution, and that it haunted him for life.38

The law that said poison was treason and that it was to be punished in this way was still on the books and still so enforced at the time of Ferdinando’s murder in 1594. The two opposing English attitudes toward poison and spying might seem puzzling to some readers. Without knowing otherwise, one would presume that a culture which hated one because of its deepest underlying values would hate the other because of those same values. But although the sixteenth-century English people detested the use of poison, they felt quite the opposite about spying—as they still do—viewing it as a practical necessity. The simplest explanation for this difference—which is not necessarily wrong because of its facile banality—is the anthropological concept about “island mentalities.” The somewhat xenophobic English

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islanders may have detested poison because they associated it with certain foreign cultures and practices which they abhorred precisely because they seemed to be so alien. Conversely, they may have valorized spying because it served them as a chief protection from the barbarian, decadent, sometimes pope-worshiping, arsenic-condoning aliens themselves. Most of all, they did not want to lose their island to the aliens, and they feared an alien invasion every day—with good reason. Essex epitomized this mind-set: he almost certainly renounced poison (more on this later) even as he embraced the use of spies wholeheartedly. He hated and feared the Spanish, the French, and the Italians (primarily because of their Catholicism), and he tried from around 1590 until his death to foment war against the Spanish. Because of these strong feelings, engendered by his romantic, Arthurian, merrie-old-England Britishness—his Albionism—he could easily rationalize spying to the point of embracing it. It was done for God and country, he would have reasoned. Seen in this way, there was nothing wrong with spying—it could even be seen as a quintessentially English activity. After all, the Earl of Leicester had embraced it, employing the great spymaster Francis Walsingham for years to run his operation in service to the Queen. After the deaths of Leicester and Walsingham, both Essex and Burghley recruited spies, with Burghley getting the vast majority of them and others going individually to this or that great nobleman—with some working for both great lords and perhaps for some other great lord or lords as well. By the early 1590s, Essex and Burghley were using their respective spy networks in a rivalrous way, both vying to be Elizabeth’s most valued source of intelligence. For Essex, this involved real risk, as he sometimes found himself associating with traitors in order to achieve his political ends—a most dangerous means to an end in Elizabethan England if one were not Lord Burghley or his son Sir Robert. By the early 1590s, Essex was not only running a spy network but was also either protecting or actually sponsoring some of the most suspicious men in England and the rest of Europe. These included Owen Salusburie (who had helped to plan a revolt in the north to place Ferdinando’s father on the throne in early 1593 in

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the Yorke-Williams plot, but who was not ever interrogated about it, apparently because of Essex’s protection); Manuel Luis Tinoco (who was executed for his part in the Lopez plot and who testified in court that everything he did had been approved by Essex); Patrick Cullen (who was executed as a would-be assassin of the Queen and who had presented an expensive jewel to Essex “in order to become his man”); Edward Yorke (of the infamous Yorke-Williams succession plot, who returned to England in the summer of 1594 under the cover of working for Essex); Roger Walton; and Nicholas Williamson (who fled Earl Gilbert Talbot’s service in the hope of joining Essex’s and who soon afterward attempted to take the same crown-offering message from the European Catholic leadership to King James VI that Hesketh had tried a year earlier to take to Ferdinando).39 Essex also apparently used spies to get specialized information about other native nobles who were living in England. Charles Nicholl has argued that Essex even hired the playwright-spy Christopher Marlowe to worm his way into Ferdinando’s circle as a “projector” in order to sniff out not only his real religious beliefs but also any aspirations he may have had for Elizabeth’s crown. (Projectors were agents who infiltrated suspected cells in order to foment crimes against the Crown—one of their raisons d’être being to keep the Queen in a constant state of agitation—and the various spy lords used projectors to compete with one another for the Queen’s favor, arguing that they had “the very latest” intelligence.) Nicholl believed, based on the evidence, that it was the fact that Ferdinando had found out about both Marlowe’s atheism and his attempts to spy upon him for Essex that led the then–Lord Strange (for he had not yet become the earl) to despise and renounce Marlowe as early as 1592.40 It may also explain the already negative feelings he had about Essex, which are so obvious in Ferdinando’s side of their correspondence about Richard Bold.

CHAPTER 14

THE DOCUMENTS IN THE CASE

The reader may well be asking, “Where do all of those minute details which make up the standard story, the ‘received narrative’ of Ferdinando’s suffering and death, come from?” The answer is that each comes from either a surviving manuscript or, in one case, an early printed report that was based on one of those manuscripts. There are four primary manuscripts in the case, plus the printed report. Three of the four were written within two weeks of the earl’s death— before the end of April 1594. The authors of two of these are known for certain: Sir George Carey, the earl’s brother-in-law, and John Golborne, the earl’s chief private secretary. The leading candidate for the author of the third is Earl Ferdinando’s personal chaplain, William Leigh— although, as will be explained briefly in chapter 15, I cannot upon the extant evidence name him as its sole author with total confidence. The author of the fourth is unknown, but I believe it to be Egerton (and will explain why). At some point soon after the earl’s death, someone (perhaps the writer himself ) slipped it to the old chronicler John Stow of London, who then copied it nearly verbatim into the latest printed edition

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of his Annales of England (1599), telling a younger colleague that his information was “gathered by those who were present with him” (that is, by those people who had been at Ferdinando’s bedside). This manuscript’s handwriting is not Stow’s own, but the manuscript was kept for hundreds of years, and still resides, with Stow’s other papers in the Harleian collection at the British Library. John Golborne’s report is at Berkeley Castle in England. It ended up there because Golborne submitted it to Sir George Carey, the husband of Lady Elizabeth, and it passed from the Careys to their daughter, also named Elizabeth, who married young Lord Thomas Berkeley, and they put it in their castle’s muniment room. (A nineteenthcentury copy, lacking the second page, is at the Gloucester County Record Office.) Sir George Carey’s letter to his wife is also at Berkeley Castle, having gotten there by the same route as John Golborne’s report, and they reside very near each other there. The other original manuscript, “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby,” is in the Talbot Collection at Lambeth Palace Library in London. This Talbot is Gilbert Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury, who personally dated and endorsed the manuscript. My surmise (of which more shortly) is that this manuscript ended up as the ”official report” of Ferdinando’s death and that as such, it was given to, or taken by, his dear friend and head trustee, Earl Gilbert, for his own legal records. After dating it and signing it, Gilbert also gave it its present title: “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby.” All four of these original documents either have been or will be printed in this book, not only for completeness but also in order that the reader might be able to continue on with his or her own sleuthing, should time and inclination permit.1 There are several other contemporaneous printed accounts of the affair, from Hesketh’s arrival to the death of the earl, but none of these gives anything approaching a detailed account of the sickness and death, and none is a firsthand report. The earliest of these reports, printed only a few months later in 1594, is by Lord Burghley; others are by William Warner (verse chronicle), Lewis Lewkenor, Thomas Bell, Christopher Bagshaw, Sir Francis Hastings, and the eminent historian William Camden.2 Although none has any claim to independent authority, all are relevant in large and small ways, and this story will return to each of them briefly.

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The second question some readers may be asking is, Why were each of the four primary-source manuscripts written? Or, to put it another way, What “occasioned” them? I think I have been able to find out the answers in each case, but those answers lead to another odd story, a story about what was almost certainly a cover-up. This story begins when Sir George Carey arrived in London on Friday the nineteenth. He had come to the city from the Isle of Wight, where he served as governor. (He would soon become the next Baron Hunsden upon the death of his aged father, Henry; both were among the Queen’s most beloved subjects.) There (as he told his wife, Lady Elizabeth, in a letter written on the following Monday3), he had heard within one hour of arriving the news, which was already a day or so old at court, that his brother-in-law Ferdinando had died three days earlier on Tuesday the sixteenth. Later on that same Friday, the day of Carey’s arrival, he heard the Queen address the hastily convened Privy Council, telling them of the immeasurable loss she and the entire realm had suffered because of Ferdinando’s death.4 On the next day, Saturday, 20 April, Carey and his father, Lord Hunsden, went to court in the afternoon. That night, Carey took an evening walk alone with the Queen. “We entered into speech of the Earl’s death,” he said in his letter to his wife, Elizabeth, “and of your sister’s great sorrow”—that is, the sorrow of Countess Alice. Truly her Majesty had a feeling of compassion, and with tears witnessed it.… She professed she thought not any man in the world loved her better than [Ferdinando] did, that he was the most honouable, worthiest and absolutely honest man that she had in her life ever known.5

(I note, however, that this sentiment conflicts rather markedly with her earlier insistence upon getting independent confirmation of Ferdinando’s claims of innocence regarding his conversations with Richard Hesketh when the earl had brought him in less than six months earlier.) The Queen also promised Carey that she would defend Countess Alice, her sisters, and the three daughters against any claims from Ferdinando’s younger

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brother, the new Earl William, informing him that she had already heard of “threatened trouble” from William on that score: “[She said] that she would protect, defend and do what her friends or self could best devise in her [Alice’s] behalf and that I should rest assured none should have the bringing up of the young ladies but your sister.” My inference about this is that the Queen had already heard that one of Alice’s sisters was worried about Alice’s inheritance fears on that score. If so, it was not Carey’s wife, Elizabeth, as she had not yet heard the news. My guess is that it was Lady Katherine Leigh, the wife of Sir Thomas, as Sir Thomas had recently come to London from Lancashire. Carey pointedly referred to the new earl, William, as “the nidicock”—the fool.6 On the morning of the next day, Sunday, 21 April, the Queen summoned Vice Chamberlain Sir Thomas Heneage, Master of the Rolls Sir Thomas Egerton, and Carey to her, ordering the three of them to appoint official commissioners to investigate the entire matter, also telling them to begin their “dispute” (their opening discussion among themselves as to how to proceed) at the earliest possible moment. They acted immediately to oblige her, for on the evening of that same day, an organizing session was held in Egerton’s Lincoln’s Inn office. Present were Egerton and Carey, along with the two gentlemen who had apparently brought the bad news to London—John Golborne, Ferdinando’s private secretary, and one man who was referred to only as Leigh. At first, I thought the latter would be Sir Thomas Leigh of Stoneleigh, Ferdinando and Carey’s brother-in-law, because Sir Thomas was reported to be on the scene a week later, bringing new information to Carey from Lancashire about the murder. Sir Thomas was a good friend of Egerton’s, and through an arrangement between them, Egerton’s daughter Mary subsequently married Leigh’s son Francis.7 But it (too slowly) dawned on me that this could not be so, because this Leigh was described, along with Golborne, as a “retainer” of Ferdinando’s, which could not describe Sir Thomas. Also, he was not given the title “Sir,” which Carey was usually fastidious about using with his brother-in-law’s name. I now believe him to be William Leigh, Ferdinando’s private chaplain (after 1603, he was also a tutor to Prince Henry), who was at the bedside along with Golborne when

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the earl died. I believe both men to have been dispatched together to the Queen as reporters and credible eyewitnesses.8 In choosing Chaplain William Leigh over Sir Thomas Leigh, one also gets rid of the chronological problem of Sir Thomas’ having ridden into London twice in one week from Lancashire, as it is known that Sir Thomas did indeed ride in a week after the organizing session with fresh news for Carey. What had apparently been decided the day before the meeting (by exactly whom is not clear, but almost certainly by the Queen, Lord Burghley, Sir Robert Cecil, or possibly Sir Thomas Heneage) was that the aged and infirm Sir Thomas, although he was nominally placed in charge by Elizabeth in accord with protocol because he held the title of chancellor of the Duchy of Lancashire, would not actually head up the investigation. Rather, he delegated the job—or was told to delegate it—to Egerton, the master of the rolls. (It should be remembered here that Heneage had opposed Earl Ferdinando’s appointment to the chamberlaincy of Chester, favoring Richard Hesketh’s staunchly Protestant brother Thomas, but Sir Robert Cecil had instead denied both men and appointed Egerton. Therefore, it could be that he was standing down for the sake of, or the appearance of, disinterestedness.) Egerton, Carey, Leigh, and Golborne drew up a short list of people who could investigate Ferdinando’s death in a competent and objective way. Egerton insisted, as a part of this initial planning, that these men not “prejudice the cause” by sticking to one particular line of investigation, but rather they should “keep an open mind for any suggestions that might arise.”9 The next morning, 22 April, Egerton sent a note to Heneage—these two were also dear friends of long standing—telling him that the meeting had taken place on the previous night, giving him details of what had gone on there and assuring him that the investigation had now begun in earnest. He promised to hold a full and thorough inquiry. He said he planned to appoint a commission of five men who were close to Ferdinando to investigate the case and gave their names in a “paper enclosed.” He explained that he had employed two criteria in the appointing of these men: first, that they had great “love and affection” for Ferdinando, and second, that they were without doubt competent to do the investigative

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work and to bring the matter to a successful conclusion. The “paper enclosed” is not extant, so precisely whose names were on it are not known. However, two of them can be deduced: Ferdinando’s personal chaplain, William Leigh, and his private secretary, John Golborne. Both men soon produced concluding reports—reports which, as shall be seen, contradicted each other in crucial respects, the most important being the cause of death. It is also probable that Carey himself was named on the list, as he was soon exhibiting hands-on involvement. Egerton stressed to Heneage that he had insisted to the investigating committee that, for the examining and finding out of a matter of this quality, there cannot, without great prejudice to the cause, any certain and particular articles be devised, but the wisdom and discretion of those that shall be authorized to deal in it must from time to time, as they shall see cause, devise new questions, and against all persons whom they shall see in any way touched by proof or probability.10

That is, the investigating committee would have a free rein; it would not be required to follow any prearranged course that would be imposed upon it from on high, and it would be given the power to innovate as its members saw fit. On that same day, Monday the twenty-second, Carey wrote his letter to his wife Elizabeth informing her that her brother-in-law Ferdinando had died, and then going on to give her a great deal of inside information he had picked up since arriving in London on the previous Friday. This letter is one of the most important documents in the entire case. Carey was an eccentric writer, and it is admittedly hard to make sense of some of his lines. For example, in speaking of the late Ferdinando, he said, “I never thought so much to have loved in his life, as I find greatly to have been grieved for after his death.…” Was he referring to himself or to others? Was he saying that he never thought during Ferdinando’s life that he loved him enough that he would grieve for him as he was now doing after his death? Or was he sarcastically saying that people at court were grieving for him more after his death than they ever professed to like

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him during his life? His writings are full of such sentences. Fortunately, however, the important ones in this letter are clear and unambiguous: The good service he did to her Majesty and the realm, and no private ill desert of his own, shortened his days, not by any ordinary vichness [sic] of nature, but by villainous poisoning, witchcraft and enchantment, whereof the bottom not yet found, but in my hope and the courses I have taken, trust shall be answered.…11

In other words, it was Ferdinando’s “good service” to the Queen and the country in turning in Hesketh that caused his death. Carey indicated that he trusted that because of the “courses I have taken,” the “bottom”—the solution—would be found. He did not go into specifics with his wife about what the “courses” were, but based on other documents, it can be determined that he meant the investigation he and Egerton had launched on the previous evening in Egerton’s office. From this wording and from other documents soon to be looked at, it may be gathered that he was now the real leader of that investigation. (As for its nominal leader, the aged and infirm Heneage, Carey gossiped to his wife at the very end of this letter that he had just married the Dowager Countess of Southampton, but neither could give the other the pox—syphilis—because they both already had it. Carey had it too and would die of it several years later, but he did not know that at the time he wrote this letter.)12 As for the “villainous poisoning, witchcraft, and enchantment,” Carey went on to state that these were three separate diagnoses by somebody, but that only Case and the other “real doctors” had diagnosed poisoning and only poisoning: “The poisoning [was] made manifest by the judgment of Doctor Case and three other physicians all affirming that his disease could be no other but flat poisoning.”13 Of particular interest are the words “no other,” as they make clear that the doctors did not accept the witchcraft and enchantment theories. Carey went on: The witchcraft [we know about] partly by the confession and manifest demonstration in the acts of a witch apprehended and in prison for it. The enchantment [was made] evident by the finding

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON of his [Ferdinando’s] picture framed in wax with one of his own hairs pricked directly in the heart thereof.14

The description of an unidentified wax object has turned from what first seemed to have been a doll made of wax into a picture framed with wax. But this could well be a simple oral transmission error—or perhaps not really even that. After all, what the finder, Master Halsall, told the earl’s secretary Master Smith under oath was that he had found an “image made of wax,” as noted earlier in the front-matter section titled “Loomings.” The phrase is open to both interpretations. Much more important is the phrase about the “witch apprehended and in prison for it.” This is almost certainly the witch who was mentioned earlier (also in “Loomings”), who could not utter the phrase “forgive us our trespasses” from the Lord’s Prayer to Sir Edward Fitton and his post mortem investigators around Lathom even when she was prompted several times. She was also probably the witch “Jane” who reportedly asked the earl’s lead secretary, John Golborne, if Ferdinando, in the midst of his sickness, had stopped urinating at the exact moment he did stop (reported in “Loomings” as well). I equate them because Fitton would have arrested them both and told Carey of it had there been two. But Fitton had arrested only one.15 Then Carey told his wife a most peculiar thing. He told her that “by practice of some of them [these witches] your sister, not aviente [pregnant] before, without any cause to be imagined why [was] brought to bed before her time of a boy child.”16 In other words, Countess Alice was both impregnated by these witches and caused to miscarry by them. Could one be misreading this? Yes, one could be, if this were all of the information one had. However, there is confirmatory wording in the report John Golborne wrote as a part of Carey’s investigation a week after this letter to his wife. Consider merely its first line: Ffirst (which is not immateriall to be remembered) the Countesse his wiefe being two months and more gone with childe, not knowing or able to imagine any occasion from whence it should proceed, about the middle of Lent last, lost her burthen: whereuppon Doctor Case of Oxford being sent for, came to Lathom.…17

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Both Carey in his letter and Golborne in his opening line implied strongly that there was no “normal” explanation for Alice’s having become pregnant. Either Alice or Ferdinando (or perhaps both) had apparently told him that they had not had sexual relations in the last two months. There is no other way the information could have gotten into Golborne and Carey’s documents.18 Even if Carey’s letter to his wife was based on testimony by Golborne in London, there is still Golborne to consider: how else could he have known this information, and why was he not afraid to report it openly if he had not been told it authoritatively? But Golborne went much further in his speculations. For whereas Carey, a strong believer in witchcraft, attributed the pregnancy to witches, Golborne made the official case for poison alone as the cause of Ferdinando’s death, and his report does not even mention witches or witchcraft in its text. (As Devlin correctly pointed out, “In the decade 1587–1597 prosecutions for witchcraft reached the highest point in all of British history; everybody believed in witches and witchcraft.”)19 This widespread belief was especially manifest in the members of Shakespeare’s supposed “School of Night,” in connection with which Carey was prominently mentioned by his friend the poet George Chapman in this same year—1594.20 Thus, Golborne was saying unambiguously that Alice was inexplicably pregnant. Was he emphasizing this fact to his readers? I think he may well have been, as he had no logical reason to begin his report with this sentence—or, for that matter, even to include it. Again, his first line: “Ffirst (which is not immateriall to be remembered [emphasis added]) the Countesse his wiefe being two months and more gone with childe, not knowing or able to imagine any occasion from whence it should proceed.…” Upon reexamining this sentence, it may be noticed that Golborne was not only leading with this information, he was stressing that the information “is not immateriall to be remembered.” In other words, he seems to have been saying that he believed this inexplicable pregnancy was relevant to the earl’s death by poisoning. He did not explain his reasoning. He made the statement and merely went on to give a detailed chronology of the earl’s illness and death, as well as listing his many reasons for thinking poison was its cause.

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But Golborne’s last reason, different in kind from all of the others, leaps out from the page: “And lastly (which is not to be omitted) there was a fore runnyng reporte in and about London that he [Ferdinando] was dead by poyson a fortnight or thereabouts before he fell sick.”21 He had heard this “reporte” immediately upon arriving in London bearing the news of Ferdinando’s death.

CHAPTER 15

“THIS FOR POISON”

THE GOLBORNE REPORT The following, with its spelling and punctuation lightly modernized, is Secretary John Golborne’s report in full. He wrote it in the first person and signed it, although the title was not likely his. A trewe report and observaunce of the sicknes and death of F: late Erle of Derby, who departed this lief the xvixvi of this instant Aprill 1594 about five of the Clock in the After noone by poyson, witchcraft, or both as suspected, The reasons whereof ensue. First (which is not immaterial to be remembered) the countess his wife, being two months and more gone with child, not knowing or able to imagine any occasion from whence it should proceed, about the middle of Lent last lost her burden. Whereupon Doctor Case of Oxford, being sent for, came to Lathom, where the earl and his wife then lay a day or two before Palm Sunday. After he had ministered to her, and [had] continued some time there, [the doctor] was requested by the earl to give a judgment upon viewing his water, which (having well viewed and considered of) he

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON affirmed to be a show of the most sound, perfect, able body that he had seen—and that he should much err in judgment if he were to minister him any physic. Friday following in Easter week, the earl, going with the doctor to a house of his called Knowsley, [and] being at a lodge he had there, in his chamber attended with none but myself, complained he was sick, and therewith vomited three times—which afterwards making knowne to the doctor, he took by his advise some Rosa solis. At supper he ate little, but desired to be merry and pass the time somewhat pleasantly. That night he took very unquiet rest. In the morning (which was Saturday), he sent away the doctor and hasted himself to Lathom, whither being come, and finding his distemperature to increase and vomit to continue, he posted [some] one away to fetch back the doctor, who returned Sunday about 12 of the clock [noon], [at] what time, viewing his water, he wondered and was amazed to see so great a change in so short a time; for where a little before he had discerned his body to be most healthful, now he found a contrary appearance and show of so many sundry diseases [symptoms] that he knew not what to resolve upon. There was a show of the yellow jaundice, an imposthumation, and a burning fever, [along] with other unhealthful accidents besides, [such] as the hiccups, loss of sleep and a continual vomit, which now was turned from phlegm to sanguis concretus, or eruginosa materia, like the rust of old iron, with some small pieces or gobbets of fat in it. The doctor first ministered bezoar stone, unicorn’s horn, and other cordials and preservatives. After which he removed the gross matter by glister [enema], then gave him a thorough purge, which both wrought very effectively. This notwithstanding, his vomit and hiccups continued—whereupon [he] was secondly, by the advice of other physicians [who had since been called in by Case] ministered another glister and purgation which both wrought as was desired, the last stool of which purgation, being (as I take it) the seventh, was very black, and savored exceedingly. By this time he had above thirty vomits, the least [of them] a Pinte, and all of a like matter—notwithstanding which, and the small sustenance he took, and that he had byn so cleansed by twoe glisters and two purges, his vomit continued till he had two and fifty.

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And it is further to be noted, which was a thing much wondered at by the physicians, that for all his general distemperature of body, his pulse continued true, strong, and perfect, till the day of his death, and [that] till not an hour before his death, and his speech and memory till the very instant of his death. Upon all which is gathered that, being a little before in opinion of so learned a Physician so sound, and now suddenly infected with so many diseases and such unordinary accidents, all which, as is thought, may be reconciled to proceed from poyson—as the yellowness to be the tincture of such a Potion; the burning fever [to be] the distemeperature it wrought; the show of impostumation its effect by penetrating some interior vein or part, from which general hurt of nature might proceed the other accidents of vomits, hiccups, and loss of sleep. All which conjecture are made much [more] probable by considering the unnaturalness of the black stool; and that after he was dead, all his breast was all spotted and beset with purple pushes, and a circle about his throat of the like color, which could be nothing but the very rancor of the poison.1

This last sentence is underlined for emphasis in the manuscript, and Golborne wrote the following marginal note beside it: “This appeared first my coming thence and therefore omitted in my former particular.” With the syntax untangled, and when read within its chronological context, the note indicates that the purple “pushes” and the purple circle appeared on the earl’s breast and throat while Golborne was in London to share the bad news of Ferdinando’s death, including giving his oral report to Carey and/or Egerton. Because Golborne had not heard about these symptoms (or viewed them firsthand) until he had returned to Lathom, he had omitted them in his oral report to Carey and/or Egerton. His report continues, Furthermore, it may weigh something the testimony of the earl himself, who from the third day he sickened complained still he had a wrong wrest, was ill dealt withal, and that his disease was not natural. [A “wrong wrest” was an unfair, even evil, action that was performed by one person upon another.]

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON And lastly (which is not to be omitted) there was a forerunning report in and about London that he was dead by poison a fortnight before he fell sick or thereabouts. John Golburne [signed]

Golborne’s report apparently had only two readers at the most—definitely Carey and almost certainly Egerton. Carey endorsed it with his own signature, adding the marginal phrase, “This for poyson.” He then quickly buried it in his private files at his home on the Isle of Wight, and it was never seen again until the twentieth century, when copies of about half of it were found in the Gloucester County Record Office, along with Carey’s letter to his wife. Both of these documents turned out to be nineteenth-century copies, however, and the originals, amazingly, were right where one would expect to find them: hidden away, right next to each other, in Carey’s private letter-book. This book was passed down through his daughter, Lady Berkeley, and now resides in the muniment room at Berkeley Castle, too fragile to even be copied (but not too fragile to be transcribed). Why Carey did not burn them is a mystery to me. Egerton seems to have requested of Carey, in keeping with the most up-to-date Elizabethan legal practice, that two formal arguments be written and submitted on the basis of the rapid but intense investigation that was taking place in Lancashire: one for poison and one for witchcraft. The more persuasive of the two arguments would be accepted by judges or juries. (In effect, this is still the standard court practice in some parts of Europe and America.)

THE LETTER FOUND

BY

CHANCE

Carey seems to have been instantly convinced by the witchcraft argument; on the day he read it, he wrote a crucial letter to his official boss in the investigation, Sir Thomas Heneage, and sent a copy to Cecil. He pointedly did not send it or copy it to Egerton—a tiny but suspicious fact under the circumstances, leading to the reasonable (but possibly wrong) inference that Carey was purposely excluding Egerton from the official correspondence regarding his own provisional pro-witchcraft,

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anti-poison conclusion—not so much to keep him in the dark (which would have been impossible under the circumstances), but rather to give him “deniability” of it later. This is the full text of Carey’s letter: Since my coming hither [to London], I find by Sir Thomas Leighe, lately arrived out of Lancashire, greater presumptions that the late earl of Derby was “beweeched” than poisoned. A vehement suspicion also may be gathered by a letter found by chance, that the younger brother of Doughtie, this lord’s secretary, named either Richard or Robert Doughtie, can discover much of this matter, if he be well examined, therefore I beseech you to direct your warrant to me or any of my officers for the apprehending of the said Doughtie, now in London; that upon his apprehension he may be brought before you two, or before the Master of the Rolls [Egerton] and me.2

A careful parsing of this letter, in the light of a document that Leigh soon produced for Carey advocating witchcraft, will reveal that Carey did not necessarily connect the new presumption of witchcraft with the new suspect named Doughtie. It is important to notice the “also,” for Carey seems to have been saying that the new presumptions for poison were one issue and that the new suspicion of Doughtie, which was based on a “letter found by chance,” was another, separate issue. In the “for witchcraft” document that was quickly produced to stand against Golborne’s “for poison” document, Doughtie, as shall be seen, is nowhere mentioned in the evidence. My inference from this is that Sir Thomas Leigh had indeed found (or thought he had found, or was for some reason saying he had found) a preponderance of evidence favoring witchcraft over poisoning, and he had also discovered (or thought he had discovered) from the “letter found by chance” that Doughtie was somehow involved in the murder. Regarding this letter implicating Doughtie, one possibility is that it was found on the jailed witch. As she was probably the “Jane” who had inquired if Ferdinando’s ability to urinate had failed in the very hour that it did (because her name would have been known to the investigators), and as it is obvious that witchcraft did not kill Ferdinando, it may be the case that this woman was a part of the poison plot and that

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she knew full well, from previous practice, what the poison’s symptoms would be and what their timeline would be. The man’s name was Robert, not Richard, and he was indeed the brother of Michael Doughtie, the secretary of “the lord” (i.e., the new Earl William).4 Of these two brothers, Michael was by far the more successful. In addition to serving William, he had also served his father, Earl Henry, for years in the same capacity. (He apparently was not asked, or perhaps he refused, to serve Ferdinando.) He had always been known around Lathom as “Sergeant” Doughtie, and he was a surprisingly prominent person both there and in all of Lancashire. He was several times a member of Parliament and a justice of the peace, and his official title at Lathom under Earls Henry and William was clerk of the kitchen. This was a high administrative position and an “exalted title”3 at the time. The Derby court was the second largest in England (after Elizabeth’s own), and Michael Doughtie was one of a handful of gentry who were near its top. He would go on to serve Earl William well for many years. His brother Robert, in contrast, held a much lower position. He had served under Earl Henry as a yeoman waiter but had been promoted to a gentleman waiter around 1590, perhaps because he had managed to buy the legal status of a gentleman—in much the same way that Shakespeare did ten years later in London.5 It is not known why Robert had suddenly left Lathom for London, as Sir Thomas Leigh wrote to Carey that he had, but one cannot help suspecting, as Leigh and Carey did, that this sudden leave-taking had something to do with his complicity in the earl’s murder. What the “letter found by chance” said about him—or about anything else—is unknown.6 Also unknown is whether Sir Robert Cecil granted Carey’s request to issue him a warrant for Doughtie’s arrest in London. He almost certainly did, but Carey did not capture Doughtie. As Charles Nicholl wrote, echoing Devlin and several others, “The fugitive Doughtie … was hunted by Sir George Carey in the weeks after Strange’s death.… Here the records fade.”7 But not quite. In August of 1595, Doughtie’s name appeared on a list headed “Names of Sundry Persons in Credit in Spain”—that is, exiled English

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Catholic pensioners who were being paid by King Philip for their services to his nation. A note next to Doughtie’s name says he is “now in Spain,” implying that he had arrived there fairly recently. Also written next to his name are these words: “worst of all in his tongue against this state [England].”8

CHAPTER 16

THIS FOR WITCHCRAFT “TOUCHING THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF DERBY”

The document that probably ended up as the Carey-Egerton-Leigh “official report” bears no title that was written by its author. The title, “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby,” was added to the manuscript by Gilbert Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, when he dated it “April 1594” and then endorsed it with his signature just before putting it into his family files.1 Why did Gilbert end up in possession of it? Most likely, he received it because he was named the head trustee of Ferdinando’s vast and contested estate. He may have been named the trustee by Ferdinando, who had revised his will upon his deathbed in order to ensure that the undivided estate (which included the Isle of Man) would pass to his wife, Alice, and their three daughters, and he probably named his trustees at that time. Whoever actually wrote the document turned it in to Heneage (via Carey, Egerton, or both), the titular head of the murder investigation, who then passed it on to the Cecils, who almost certainly

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passed it on to the Queen to read (because of her intense interest in the case). The author of the document is most likely Chaplain William Leigh; he was probably the man who was asked to prepare the formally adversarial evidentiary report that was solicited by Carey, Egerton, or both as a rivalrous counterpart to the “for poison” John Golborne report. Neither of the powerful figures Carey or Egerton penned it, as it is written in neither man’s handwriting.2 Lacking a closely contemporaneous document in Chaplain Leigh’s handwriting, I have not been able to tell if his is the hand that penned the report or not. In all likelihood, the penman was one of Carey or Egerton’s secretaries. Lacking good evidence, however, I (clumsily) refer to it hereafter as the “Carey-Egerton-Leigh report,” as one or more of them certainly wrote it, and as all three of them had to have read it and approved it. The report argues so firmly and formally for witchcraft that it does not mention poison at all. It must have been written between the twentyeighth and the thirtieth because Sir Thomas Leigh brought the new decisive witchcraft information to Carey in London on the twenty-eighth and Gilbert dated the report “April.” Because this report makes no mention at all of Robert Doughtie, one can assume that, as mentioned earlier, he was probably not implicated in the author’s mind as a witchcraft suspect per se. He was thus also probably not linked to poison as such by Carey in his note of the twenty-eighth to Heneage and Cecil, which was itself based upon what Sir Thomas Leigh had just told him orally, although Carey’s note may seem to indicate such a suspicion of Doughtie upon a first read. The strangest thing about this document is that it specifically mentions John Golborne, the writer of the “this for poison” report, as being a firsthand witness to some of the murderous witchcraft. Indeed, Golborne is the only person other than Ferdinando himself who is thus mentioned. The effect (and perhaps the intent?) was to seriously undermine the credibility of Golborne’s report, making it seem to be either a mere academic exercise in legal advocacy that was dutifully “performed” and then submitted at the request of Egerton, Carey, or both—or else making it seem to be something close to a deliberate falsehood by Golborne because of all that it omits about witchcraft.

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The document is written in two separate sections. The second section I suspect to have been added to the first by Egerton, Carey, or both after the first part was submitted by Chaplain Leigh. It is reproduced in full (with its spelling and punctuation modernized by Edmund Lodge in the eighteenth century) as follows: Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby The 5th of April, 1594, his Honour fell sick at Knowsley; on Saturday he returned to Lathom, and, feeling himself worse, he sent to Chester for one Doctor Case, who the week before had given physic to his Lady. On the Sunday his Honour had ease seven times before the Doctor’s coming; the colour of the vomits was like soot or rusty iron; the substance gross and fatty, the quantity about seven pints, the smell not without offence; his Honour’s water, in colour, substance, and smell, not unlike his vomits. The same night he took a glister [clyster], which wrought five times. On Tuesday, because of his continual bleeding by vomits, he was most earnestly intreated to be let blood, yet by no means could he be persuaded thereunto, wherefore that day only fomentations, oils, and comfortable plaisters were applied. On Wednesday, by the appointment of all his doctors, he took another glister, which wrought six times; and on Thursday he took another purge, which wrought with great ease nine times. The same night he took some diascordium, which somewhat staid his stomach from vomiting; the which never ceased, more or less, in all the time of his Honour’s sickness. On Friday he took Diaphorecion, or a medicine to make him sweat; but he could not sweat, although internally and externally all helps of art where used. That night his water staid on a sudden. On Saturday all means were used to provoke water, as a glister, drinks, and syringes, but nothing prevailed; on Sunday and Monday was used a catheter, which the chirurgeon often sucked, but no water appeared; on Tuesday nature declined and his Honour most devoutly yielded his soul to God. In all the time of his sickness he had fifty-two vomits and twentythree stools. The original cause of all his diseases was thought by the Physicians to be his long and over violent exercise, which his Honour took four days in the Easter week, wherein he vehemently

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON distempered the whole state of his body. His Honour’s diseases apparent were vomiting of rusty matter with blood, yellow jaundice, swelling of the spleen, melting of the fat, staying of his water, the hiccup. His Honour took Bezoar stone, and unicorn’s horn. A Brief of such Reasons and Conjectures which caused many to suppose his Honour to be bewitched. I. On Thursday night, being the 4th of April, 1594, his Honour cried suddenly in his sleep, started out of his bed, sought his Lady, whom he thought in a dream to be dead. II. On Friday [the fifth], in his chamber at Knowsley, about six o’clock at night, there appeared a man, tall, as he thought, who twice crossed him swiftly, and when he came to the place where he saw him, he fell sick. [Golborne reported this first sickness as well, saying he was in the room alone with the earl when Ferdinando “fell sick.” However, he did not mention the tall man or any supernatural elements.] III. The same night [the fifth] he dreamed that he was stabbed to the heart and wounded in many other places of his body. IV. There was found in my Lord’s chamber, by one Mr. Hallsall, an image of wax, with a hair drawn through the belly thereof, as he reported upon his oath [to another of Ferdinando’s secretaries, Master Smith]. V. One Jane a witch, demanded of one Mr. Goulborn, his Honour’s secretary, whether my Lord felt no pain in his lower parts, and whether as yet he made any water; and at that very time, as it is thought, his Honour’s water staid. VI. All physic wrought well, and yet he had no ease; his diseases were many, and his vomits violent, and yet his pulse ever remained good and perfect. VII. He himself in all the time of sickness cried he was bewitched. [This version of the story contrasts with Golborne’s; he merely reported that Ferdinando had cried out that his sickness was not “natural.”]

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VIII. He fell into a trance twice, not able to stir head, hand, or foot, when he should have taken physic. [This point was obviously included to lead readers to attribute the “trances” to witchcraft because they prevented Ferdinando from taking medicines or other treatments which might have saved his life.] IX. In the end he cried out against witches and witchcraft, reposing his only hope of salvation upon the merits of his Blessed Saviour. X. One of the witches having said well the Lord’s prayer, and being forced to call upon the name of Jesus, that if she had bewitched his Honour she might not be able to say it again before the examiners well, till she came to Dimitte nobis debita nostra [forgive us our debts], which by no means she could say or repeat, although it was often rehearsed to her. [In other words, she was able to say it once perfectly, but then, after taking an oath that she had not “bewitched his Honour,” she could say it all except for Dimitte nobis debita nostra, thus implying to the examiners— Justice of the Peace Sir Edward Fitton and others—that she was unable to ask God to forgive her.]

This transcription by Lodge in 1791 is accurate in all respects, except that it adds the Roman numerals—the enumerated reasons for believing witches to be the culprits—presumably to make the document appear to be much neater and better organized than it actually is. The document is important to the investigation for several reasons, both large and small. The two main reasons are first, that it omits all mention of poison in its spirited advocacy of witchcraft, and second, that it contrasts in fascinatingly suspicious ways with the history of Ferdinando’s sickness and death as it was reported in print a few years later by the old chronicler John Stow. As shall be seen in the next chapter, Stow copied much of his account from the Carey-Egerton-Leigh document that has just been examined. However, appearing chronologically between the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report and John Stow’s version was an intermediate document which contains a portion of the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, copied verbatim, and a portion of new

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information which strongly adds to the witchcraft conclusion and also says nothing about poison. It was this intermediate document, and not the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report per se, which Stow copied into his account. To this last document in the case the story now turns.

CHAPTER 17

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John Stow was seventy-five years old around 1600 when someone in a position of power handed him a manuscript purporting to be an authoritative report of Ferdinando’s sickness and death in 1594. Although he has been largely forgotten except by specialist Tudor historians, Stow was one of the most interesting Englishmen of his century. The son of a candlemaker, he was a poor man all his life, never attaining (and probably never seeking) the status of a “gentleman.” He was a dedicated, indeed obsessive, historian who worked incessantly—and always as much on the ground as in the library. His protégé Edmund Howes wrote years later that the master never did his “fieldwork” on horseback, but rather traveled the entire country on foot in order to get the facts. The poet Ben Jonson, a young man when he knew Stow—who died in 1605 at the age of eighty—reported that when he and the old historian were out walking together one day, they met up with two lame beggars, and Stow promptly responded to their begging by asking if they would take him into their order.1 In the view of his biographer Barrett L. Beer, Stow was “the most productive British historian of the sixteenth century.”2

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The entire manuscript is written in the same handwriting using one type of ink, but the handwriting is not Stow’s.3 I was overjoyed to find it still in existence. The document Stow had gotten was divided into two sections, both written in the same handwriting, but it was clearly prepared with the intention of causing the reader to think of it as one continuous document. Obviously, what still exists in Stow’s British Library papers is precisely what he was given. The first section is untitled, but the second, like the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, is headed by a strongly pro-witchcraft subtitle—except that the subtitle of Stow’s source is more pointed than that of the CareyEgerton-Leigh report’s “A Brief of such Reasons and Conjectures which caused many to suppose his Honour to be bewitched.” The revised subtitle as it appears in Stow’s source is “A true report of such reasons and conjectures as caused many learned men to suppose him to be bewitched.“ It is now a true report, and the many people who once suspected that witchcraft was involved in the earl’s death are now learned men. In its second section, this manuscript follows the Carey-EgertonLeigh report’s “official reasons” for accepting witchcraft as the unquestioned cause of the earl’s death. But, although it echoes some other phrases from that document, it also adds a striking amount of new witchcraft material, almost all of it what would now be termed Gothic. What Stow did was to copy the new manuscript almost verbatim into the 1600 edition of his Annales of England.4 In slightly earlier publications of the book, Stow had dealt with Ferdinando’s death only with the laconic entry, “April 16: The Earl of Derby deceased.” But in the 1600 edition, he retained the exact same entry as a lead and then added another two printed pages that were copied straight from the intermediate manuscript. This intermediate manuscript I hereafter refer to as Stow’s source. The reader of this book will find several familiar pro-witchcraft items in Stow’s source, along with two or three familiar embellished items. They will be familiar because they were looked at earlier as part of the entire received narrative. These items, along with some new ones that

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were never mentioned before 1600 in any sources, have since made it into later histories of Ferdinando’s sickness and death. Some of these accounts are modern and seemingly authoritative. The crucial thing to realize now is that these items have no authority earlier than 1600—five and a half years after Ferdinando’s death, five and a half years after Carey wrote the letter to his wife that was examined earlier, five and a half years after Golborne wrote his “this for poison” report, and five and a half years after the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report appeared. Following is a brief list of those items which show up only in Stow’s source. 1. It is in Stow’s source that the first and only mention is made of the old woman who encountered Ferdinando on 1 April 1594 and asked if she could lodge near him at Lathom Castle so she could relay to him her latest messages from God about his future. Although the item does not identify the woman as a witch per se, its context within the document makes it clear that it is there to provide pro-witchcraft support by implying her to be such—and also perhaps to imply that the witches took their revenge upon Ferdinando for spurning this particular witch’s friendly opening offer. I realize that revealing this fact at this point in the story may make me seem something like the “unreliable narrator” of a postmodern novel, but I am simply giving the reader a sense—or trying to—of what it has been like to work through this material from scratch (April Fool, reader). I had assumed this story to be factual until I discovered that it stemmed from Stow’s source. However, bear in mind that all of the items in Stow’s source could possibly be factual, as none can, in the strictly Popperian sense be falsified. 2. Stow’s source embellishes the brief Carey-Egerton-Leigh item about how Ferdinando cried out suddenly in his sleep, leapt from his bed, and began seeking Alice, whom he had just dreamed had died. The added material claims that Ferdinando wept, screamed for help, and walked about in his sleep looking for Alice, whom he had dreamed to be very ill (there are different accounts; in one account he dreamt that she died). It also claims that, upon being awakened, he was “comforted, for she was well.”

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3. Stow’s source also embellishes the story about the tall male specter who materialized in Ferdinando’s chamber, where the earl was alone with Golborne: There appeared suddenly a tall man with a ghastly and threatening countenance, who twice or thrice seemed to cross him [Ferdinando] as he was passing through the chamber.… After Golborne, one of his secretaries attending then upon him saw nothing, which most amazed [the earl].

4. Also in Stow’s source is the line that was mentioned earlier about Ferdinando’s meeting “grave” prophets in a dream on the night of 4 April at Lathom: “Here, we omit strange dreams, a divination of divers grave men which happened before or at about the time of his sickness.” And what to make of that “we”? As encountered in this document, it seems more like an actual plural than any kind of royal “we”—although the author(s) may have deliberately written it in the hope that Stow’s readers would take it as his use of the royal “we” in order to make it seem to carry his own authority. 5. To the information in the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report about how the witchcraft prevented Ferdinando from moving his hands or his feet (thus preventing him from taking the “physic” his doctors tried to administer in their desperate attempt to save his life), Stow’s source adds the information that the witchcraft also prevented him from moving his head. 6. Stow’s source is the sole origin of the well-known “wise woman” story—one of the more famous elements in the received narrative— which was examined in detail earlier. The reader may remember that this “homely” woman of about fifty years of age was constantly in Ferdinando’s bedchamber as he lay dying, brewing herbal remedies as she sat on the floor, and one of the doctors finally threw her out after he tripped over her and upset one of her pots. Often misreported since Stow’s time as being a likely witch, she was obviously not placed in Stow’s source to give that impression. The context reveals that she was quite the opposite, in fact: she was a local herbalist healer who was trying to cure Ferdinando, not kill him. Rather, she was placed in the document

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because of her speech about how she could not cure him because “he is so strongly bewitched.” In other words, she is there to help build up the witchcraft conclusion but possibly also to undermine the credibility of the traditional doctors and their later diagnosis of poisoning—“What did they know?”—for the error in judgment they had demonstrated in throwing her out. 7. Stow’s source is also the source of the romantic element describing how Ferdinando finally told one of his doctors (presumably Case, if the story is true) to give up because the doctor’s love for him was making him work in vain. It also tells of how he sent for Countess Alice to rush to his bedside so they could say their goodbyes, their “vales,” and of how he told her when she got there to “love his doctor” and to give him a jewel with his arms and titles “that he might be remembered” thereby. 8. It is also the source of the most operatic element of all—the description of Ferdinando’s eloquent and moving oration right before he expired: “I am resolved presently to die, and take away only one part of my arms, I mean the Eagle’s Wings, so will I fly swiftly into the bosom of Christ my only saviour.” Of this speech, the Stanley family historian J. J. Bagley wrote, “No novelist could have written a more memorable or unlikely valediction [emphasis added].”5 9. Finally, Stow’s source introduces a fresh element into the narrative: the claim that the team of doctors, upon first trying to reach a diagnosis, originally believed that “[t]he causes of all his diseases were thought … to be partly a surfeit [over-eating] … in the Easter week.” There is no mention whatsoever of the fact that the doctors ultimately diagnosed “flat poisoning,” as is known from Carey’s letter to his wife and from the Golborne report—both of which were written within two weeks of the earl’s death. Stow had two much younger protégés in the art of writing English history, both of whom were interested in Ferdinando’s murder and eventually commented on their senior’s pro-witchcraft account. One of them, mentioned previously, was the obscure Edmund Howes, who edited editions of Stow’s histories for publication for a number of years after the master died in 1605. In his revised edition of the Annales (1631), Howes

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reprinted verbatim the material Stow had copied from Stow’s source, but he added a piece of crucial new information—that Stow had had trouble finding good information on Ferdinando’s death. Howes indicated that Stow had either said or written that he had on occasion been asked to tell the real story, but that although he had relied on information that was “gathered by those who were present with him [Ferdinando] … I could never get the particulars authentically.”6 This suggests that neither Stow nor Howes quite believed that Ferdinando was actually killed by witchcraft. Stow’s second young protégé was the eminent William Camden (1551–1623), arguably the greatest English historian of the age and, like Stow, a good friend of Ben Jonson’s. Camden frankly thought Stow’s narrative of Ferdinando’s death was worthless, especially the part about the wax voodoo-doll. He did not hesitate to say so—or to say why: Ferdinand Stanley, earl of Derby … died in the prime of his youth, but not without suspicion of poison, having been miserably afflicted with cruel pains, and casting up stuff like the color of rusty iron. In his chamber was found a little image made of wax, with the belly of it thrust through with hairs just of the color of those of his head—which was laid there, as the wiser then thought, to remove the suspicion of poisoning him away and father his death upon the art of witchcraft.

In fact, as shall be seen, nearly everyone at the time, from his doctors in 1594 to Howes and Camden in the 1630s, believed that Ferdinando had been poisoned. The only exceptions—and who knows what they really believed—were the authors of the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report and its later version, Stow’s source. Even though it is not possible to identify the single author of the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, is it possible to determine the author of Stow’s source, its successor? It is possible if the document is assumed to have been a rewrite of the earlier official document—prepared with the sole purpose of getting Stow to print it and thereby to legitimize it—and if it is assumed that it was prepared for Stow shortly before he printed

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it in 1600. If Carey had written it, I think he would have kept a copy in his files—just as he kept the Golborne report and his “flat poisoning” private letter to his wife there. But no other copy of Stow’s source exists anywhere (and apparently never has existed), and Stow’s copy of the manuscript is not written in Carey’s handwriting. Sir Thomas Heneage would not have written it, for it was to him that the official report, the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, was to be turned in by its author(s) in order that it might be passed along to the Cecils and (probably) to Elizabeth. It is not likely that the rich but obscure Sir Thomas Leigh of Stoneleigh (who had brought the fresh witchcraft intelligence to Carey on 28 April) was its author, as he would have had no reason to write it, he rarely went to London (which Stow never left in those later years of his life), and until he took the newly found witchcraft intelligence to Carey in London, he was far removed from the investigative circle by that time. That would seem to leave Egerton, assuming that the Stow’s source document was not written by someone who was completely outside of the small circle of nobles on which this story has been focusing. This would seem to be a pretty good assumption, because the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, upon which Stow’s source was based, was apparently never released outside that circle and was, of course, never published. Why might Egerton, if he was indeed the revising author, have produced a much-embellished pro-witchcraft version and given it to Stow for the first publication of the story anywhere? This question can be answered with one word, I think: Alice. Unbelievably, Egerton actually married Ferdinando’s widow, Alice, in December of 1600. There is some evidence that he had been interested in her for years, going back to the 1580s when he worked as Earl Henry’s private attorney in Lancashire and saw Alice often after she became Ferdinando’s young bride in 1579. Egerton’s first wife died in 1588, and he remained single for many years afterward. In April of 1594, when Ferdinando died, he probably already had some small hope of marrying Alice, for whom he was again working as a close chief legal advisor in her interminably long and unrelievedly bitter legal battles with Ferdinando’s younger brother William, now the sixth Earl of Derby, over the estate.

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(As the reader may remember, Ferdinando had disinherited William on his deathbed, leaving everything to Alice and the daughters. Earl William fought back strongly, eventually even getting an enormous part of the inheritance—but not until well after James had taken the throne.) I say Egerton had a “small hope” of marrying Alice because the worldly wise Egerton, who knew Alice’s spending habits well, also probably knew all too well that he was far from wealthy enough for her—yet. (Between them, Earl Henry’s wife Margaret and Ferdinando’s wife Alice had helped to bring the vast Derby fortune to a precarious state by the time of Ferdinando’s death—aided greatly by the Queen, who had placed outrageous financial burdens upon Henry.) It is not known if Alice rebuffed Egerton following Ferdinando’s death in April of 1594, but it is known that he then married one of the richest widows in England, Lady Wolley, about a year and a half later. He may have had a tiny amount of hope that Alice would accept him, “[b]ut Alice was, titled, wealthy, and a beautiful cultured woman [who] was perhaps too high in stature for Egerton in 1596 when he married Lady Elizabeth Wolley,” as one of Egerton’s few contemporary biographers (and perhaps the sole biographer of Alice) put it.7 Lady Wolley died soon thereafter, in January of 1600, and Egerton again looked to Alice with hope—high and reasonable hope this time, as he had increased his fortune enormously upon the death of his second wife and he had just recently been named Lord Ellesmere by the Queen. This illegitimate country boy—for such he was—had made his fortune. Very soon after Lady Wolley’s death, in October of 1600, the new Lord Ellesmere and Countess Alice were married. And shortly afterward, Egerton began to be aware—as he would soon enough become fully aware—of his bride’s dark side: this “cultured patron of literature … beautiful and wealthy … was [also] haughty, profligate, greedy, and ill-tempered.”8 Ten years later, in fact, Egerton would write, “I thank God I never desired long life, nor ever had less cause to desire it than since this, my last marriage, for before I was never acquainted with such tempests and storms.”9 But in the late summer or fall of 1600, Egerton might have been sufficiently motivated by chivalry, romantic feeling, and a love of extensive

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valuable real estate (Alice’s) to have tried to protect his fiancée from embarrassment—or worse, suspicion of murder—to have walked from his office over to Stow’s house in London and given him the manuscript I am calling Stow’s source, guaranteeing its authenticity and asking Stow to copy it into his forthcoming book. I think the problem worrying Egerton was the rumor that his new wife Alice had been pregnant with the son of a man other than her husband Earl Ferdinando when she miscarried at two months shortly before Easter in 1594. This was even more troublesome when it was coupled with the fact, known all over England, that the earl had died in mysterious and suspicious circumstances a little more than a month later, probably from poison. The problem was that the document I call the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report had an audience of from two or three people to six or seven at most. Meanwhile, the whole country was still talking—and writing— about how Ferdinando had been murdered with poison. I have not seen any evidence that anyone had publicly accused Alice; however, as Egerton and Alice would have been the first to know, too many people knew about the pregnancy business firsthand for it to remain a secret. There were not many people who knew, but there were too many: Sir George Carey, who had mentioned it in his letter to his wife right after Ferdinando’s death; his wife, Lady Elizabeth, who got the letter; John Golborne, who wrote a report that actually foregrounded the inexplicable pregnancy but made no mention whatsoever of witchcraft as its cause; and the four attending physicians, Doctors Case, Canon, Joyner, and Bate. Egerton may have especially worried about Carey, in whose files the Golborne report resided, because of his deteriorating mental state caused by syphilis. (He would soon be led away from his public offices, including his chamberlaincy.) It was impossible to know what he might say in public—especially when he was drinking, which was often. As a true believer in witchcraft, he would probably have attributed the pregnancy to that cause when he was talking about it, although this would probably simply have caused many (all?) people in his audience to roll their eyes. My best educated guess is that Egerton, knowing that no previous

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written witchcraft report had ever been seen or heard of, decided that the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report was not nearly strong enough or “literary” enough, and thus he copied the report, heavily emphasizing the witchcraft aspects of the story, and then slipped the new, richly embellished version to Stow. I should acknowledge up front, however, that this theory about the romance and eventual marriage between Egerton and Alice rests in small part on an essay I published previously—when I knew a good deal about Alice but next to nothing about Egerton. This piece was about two small books of poetry that were written and hastily published by the young Oxford poet Richard Barnfield10 in the brief interim between Ferdinando’s death in April of 1594 and the marriage of his younger brother, the new Earl William, to the Earl of Oxford’s beautiful and eccentric daughter Elizabeth in early 1595. These books are The Affectionate Shepherd and Cynthia. Scholars for more than one hundred years have tried to match the topical allusions in this poetry to real-world people at the time, with virtually everyone agreeing that such topical allusions are indeed present in the writing. I wrote the essay because I strongly believed on the evidence that I had solved most if not all of the allusion problems. I shall not detain readers long with a synopsis of an extended argument about some very obscure poetry that they likely have not even heard of, much less read, and that they probably never will have cause to read. The book which includes this essay as its first chapter is widely available. I have since written a small book on the subject which contains as an appendix a revised version of that essay: William Shakespeare, Richard Barnfield, and the Sixth Earl of Derby. Barnfield published his long poem The Affectionate Shepherd in November of 1594. It is a homoerotic poem about a young shepherdpoet named Daphnis who is in love with a beautiful man named Ganymede. (Barnfield was the first openly homoerotic poet in England.) At some point in January of 1595, two months or so later, he published another book, called Cynthia. The centerpiece of this little book is a gathering of twenty homoerotic sonnets also written by Daphnis to his Ganymede. This book is dedicated in terms of friendship to William

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Stanley, Ferdinando’s younger brother, the new Earl of Derby. In my essay, I argued that it is Stanley who is figured as Ganymede in both books. As the books have seemed to many scholars other than myself to carry topical allusions to other real-world people—the members of Ganymede’s “supporting cast”—I made arguments for who those people really were in the new earl’s very active social life between the death of his brother Ferdinando in the previous April and January of 1595. One of the characters in The Affectionate Shepherd is a beautiful young woman who has recently been widowed, Queen Guendolena, who is trying to get Ganymede to love her and seemingly to marry her. The boy-poet Daphnis (whom Barnfield reported to be his literary counterpart, and who was also identified as such by another writer of the period, Anthony Chute), who loves Ganymede passionately, is jealous and tries to be Ganymede’s rival. Part of his pastoral courtship involves saying very uncomplimentary things about Queen Guendolena’s character, warning Ganymede not to fall prey to her inducements. He calls her “light in her behavior”— that is, sexually immoral. He says that it is only for Ganymede’s mother’s sake that she pursues him at all, not because of any real love. I identified Guendolena as Countess Alice. Her just-deceased husband, whom she still loves even as she woos Ganymede, I believe to be Ferdinando. (The mention of Ganymede’s mother probably alludes to Margaret Clifford Stanley, Earl Henry’s first wife, the biological mother of both Ferdinando and William, who still lived in London. This references Margaret’s wish for Alice to succeed in wooing William in order that the family fortunes would not be divided now that Ferdinando was suddenly dead.)11 But, in the progress of both books, Ganymede falls in love with a beautiful young girl named Elizabeth. I identified her as Elizabeth Vere, whom William would marry at about the same time that Cynthia (again, dedicated to William) appeared in the London book stalls in early 1595. (Elizabeth is a “tripartite love object” in these poems, and the other two parts of her I identify as Queen Elizabeth and Barnfield’s foster mother, whom he loved dearly and wrote other poetry about, Elizabeth Skrymsher.) Peter Thomson, in Shakespeare’s Professional Career, rightly termed her “one of the remarkable Elizabethan women …who have been ignored by historians.”12

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There is another character in The Affectionate Shepherd as well, a foolish older man who is desperately and comically in love with Queen Guendolena at this same time. I knew little or nothing of Egerton at the time I wrote the essay, and thus I did not realize that this is probably a portrait of him in the role of a ludicrous suitor. (“Oh Yes!” was the e-mail subject line from Alice’s only contemporary biographer when I asked him what he thought of this idea. But, realist that this eminent legal historian is, he also suggested that Egerton was probably motivated as much by money as by love in his courtship of both Countess Alice and Lady Wolley before her.)13 What had caused Barnfield’s pastoral old man (who may be Egerton) to fall in love with Queen Guendolena? And what had caused her noble young man (who may be Ferdinando) to die? The backstory is that Cupid and Death had met and accidentally mixed up their arrows. Therefore, when Cupid shoots his arrow at Guendolena’s beloved, it is a poisoned arrow from Death’s quiver and tragically kills him. But when Death shoots his arrow at the old man, whom he wishes to kill, thus ridding Arcadia of him, it is of course Cupid’s arrow, and it makes him fall in love with the young widowed Queen. I introduce this material here only to make the simple point that if these topical-allusion identifications are correct, Barnfield’s pastoral love poems provide further evidence for Egerton’s having revealed his adoration of Alice from just about the moment Ferdinando died. This would mean, among other things, that when he began heading up her legal team in her protracted battle with the new Earl William, his motives were more than merely fiduciary. Was Alice actually wooing the young Earl William at the same time Egerton was wooing her? And did William, as related in the poem, reject her in favor of Elizabeth Vere? There is no way to know, but something has to explain the fact that only three weeks after Ferdinando’s death, on 9 May, Alice sent a letter to Lord Burghley, who arranged many marriages among noble families under the Queen’s direction, saying that she had heard of a plan for William to wed his niece Elizabeth Vere. She sourly added, “I only wish her a better husband.”14 Alice’s letter to Burghley is especially interesting in light of the fact that William did not propose to Elizabeth until months

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later, on 13 September. (He proposed via Burghley in another letter that is also extant.)15 Finally, there is the shepherdess Phyllis. The name is highly conventional in the pastoral poetry of England and the rest of Europe, along with countless other shepherd and shepherdess names. It is thus very difficult to assign such names to real-world historical people, and the matter is further complicated by the fact that sometimes topical allusions were not intended by the poets at all. However, the cases of Phyllis, Amaryllis, Charyllis, and Chloris are very different in this respect from all of the other pastoral names that were used in England. This is because the poet who was widely regarded as the finest one living and working in the 1590s was Edmund Spenser—and Spenser had specifically assigned those four pastoral names to four actual women in his Colin Clout’s Come Home Again. (Most of this work was probably first written in 1591 and had circulated privately for several years, but it was not published until 1595. The published edition contains some late additions, including a lament for Ferdinando, pastoralized as the shepherd poet Amintas. Phyllis was Lady Elizabeth Spencer Carey (Sir George’s wife), Amaryllis was Countess Alice Spencer Stanley, Ferdinando’s wife, Charyllis was their sister Lady Anne Spencer Sackville, and Chloris was whichever older woman Spenser believed to be the wife of Earl Henry and the mother of Ferdinando when he wrote the lines about her (that is, either Dame Margaret Clifford Stanley or Dame Jane Halsall).16 After Spenser (a publicly proud relation of the Spencer girls, by the way) had given the women these pastoral names, the names stuck— especially inside the family and its large circle of acquaintances— because of his status as the greatest nondramatic poet of the 1590s. Also, in a related point, everybody who knew anything about poetry or about the Spencer girls knew who was meant whenever one of these names was mentioned within the context of this eminent family. (The girls’ father, Sir Thomas Spencer of Althorp, was himself well-known as the wealthiest commoner in all of England and perhaps the wealthiest man.) Thus, if one spoke of Phyllis from within that context, it was likely that one was alluding directly to Lady Elizabeth Carey.

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That is exactly what Ferdinando/Amintas did when he wrote some Spenserian love poetry to Phyllis at this time (it was unpublished until 1972, when it was discovered by Steven W. May).17 The longest of these poems, “A Sonnet by Ferdinando Earl of Derby,” was obviously written between September of 1593 and April of 1594 because he was only the earl during that brief span. Ferdinando almost certainly wrote this poem for Elizabeth Carey and presented it to her, because it still exists in her personal papers.18 What was Ferdinando doing writing pastoral love poetry to his sister-in-law Elizabeth in the months right before his death—if that is indeed the case? And does it matter? It does matter if in consequence one believes that her husband, Sir George, who figures so prominently in this entire story, had found out and cared, or if one thinks the same of Countess Alice—and thus thinks that one or both should be included among the murder suspects. One other whole book that emerged from the Stanley-Spencer-Spenser circle at this time is also about Phyllis, and it too possibly alludes in some way to Lady Elizabeth. Its unwieldy title is Phyllis: Honoured with Pastoral Sonnets, Elegies, and Amorous Delights, Whereunto is annexed the Tragical Complaint of Elstred. The author is the noted Spenserian poet Thomas Lodge, who had been some sort of retainer in the Stanley household for much of Earl Henry’s time; another of his books from around this same time, A Fig for Momus (the first book of English satires), is dedicated to Ferdinando’s brother William. Published in 1593, less than a year before Ferdinando’s death, Phyllis is a sequence of sonnets followed by a long first-person “complaint” by a woman named Elstred. Who was Elstred supposed to be? In most versions of the Queen Guendolena story, she is the “other woman”—a beautiful young princess from Cornwall for whom Guendolena’s beloved (and her husband) leaves her, and with whom he then has a daughter, Sabrina. In Richard Barnfield’s pastoral version, discussed earlier, there is no “other woman,” nor indeed virtually any of the darker elements of the Guendolena story as it had been traditionally told for many years in England. These were left out because Barnfield largely followed the more “young adult” version that was unique to the tragedy Locrine, a hit on the London stages

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in 1594, where I think the young poet must have seen it. (Locrine is one of several plays included in the Shakespeare apocrypha, but there is little good evidence as of now that he wrote it either in whole or in part.) The play glorifies Queen Guendolena and omits many of her more traditionally disturbing acts, such as killing her husband, her husband’s mistress, and their young daughter at the end. But “The Tragical Complaint of Elstred” is a somber, cautionary monologue delivered after her death by the mistress of Queen Guendolena’s husband, who had been recently killed himself. I think this publication by Lodge, especially Elstred’s complaint, may just possibly be a sort of complementary “prequel” to Barnfield’s long pastoral poem of a year or so later about this same Queen Guendolena. If so, it tells the rest of the story as another poetic protégé of the Derby earls wanted to tell it, and it tells it a bit before Earl Ferdinando sickened and died. But it is also pertinent to that same real-life tragic story if one believes that Lodge may have been writing it as some sort of a warning—a warning to Lady Carey, the pastoral Phyllis, that she had better send Earl Ferdinando, the pastoral Amintas, away forthwith, unless she wanted to see herself quickly changed into the tragic Elstred. This further implies that it is the pastoral-cum-tragic Guendolena who would be bringing this change about. In other words, the questions I ask myself are these: Could it be that the longtime poetic Derby retainer Thomas Lodge was worried that “Phyllis,” Alice’s sister and Ferdinando’s sister-in-law Elizabeth Carey, might be stealing Ferdinando’s heart away from his wife, Alice—or that she might be perceived as doing so by Alice? Could it be that in addressing her first as “Phyllis” and then as “Elstred,” he was warning her that although she was Spenser’s pastoral shepherd at the time, she might face dire consequences at the hands of Alice (or her minions) unless she rebuked Ferdinando? Was Lodge worried that such a huge and tragic upheaval within the Derby household might cause so much division that it could escalate into social chaos in his own land, as had been the result in the ancient mythohistorical chronicles of Queen Guendolena? (If so, this worry might have inspired Barnfield a year later; after all, the Virgilian shepherd Daphnis was the

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poet of reconciliatory, healing social unity, and Sir George Buck wrote a long poem just after James became king in 1603 calling him Daphnis because he had reunited England, Scotland, and Wales after centuries of painful division.)19 Finally, could it be that the young Barnfield, who was also a Derby poet, had put the two sets of allusions together—those in Lodge’s Phyllis of 1593 and those in W. S.’s Locrine of 1594—and had thus been impelled to write his own warning to the new Earl William (Ganymede) to beware of Countess Alice (Guendolena)? Whether he did or did not base his warning to William on one or both of these literary antecedents, he did warn William. For myself, I believe that Barnfield’s poems do indeed allude directly to the past and then-present romantic entanglements among Alice, Ferdinando, his brother William, and Egerton and that they were intended as a warning to the new Earl William—while also expressing homoerotic love for him. Frankly, I am not fully convinced that Lodge’s book also alludes to these people and to these matters or that it was intended as a parallel warning to Lady Elizabeth Carey. But I am intrigued by the possibility that Lodge’s poems may make such allusions and proffer such warnings, because I cannot imagine how a poet who was so closely connected to the earls of Derby and the master poet Spenser in 1593 as Lodge was could have employed the pastoral name Phyllis in this way unless he was alluding to Lady Carey. He surely would have known that his longtime literary patrons in the extended Derby circle (and their wives) would have thought he was somehow making such an allusion.

CHAPTER 18

ROUNDING UP THE (HIGHLY UN)USUAL SUSPECTS

Many people have either read Agatha Christie’s novel Murder on the Orient Express or seen the film version starring Peter Ustinov as Inspector Poirot. The story is about a man who is murdered while he is aboard the famous train Orient Express. It introduces many fascinating suspects, all of whom are riding on the same train (just by chance), and they all possess the requisite means, motive, and opportunity to have committed the murder. They all wanted the man dead. Christie’s answer to the riddle, revealed at the end by Poirot, is that they all did it—with one after the other stabbing the man serially as they moved along in a queue by his sleeping compartment in the dead of the night, passing the dagger from hand to hand. The true story of Ferdinando’s death is somewhat similar to that story, as it also features a large number of colorful characters, most of whom have been introduced in the previous pages and all of whom possessed the means, the motive, and the opportunity to have murdered Ferdinando Stanley,

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Lord Strange and fifth earl of Derby. They all had good reasons for wanting him dead. Readers are now in a better position to line these suspects up and take another, closer look at them as they try to figure out which one (or ones)—if indeed any of them—–committed the murder or were behind it. At the same time, the suspects’ various accusers, both past and present, can be considered, as well as the reasons that have been given for thinking one or another of them guilty. In each case, I am going to start with the name of the accused and then switch immediately to his or her accuser. 1. William Cecil, Lord Burghley. The exiled Catholic defector Sir Roland Yorke accused Burghley soon after Ferdinando’s murder in 1594. At dinner with the infamous Sir William Stanley, his co-defector, with whom he had surrendered the town of Deventer, Yorke is quoted as saying: It is no wonder when Machiavellian policies govern England. I durst pawn my life that the Lord Treasurer [Burghley] caused him to be poisoned [in order] that he [Ferdinando] being dead he [Burghley] might marry the young lady Vere unto the brother of the said Earl of Derby.1

In other words, Burghley had murdered Ferdinando in order to make William the new earl and to make his beloved niece the new earl’s wife, in order to obtain and keep control of the entire Derby “power seat.”Many of the Catholics who were living abroad at the time, especially the Jesuits, believed this theory, and several leading authorities on the case— some but not all of them Catholic—believe it today. Among them are, of course, Devlin, his protégé Edwards, and their followers, both Jesuit and non-Jesuit. The problems with the Burghley theory are primarily two. First, the motive seems insufficient, for even though Burghley and his son Sir Robert were indeed capable of anything, if and only if they thought it benefited the Queen and the realm, they did not have a habit of murdering earls in order to gain local power. (If they had, why would they stop with Ferdinando? Why should they not have killed ten

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or twelve of the rich, lying, scheming, arrogant, power-mad troublemakers? And why should they not have started with the known or suspected Catholics amongst them, as opposed to a known anti-Catholic?) Second, there is absolutely no documentary evidence that either Burghley or his son was behind it—or in any way connected with it. 2.1. Alice Spencer Stanley, Countess of Derby. One scholar in the mid-twentieth century found a letter from May of 1594 (which is now perhaps lost) reporting a dinner conversation between the new Earl William and his longtime friend Philip Gawdy only three weeks after the murder, in which William told Gawdy that Alice was suspected.2 By whom she was suspected is not clear. The inference is that the suspicion was not William’s own—as much as he apparently disliked Alice at the time. It is unexpectedly hard to find a persuasive motive for Alice. In fact, she had one powerful disincentive: with Ferdinando dead, she would no longer be the wife of an earl but would rather only be, in effect, the second Dowager Countess of Derby (along with Earl Henry’s still-living first wife, Margaret, in London). She knew that, after all, if Ferdinando’s fortunes were to change for the better, she could well become Queen. If her male baby had survived long enough to be viable and thus to be immediately in line for the earldom, she might possibly have had a sufficient motive, as upon Ferdinando’s death her infant son would be the earl. She would then have been the de facto earl herself. But she miscarried at two months. The only two obvious motives that suggest themselves as distant possibilities are fear and fury. She might have feared the consequences of Ferdinando’s recent discovery that she had been impregnated by another man, and if so, she would have known that such consequences would range from his murdering her in a jealous rage to subjecting her to “mere” public embarrassment. But there is no documentary evidence that the earl was that angry—or that he was angry at all. Moreover, if he were going to kill her in a rage, he would have done so several weeks earlier, when he found out about the miscarriage, knowing that the baby could not be his. Alice might have been furious upon finding out that Ferdinando had recently been writing pastoral love poetry to her sister Elizabeth, Lady Carey. But his surviving

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poetry of that sort (unwise as he may have been in writing it) is genteel, distant, and noticeably lacking in courtly-love passion.3 Another possible motive for Alice, previously unmentioned in this book, is her even greater ambition. The eminent French scholar Abel Lefranc faintly suggested eighty years or so ago, in a much-discussed book, that romance might have bloomed between Alice and the earl’s younger brother William: “We already see Lady Strange [Alice’s title before Ferdinando’s death] traveling between Lathom House or Knowsley and London in company with her brother-in-law [William] alone, indication of a compatibility of interests and temperament of the two.” And then, just a year or so later, Lefranc observed, We can imagine his confusion of feelings about her, drawn so close together in tastes yet forced so far apart by her late husband’s will.… He was probably haunted [after Ferdinando’s death] by the Countess of the olden days [as opposed to the countess who so much despised him after that death, when the two of them embarked upon what came to be known throughout England as “The Great Lawsuit” over Ferdinando’s estate].4

Lefranc’s point was that “[i]ntriguing suspicion could make the elder brother Ferdinando plot revenge against his younger brother William, who has stolen the heart of his wife Alice through stabbing him by means of his will”—that is, his revised deathbed will which completely disinherited William. This argument would fit in with Alice’s having a possible motive for murdering Ferdinando only if one imagines that this conjectural romance was intended (by Alice) to end in marriage, thus benefitting her greatly. If she loved William—or even if she did not— she might have believed that they could marry with Ferdinando out of the way, thus unifying the total vast estate to the great benefit of herself and her three young daughters (especially the daughters). This would have been preferable to fighting with William over it in the future and possibly losing half of it—or perhaps even all of it. Even more, Alice may have believed that if they could manage to have a male child after marrying (for she was still a young woman), the Derby earldom could

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be rescued for her own progeny, with her son becoming the earl and then perhaps even the king upon King William’s death—and with her going on to be the only Dowager Countess of Derby, the mother of an earl, or again, perhaps the Queen Mother. This would, of course, work even better if the gossips at court could easily tabulate by this son’s date of birth that he had been conceived before Ferdinando’s death. Alice might have especially had such feelings if, because of the disturbing immediate political realities (as discussed earlier), she had given up by early 1594 on the idea of Ferdinando’s ever becoming king—or even of getting his two coveted great offices in Lancashire and Cheshire.5 She may have seen him as going nowhere—except possibly further down on the social ladder. In contrast, if she were married to William, especially if she had a son that was conceived before Ferdinando’s death, she would once again be moving upward socially. For myself, I find this case against Alice to be far-fetched in the extreme. (Some good and capable readers may well conclude differently.) If one believes that Lefranc’s sketchy theory about a romance between Alice and William has anything going for it at all, then it might be thought to be a reasonable guess that the male child Alice was bearing when she miscarried was in fact William’s. But I do not believe Lefranc’s reasoning is nearly strong enough to serve as a premise upon which to begin making such a paternity claim against (or for) William. It is clear, however, that someone other than Earl Ferdinando was the father. As for Ferdinando, he was a deeply superstitious man, like most people in Lancashire at the time, and he may have believed the version of the story, circulating even as he lay on his deathbed, that was soon afterward accepted by Egerton and Carey, that the witches were responsible for the pregnancy. Obviously, they did not impregnate Alice. It may never be known for sure who did. One thing that is certain is that Alice lived for a long time after Ferdinando’s death and prospered. After (apparently) rejecting Egerton’s suit shortly after Ferdinando died because of his base birth and his lack of both riches and power, she accepted it six years later when he had become wealthy and had been named Baron Ellesemere. The marriage

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was stormy, and Egerton told his son (from a previous marriage) that he regretted having made it. Following his death, Countess Alice, with her father’s money, the late Ferdinando’s money (enough of it, anyway, with William getting the rest as the result of a lawsuit which it took an act of Parliament to settle), and the late Baron Ellesmere’s huge fortune, continued on through the years, constantly gaining power and prestige. Toward the end, she had become a figure much like Spenser’s “fairie queen”—romanticized to near-Arthurian status as the goddess monarch of the northern court—and (as always) pastoralized by the poets as they were born, wrote, and died before her. (If, for example, she was indeed Barnfield’s Queen Guendolena in 1593 and 1594, she outlived that boyish swain, who had been born long after her, by seventeen years.) The last poet to sing her royal praises was the young John Milton, who in his greatest of all masques, Comus, famously sang of her as the nation’s “rural queen”: Mark what radiant state she spreads, In circle round her shining throne, Sitting like a Goddess bright, In the centre of her light. Such a rural Queen All Arcadia hath not seen.

2.2. Sir Thomas Egerton. I initially omitted Egerton from this list because I do not consider him to be a suspect. But then a sagacious expert reader of an earlier draft asked me, in her responding critique, “Where’s Egerton? After reading the previous chapter about him and Alice, I ask myself, ‘Why isn’t he on the list of suspects? Did I miss something?’ ” Although I do not consider Egerton to be a suspect, I do realize that she was absolutely right in asking the question, as the question does indeed appear to have been raised. My own view is that Egerton, in the spring of 1594, simply lacked a motive—not to mention a means or an opportunity. As much as he may have loved Alice at this time, and as much as he may have loved her for years before and after Ferdinando’s death, he had to know that there was still next to no chance that she would marry him in the spring of 1594 if he took the enormous risk of murdering her husband. In 1594, he was a low-born commoner with little

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real social status, he had little money (by Alice’s standards), and he was famously of illegitimate birth—a “bastard,” in the everyday language of England at the time. And he knew that Alice cared greatly about such things. In fact, there was virtually nobody alive in the spring of 1594 who could serve as a proper match for Alice—either in her eyes or in the eyes of the Queen’s matchmaker, Lord Burghley. (The only truly viable candidate at this particular time—indeed, a perfect one—would have been Ferdinando’s younger brother, William, who was suddenly the sixth earl, but Alice hated him, and apparently so did her whole huge family. As noted earlier, there is some slight, sketchy evidence—if one can even call it that—that William may have caused her hatred by spurning her affections prior to Ferdinando’s death.) In any case, even if it crossed Egerton’s mind at this time that Alice might accept his proposal, he would almost certainly have instantly rejected the thought. He would have known full well that Burghley—and his Queen—simply would not allow the match. That dismisses his possible motive for killing Ferdinando. And, as noted earlier, Egerton lacked any and all known means and opportunities to murder Ferdinando or to cause him to be murdered. He was dear long-term friends with the Earl of Essex, whose status as a suspect is examined in some detail in chapter 19, “The Other,” and the fact could possibly have some relevance to the case. 3. William Stanley, future earl. While he was locked up in jail on a charge of succession-based treason, the ubiquitous Nicholas Williamson informed his interrogators that Countess Elizabeth Talbot, the wife of Earl Gilbert Talbot, had told him only two weeks or so after Ferdinando’s death that some unnamed people had said that they suspected William— and those people, along with Elizabeth herself, thought the motive to be succession-based. (Williamson’s whole lengthy interrogation this day was on the subject of the succession, and he made it clear that this was the only context within which he was recounting Elizabeth’s speech.) Williamson also noted to his interrogator that Elizabeth had quickly added, “But I believe not a word of it.” It is not known who these people were who suspected William, although it is known that such people were gossiping about him very soon after Ferdinando’s death. The obvious

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motive would be obtaining the earldom, but the context of Williamson’s information suggests that William had a desire to gain the throne—in other words, it was a matter of simple ambition. A related motive stemming from that theory might be that William, a tolerant Catholic sympathizer like his late father, Henry, was unpleasantly surprised by his anti-Catholic brother’s sudden elevation to the earldom (and he realized its implication for the anti-Catholic brother’s becoming king later on). He was especially horrified to hear that the new Earl Ferdinando had just turned in their virtual brother, Richard Hesketh, thus sending him to a certain death—when there may have been no real need for him to take such a drastic action. The first motive in and of itself, blind ambition of the Richard III sort, does not square at all with what is known of William. For the first thirty-three years of his life, he seems to have been a hedonistic, scholarly traveler who wanted nothing to do with his family’s power. After becoming the earl and after dutifully rebuilding the family fortune as soon as he could, even retaking the disputed Isle of Man from both Countess Alice and the Crown—Elizabeth had claimed it upon Ferdinando’s death—he took two major steps as soon as he could. First, he turned the Isle of Man over to his young wife Elizabeth to govern. (She responded by quickly becoming its most competent governor in history—far outstripping the successes of both Ferdinando and William, both of whom had recently held the post.) Second, William turned the entire earldom in everything but name over to their brilliant, tragic son James in 1626, when the boy was only nineteen, although William lived on until 1642, dying at around the age of eighty.6 In 1599, he was reliably reported as really being interested only in the writing of comedies for the London stages, and he seems to have been at that same time the chief financial backer of both the Children of Paul’s players when they went commercial and of the Boar’s Head Playhouse.7 For all of his adult life, William sponsored his own dramatic troupe (Derby’s Men), perhaps based at Preston in Lancashire, which mainly played the provinces but which also played on occasion in London and performed at least once for the Queen. In his last years, he moved alone into a

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rural retreat, lived on a pittance (for an earl), and composed music for the orpharion to be performed by his protégé Francis Thynne.8 As for William’s second possible motive—killing Ferdinando in order to take the earldom out of the hands of a militant anti-Catholic—it seems so unlikely that I do not wonder that it has never (to my knowledge) even been suggested in print before. I did however, discovered one thing about William which gave me pause because it connects him with the Doughtie brothers, especially Robert, who was last seen in these pages as a fugitive in Spain and who had been a suspect of Sir George Carey’s in the murder. The younger brother, Michael (also known as “Sergeant”) Doughtie, had been a faithful Derby retainer for years and remained so under Earl William. The reader may remember that he was a highly placed member of the Lancashire and Cheshire gentry, even rising to a position as a member of Parliament. He had also held the official title of clerk of the kitchen under Earl Henry—although he may never have seen the inside of the kitchen, this position being a very “exalted” one, according to a Lancashire historian of the nineteenth century. In fact, Michael Doughtie was probably the one person who was most responsible for William’s success against the widowed Countess Alice in what became popularly known as the “Great Lawsuit” over Ferdinando’s will—and hence he was the one person to whom William would feel himself to be the most in debt. Therefore, it is not really a troublesome fact that William granted Michael a lease of the Stanley manor of Northwich (Chester) on 31 January 1596, which he soon sold for a huge profit, becoming a landed gentleman when he used the money to buy an estate in Chipping and Boaden-in-Boaden. As the Stanley historian Barry Coward noted, Michael would have had good cause to consider this the “turning-point in his career.” But it turns out that William did much the same thing for Michael’s brother Robert shortly afterward. The fact cannot help but leap out, when one searches the documentary records as I did, that on 1 March of that same year (1596), Earl William granted Robert a 10,000-year lease for “lands in Lathom.”9 (The lease is extant, and I have a copy.) Might this be a delayed payoff for Robert’s complicity in Ferdinando’s murder?

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It might be, but I doubt that it is. It is too closely linked in time and real-estate location not to have been tied (in William’s mind, anyway) to the lease William had granted to Robert’s brother Michael fewer than thirty days earlier. When I couple this fact with the likelihood that Robert was almost certainly still in Spain when William made the lease to him (and he may have died there) and the fact that Michael is mentioned prominently in Robert’s lease as a participant of some sort, it seems to me that Michael had probably asked Earl William to do this for Robert’s family, who were possibly left destitute after his flight. I also reason that the earl could not have dared to “reward” Robert personally when Robert had been suspected in Lancashire and soon after in the highest government circles of having been involved in the murder—and he certainly was so suspected by Sir George Carey and Sir Thomas Leigh, brothersin-law to both William and the late Ferdinando. So, on the basis of all of the evidence taken together, William does not add up for me as a convincing perpetrator of ambition-based fratricide. (Again, some readers may well conclude otherwise.) 4. The Catholic leadership abroad (especially the Jesuits). Starting very soon after the murder, the theory that the Jesuits were responsible for it began to leak into print, and some people still believe it in modern times. The theory takes three related forms. The first is that the Jesuits were motivated by simple revenge. The second is that they were motivated by the prominent position of a strong anti-Catholic earl in the line for inheriting the throne—a situation that they found entirely unacceptable. (They now knew Ferdinando was anti-Catholic because he had turned in Hesketh.) The third possibility is that they were motivated by the pope’s ruling that anyone who turned down his offer of the throne should be killed for going against the express will of the one and only true God. The first published writer to imply the Jesuit theory was perhaps Lord Burghley, for in November of 1594, only months after Ferdinando’s death, he wrote a little book called A True Report of Sundry Horrible Conspiracies of Late Time detected to have (by Barbarous murders) taken away the life of the Queene’s most excellent Majesty (mentioned

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earlier in these pages). After briefly recounting the Hesketh affair and blaming it on Cardinal William Allen, Sir William Stanley, and Father Thomas Worthington, he pointedly wrote that Ferdinando was so “wise and dutiful” that he had turned Hesketh in. Burleigh did not explicitly mention Ferdinando’s death, for he knew he did not have to: everyone in England knew about it, and most of those who knew thought the Jesuits were behind it. The implication of Lord Burghley’s wording to all such knowledgeable readers was probably that those who had sent Hesketh to Ferdinando were those who had had him killed. The first writer on record to advocate an explicit version of the theory was Lewis Lewkenor (Lewknor, Lewkner) in 1595, only a year or so later, in his Estate of English Fugitives. Although they were a nominally Church of England gentry clan, the Lewkenors were strongly Puritanleaning Crown loyalists who wished to reform the English church from within; one of them, Sir Edward, was serving on the Privy Council with Essex. (They possibly knew that this was also Elizabeth’s own hope and that her favorite theologian was Calvin.) Lewis and his brother Samuel both served as Cecil spies, and, as mentioned earlier, Samuel had insinuated himself into the homes of the highest-ranked Jesuit exiles in Brussels, even serving as Hesketh’s replacement lodger in one of them.) As one modern scholar put it, Lewkenor “wrote darkly of Jesuit connivance,” and this was an accurate depiction of the Jesuits’ connivance. Lewkenor concluded his account of Ferdinando’s murder with the words, “By their [the Jesuits’] practice or no, God knoweth, and time will discover. But that so it was … there is nothing more likely” (emphasis added). I am unconvinced by this theory. The Jesuits were pragmatists, active agents in the war that was the Counter-Reformation, and this was especially true of the English Jesuits. They were for the most part totally focused. They appear to have been interested mostly in taking actions that would advance the cause, and they simply lacked the time, the money, the other necessary resources, and above all the inclination to bother with distractions such as mere revenge against people who refused their offers. They simply moved on. And the English Jesuits did exactly that: after being rejected by Ferdinando, they immediately

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switched the focus of their attentions—mainly to James VI of Scotland and in a much lesser way (as is known only from one slight piece of documentary evidence) to the new Earl William Stanley, who had no interest in their proposals. 5. The Catholics at home. This was the theory of the eminent verse historian William Warner, who in his Albion’s England (1596) wrote the following: False Hesket too not falsely spake, reporting lately this, That such as Papists would seduce, and of seducing mis, Are marked dead: For he to whom he so did say, feare I, Earle Ferdinando Stanley, so dissenting, so did trie, As other Peeres, heere, and els-where, haue found the like no lye. Nor preached he the Pope amis, that did to him applie This Tex, to witt: This is the Heire, come on and let him die, Th’ Inheritance let vs inioye: Nought seeke they els, for why? Those bad be good that giue, those good be bad that Giftes deny.….

In other words, Hesketh did not speak falsely when he told Ferdinando while trying to persuade him to take the throne that those great people whom the papists tried to seduce with gifts but “miss[ed]” became marked men and must be killed. Ferdinando “did trie” (tested) this maxim, and I fear that he found it to be no lie—that is, it was the literal truth. Because Warner did not mention the Jesuits or imply anything about the Catholics who were living abroad, I infer that he was talking about the Catholics who were living in England, especially in Lancashire. They were rumored in England to have committed the murder, but to have done it out of “revenge.” Warner’s argument is, of course, quite different: they did it to keep their faith with God. Of all of these arguments, I find Warner’s to make the most sense so far in one way—even if it names only a specific category rather than a specific person or persons. He may or may not have been right in his “obeying God’s command” theory, and if the local Catholics were responsible for the murder, they may well have been motivated by simple revenge. After all, somebody murdered Ferdinando by poison, not by witchcraft, and the hit man or men had to have been working inside

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Lathom Castle or to have had familiar and easy access to a person or persons who did. It grows increasingly hard to believe that the responsible parties were not enraged local Catholics. If so, the Bold brothers, young masters Latham and/or Mordant, and Robert Doughtie would be the most obious suspects based on the evidence that has been presented in this book. As to “how high it went,” that is another question—and one I will get to shortly. 6. Two or more unnamed men with wives. Sir John Harington, the Queen’s godson and one of the great wits of the age, implied in The Metamorphosis of Ajax (which was written in 1596, only two years after the murder) that this phrase—“two or more unnamed men with wives”— described the murderers. Harington knew Ferdinando and his family well and had apparently sat near him at Earl Henry’s funeral. He was also dear friends with Earl Gilbert Talbot, Ferdinando’s chief trustee, who attended Ferdinando’s funeral, probably with Harington again sitting close by. In speaking of the Spencer sisters toward the end of his book, he wrote when he came to the recently widowed Alice, “And one of them is a widow, [and] I beshrow their hearts, & I would wish their wives were widows that made her so.” (The archaic beshrow means “curse”; thus, Harington was saying that he cursed the hearts of those who had made Alice a widow and he wished that their own wives would be made widows in revenge for what they had done.) Harington may have been speaking in very general terms, really not knowing or pretending to know who was responsible for the earl’s death. However, his words can be taken to mean that he did know—or strongly suspected. If one takes him literally, and if one believes he was right, one gets a tiny bit closer to naming the murderer by being able to exclude both women and single men. For example, Alice would be ruled out, but William, who by that time had married, would not be. My own feeling is that this passage, taken as evidence, is too weak, thin, and vague to base any arguments on. However, if one does take Harington to be at all credible, one is left with—or at least does not have to rule out—several “persons of interest” who were married men.10 7. Dr. John Case. The family doctor has always been a favorite suspect of people who love good mystery novels—because this character has so

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often been the murderer in literary works. Almost always presented as a very nice, competent man (although the “man” part is rapidly changing) who is dedicated to curing the patient (i.e., the victim), he also always has the clear means and opportunity. After he is caught at the end, his previously hidden motive is revealed by the detective. For this reason, some readers may have been thinking that the Oxford doctor is a strong candidate for the murderer, that perhaps he administered the poison just after they arrived at Knowsley together. But the arguments against Case are, to my mind, formidable. First, he would not have immediately administered bezoar stone and unicorn horn—both of which were considered to be sovereign universal antidotes to poison at the time—upon first getting back to Lathom and seeing his friend’s suddenly changed condition, much less have told the recording secretary that he had done so. He would not have wanted to call attention to the possibility of poison if he had been the poisoner, and he also would not have wanted to do anything that might prevent his patient’s death. But when one stops to think about it, there is an even more obvious reason why the doctor would not have poisoned Ferdinando. Knowing that Countess Alice had miscarried at two months with a child that was not Ferdinando’s own, and knowing that other people knew it as well (especially Golborne, who did not seem to have been instructed to keep it quiet, nor to keep the suspicion of poisoning quiet later), Dr. Case would almost certainly have been afraid of casting suspicion upon Alice as the poisoner. Even though he believed in the efficacy of unicorn horn, he probably did not believe in the efficacy of witchcraft, and he knew that other scientists of the time did not believe in it either. He would therefore also have known that placing the blame for both the pregnancy and the miscarriage on the witches would be unlikely to work in terms of public opinion—as indeed it did not— and that the poison would be discovered. He would also have known that when it was discovered, under the circumstances, educated people would cast their suspicions upon Alice. He would have believed Alice innocent because he would have seen no motive. In fact, he would have known that she had more to lose by his dying than she would by his living on—as in fact she did, because she lost the power of the earldom

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and much of her money to the new Earl William. To this reasoning, one also has to repeat immediately that there was not the slightest motive for Case himself to have committed the murder.11 8. “Dr. Hackett.” “A Dr Hackett was tortured and hanged as a wizard for having caused [Ferdinando’s] suffering and death, by making a waxen image of him and sticking pins into it,” according to a footnote in the 1916 edition of Cokayne’s Peerage. The author of the footnote was the editor of that particular late edition, Vicary Gibbs, who provided no citation. The information appears in none of the previous editions, and I have not seen it elsewhere. Gibbs, a knighted member of Parliament and an amateur genealogist, was apparently conflating his Hacketts, Heskeths, and Halsalls, the last two of whom show up in the various versions of Ferdinando’s death that Gibbs had read. Hackett was hanged for blasphemy at about this same time. He was an infamous ”new messiah” who had a huge London cult, and he was said to have threatened the Queen, but he had nothing to do with Hesketh or with Ferdinando’s death. I list Hackett only because it is all too easy for such supposed suspects to insinuate themselves into the documentary record and sometimes to stay there, becoming sources of endless confusion. (For example, the report that Hackett was hanged for murdering Ferdinando was re-reported by Catherine Canino in her excellent Shakespeare and the English Nobility only because she understandably followed the supposedly authoritative Peerage.)12 9. The “Other.” This is the subject of chapter 19.

CHAPTER 19

THE OTHER

Of all of the persons and groups who were suspected right after Ferdinando’s death, the “other” is the most difficult to make sense of. It is also the most intriguing. The term is not mine; rather, it is the shady, violent Nicholas Williamson’s. But as Williamson was quoting Countess Mary Talbot, the wife of Earl Gilbert, verbatim when he employed it, I take the term to have been hers—if and only if I take Williamson to have been telling the truth to his interrogators when he quoted her, which I cautiously do.1 First named as a recusant Catholic by the government in February of 1591, Williamson was (as noted earlier) for years the right-hand man of Earl Gilbert and Countess Mary Talbot, and under their direction, he led the army of men who destroyed the huge weir of Sir Thomas Stanhope on Easter night of 1593. One of the reasons Gilbert and Mary hated Stanhope was that they knew he was the source of wild rumors at court about them—the main one being that Gilbert was essentially a puppet in the hands of both his wife and another of their advisors, Sir Thomas Markham, a powerful local Catholic who was, despite this fact, beloved

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by Queen Elizabeth. Stanhope had apparently told the Queen and Lord Burghley that the rumors were true, and Gilbert had heard from other sources that these rumors were believed by many people. Gilbert wrote angry letters of protest to Burghley, claiming that the rumors were malevolent lies. But Markham had become Stanhope’s ally and Gilbert’s enemy by some point in 1592. Another source of the bad feeling between the Shrewsburys and Stanhope was that Stanhope had broken a deal with Gilbert when he consented to his daughter’s marriage to young John Holles—leading to a quarrel which ran from 1591 until early in the reign of James. The point is that the Shrewsburys hated Stanhope (and vice versa) in 1593, and the earl and his wife had sent Williamson to tear down Stanhope’s weir with an army of local men. They then went on to destroy a great deal of other valuable Stanhope property. These actions led the Queen to say publicly that she knew Gilbert (and Master Williamson, whom she had never heard of at that point, although she certainly would hear of him later, bore little fault in the matter: “It is not my Lord’s [Gilbert’s] doing but my Lady’s [Mary’s]; my Lady leads my Lord in all things.” She was still furious at them both over the event, not just at Mary, and they were in turn furious at Stanhope, whom they had heard was the Queen’s source of information. Elizabeth and her ministers gave the noble Gilbert a slap on the wrist when the case went to the Star Chamber, but they convicted Williamson, who, after remaining free for a long period under the protection of Gilbert, fled the country rather than go to the English church even once. (As noted earlier, Gilbert had told Williamson he could get the charges against him dropped if Williamson would go to church just one time, but Williamson refused and ran.) I repeat these facts because Williamson is relevant in two important ways to the murder of Ferdinando a year later—and he is relevant solely within the context of the problem of the royal succession. First, he was the friend, confidante, and right-hand man of Earl Gilbert Talbot and Countess Mary. Second, he was the brother-in-law, confidante, and extremely active advocate of Richard Bold. There is good reason to believe that he knew anything any of them knew—sooner or later.

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Perhaps the best way to see Williamson’s importance is via an abbreviated timeline. 1593, Easter Night: Gilbert and Williamson began the destruction of Stanhope’s weir, razing more than half of it, returning to finish the job later. 1593, September: Hesketh arrived in England on his way to offer the throne to the Earl of Derby. 1593, October: Earl Ferdinando turned Hesketh in, and Hesketh was soon convicted and executed. The Catholic leadership abroad and its supporters in England now knew for certain that Ferdinando was not one of them. They suspected that he may have even been their enemy. Most important of all, some of them probably felt that it was God’s will that Ferdinando be killed, not so much in revenge but because he had committed the major Catholic sin (at the time) of refusing God’s great gift of making him the king of England—via divine right. This feeling would have been easily rationalized among any Catholics in England who hated Ferdinando anyway. 1594, April: Earl Ferdinando was murdered by poison. Williamson was still in England under Shrewsbury protection; he had been convicted, but he had not yet fled to the continent. 1594, April, just after Ferdinando’s death: Countess Mary, in conversation with Williamson, told him something exceedingly strange about the murder of Ferdinando. This tête-à-tête will be considered at length immediately following the timeline. 1595, August: After fleeing England with the hope of joining the forces of the Earl of Essex on the continent, Williamson was caught and arrested as he tried to reenter the country to deliver a message to King James VI of Scotland—a message from the Catholic leadership abroad offering him the throne. The Williamson mission was now exactly analogous to the Hesketh mission. The Catholic leadership, after finally finding out the truth about Ferdinando (who was now dead), had immediately transferred its succession hopes (and plots) to James, and it had found another Hesketh in Williamson. (To draw the analogy even tighter, Williamson also first got into trouble with the government for leading a horde of

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local miscreants on a dark night to wreak destruction upon the valued property of an adversary of his lord and master’s. In Hesketh’s case, this was Baron Langton, and in Williamson’s case, it was Earl Gilbert.) Like Hesketh, Williamson was immediately taken to London, where he was interrogated by the usual government crackers (including the ever-busy Wade yet again). But he was also deemed to merit an interrogator from the highest level: Attorney General Coke. During this interrogation, which was all about (and only about) the succession and the several contemporary plots that were related to it, Williamson related to Coke what Countess Mary Talbot had told him in private more than a year earlier, in the spring of 1594, only a few days after Ferdinando’s death. In Williamson’s own transcribed words: My lady also one day told me of the manner and forcible death of my late lord of Derby, saying that some were of the opinion that my lord that now is, his brother [William], had procured him to be poisoned. “But I believe it not, but those foolish speeches that he spake to Mr. Fr[ancis] Hastings, saying that they should one day fight for the crown, the shew of his great will and haughty stomach, his making himself so popular and bearing himself so against my lord of Essex, I thought would be his overthrow. But (saith her honour) I marvel it is not revenged, for if the like should happen to my lord—as if it doth, it must be by one of these three factions, either Sir Tho. Stanhope with Tho. Markham, or his brethern, or the other (whom I understand to be those whom she thought to have poisoned my lord of Derby)—by God it shall be revenged upon them all, though it cost full dear.”; and said further that my lord [Gilbert] at his coming to London should go forth to dinner but to few places, and should be provided against such practices. How far these practices may extend, or how well be answered, I know not, but am assured (they being privately spoken) if her honour please to deny them, her great credit and high estate will discredit my most abject condition; for other testimony than myself I cannot give them.2

One important thing to notice about this transcribed monologue is that it contains a second monologue—Williamson’s report of what Countess

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Mary actually said in the (i.e., her) first person. It is this embedded monologue that is the important part. Mary’s speech was convoluted, and its references to people were confusingly worded. But I believe it yields its meaning (most of it, anyway) through parsing, and my efforts to parse it are now provided, sentence by sentence, taking up specific problems and questions as they arise. 1. “But I believe it not [i.e., that Ferdinando’s brother William poisoned him], but those foolish speeches that he spake to Mr. Fr[ancis] Hastings, saying that they should one day fight for the crown, the shew of his great will and haughty stomach, his making himself so popular and bearing himself so against my lord of Essex, I thought would be his overthrow.”

First, Mary was saying that she did not believe that William poisoned Ferdinando. Second, she was saying that the causes of Ferdinando’s “overthrow” (as she termed it later) were words he had said in public to Francis Hastings (a distant claimant to the throne in 1594, but whose claim had been taken seriously thirty years earlier when Elizabeth was thought to be dying of smallpox) about how the two of them would someday be fighting for the crown. These words had somehow gone public, probably because other people were present when he said them. Mary called Ferdinando’s words to Hastings “foolish,” by which I think she mostly meant they were joking, perhaps even reaching the point of high raillery. (It is known that Ferdinando appreciated raillery in others. The archrailer of the day, Thomas Nashe, wrote and published a long, obscene poem that was dedicated to him. This was “A Choice of Valentines” [popularly known as “Nashe’s Dildo”].) However stern he may have been at times, it is known, primarily from Nashe’s writing, that Ferdinando could be a mischievously funny man when the mood—and just possibly the wine— struck him. If he were not, he could not have been so fond of Nashe, and Nashe could not have been so fond of him—much less have addressed him as a companionable friend.) I thus do not believe Countess Mary intended the word foolish to mean that it was foolish of Ferdinando to

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have said those words in seriousness to Hastings, for she knew that Ferdinando knew that Hastings’ claim lacked serious viability at the time he uttered them. She was saying that Ferdinando was joking and that others had heard what he said. Third, Countess Mary was saying to Williamson that Ferdinando’s “overthrow” was caused by his “great will and haughty stomach,” his “making himself so popular,” and his “bearing himself so” against Essex. This could be taken as a three-part list (his show of will and haughtiness, his making of himself into an enormously popular man, and the way he comported himself with Essex). In contrast, it could be taken as one continuous item: he was willful and haughty toward Essex in their quarrel over Bold, which Mary’s husband Gilbert had tried hard to mediate; he had made himself exceedingly popular as a young man, thus causing Essex to be jealous, perhaps even making him feel that Ferdinando was grooming himself to be Elizabeth’s successor (when, as is now known from ancient documents that have been unread for a long time, Essex wanted either himself or James to be her successor); and Fernando had continued to “[bear] himself so” against Essex. As this was the only time Mary mentioned Essex by name to Williamson, I take the phrase “bearing himself so” to refer to the just-enumerated reasons for Ferdinando’s downfall and death, and thus that she was referring to Ferdinando when she itemized them. In other words, I think she was saying that Ferdinando had behaved in these ways to Essex—implying that Essex, who was always thinking of the succession and only the succession, “responded.” 2. “But (saith her honour) I marvel it is not revenged, for if the like should happen to my lord—as if it doth, it must be by one of these three factions, either Sir Tho. Stanhope with Tho. Markham, or his brethern, or the other (whom I understand to be those whom she thought to have poisoned my lord of Derby)—by God it shall be revenged upon them all, though it cost full dear.”; and said further that “my lord [Gilbert] at his coming to London should go forth to dinner but to few places, and should be provided against such practices.” [Great Elizabethan ladies always referred to their noble husbands as “my lord,” even when speaking privately to their social equals.]

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At this point in her speech, Mary became distracted by her fears that the same thing might happen to “my lord”—that is, her husband, Earl Gilbert, not the new Earl William Stanley. She told Williamson that if Gilbert should be murdered, it would be at the hands of one of three factions. The first was Stanhope in company with Markham, for these two were now allied against Gilbert and were his passionate enemies both locally and at court. The second was “his brethern,” by which she meant Gilbert’s own two brothers, Edward and Henry, both of whom Gilbert hated and both of whom hated him. (In fact, as mentioned earlier, only days after Mary’s reported speech to Williamson, Gilbert publicly accused his brother Edward of trying to kill him with “poison gloves” supplied by the apothecary of his mother-in-law, Bess of Hardwick. The case soon went up to the Star Chamber and is amusingly recounted in its records at length and in great detail. The Chamber’s verdict was to dismiss all charges against Edward, although it did convict the apothecary of apparently offering to supply him with poison for that purpose in exchange for money. Thus, Mary’s fears on this score were not totally unfounded.) Finally, I come to Mary’s third suspect or suspects, the “other.” Mary’s syntax and pronominal reference with respect to this person are difficult to understand. When she used the word those, did she mean all three of the “factions” (“whom I understand to be those whom she thought to have poisoned my lord of Derby”)? Or did she mean only the last of them, Essex, along with some unnamed cohorts? In either event, she believed that one or more of them had poisoned Ferdinando and now would probably try to poison her husband Gilbert. She did view the three groups as “factions” who were allied (probably) against one another but who were also allied in common against both Ferdinando and Gilbert. By the third faction, the “other,” she meant either some person or persons she did not actually name to Williamson or else someone to whom she had alluded earlier in her brief speech to him—Hastings or Essex, necessarily—pointing “backward” to the man in her tangled syntax as “one of those two noblemen I just now mentioned.” I do not believe that the phrase “the other” is censorship on the part of either Williamson or the transcriber (at Coke’s insistence) because of Williamson’s immediate

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following phrase, which actually modifies “other” in the technical sense: it is “the other … whom I understand to be those whom she thought to have poisoned my lord of Derby.” I think she meant Essex, and I think that Williamson was reporting this story to Coke at the end of his long interrogation, knowing that Coke was frustrated with how little information he had thus far revealed (again, solely within the context of the succession), just in order to give him something as a last resort. Williamson was clearly saying to Coke when he told him this story that this was the only other thing he could think of which might be of interest in connection with the various succession plots. Williamson then went on to quote Mary as having said (when one puts her words together in the most obvious way) that she was amazed that Ferdinando’s death had not been revenged. If the same thing happened to Gilbert, she indicated, she would take revenge upon the perpetrators, even though she might not know exactly which man had done it. (“By God, it should be revenged upon them all, though it cost full dear.”) Her strong implication is that she was amazed that her exact analogue, Countess Alice, had not taken revenge—implying still further that she believed Alice must know who had poisoned her husband Ferdinando. If she did not know who had done it, she could not have taken revenge. And Mary did, I think, imply her feeling (“I am amazed”) that Alice did know and was remiss in not having taken action. When I try to interpret these words, if I am reading them correctly, they seem to say that Mary thought that Alice, knowing full well who was behind the death of her husband, should have already taken revenge upon the guilty party, as it was her duty, at that time and in that culture, to do so. Because Mary knew everything Gilbert knew, I think she assumed correctly (or even knew) that Alice knew everything Ferdinando knew. Thus, Alice would have known all about the fight between Ferdinando and Essex regarding Bold, and she would have known that that fight was really about Essex’s concern for the throne. This was Mary’s context, and, as stressed earlier, it was the sole context of Williamson’s report of her words to Coke. The succession

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was what Williamson and Coke were talking about, and Williamson had revealed this bit of information (the transcription of his testimony shows) in order to give the frustrated and angry Coke something. Williamson was saying to Coke, in effect, that even though he knew he had displeased and dissatisfied him by revealing so little about his mission to James VI in Scotland to offer him the same deal that Hesketh had made to Ferdinando, he nonetheless did know who was behind the death of Ferdinando. Mary’s monologue ended with her telling Williamson that the next time Gilbert went to London (where Essex lived at Hampton Court), he would dine only at certain secure places and would be guarded against “such practices.” Williamson then ended his testimony by saying to Coke, How far these practices may extend, or how well be answered, I know not, but am assured (they being privately spoken) if her honour please to deny them, her great credit and high estate will discredit my most abject condition; for other testimony than myself I cannot give them.

This is more interesting than it seems at first glance, because what Williamson was almost certainly saying, here only in his own words, was that he did not know how extensive such poisoning—“such practices”— had been during his absence abroad. He also did not know “how well answered”—how successfully revenged any “such practices”—had turned out to be. His last words convey his knowledge that Countess Mary, if she heard of his report to Coke, might well deny that she had said these things, and that if she did, she would be the one who was believed, not he, because he was the sole lowly witness to her speech. To all of the important smaller questions that attach themselves to this reported speech and what it may or may not mean, I must add two more, much larger ones. First, was Williamson telling the truth to Coke? Second, even if he was, or was trying his best to, was he reporting Mary’s speech accurately from memory? In other words, not only is the reported text fraught with difficulty, but it is also uncertain whether the text is a completely reliable one.

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My only real conclusion is that if it is taken it to be a reliable report, then it probably means that Countess Mary thought Essex (with support) was guilty of having killed Ferdinando and of having possibly been planning—at the time she told this to Williamson, a year earlier in early 1594—to kill her husband Gilbert as well. If one believes that she did imply to Williamson that she thought Essex had killed Ferdinando, two pieces of evidence give some support to that belief. One, Mary would have known from Gilbert all about Ferdinando’s written suspicions, which he voiced to Gilbert (Williamson’s boss) in a letter that was written shortly before his death (quoted earlier), that Essex was making Richard Bold’s cause “his own.” Two, Williamson and Bold were brothers-in-law, which fact Gilbert and Mary both knew, and thus Mary would have suspected, in speaking these words to Williamson, that she was presenting him with no surprise but rather was just letting him know that she already suspected that he knew and that he may even have been involved himself. Moreover, it is worth remembering within this context that both Essex and Williamson had cause to be angry with both Ferdinando and Gilbert just before the time of Mary’s reported speech. Essex was furious with Ferdinando about his intransigence in not readmitting Bold to his service. (At the time of Ferdinando’s death, he had still not taken Bold back, and thus Bold was still wearing Essex’s livery in Lancashire.) Essex was also growing increasingly angry with Gilbert at this time because he sensed that Gilbert was shifting his alliance from him to his archrivals the Cecils—which was in fact the case. Williamson was angry with Ferdinando because he was Bold’s brother-in-law, close friend, and advocate, as well as being Agnes Mordant’s son-in-law. He knew all about Bold’s extreme frustration at not being able to reenter Ferdinando’s service, and he also knew (at the time of the murder) that Ferdinando had just caught Bold holding a meeting related to the Mordant plot in Prescot, along with his mother-in-law’s priest son. Williamson was probably also angry with Essex at the time he confessed to Coke because he had not been accepted into his service on the continent after fleeing England. Also, as he lay languishing in prison, Sir Thomas Stanhope had made him an offer he could not refuse: if he would reveal everything he knew about

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Gilbert’s role in the Weir War, he, Stanhope, would have Essex get him out of jail and into his (Essex’s) service. Additionally, Williamson may have reflected back upon the fact that Essex had been one of his first interrogators after his capture,3 apparently playing “good cop,” and Williamson may in the end have thought that Essex had used him and betrayed him as yet another pawn in his succession game. If so, the idea of getting revenge on Essex may have compensated Williamson, in his mind, for the risk he was taking in telling Coke who Mary had said had killed Ferdinando—for Coke might then find out, or at least suspect, that Williamson had been a co-conspirator in that assassination. If Williamson was in it with Bold, then of course he probably knew of any Essex involvement before Countess Mary told him about it. In any event, Williamson had accepted Stanhope’s offer about revealing what he knew about Gilbert and had then kept his part of the bargain. He told everything he knew about Gilbert’s instigation of the Weir War to his interrogators. But then, Stanhope could not make good on his bargain, for Essex apparently refused to play his role in the arrangement, perhaps thinking he had already given in to Stanhope’s political demands enough in the matter of the hideous young John Markham, whom Stanhope had wanted punished. (And punished he was: Essex had made sure that Markham was speedily tried, convicted, and jailed in response to Stanhope’s pressure upon him, as he reported to Gilbert in a letter that has been previously discussed in this book.) Finally, there is another question possibly raised by Mary in her monologue. If Richard Bold was involved in Ferdinando’s murder, was his brother-in-law Williamson involved in it with him? If one tries to think about the problem the two of them faced as they may have been thinking about it at the time, it will soon be apparent that once they had learned that Ferdinando was definitely not interested in taking the throne by force before the Queen died, that he was definitely anti-Catholic, and that he had probably elevated himself even further in the Queen’s eyes by turning Hesketh in, it might well have become necessary to get rid of Ferdinando just to make sure Elizabeth did not name him as her successor.

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In other words, it may have suddenly occurred to the men that the succession chances of the anti-Catholic Ferdinando were now, while he was alive, greater than ever. He may well have given himself, in one very politic stroke, the edge over James in the Queen’s eyes. Because they believed that James would at least be tolerant of the Catholics if he was named king (for so he had indicated strongly), they may have seen him as their last realistic hope. But with both Elizabeth and Ferdinando left alive, that hope suddenly dimmed, and the specter of King Ferdinando would have loomed larger than ever. Additionally, it may have troubled their consciences that as good and loyal Catholics, they had not, even when they were given the opportunity, fulfilled the pope’s mandate that loyal Catholics should assassinate anyone who refused an offer of a crown when the offer had come from him or one of his delegated subordinates. (I should note that if Williamson was in it with Bold, then he would also have known of an Essex involvement before Countess Mary told him about it.) The story does make some sense, but up to this point it remains insufficiently grounded, in terms of evidence and arguments therefrom, to base a reasonable “indictment” upon. As for Williamson, he died ten years later in 1604, apparently still in prison, still writing plaintive, innocence-claiming pleas to the Cecils, father and son, for his release. No answers came.

CHAPTER 20

THE MISSING GENTLEMAN WAITER

When I began researching this book (after being interested in the earls of Derby and their families for several years), I hoped to be able to solve the nearly 420-year-old “cold case” mystery of Earl Ferdinando Stanley’s death—or at least to come reasonably close. Until about a month before finishing the research, I did not feel I had come close enough. I thus wondered whether to go any further. The problem was that I was reasonably sure of two things but could not connect them. First, I thought that Sir Thomas Leigh and Sir George Carey must have made an important discovery when Leigh came across his “letter left by chance” at Lathom Hall which indicated that Robert Doughtie, one of the gentlemen waiters there, was implicated in the murder—the letter that another Leigh, the late Ferdinando’s chaplain William, immediately carried to Carey in London. I discounted their accompanying “witchcraft” hypothesis, knowing one simple thing they could not have known: successful black witchcraft does not exist and

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never has existed, and even when so-called witches have been suspected of murder (or other large or small harmful acts), they too would have necessarily accomplished their “feat” through material means—such as poison—rather than supernatural means. However, they almost never admitted that in order to retain the community’s respect (and even the respect of kings and earls) for their powers. To put it more simply, successful witchcraft always requires material means in order to be successful (except for cases of hypnosis and other methods which rely on the power of suggestion). Leigh and Carey may have been right in their belief that some of the witches of Lancashire were involved peripherally in Ferdinando’s death. One or more of them—for example, the “Jane” who was jailed by Sir Edward Fitton—may well have supplied the poison. (This was far from easy for a layperson to obtain at the time.) If so, there would be an easy explanation for the question one of these blackclad women reportedly asked John Golborne while Ferdinando was on his deathbed—whether the victim’s water had stopped yet, at just about the time it actually did stop—because she would have known how the poison worked and how long it took for particular symptoms to develop. Second, Leigh and Carey’s suspicion of Robert Doughtie was greatly heightened for me when I discovered that Doughtie had fled to Spain, as discussed previously, where he seems to have immediately been put on the “pensioner’s payroll” of the exiled Catholic leadership, probably subsidized by King Philip (who underwrote much more for the leadership), and where he was promptly described by an alert English spy as “one of the worst in tongue against this nation.”1 But this information about Doughtie was not in itself enough. What was lacking was a connection between Doughtie and Richard Bold. A good bit of my archival research had led me to strongly suspect Bold of being the primary acting agent in Ferdinando’s murder, probably in part engineering it in order to make the Earl of Essex happy. My main reasons for thinking this are as follows. 1. Bold had previously threatened Ferdinando’s life in retaliation for actions the young lord had taken against his wife and mother-in-law (two of the three ladies Mordant, the third being Nicholas Williamson’s wife).

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2. “Bold and that crewe” (as Ferdinando had sneeringly called them) had immediately left Ferdinando’s service upon his succession to the earldom. 3. They had immediately been taken into service by the Earl of Essex as his official retainers, wearing his livery and probably his badge. 4. They had still lurked about on Lathom property (clad in Essex’s livery), even hunting and hawking in Ferdinando’s private gaming spots and doing who knows what else (some scholars have accused them of spying on the earl). 5. Bold and his brother-in-law Williamson had then quickly begun laboring to persuade Williamson’s crypto-Catholic friend the Earl of Shrewsbury, Essex’s choice as a mediator between him and Ferdinando in the dispute over Bold, to convince Ferdinando to take him and some of the others (I can name only Schoolmaster Latham) back into his service after “forgiving” them. 6. Gilbert, at Essex’s and their insistence, had encouraged Ferdinando to give in to Essex on the matter. 7. Surviving letters suggest strongly that Essex had most curiously even gone so far as to rapidly create an alliance of other nobles who were in favor (with him and the Queen) to stand with him on behalf of Bold, a virtual nobody, thus elevating this seemingly minor disagreement into a matter of some national significance (because of historically justified fears about divisive earl-caused territorial wars). 8. Ferdinando had quite reasonably (in my view) wondered to Gilbert two months or so before his murder about why Essex would have gone to all of this trouble to make Bold’s cause his own cause—even seeming (again, in my view) to be asking Gilbert this as a sarcastic rhetorical question. As for Essex’s involvement, I say only that every time I look at the documents in the case (most particularly the voluminous correspondence involving Essex, Ferdinando, Gilbert, Bold, and Williamson), I find myself echoing Ferdinando’s almost certainly rhetorical question to Gilbert about what had motivated Essex to take such swift, fervent, and sweeping political action in service to a cause (“Bold’s cause”) that

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would ordinarily have seemed to be—and in fact, would have been— trivial. Then, after asking that question, I look again at three other incriminating factors. First, there was Essex’s own passionate, partisan interest in the succession during the whole period of 1589 through 1601. This interest finally led to his own attempt to grab the throne through violent means in 1601, and because Sir Robert Cecil knew about the plan all along, as the chief prosecutor he charged Essex formally with having (treasonably) sought the crown for himself through all of those long years of Elizabeth’s waning. Essex’s advocacy of King James VI was taken to have been a diversionary tactic. Second, Richard Hesketh did indeed tell Earl Ferdinando in all candor, in response to Ferdinando’s direct question about having possible help from Essex in his effort for the crown, that Essex would not side with him because Hesketh had heard on the best authority that Essex wanted the crown for himself. (To take another look at the details of this, see p. 164.) Third, Nicholas Williamson testified, under prolonged interrogation about succession-based plots (including his own) by a frustrated Attorney General Coke, that Earl Gilbert’s wife, Countess Mary, had seemed to imply in a private conversation with him shortly after the murder that she believed Essex was somehow, in some way, behind it. (This third factor is far from adequate as good evidence to me, as I explained earlier, but I simply cannot put it out of my mind. Gilbert had been trying so doggedly to change Ferdinando’s mind at Essex’s behest, and he surely must have suspected Essex after the murder in light of all that Ferdinando had told him only recently. This suspicion was likely passed on by Williamson to Mary, who was then, as always, his confidante. Or, as some of Williamson’s highly placed enemies suggested and as the Queen herself believed, Mary was his actual master, just as she was her husband Gilbert’s.) To these three reasons, I add a fourth (which was suggested earlier in this chapter): Essex would likely have been worried about the very same thing that was arguably worrying Bold and Williamson—the possibility that Ferdinando, in early 1594, had snatched the succession edge from

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Essex’s own candidate (or, in his own mind, his stalking horse), James. It would be good if he were not always standing around, always in the way of everything and everybody. Do I think Essex explicitly asked or ordered (or even paid) Bold to make the hit on Ferdinando? It is of course possible that he did; yet as reckless and ambitious as he was, I doubt that he would have done that. It seems more likely that Essex and Bold simply formed a perfect symbiotic relationship, with each of them being perfectly aware of the symbiosis. I believe on the evidence that they both wanted Ferdinando dead, albeit for different reasons, and each of them knew what the other wanted. Bold knew that Essex could do more for him, if he would, than probably anyone else in the world. Essex knew that Bold could, if he would, and if he could get a bit closer to Ferdinando physically, do the one thing he, Essex, most wanted done at the time. I think they both had reason to believe, during the late winter and early spring of 1594, that their “plan,” even if it remained unvoiced, was moving along well— largely thanks to the (perhaps unwitting, perhaps not) intercession of Earl Gilbert on Essex’s behalf. I believe that Essex was conscious of all of these facts as he sat at his desk in London writing his letters to Ferdinando and Gilbert about Bold. However, it is entirely possible that Essex did dare to directly contract with “Bold and that crew” for Ferdinando’s assassination. I am not convinced, but again, as reckless and ambitious as Essex was, it is possible. Whether he did or not, it is fairly certain that anyone who knew him well and loved him probably suspected that he did (because that person would have known about the great enmity between him and Ferdinando in early 1594 regarding Bold). If any such person loved Countess Alice and did not think much of Ferdinando, he or she might have been protective of Essex in the matter. One such person was certainly Egerton, who loved both Alice and Essex. Suggestive as these facts may be when taken together, they fall short of constituting evidence against either Essex as a possible puppet master working above and behind the scenes or Egerton as his possible silken abettor. Gentleman Waiter Doughtie certainly had the means and the opportunity but, I keep thinking, not enough of a motive to “convict” him. He

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did have a motive of sorts: he was a Catholic who must have been upset with Ferdinando for declining the crown that Hesketh had offered and for then turning Hesketh in (two separate but related motives, as explained earlier). However, that much could probably be said for many of the 150-odd other people who were working inside Lathom. He probably never would have been thought of in connection with the murder had Leigh not reported to Carey that the “note found by chance” had implicated him, had Doughtie not fled on a horse from the Lathom stables on the night of Ferdinando’s death, and had he not shown up in Spain on the Catholic payroll soon after, chattering away angrily with the “worst tongue for this nation of any here.” Those facts are interesting, suggestive, and provocative, but still, after all, they are not sufficient to find Doughtie guilty of murder. As for Richard Bold, he certainly had the motive, and the other evidence that has been considered in this book suggests his culpability in the matter, but I could not find that he had either the means or the opportunity because I could not place him inside Lathom Hall. In fact, after Ferdinando caught him in Prescot in connection with the Mordant plot— this after all of his recent protestations to Gilbert about his love of Ferdinando and his loyalty to him—Richard Bold was perhaps the last person I could place inside Lathom. But then one day while rummaging around through my seemingly endless acres of sources and notes, I chanced upon Henry Bold and things suddenly snapped into focus. I discovered that Henry was Richard Bold’s older brother, and that, as ancient household records reveal, he and Robert Doughtie had been working side by side as a gentleman waiter and a yeoman waiter, respectively, at Lathom Hall since at least 1586.2 I came across Henry at the very end of my evidence-gathering path. Yet, as happy as I was to find him, I was also embarrassed—and rightly so. He had been lurking in the index of the Derby Household Books all the while, and that document is one of the primary sources for research on the earls of Derby and their principal seat, Lathom Hall. The index led to the information about Henry’s employment, including his title and the fact that

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he was Robert Doughtie’s exactly analogous counterpart at Lathom. The books contain the daily record that was kept by the chief comptroller of the Derby earls, William Farington (Ffarington, Ffarrington, Farrrington), an eminent northern personage in his day who even now merits his own entry in the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. They include all of the financial transactions, of course, but they also include the names of all of the household residents, from the earl on down to his fool (who was also named Henry, and who, it turns out, slept in the stables—in case anyone has ever wondered where court fools spent the night). They also provide an official journal reporting all of the daily occurrences at Lathom, including the names of all visitors and the precise dates of their comings and goings. I had been through it many times before. Henry’s presence at Lathom adds to his brother Richard’s ample motive (along with the other reasons for suspecting him) both the means (poisoned food) and the daily hands-on opportunity.

SUMMING UP In response to the several whole narratives of the untimely death of Earl Ferdinando Stanley, what I now think happened, based on the evidence, is this. Richard Hesketh did indeed come back into England in the fall of 1593 with a kingship offer from the Catholic leadership abroad—specifically from Sir William Stanley, Father Thomas Worthington, probably Cardinal William Allen, and others higher up. He came back with a good passport, not having been charged with the death of Thomas Houghton in the cattle-rustling raid he had led for Baron Thomas Langton. Upon arriving at Ferdinando’s residence at the time, New Park, and after learning of Earl Henry’s death, Hesketh presented his passport to Ferdinando via Ferdinando’s uncle, Sir Edward Stanley. Hesketh and Ferdinando had known each other well prior to Hesketh’s leaving England; more than that, they shared the same mother figure, Dame Jane Halsall, who was Ferdinando’s stepmother and Hesketh’s biological mother. Hesketh propositioned Ferdinando from a memorized script that had been written for him for that purpose—a script that still exists in the Cecil papers.

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Ferdinando appears to have been tempted by the offer. But he decided after much too long a meditation, and after having inquired of Hesketh if the Earl of Essex would help him take the throne, that it was too risky— especially because he knew he had an excellent (and perhaps the best) shot at the crown after the (supposedly imminent) death of the Queen, as things stood in the autumn of 1593. Having decided to turn Hesketh down, he felt that he also had to turn him over to the authorities—in self-protection. Anything else—such as saying no and then releasing him—would constitute treason and a near-certain death for him if the encounter were found out. And, again, given the state of affairs in the autumn of 1593, Ferdinando would have known that the odds favored— strongly favored—his being found out sooner or later, probably sooner. Even before Hesketh’s pre-Christmas execution, things started going badly for Ferdinando. His repeated requests for his late father’s two powerful local offices went unanswered by Lord Burghley. He was increasingly “crossed at court and crossed in his own country,” as Countess Alice wrote to Burghley. She still trusted him (and Elizabeth) to take care of her husband, both protecting him and advancing his causes, but Burghley gave the chamberlainship of Chester to Sir Thomas Egerton and held off on giving the lieutenancy of Lancashire to anybody. Ferdinando believed that his “country” troubles were caused by Richard Hesketh’s brother Thomas, a successful and powerful lawyer (who was later knighted), because of Thomas’ bad feelings about Ferdinando’s turning in his brother (and the earl’s own virtual stepbrother). However, there is no evidence for this. Things only got worse with the new year. From the very start of 1594, Ferdinando’s fortunes continued to decline, this decline accelerating almost exponentially as the short, freezing winter days flew by at Lathom. Richard Bold, along with several others, fled Ferdinando’s service and were immediately (and most curiously) taken on by Essex in London. Essex had no reason to take them and every reason not to, knowing that Ferdinando would be outraged, but take them he did. Ferdinando wrote a furious letter of complaint to him, and several months of epistolary warfare (much of it in the lengthiest of pseudo-genteel language) ensued

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between the two high-ranking earls. Essex enlisted the Earl of Shrewsbury, Gilbert Talbot, to act as a mediator between the two of them (with Ferdinando’s extremely grudging agreement), meanwhile going to the great trouble of creating an alliance of high-placed nobles to stand shoulder to shoulder with him against Ferdinando in the Bold matter, in order to bring heavy pressure on the Earl of Darby to take Bold and the other men back into his service. This pressure was mainly applied by Gilbert on Essex’s behalf, as the surviving correspondence shows. Meanwhile, Countess Alice had fallen suddenly ill at Lathom with alarming symptoms. Ferdinando sent for his old Oxford tutor, Dr. John Case, who was then temporarily practicing medicine in Chester, to come to her bedside. Case found that Alice was suffering (or had already suffered) the miscarriage of a male child at two months. As two important surviving documents make clear (the Golborne report and Sir George Carey’s letter to his wife), the pregnancy was inexplicable—doubtless because Alice knew that Ferdinando knew that the two of them had not had sexual relations in more than two months and thus could not say otherwise. Both the pregnancy and the miscarriage were promptly blamed on witchcraft. Case stayed on as a houseguest. Very soon afterward, in Gilbert’s last solicitous letter to Ferdinando— which he received only a day or two before he heard from the mayor of Chester alerting him to the secret meeting of Catholics that was going to be held at Bold’s house in Prescot—Gilbert pleaded, cajoled, and begged extensively, on behalf of Essex. He went to great pains to convince Ferdinando that he now wholeheartedly trusted Bold after speaking at length with him—and even liked him. (This may or may not have been the literal truth.) Yet it is clear that behind Gilbert’s velvet-gloved rhetoric lie the bare knuckles of Essex. The matter ended unresolved, with Bold and the others still legally in Essex’s service. Events suddenly overtook the Essex, Derby, and Shrewsbury correspondence, because on the very day Ferdinando received Mayor Lloyd’s advising him of a meeting of plotters a Richard Bold’s house, he and his entourage rode to Bold Hall in Prescot and arrested everyone there—except Bold. A man’s home was considered to be his castle, and this was particularly the case

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if the official who was attempting to make the arrest lacked the authority to do so. Ferdinando still lacked it. Later that day, back at Lathom, he sent a frantic emergency note to the Cecils by an overnight rider asking for that authority (probably in the form of the still-vacant lord lieutenancy of Lancashire). Within the same week, a masterful portrait of Earl Ferdinando was completed at Knowsley by an unknown artist.3 Famous as the greatest tilter amongst Elizabeth’s nobles, in the painting he is depicted holding his helmet, with his tilt-pole at the ready. The image is painted on two joined oak panels, and the vertical seam between them is now clearly visible, running through the earl’s face and down through his torso.4 (Beautifully photographed in color at the home of its private owner around 1990 by an amateur photographer, the historian Ian Wilson, it provides the image for this book’s cover.) Ferdinando decided to go on a retreat to the “recluse cottage” on the grounds of one of his other nearby great houses, Knowsley Hall. He was accompanied by Dr. Case, who would spend the night socializing with his old friend and student and then ride home to Chester. Riding with them was the earl’s lead secretary, John Golborne. After arriving at Knowsley and going to his private chamber with Golborne, probably to do some work, Ferdinando fell suddenly ill. He spent an uncomfortable and nearly sleepless night and decided to return to Lathom in the morning. Neither he nor Case apparently considered the sickness to be very serious, because Case did not return to Lathom with the earl. Instead, he rode home. Later that day, back at Lathom, Ferdinando became much worse. Someone rode after Case to bring him back, and the doctor soon arrived on the scene. He found Ferdinando gravely ill. He began administering treatments of all sorts, and among the first of these was antidotal medicine for poison—although no one else at the house may have known what it was for. He called in three or four respected colleagues, all of whom soon arrived and began working frantically to save the earl’s life. After well over a week of intense suffering, Ferdinando died on 16 April at the age of thirty-five. He had lived a famously robust life up to that point, with no sickness or frailty whatsoever.

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The Queen placed Sir Thomas Heneage in charge of an official investigation into Ferdinando’s death. Heneage delegated the job to Sir Thomas Egerton, who appears to have delegated it to Ferdinando’s brother-inlaw (and eventual Lord Hunsden), Sir George Carey. Egerton and Carey then appear to have asked for two adversarial reports—one arguing for poison and the other arguing for witchcraft—which in turn appear to have been written by the two men who were, respectively, the primary advocates of the two positions: Secretary John Golborne for poison and Chaplain William Leigh for witchcraft. Sir Thomas Leigh meanwhile told his brother-in-law Carey that he had found overwhelming evidence for witchcraft, not poisoning, in (or along with) a “note found by chance” which implicated the gentleman waiter Robert Doughtie. Doughtie had just recently fled from Lathom to London—or so Carey wrote in a letter (which is extant) to his bosses. Here, it is worth remembering that it was Carey who had a while earlier written to his wife on the Isle of Wight, upon discovering that Ferdinando had died, that Case had diagnosed “flat poisoning”—a diagnosis he had no problem with at the time, although he also mentioned witchcraft and “enchantment” to her as probable culprits. As is known from their own letters, Case and his colleagues did not agree with these latter diagnoses, for Case had said the cause of death was “no other” but “flat poisoning.” Carey seemed to know where to find Doughtie, and he asked the Cecils for the power to arrest him. It is not known if the warrant was granted (it probably was), but by the time Carey got there (if indeed he get did his warrant and go after his suspect), Doughtie had again fled the scene—for Spain and to the community of Catholic exiles who were living there. At about this same time, Carey received both John Golborne’s written report, which argues strongly for poison and does not even mention witchcraft (except in its title, which Golborne did not write), and the report I awkwardly call the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report in this book, which argues equally strongly for witchcraft and makes little or no mention of poison. (“Enchantment” has been totally forgotten, having been silently subsumed under “witchcraft.”) One noteworthy thing about the latter report is that it strongly implicates Golborne as a witness to the

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witchcraft that was being associated with Ferdinando’s murder—not to charge him but rather, it would seem, to undermine his report. For who would believe the pro-poison argument of a mere secretary who was prominently mentioned in the pro-witchcraft argument of a nobleman (or noblemen) as an eyewitness to the witchcraft as it was in progress? Did Golborne rebut the opposing report when he read it or heard about it? He did not. There is no reason whatsoever to believe that he was ever given the chance to read it. He would thus have known of its general position—he knew that before he and his opposite began to write their reports at all—but he would likely never have known he was so mentioned in it. He probably did find out years later, however, when John Stow published a version of the pro-poison report in his Annales which included the references to himself as a witness to witchcraft—if he was still alive. (Still, he may not have found out even then, for he was almost certainly in prison when Stow’s book appeared—more on which I will discuss in the epilogue.) Did Dr. Case rebut the witchcraft finding when he read about it? Why would even he have ever had the chance to read it? He would have subsequently heard about it as gossip, perhaps years later, but this was the sixteenth century. Information of this kind, especially documented information, did not circulate freely. In fact, it did not circulate at all. The only thing one had, even if one were a noble or some other highly ranked person, was gossip. And gossip about Ferdinando there was—all over the country—most of it in the form of rumors about a successful Catholic conspiracy to assassinate him. Case probably believed that the authorities in London had come to the same conclusion. Why would he not? Meanwhile, Carey had buried the Golborne report and the “flat poisoning” letter to his wife close to each other deep in his files—where they were not discovered until centuries later, and then by scholars who could not have known their import. It is possible—indeed, it is probable, in my view—that nobody except Carey and Egerton ever read the full Golborne report. (Somehow, part of a copy did make it into the Stanley family files, having probably been given to Ferdinando’s widow, Alice. It still resides at Knowsley, unread, apparently, by anyone other than Ian Wilson and me.) It was the

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Carey-Egerton-Leigh report that was forwarded to the authorities—first to the elderly and decrepit (but nonetheless just-married) Heneage, then to the Cecils, and then (maybe) to Elizabeth. It seems to me an inescapable conclusion that Egerton and Carey fully intended to cover up the truth, delegating to another deathbed witness, Chaplain Leigh, the job of writing up the report that formally advocated witchcraft as the cause of death. Carey may have rationalized this by his strong belief in all things supernatural, for he was a sixteenth-century New Ager, along with his friends the poet George Chapman and Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland. He had to have known that poison was involved, for he knew poison was the diagnosis—and the subsequent verdict—of Case and the other doctors who were at Ferdinando’s bedside. Egerton, however, doubtless knew better, but he had other powerful reasons for covering up the truth: his strong affection for, perhaps even at that time his romantic love of, Countess Alice, whom he would have wanted to protect and whom he would marry as soon as his circumstances (marital and financial) permitted. It was almost certainly Alice that any cover-up was about. Carey and Egerton wanted to hide the fact that she had miscarried a child that had not been fathered by her husband (because of their fear of public scandal). (Alice may not have been entirely in support of their approach, as she apparently soon tried to float the false story that Ferdinando’s heir was still alive, apparently in order to buy time regarding the earldom.)5 But what Carey and Egerton needed to hide, in the event that one of the few people who knew the truth about the illegitimate child (one of the doctors, Golborne, Alice) were to talk, was that Ferdinando had died of poison only a month after he had discovered that his wife was pregnant by another man. Under the circumstances, although they were then known to only a few people, a false story could shield Alice from the suspicion of having killed Ferdinando herself. Carey and Egerton would have known that, to outside gossips, her (plausible enough) motive for murder would have been either that she still loved the man who had fathered the child and thus wanted Ferdinando out of the way, or, alternatively, that she feared reprisal (perhaps even in the form of death) from her famously emotional husband.

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Within weeks, the poison rumors were being heard everywhere. But no rumors about Alice were apparently being heard. (The only exception, as noted earlier, was the new Earl William, who said to his old friend Philip Gawdy over dinner a while after the murder that he had heard one. But he had also heard that Alice’s baby had survived. Clearly, the rumors he was getting were unreliable.) The cover-up story had apparently done its intended job. Within a year, books were published damning Hesketh, praising the good and loyal martyr Ferdinando, and blaming the Catholics at home and abroad—mostly the Jesuits. Years later, the eminent historian William Camden would write that people of the wiser sort had whispered among themselves that the government-approved witchcraft explanation had been fabricated to conceal the truth about Ferdinando’s poisoning. The evidence I have found points to a small conspiracy of actual poisoners or poison plotters—including the gentleman waiter Henry Bold and his minion, the yeoman waiter Robert Doughtie, along with probable leader Richard Bold (perhaps with the assistance of young masters Latham and Mordant, who were arrested by Ferdinando at Bold Hall) and quite possibly Nicholas Williamson (the brother-in-law to the Bold brothers and the chief aide to Earl Gilbert and his wife Countess Mary). Williamson had enthusiastically encouraged Gilbert to urge Ferdinando to take Bold and his henchmen back, and he may also have helped with the planning of the murder. It is possible that the poisoning was done sooner than had been planned. This possibility has to be taken into account because, although it is not known whether Ferdinando’s sudden raid of Bold House and his arrest of everyone there except Bold had any effect on the plans they might have been hatching, the raid might well have served as an assassination “trigger.” This would particularly be the case if the Doughties and Bolds, as good and loyal Catholics, felt themselves obligated to kill Earl Ferdinando because of the pope’s decree that anyone to whom he offered the crown should, if he or she refused it, be killed. The verse historian William Warner would report this charge in print only two years later in 1596. Also, of course, they had the simple motive of revenge: Ferdinando had killed the pope’s

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man Hesketh, who was known to these gentlemen to be Ferdinando’s own virtual half-brother, as if with his own hands. The likelihood in any event is that the earl’s raid both hardened the men’s resolve to commit the murder because of their renewed anger against a man whom they and their whole family already hated, and that it moved up the date of attack they had had in mind before. The evidence also points strongly upward to Essex. Perhaps he was communicating with Richard Bold obliquely about getting rid of Ferdinando, and Bold knew what Essex wanted. It also appears that Essex knew he had a ready, willing, and able assassin in Bold—a servant whom he knew had his own strong motives for killing the earl of Derby. There is no evidence that Essex was directly involved in the operation. Rather, if anything, all that is known of Essex leads one to suspect that he had no knowledge whatsoever that poison would be the weapon of choice. Poison would have gone against his deepest personal values of merrie-old-England chivalry, fair play, honor, and decency—the ancient “Arthurian” virtues. In a word, Albion.

EPILOGUE

ON THE FLEET PRISON NIGHT WATCH WITH JOHN GOLBORNE

The reader may have noticed that this story from beginning to end has been noticeably lacking in heroes. Rather, it has been peopled by an array of nasty, cruel, mean-spirited, lying, self-obsessed, all-too-typical Elizabethan rapscallions. As Elizabeth lamented at the end of her life, “The wit of the fox is everywhere on foot, so as hardly a faithful and virtuous man can be found.”1 But I did find two exceptions. The first is the great Oxford humanist physician John Case, along with his hard-working team of excellent, frantic bedside doctors (Joyner, Bate, and Canon). Dr. Case provided the title of this book: “Flat poison[ing].” He and his colleagues performed heroically, albeit to no avail. The other hero is Ferdinando’s private secretary, John Golborne. In his written report to his superiors, he tried to report the truth about Alice’s

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inexplicable pregnancy and Ferdinando’s poisoning, but this document was buried for centuries. His very first sentence begins, First (which is not immateriall to be remembered) the Countesse his wiefe being two months and more gone with childe, not knowing or able to imagine any occasion from whence it should proceed, about the middle of Lent last, lost her burthen.…

And his last sentence concludes, “And lastly (which is not to be omitted) there was a fore runnyng reporte in and about London, that he was dead by poyson a fortnight before he fell sick or thereaboutes.” He refused even to mention witchcraft in the body of his report. (It is mentioned in the title, which was probably Egerton’s and not his.) He was rewarded only by having his account seriously undermined by its rival, the Carey-Egerton-Leigh report, which pointedly names him as the sole eyewitness to the initial effects of the witchcraft. Did he try afterward, in his loyalty to the late Earl Ferdinando, to get the truth out about his poisoning? He may have done, once he saw that his own report had had absolutely no effect. It will probably never be known. Did John Golborne, unlike the words in his post-mortem buried report, ever finally get free? It is known where he went soon after writing those words: to London’s Fleet Prison.2 The first documentation of him as being there is on 11 October 1598, when he dedicated the first of three scholarly translations which he had completed in his cell to his supposed old friend Egerton. Egerton was also in London but, unlike Golborne, he was doing very well. Golborne’s first book is A Discourse Upon the Catalogue of the Doctors of God’s Church by Simon Devoyon (1598). The second is Two Treatises by Cipriano de Valera (1600). The last is Actes on the Dispute and Conference Holden at Paris … Between Two Doctors of Sorbon [Sorbonne] and Two Ministers of the Reformed Church (1602). The last of these books, with its dedication page to Egerton dated 25 March 1602, is fascinating in the light of Golborne’s role in this story. First, unlike the other two books, it has no known French author.3 Second, it is attributed to Golborne in “Early English Books Online,” and

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it is listed as anonymous in the new English Short-Title Catalogue. Did Golborne write it and publish it as a supposed translation? (Such publications were common at the time, the best-known being Love’s Martyr by “Torquato Caeliano”—the book which contains the only publication of Shakespeare’s “The Phoenix and the Turtle”—which was in reality written by Robert Chester.) Because of certain passages in the book, it would be tempting to think so, but it remains a stunning fact that even without them, there is enough definite writing by Golborne in the front matter to puzzle, intrigue, and perhaps sadden readers quite enough. (I am not the first to be touched by his words. Virgil Heltzel wrote over fifty years ago that he would much like to know “whether the Lord Keeper [Egerton] forgot him or eventually helped him to his freedom.”4 So would I, but my money would be on the former.) It is with Secretary Golborne’s words that this story comes to a close. After telling Egerton in his dedication that the words of the book were written for him alone (“to whom my poore labours and myselfe are wholy devoted”), he went on to tell him that he was sending them to Egerton from “the Fleet my miserable prison” as “my private night watches.” He thanked Egerton for his “previous acceptance”—referring to Egerton’s acceptance of the two previous books that were dedicated to him. He then wrote a preface. It was his own discourse on the truth in textual disputes, and on how to find it: Amongst all the means prescribed by wisdom to attain the perfection of true knowledge, there is none … in my poor conceit [to my poor way of thinking] … than the reading of Controversies, wherein the truth is debated, the reasons on both sides deduced, and laid open to the view, and to the reader’s judgment. For, as by striking together of the steel and flint, the fire is out forced … bolted out and decided. But because it is hard for a blind man to judge of others, and we being all blind by nature and ignorance of God and goodness, are of ourselves incapable of right judgement … which [with the help of God, Christ, and the Holy Spirit will make us] enabled to know all things and to try the true and pure gold from the false and counterfeit—and then (comparing the sayings and assertions of both sides, with the sincere and

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON undeceivable milk of God’s word), we shall be likewise able to discern the spirit of God from the spirit of error—and [so] discerning, shall perceive the incomparable beauty of the one and the ugly deformity of the other.…5

This raises several haunting questions. Golborne wrote these words about how to reach the textual truth through the use of written adversarial “controversies” (that is, if one listened to God as one interpreted texts and judged them) in 1602, after he had spent at least four years in prison. Do they refer to his own “this for poison” report of April 1594 and its rivalrous textual adversary, “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby,” which was apparently written in the same week, probably by Chaplain William Leigh (in possible collaboration with Carey and Egerton, but certainly at Egerton’s express request)? Was he still trying to make an argument which Egerton, the greatest of living lawyers, would finally accept as the truth? If so, was he trying to appeal to Egerton’s conscience, taking him back to the end of April 1594, daring to hope that even if Egerton and Carey at the time had rejected Golborne’s “True Report” on the death of Ferdinando Stanley, the fifth Earl of Derby, the mighty master of the rolls might now reconsider the power of Golborne’s written argument for poison and free him from the Fleet? How can he not have been? Might Secretary Golborne possibly have been recalling, as he wrote these lines to Egerton on his “Night Watch,” an untitled little poem Ferdinando had written shortly before his untimely death? It was a poem Golborne had probably transcribed himself: If ever man did live in Fortune’s scorn … send such a man to me That am more hapless than himself can be …. Let him see me whose like hath never been, Killed by these wrongs, and yet by death unseen. And ’twas enough that I should find such evils And ’twas too much that angels should be devils.6

APPENDIX

THE WRITTEN INSTRUCTIONS HESKETH MEMORIZED

As has been noted at several points in this book, Richard Hesketh had been given written instructions as to exactly what to say—and how to say it—to the earl of Derby at his initial audience when he offered him the crown. Hesketh memorized these instructions but did not carry the document with him. Instead, he left it in Prague with one of his chief managers, Father Thomas Stephenson. While he was under arrest in London, Hesketh had the idea of trying to get Stephenson to mail him this document in order to give the Cecils and his other captors something that would be of possible value to them in exchange for his life. In his letter to Stephenson, Hesketh pretended that he was at liberty. Stephenson sent the document to Hesketh. But Stephenson was almost certainly aware of his comrade’s incarceration, for he inserted material in his covering letter implicating another “comrade” whom he suspected of betraying the Catholic cause and turning into a pro-Crown traitor, knowing that the high-placed captors, not Hesketh, would be the letter’s readers. The Cecils and their colleagues were indeed the readers, and they executed Hesketh almost as soon as they had received the document. The Cecils filed the document in their official papers, with which it was filed in the family papers at Hatfield House. This is where it remains today. What follows, including the title, is the printed transcription of what the Cecils read and then filed. It is published in Hatfield, vol. 4, pages 461–463 (see pp. 74–79).

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HESKETH’S INSTRUCTIONS FOR TREATING WITH THE E ARL OF D ERBY [1593.]—1. Signify unto him in general you have a message of importance in import unto his lordship, from special friends of his, which you have sworn to do with all fidelity and secrecy, and therefore you desire his leave to utter it, and withal his promise of security to yourself, that at least you incur no danger for your travail and good will, but if he list not to hearken to it, get you away safely whence you came, and for his safety also you shall swear, and the same assure him, also for those who sent you, who wish all good to him. 2. Receiving and giving mutual promise of fidelity and secrecy, declare unto him in general that your message concerneth the common good of all Christendom, specially our own country [England], and in particular himself. 3. By this he will guess easily what it meaneth, and thereupon here pause, and see whether he will encourage you to speak or not. 4. If he utterly reject you, desire, as before, his favour to depart as you came with safety, and let him know all was meant for his singular good, by those that love him, as their own hearts and souls. 5. If he be content to hear, though drily and with small desire, you name unto him one S.W., one that sent you, and add that there is another of greater authority than he is, and then know expressly whether his lordship will hear the message or no: if not, either take your leave with favour, or, if you suspect any harm, appoint another day, and in mean, shift away. 6. If he be willing to hear, declare unto his lordship, that whereas many ways have been thought upon, divers proposed and some attempted, for the reformation [to Catholicism] of our country, which hitherto have not prevailed, now about a year or more a certain plot was proposed, and had been resolved upon, but that it was also in good time, and with great affection and diligence also alleged, that the same would be prejudicial to his lordship’s right and title, of whom there is some good hope, and thereupon it was stayed till his lordship might

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know what friends and helps he may have, if he will be capable of the good they wish him before all other in the world, and that therefore you are sent unto him to offer him all their endeavor, services and helps that they can employ or procure to advance him, and by him the Catholic faith and religion, and to know if he will accept thereof and agree thereto. 7. To be capable it is necessary that he be a Catholic, and that he will bind himself to restore, advance and perpetually maintain the Catholic religion in our country. 8. That this is absolutely necessary, these be the reasons:—first by the law of God and the Church, and also the particular laws of our realm [England], then King must keep and maintain the Catholic faith, and the same he sweareth at his coronation, else he cannot be lawfully crowned, and if after he forsake or perform [not] the same, he is to be deposed. He can have no help of the P.K. Carey, S.W., etc, except he be Catholic, but will have them and all English Catholics against him: he is the fourth competitor in road [in the list of candidates for the throne], but if he be Catholic the first. [This paragraph adds the notation “Sir W.” to the initials “S. W.,” meaning Sir William Stanley. The notation was probably written by Cecil, jotted down as he read the document.] 9. To assure these here of his sincere meaning, it is requisite to send one of credit [before the plan goes into action] to declare his full mind and meaning. 10. Let him signify what help he requireth, and when, and it is by God’s help to be provided; of 4,000 or 5,000, it may be done with seven or eight months conveniently. 11. Touching the whole matter proposed, let him consider for whose sake or commodity this offer is made to him, whether it be not chiefly for his own good, no man seeking to advance himself by his lordship, but rather to advance him [rather] than any other, themselves not expecting any commodity, especially temporal, thereby, but more pain, more travail. 12. Touching religion, let him consider whether he think himself only knoweth the truth, or other as well or better than he. Among all that challenge Protestantism, if the Catholics or Papists have no reason to

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challenge it, read their books, confer with some whose sincerity and honest life, he cannot mistake, see whether he or they be in the right way of salvation, considering always there is but one way. 13. He needeth not to doubt any severity or rigour to himself, or others, but all humanity, and as long time as they will to see and learn. 14. Not to fear strangers, first, for that neither the King of Spain doth now seek it for himself, neither can he in conscience, if any one of the blood be Catholic., which was the hindrance so long as the Queen of Scots lived; secondly, Pope nor Cardinal do not agree to it, if there be any other remedy; thirdly, he seeth and it is evident to all of experience, that though he might invade and conquer the realm, yet he can never possess it In peace, our nation [England] being most impatient of foreign government of any, perhaps, in Europe, besides being an island, very populous, being of very great spirits, being for art, skill in warfare and government, inferior to none. And the Pope holdeth it better for Christendom, to have many Christian Catholic Kings, than one too great and monarch of all; and the Cardinal [William Allen] is a true Englishman and so be those that do depend upon him, all which do daily pray in the sacrifice for his lordship’s conversion. 15. The example of the King of Scots makes those here to look for good assurance that he [Ferdinando] mean sincerely [if he accepts]. 16. It is better now before her [Elizabeth’s] death, because he [Ferdinando] may prevent of competitors, the Cardinal [Allen] and S.W. [Sir William Stanley] are now able to assist, the Pope is willing, perhaps another will not be so, the state of France cannot hinder, but rather further, for now he may have some Spaniards, but not too many; it is like some other [claimant] is provided to challenge it after her death; he hath many enemies that daily seek his overthrow. 17. For more assurance of your [Hesketh’s] own true meaning, it will not be amiss, if you perceive faithfully, if you stay with him till he send one hither; if he send one he must be of credit, or else these here will not entreat with him. The first ten paragraphs of the document, written in minute handwriting, bear three small seals—fleurs de lis—at the end of the second page.

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The final seven paragraphs, written in the same handwriting, are written on three small scraps of additional paper. The document was endorsed by Richard Hesketh with the words “Dear father [Father Thomas Stephenson in Prague, with whom Hesketh left the document], if anything happen that I die in this journey, let this packet be burnt without being read of any man, for my oath standeth thereupon.” Hesketh had apparently sworn this oath to the English Jesuit leaders living abroad who had sent him with the memorized instructions. Cecil endorsed the document with the words “1593. Some letters concerning Richard Hesketh.”

NOTES LOOMINGS 1. In giving this introductory section the title “Loomings,” I was alluding in part to the title Herman Melville gave to the first chapter of Moby-Dick. Melville was thinking of at least three things when he gave the chapter this brilliant title. First, he was referring to the standard meaning of the word, which fits perfectly with the overall context of his novel. Second, he was making an allusion to the three personified Fates of Greek mythology, Klotho, Lakhesis, and Atropos, who spin out all of human destiny both collectively and individually on their looms. Third, he was thinking of what he considered to be their rightful supplanter in the minds and hearts of humans—God, the ultimate weaver of fate. Melville was fascinated by this aspect of God: “the image of the Creator weaving ‘on the roaring loom of Time’ the visible universe as the living garment of God” (Davey 89). In the later chapter which Melville titled “The Castaway,” poor little Pip falls off the Pequod into the fathomless depths and lands on the ocean’s very bottom. There, he sees “Gods foot on the treadle of the loom” (Davey 89). After he survives and tells his shipmates about his vision, they think he is mad. 2. Some sources of information about Knowsley Hall, including Wikipedia, are in error about its size and stature under Earls Henry, Ferdinando, and William. As Draper (300–313) and DHB (passim) indicated, it was a fully running great hall in the 1590s, not the mere hunting lodge it had been in earlier years. 3. I owe the “Northern Court” information to Canino 191, who in turn found the information in Heywood 6–8. 4. See MacLean and Somerset 10–11. 5. His patronage as Lord Strange (until he assumed the earldom) is reasonably well documented, although it is not unproblematic in its specifics. Sir E. K. Chambers, Percy Simpson, and Thomas W. Baldwin established his patronage, followed by many others in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries (see Hotson 163ff). His patronage of two separate productions after he became the earl in 1593 is documented at “Project REED: Records of Early English Drama.” 6. See the ODNB entry for Henry Stanley.

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7. Stevenson 76, who also made the case there that this reeducation policy “took” with Ferdinando, influencing his pro-Reformation beliefs for the rest of his life. 8. Chambers, Sir Henry Leigh 69. 9. May, The Elizabethan Courtier Poets 370ff, who found the information in Hammer, Letters 228ff. 10. May, Elizabethan 370ff and May, “Spenser’s” 49. 11. See Oram 547 and Heywood 38. 12. The only real reference to this supposed event is in the manuscript that I refer to in this book as Stow’s source (SS), which is in the British Library as MS. Harley 247, fols. 204–205y, titled “A Brief Declaration …” followed by “A True Report of such Reasons and Conjectures as Caused Many Learned Men to Suppose Him to be Bewitched.” Despite its two titles, the manuscript is one continuous document written in one hand (not Stow’s). A copy of this document is also at Knowsley Hall; atop it, a modern hand has written “Description of Ferdinando’s death from the original written by those who were there” (Wilson, emails to the author). 13. The doctors’ diagnosis of poison was first reported by Sir George Carey, the earl’s brother-in-law, in a letter he wrote on 22 April 1594 to his wife Elizabeth. The letter is extant and was examined by Jeayes in the nineteenth century in the Berkeley Castle Muniment Room, where it still resides in SL II, fol. 87. See also the Golborne manuscript, “A True Report…,” from April 1594: SL II, fol. 79, in the same location. Copies of both manuscripts are in the Gloucestershire County Record Office: MF 1161, Letter Book 2, nos. 12 and 79, although the GCRO copy of the Golborne manuscript lacks page 2, with Golborne’s all-important signature. Wilson (Shakespeare 474) reprinted the Carey letter with slightly modernized spelling and punctuation, and I have largely followed its modernizations. Both original documents are still at Berkeley Castle. I am much indebted to the Berkeley curator David J. H. Smith for this information, as well as for much other kindly, expert help with both manuscripts.

CHAPTER 1 1. From William Polwhele’s letter in CSP Dom, vol. 246, no. 29; Bagley 64–65. Also see the “setters-on” reference from the spy Anthony Standen, quoted in Hume 102. “Reliable British intelligence also reported that the Hesketh Plot had the backing of King Philip of Spain and the Pope himself.” Stanley told Hesketh that his mission had the support of the pope,

Notes

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

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the king of Spain, and the powerful and influential Dr. Worthington. See Coward 146, citing Hatfield 7: 509–519; also see CSP Rome 1572–1578, nos. 172, 346, and 698. “Yellow-haired” is from Henry Leigh’s testimony in Hatfield 4: 481. The information that Hesketh was wearing yellow fustian “in the English manner” is from Hatfield 4: 330. Ibid., 381. Ibid., 409. See Edwards 181. See Golborne MS. 1. Stow, Annales (1599/1600). See the note to p. 14 describing the Carey letter. Devlin 111–112, citing Ewen 110. Devlin 86, 102 and Hatfield 5: 59 (upon which Devlin tried—unsuccessfully—to base his conclusions). See also OED “persuade” v. tr. 3A and 3B. It is also important to note that Burghley used the word “persuaded” on two occasions in this sense in speaking of communications between Hesketh and Ferdinando, the first time relating to a memo that is recorded in Hatfield 5: 59 (as just noted) and the second time referring to in Burghley’s own 1594 book (28–29) about then-recent attempts on the Queen’s life. Devlin 98. Sir George Carey termed the new Earl William a “nidicock” in his letter of April, 1594, informing his wife of Earl Ferdinando’s death – CAREY. See note 6, ch.13 Shakespeare 170. Devlin, 113. Golborne MS., Carey MS. Devlin 106. Among those scholars and biographers who have followed Devlin’s theories regarding Hesketh (and have thus built upon one another’s work, compounding the error) are Hammer, Polarisation 157; Wilson, Shakespeare 176–77; Edwards 169–192; Petti 52, 200; and Nicholl, Cup 191–192 and Reckoning 384. Readers who are interested in an objective assessment of Edwards’ Plots and Plotters are referred to Pauline Croft’s evaluation in the Catholic Record Society Publications 321–323. Nicholl acknowledged to me in personal correspondence, 23 June 2008, that he perhaps “used Devlin a little too freely” in his earlier writing, by which phrase I take him to mean he relied on Devlin a little too heavily, for he has certainly been altogether faithful to Devlin’s words.

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CHAPTER 2 1. My friend Carol Curt Enos wisely suggested that a note be added to this sentence providing the specific argument—unconscious self-interested rationalization though it probably was—of the Catholics’ rejection of Elizabeth’s right to the throne. I provide her own clear, succinct language, for which I am extremely grateful: “Elizabeth’s claim to the throne was dependent upon her legitimate birth by Anne Boleyn, and Anne’s claim to being a legitimate queen was dependent upon Henry VIII’s renunciation of Catherine of Aragon and the Catholic religion. These links were the cause of Elizabeth’s almost hysterical fear of Catholicism, I think. In their eyes, she was not a legitimate queen because Henry should have never have divorced Catherine or renounced Catholicism. Anne Boleyn was not the real queen, and Elizabeth, her daughter, was not the real Queen either. All of this was justification for killing Elizabeth in the eyes of the Catholic leadership abroad” (Enos, letter). 2. See, for example, Margaret’s ODNB entry). 3. E of D 20–24. 4. ODNB entry for Edward Seymour, the claimant-son of the first Edward Seymour. 5. Bruce 55. 6. de Lisle 6. 7. Edwards 275; Handover 224. 8. Edwards 392. 9. Phelippes had then passed this information on to Sir Robert, for whom he was also working as a double agent, and of course Sir Robert never forgot it. How could he?” A letter from Hugh Owen to Thomas Phelippes in 1594, sent from Brussels: CSP Dom, 1591–1594, p. 476; SP 12/248, no. 53. 10. For Ferdinando’s claim under the will of Henry VIII, see pages 5 and 24. In Hotson’s words: “Lord Strange was Tudor heir-presumptive, likely to succeed Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England” (Hotson 171). 11. Peck 116; Stevenson 60; italics original. 12. Peck 141. 13. The chapter section Shakespearean Spin derives almost totally from such sources as (in order of importance) Canino 177–202 and passim; Manley passim; Wilson, Shakespeare 170 and 269; Honigmann, Shakespeare 59–71; Thomson 29–40; and MacLean 205–226. It also takes into account, however, the scholarship on these issues of the past hundred years, particularly that of EKC S 129, 199, and 338, as well as EKC SG passim.

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14. They were also joined by Sussex’s Men, whose patron was Earl Robert Radcliffe. After Ferdinando’s death in April of 1594, these reunited players, Shakespeare among them, joined the company of the lord chamberlain (Lord Henry Carey, then his son Sir Robert Carey). (For a few brief months after Ferdinando’s death in April of 1594, however, they apparently played under Lady Alice’s patronage as Derby’s Men—not to be confused with the group of the same name which, under the leadership of the actor Robert Browne, played under the patronage of the new Earl of Derby, Ferdinando’s younger brother William, for years after Ferdinando’s death.) 15. Honigmann, Shakespeare 63–91. 16. Canino 191. 17. Ibid. 186–202. 18. Ibid. 192–197. 19. Ibid. 195. 20. The “make much of it” is not in Shakespeare’s sources, Holinshed, Hall, or Polydore Virgil. 21. See Wilson, Shakespeare 103. 22. Manley passim. 23. Hammond 115. 24. This was, and is, common knowledge. See, for example, Canino 188. 25. Wilson 102. 26. Love’s Labor’s Lost. This seems a good place to sneak in my own theory about topical allusions in the play. The scholarship on the topic is (literally) voluminous, and I have read most of it over many years. Part of that scholarship, as mentioned in the text, has to do with the possibility that Ferdinando either played the king, or was figured as the king, in a private court performance of the play—Ferdinando was the king’s name, and Ferdinando Stanley was the company’s patron—but there are also other possible allusions to his northern court in the play, as well as to his family associations with Henri’s court at Navarre, to which court there are, as all scholars agree, allusions. It is not generally remembered today that the Earls of Derby had borne the official title of King of the Isle of Man since they first came into possession of it—they legally owned it—and that they used that title whenever they had the chance. (Other people also used it in referring to them.) I think an important pun has been missed over the years when scholars have examined the possibility that the play alludes to Ferdinando, his court, and his family: specifically, the phrase “the Isle of Man.” The play is, of course, about a group of young nobles, headed by King Ferdinando, who go off into remote seclusion to live in a small males-only

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27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32. 33. 34. 35.

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society—a “study group.” My guess is that the play was first performed at Castle Reuthen on the Isle of Man (the Derby seat there) for “King” Ferdinando and some of his friends. If so, the play would have been either first written and performed, or else revised and performed, during Ferdinando’s short tenure as earl—September of 1593 through March of 1594 (he was deathly ill for the first half of April)—because only as the Earl of Derby would he have been King of the Isle of Man. This time period fits with the scholarly and editorial consensus about the play’s dating—which is, however, admittedly pretty wide. It also makes possible an Act V allusion to the death of Countess Alice’s father, the enormously wealthy patriarch Sir John Spencer, in 1586, assuming that it was she and some of her ladies in waiting who played the parts of the women who come calling on the men. (The play ends when a messenger arrives with the sad news for this great young lady, referred to in the play as the princess of France, that her father has died.) I am of course unsure that any of this is actually true, but I believe it to be reasonably competitive with all the other claims of historical representation in the play. WIlson 170. Ibid. 269. Ibid. 103. This sentiment, which was repeated several times during Ferdinando’s lifetime in various words by writers, was first put into writing by Father Robert Parsons (or Persons, also known as N. D. or Nicholas Dolman) in his notorious 1593–1594 book on the English succession: “The earle of Darbyes religion is held to be more doubtful, so as some do thinke him to be of all three religions, and others of none.…” (Parsons 253). See CSP Dom, 1591–1593, item 162, 40. See also the note immediately following this one. See the OED entry c. for “clouts.” Canino 189. See Devlin 85, for example, but the speech is widely quoted by historians. Hatfield 5: 59 and Burghley’s True Report (Hesketh section).

CHAPTER 3 1. The fact that this same woman was espoused (albeit probably by commonlaw marriage) to both Gabriel Hesketh and Earl Henry Stanley is confirmed by several sources. The first is an entry in International Genealogical Index (IGI) for “Jane or Joan Hallsall (IGI AFN: 1PHP-4TR),” which also

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indicates that she was born around 1525, was the daughter of Henry Halsall and Anne Molyneaux, and was first espoused to Gabriel Hesketh. She was the mother (by Gabriel) of the three male Heskeths who all figure in this story, Richard, Bartholomew, and Thomas, as well as of the Elizabeth Hesketh who went on to marry Alexander Houghton, himself made famous in the mid-twentieth century by being identified as a Lancashireman who kept players, one of whom is strongly argued by some to have been the young Shakespeare. The fact that she had become a common-law wife to Earl Henry in the 1570s was found by Knafla; see his ODNB entry for the earl. That she was probably a common-law wife to Gabriel Hesketh is implied by the fact that although they were certainly in some sense espoused, she retained her own maiden name throughout her life. The likely situation regarding her and Gabriel is that he, being a recusant, would not marry in the English church—and, as it was a capital offense to participate in any sacrament involving a Catholic priest, and as everyone would know that he had done so if Jane took his name, he and Jane simply did not marry in a religious ceremony. (Carol Curt Enos suggested to me by e-mail that Gabriel and Jane might indeed have been illegally married by a Jesuit priest in Lancashire, implying that she kept her maiden name in order to avoid most serious trouble [Enos e-mail to author on 4 April 2007 with subject line “Re: Heskeths and Halsalls”].) There are several women of this name listed in the IGI for the period, but this is the only one who could have been the right age to have given birth to Earl Henry’s oldest child by her, Dame Ursula Stanley, who was born around 1560 (see Ursula’s IGI entry, AFN: V9FH-KT). It is known for certain that Henry’s Dame Jane Halsall was Dame Ursula Stanley’s mother. Knafla discovered stated that Henry and Jane entered into a common-law marriage around 1570. The second source is Farrer and Brownbill 3: 52–56, who cited among other sources Croxteth DP III i., which itself quoted an extant letter: “Henry, Earl of Derby, to Sir Richard Shelburne et al. Leaves to Joan Halsall, daughter of Robert Halsall, late of Knowsley, deceased…,” (see NA MS. DDK/6/162). This letter leaves no doubt that Henry was conferring upon his common-law wife a great deal of property. The matter is somewhat confused because, as noted, Jane or Joan’s actual father was Henry Halsall, not Robert Halsall, and her mother was Anne Molyneaux, as the IGI connection between Henry’s common-law wife and Anne’s family makes clear. (Cause for yet more confusion is the fact that this Anne Molyneaux was sometimes referred to as Jane, thus creating a “ghost” Jane Halsall in the genealogical records.) Her IGI record also makes it certain that, although she was still perhaps tied

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2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

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in some way to Gabriel Hesketh, Jane Halsall, the daughter of Henry and Anne Halsall, had moved on to Earl Henry Stanley. Gabriel was married again as well—to Elizabeth Gerard, on 9 or 19 November 1557. Farrer and Brownbill in the nineteenth century apparently confused this story’s Jane Halsall with another woman of the same name who was born around 1550, but their Jane would have been only nine years old when Dame Ursula Stanley, the first of Earl Henry and Dame Jane’s children, was born around 1559 or 1560. (The situation is further confused by the fact that whereas Farrer and Brownbill listed as the father to “their” Jane Halsall one Robert Halsall, the IGI lists him as Thomas. Fortunately, there is no need to untangle “their” Jane’s paternity.) As Farrer and Brownbill correctly reported, however, Jane’s maternal grandfather, Sir Richard Molyneaux of Sefton, after buying half of the manor of Kirkby in 1565 from Ferdinando’s much older friend Sir Thomas Gerard of Bryn (later the governor of the Isle of Man after Ferdinando’s death), passed it down to his own grandson, who was also a Sir Richard Molyneaux. This Sir Richard purchased the other half of the manor in 1596 from Thomas Stanley, one of the four children of Earl Henry and Dame Jane, upon whom Earl Henry had conferred it, thus making the whole manor Molyneaux property. Thomas Stanley’s sale price for Molyneaux was 1,160 pounds. The conditions of Earl Henry’s bequest to his son Thomas had stipulated, however, that he could not have control of it until he attained the age of twenty-four—and until that time, it was to be under the complete control of his mother, Dame Jane. (For this, Farrer and Brownbill cited Croxteth D.P. 3.1—a volume number in the manuscript collections of Christopher Towneley of Lancashire [1604–1674], for which see BHO: . The present township of Croxteth was part of the forest of the Earls of Derby in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and was the seat of the Molyneaux families. Thomas Stanley turned twenty-four in 1596.) Jane Halsall’s spousal connection to both Earl Henry and Gabriel Hesketh was further confirmed by Hasler 2: 305. See the note immediately preceding this one. See the two notes immediately preceding this one and, for Henry’s generosity, National Archives MS. DDK/6/162. Cecil, True Report 18. Ibid. Ibid., 19. See the revised ESTC entry for Burghley’s True Report. These facts are widely known; see, for example, Stevenson 71.

Notes 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18.

19. 20.

21. 22.

23.

24. 25. 26. 27.

28. 29.

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See Stevenson 74. Thomas Hesketh was knighted by James in 1603. See the ODNB entries for Richard Hesketh and Dee passim. ODNB entry for Richard Hesketh. See Hasler 2: 439 and Prim 12. Hasler, House of Commons I 439. Hatfield 4: 427. Honigmann, John Weever 8. Ibid. Ibid., 6–10. The names of all of those who were arrested is on an extant list, in which they are divided into two sections, those accused of murder and those accused of manslaughter. The list is reprinted in Enos, Shakespeare Settings 252. It is important to note that Richard Hesketh’s name nowhere appears there. Haigh 53. The first major scholar to have backed this theory (or thought it credible) was Chambers, in Sources. His idea was taken up, further researched, and fully developed by Honigmann in Shakespeare: The “Lost Years.” They have since been joined by many other spirited, reputable advocates of the theory. But the theory remains controversial. Thomas, the brother of Richard, was knighted by James I in 1603, as noted earlier. But, as previously noted, the theory is controversial. Indeed, the controversialists have been, and are, acrimonious. The reason for the acrimony seems to be that the theory involves religious beliefs—both Shakespeare’s and the controversialists’. The most balanced, most accurate, and most accessible short account of the ongoing debate is probably that of Marotti, “Shakespeare and Catholicism,” passim. See also his Catholicism and AntiCatholicism in Early Modern English Texts, passim. See, for example, Devlin, Edwards, Wilson, Nicholl, Stevenson, the ODNB entry for Richard Hesketh, Bagley, and Coward. To these could be added a multitude of others since the 1970s, but none has added any new information. See, for example, Nicholl Reckoning 312. Hatfield 4: 481. ODNB entry for Thomas Bell; Bell 22–23). This was part of the “wealth of information” he provided the authorities when they convinced him to switch his allegiance (ODNB entry for Thomas Bell). See Hatfield 4: 241–242. See Hatfield 4: 407–408. Bell 22–23.

296 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37.

38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50. 51.

52.

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See Devlin 80. Devlin passim. See Coward 146 and the ODNB entry for Richard Hesketh. For Hesketh’s possible financial motivations, see Bell 23–24. LPL MS. vol. 649, f. 41. Loomie 251. (Loomie, who did not write about the Hesketh Plot, did not seem to realize the significance of his information.) See CSP Dom, mid-June 1593. A letter from Sterrell (also known as Robinson, Saint Main, etc.) to Phelippes (also known as Morice or Morris), written from Liege, 13 June 1593 (Hatfield 4: 234). Hatfield 4: 331. Hatfield 4: 330; LPL MS. 649, fol. 175. The fact may easily be derived from the correspondence that has been cited in other notes to this chapter from both D’Andrada and Standen in June of 1593. I infer this from the fact that all correspondence I have seen by him or to him is written in Spanish—even when it was written to Burghley in London. Hatfield 4: 330, 335; Devlin 85. Hatfield 4: 330. See Hammer, “Elizabethan Spy” passim. Ibid. See Hatfield 4: 234, 330, and 335. See, for example, Hogge 263. Hatfield 4: 325. The Goldsmith and Woodward information is from Hatfield 4: 325. Other things may also be learned from Goldsmith. First, the Catholics had already begun to think about Ferdinando as a candidate, even though Henry was still very much the earl. Second, they had high hopes for Ferdinando, yet they still knew nothing of his religious disposition or of his current reputation at court. Third, they did not like Arabella. Fourth, they seem to have believed that the Cecils wanted Arabella and would get her, with Sir Robert taking his father’s place. Devlin cited this source but did not quote from it, perhaps knowing that it would undermine his own argument to do so (Devlin 86). Hatfield 4: 411. For Sterrell’s aliases, see Ungerer 247; Martin and Finnis, “Identity” passim; Hume 102; Kendall 372; and Devlin 85. For Cecil’s use of the alias William White, see Nicholl, Reckoning 252–256. CSP Dom, 1591–1594, 345.

Notes

297

53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

Hammer, Polarisation 162ff. Ibid. Ibid. CSP Dom, 1591–1594, 476; SP 12/248 no. 53. Martin and Finnis 22. Ibid. Martin and Finnis 29. Ibid. Ibid. 28. Chambers, Elizabethan Stage I 100. Ibid. Ibid. 29. Ibid., passim. Hatfield 5: 253. Coward 146, citing Hatfield 7: 509–519; CSP Rome, 1572–1578, nos. 172, 346, 698. 68. For this date, see, for example, Devlin 87.

CHAPTER 4 1. Hatfield 4: 408. 2. Ibid. 3. LPL MS. vol. 649, f. 41. His certificate of residence in Brussels of 6 August 1597 said he was forty-three years old and had been residing there for eight months (AGR, PEA 1398/7). “In 1605 Salisbury [Cecil] urged his arrest, although he admitted that ‘hitherto we have not heard his name mentioned’ ” (Loomie 243–244; Hatfield 13: 536, 557). 4. Loomie 251. 5. Hammer, Polarisation 161–163. 6. See Loomie 86. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid. 10. See Hatfield 8:557. 11. See Hatfield 18: 557. 12. See Hatfield 13: 536 13. See Loomie 243–244. 14. See “Islington” at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Islington. 15. Hatfield 4: 408.

298 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

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See the note on Wade for p. 60. Hatfield 4: 409. Devlin 90. See Hatfield 4: 408. Loomie 243–244. There are many sources for this, one of the first being Lewis Lewkenor’s account of Hesketh’s hanging. Devlin (89) said he did not believe the report, citing evidence that was supposedly in Lodge, vol. 2, but I did not find his cite in Lodge. Hume 102. Hastings, An Apology or Defense of the Watch-Word Published by an English Spaniard Lurking Under the Name N.D.; italics original. Hatfield 4: 381. The description of the view Hesketh would have seen is from http://www. lhi.org.uk/docs/lathom_deer_park_report_vol_3.pdf. This site also contains the information that although New Park was torn down in the early eighteenth century, the park still remains—now the Ormskirk Golf Course.

CHAPTER 5 1. See DHB passim. 2. One further discrepancy between Baylie’s testimony and [Richard] Hesketh’s concerns these dates, and it is complicated by what Bartholomew said. Baylie implied that Hesketh went on the twenty-fifth just after Earl Henry’s death and had some sort of audience. Hesketh, however, testified that he went back the next day, the twenty-sixth, having heard of Earl Henry’s death during his visit on the twenty-fifth, in order to have that audience. I have been unable to find a motive for either man to have lied about the matter. And probably neither did: both seemed to agree that Hesketh went first on the twenty-fifth. Bartholomew Hesketh also agreed. The disagreement between Richard and Bartholomew on the one hand and Baylie on the other is over the question of whether Hesketh had a brief meeting with any luminaries inside the house on the twenty-fifth, with Baylie implying that he did and the Hesketh brothers saying that he did not. What seems most likely is that Hesketh asked (or was told) on the twenty-fifth to postpone any audience out of respect, rescheduling the meeting to Thursday the twenty-seventh and then spending the night of the twenty-fifth at Sir Richard Shuttleworth’s house. He and Shuttleworth then spent the day and night of Wednesday the twenty-sixth at Bartholomew’s without seeing

Notes

3.

4. 5.

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

18.

299

anyone from the Derby household on that day. I doubt that there were any intentional lies told about this dating by the Heskeths or by Baylie. For one thing, as I have said, I can find no motive. For another, these testimonies could be all too easily checked with Ferdinando, Sir Edward, or Bishop Chaderton if the authorities had felt any reason to suspect deceit on this score, and the testifiers knew it. There are currently several good Internet sites for Shuttleworth. The most useful is probably “Gawthorpe Hall: Legacy of the Shuttleworths,” at . See http://www.timetravel-britain.com/articles/houses/gawthorpe.html. See DHB 27 and LFC 41, which in its short biography notes that he was erroneously reported to have died in 1590 in the pedigree that was done by Baines in his History of Lancashire, vol. 4. Sir Edward would live until August of 1604. See also Hammer, Elizabeth’s Wars 130; MacCafferey, Queen Elizabeth 394–399; and Parker 200–201, 212–213. The erroneous report of his 1590 death in Portugal was perpetuated by the family historian Peter Edward Stanley (168); he actually died in 1604 (LFC 117, 208). See Hammer, Elizabeth’s Wars 130; MacCaffrey, Queen Elizabeth 394– 399; and Parker 200–201, 212–213. Hammer, Elizabeth’s Wars 130. See DHB 27; LFC 41. Peck 116; Stevenson 60; italics original. See Hatfield 4: 408. The document is printed in Hatfield 4: 461–465. The verbatim text is provided as this book’s appendix in order that readers might be able to compare the two. For the first published text of Hesketh’s written instructions, see Hatfield 4: 461–465. Regarding Sir George Carey’s possible use of the term “the Park” to distinguish himself from other Careys, see, for example, a letter from him to his father dated 22 August 1588, in which his close is “the Park, I. of Wight.” This letter is reprinted in part in NQ 4th ser., IV, 4 December 1869, 471. Hatfield 4: 408. Ibid. Hesketh first lied to his interrogators about knowing Ormeston (Hatfield 13: 493), but then confessed to the association and its part in the plot (Hatfield 4: 407). Hatfield 4: 407.

300

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CHAPTER 6 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Hasler 2: 439; Nicholl, Cup 193. Hatfield 4: 428. Ibid. Hatfield 4: November 1593. See Hesketh’s deposition to Wade on the Brewerton Green trip with Ferdinando (ibid.). 6. See Carey letter to his wife of 22 April 1594. 7. Hatfield 4: 381. 8. Ibid.

CHAPTER 7 1. Hatfield 13: 491. 2. The fact that he did is made clear in entries for those dates in Hatfield, vol. 4. 3. See Edwards 182. 4. Hatfield 4: 389–390. 5. Ibid. 6. Devlin 94. 7. Hatfield 4: 389–390. 8. Ibid. 9. See OED n. 3 10. Hatfield 4: 389–390. 11. Hatfield 4: 366. 12. See Devlin 98. 13. Hatfield 4: 465. 14. See Devlin 98. 15. See Loomie 86. 16. Hatfield 4: 480. 17. See Hatfield 4: 480–482. 18. Ibid. 19. Ibid. 20. The Puckering information is from Hatfield 4: 418. See also Devlin 102 and Bagley 66. 21. See Devlin 97, citing Hatfield, vol. 4. 22. Lewkenor’s words are sometimes misattributed to Sir Ralph Sadler, which fact is understandable in view of the fact that Lewkenor’s text for some reason also shows up as an unattributed appendix to Clifford’s

Notes

301

edition of the published Sadler papers. (The most recent historian to carry forward the misattribution is Hogge [265], who cited both Edwards’ 1809 edition of The State Papers and Letters of Sir Ralph Sadler and Ashdown’s Tudor Cousins, both of which were based on the Shrewsbury papers.) 23. Devlin 104.

CHAPTER 8 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

See Bagley 68. Hatfield 13: 497. Coward 74. Coward 145–146. See Nicholl, Reckoning 228. Ibid. 228–229; italics original. See Edwards 146. For the meaning of this word, see page 32. See, for example, Coward 145–146 and Nicholl, Reckoning 228ff. Nicholl, Reckoning 228ff; italics original. Hatfield 4: 330ff. Hogge 263. Ibid. 263–265. See Stephenson 77. LFC, Chetham Soc. LXXV (1869) 66, 68; Morris 9, 306. See CSP Dom, 1591–1594, 547. Petti 52, 203). Edwards 398. Edwards 182, citing Hatfield 4: 389–390. Hatfield 4: 389–390; Hatfield 13: 493. Allen was shielding Elizabeth’s son from that kind of peril.

CHAPTER 9 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Hatfield 4: 411. Ibid. 4: 411–412. Paraphrased from Hatfield 4: 427. Devlin 104, quoting Hatfield, vol. 4. Hatfield 4: 425.

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6. The account of Earl Henry’s funeral derives mostly from Peck 14ff. 7. Ibid. 14; italics original. 8. Ibid.

CHAPTER 10 1. 2. 3. 4.

5.

6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14.

15. 16. 17.

Hammer, Polarisation 292. Devlin 105. Ibid. The quoted passage by Ferdinando and the material that is based on the rest of Ferdinando’s letter on pp. 145–147 are from Talbot Papers LPL MS. M3 3199j, f. 685v. Ferdinando’s letter is reprinted in Lodge 2: 447. Fitter, citing his own note 83, which itself cites Hammer, Polarisation 292, n. 128, asserted that Ferdinando actually sued Essex over the matter. I find no evidence of such a suit. Devlin did not, however, reconcile this argument with his larger claim that the Cecils were at the root of Ferdinando’s problems both at home and in London. In fact, he revealed yet more ambivalence about his voiced suspicion that it was Essex who may be at that root. Newton 44. Essex’s long letter to Ferdinando of 17 January 1594 is in the Talbot collection (fol. 633). It was reprinted in full by Lodge 2: 450ff (2nd ed.). Bold’s letters to Williamson are from CSP Dom, SP 46 subseries, Williamson papers, SP 46/47, Williamson papers, vol. 1. Rickert 135. Lovell 401. Ibid. See the ODNB entry for Gilbert Talbot. The Star Chamber cases involving Gilbert and his man Williamson make for the most entertaining reading in all of Les Reportes del Cases in Camera Stellata. See Hatfield 5: 526. See Hammer, Polarisation passim. The report of Williamson’s death prior to 16 October 1604 is from the papers of the Holden Family of Aston Hall, Asston-upon-Trent, Purchase of Wilne Hall in Little Wilne.… Its reference number there is D 779B/T 478. This was the relevant Williamson because he was mentioned along with a man who is known to have been his close friend, Francis Needham.

Notes

303

18. On Gilbert’s luck, see MacCafferey, “Talbot and Stanhope” passim; Donno 231; and Hatfield 5: 526–528. 19. See Hammer, Polarisation 383, citing Hatfield 5: 227.

CHAPTER 11 1. See the ESTC entry for Conference. The editors omitted the two other men who were credited with the book’s authorship by Burleigh (Hatfield 5: 251–252), Thomas Fitzherbert and Richard Verstegan. 2. Jesuit succession logic in 1594: The best account of this logic, including the logic of the Conference’s authors, is probably that of Titherley 25ff, 47. 3. See APC 24: 77–78. The Stanhope poem quoted on this page is reprinted in Markham Memorials 1: 130. Markham’s retort is discussed in Donno 131–132; see also CSP Dom 3: 1591–1594, 410. 4. The quoted verse by Stanhope is from Markham 17–18. 5. Shrewsbury papers fol. 655. 6. Ibid. fols. 641, 661. 7. Ibid. fol. 637. 8. Ferdinando’s letter to Gilbert is in Shrewsbury papers MS. 3177–3178, fol. 677, from which the display quote on p. 169 is taken. 9. Talbot Papers 3199j, fol. 677. 10. The sources for the Mordant-Bold-Williamson family relationship are as follows: Williamson (sometimes styled Nicholas William of Sawley) was born around 1550 in Turvey, Bedfordshire, and he married Anne Mordant (Mordaunt), who was born around 1558, in or around 1580. In the IGI records, he is CD 131, PIN 1378676; she is CD 131, PIN 1378667. Her parents were William Mordant and Agnes Janet Booth Mordant. Richard Bold of Bold, born at Bold Hall in Lancashire, was the son of Richard Bold of Bold (Sr.) and Elizabeth Gerard Bold. He married Anne Mordant’s sister Jane Mordant around 1573. Richard is CD 131, PIN 1378668; Jane is CD 131, PIN 1378670. Her parents were also William Mordant (CD 131, PIN 1378659) and Agnes Janet Booth Mordant (CD 131, PIN 1378660). Richard and Jane had no legitimate children, but Richard did father a “natural” son, Sir Thomas Bold, who was responsible in the early seventeenth century for taking the family (including Bold Hall, which he inherited) into the Church of England. Agnes was descended from Lord Lewis Mordant (d. 1601), the third Baron of Turvey. (He, along with Ferdinando’s father Earl Henry, had sat in judgment of Mary, Queen of Scots; see http://turvey.homestead.com/mordaunts.html. He also sponsored a

304

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19.

20.

21. 22. 23. 24.

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

troupe of players; see http://books.google.com/books?id=77c8AAAAIA AJ&pg=PA90&lpg=PA90&dq=%22Lord+Mordaunt&source=bl&ots=hN t0IP6KFw&sig=MtVBzjTjyxphsQADLexQbu3ZGhY&hl=en&sa=X&o i=book_result&resnum=11&ct=result.) See http://www.mordaunt.me.uk/ lancs.html. The Mordants were also highly connected through Dame Jane Mordant, the wife of Sir Thomas Kemp (Hatfield 4: 264). These people remarried (and intermarried), and the records are somewhat complex. I have compiled a fairly complete genealogy and will be glad to share it with any reader who wishes to examine it if he or she will email me at ld8t@ virginia.edu or write to me in care of the publisher. Hatfield 4: 241–242. See CSP Dom, 1591–1594, 476 and SP 12/248, no. 53. A letter from Father Hugh Owen to Thomas Phelippes, 1594, from Brussels (CSP Dom, 1591–1594, p. 476; SP 12/248, no. 53). Hammer, Polarisation 292. This letter is in Shrewsbury papers fol. 681 and is endorsed in Gilbert’s hand. The quote is from the editorial synopsis of this letter from Ferdinando to Essex in the National Archives. Talbot Papers MS. 3199j, fol. 677). Ibid. fol. 709. From Gilbert’s MS. letter to Ferdinando of 29 March 1594—his last. This letter is in the Bacon Frank Collection held by Sheffield Archives, ref. no. BFM/2/121. The letter is unaccountably missing page 1. But its omission is not mentioned in the letter’s description in the 1965 “Appendix to the Arundel Castle Manuscripts Catalog,” written by Rosamond Meredith, archivist for the Sheffield City Libraries. For this information and much more besides, I am greatly indebted to Benjamin Longsden, senior archive assistant at the Sheffield Archives. Wilson, Shakespeare 172). Elizabeth liked both Gilbert and Mary—at some times more than others, admittedly—but she never fully trusted them. This was wise of her. Hammer, Polarisation 273ff. Ibid. 296, 247. Ibid. 382–383. John Golborne, “A trewe reporte and observaunce of the sicknes and death of F: late Earlie of Derby ….” This manuscript is in the BCMR, where it is in the same letter-book as Sir George Carey’s letter to his wife, which has also been examined in this book. It is too fragile to be copied, but it was

Notes

305

graciously transcribed for me by David J. H. Smith, archivist at Berkeley. Jeayes catalogued it in the nineteenth century but did not reprint it. Wilson (accidentally but understandably) misreported it as being in the GCRO, which has only a nineteenth-century copy, now on microfilm, lacking the original’s second page. However, Wilson was the first to discover from reading the Golborne manuscript copy at the Gloucester County Records Office that Alice had actually miscarried a male fetus, rather than having had a “false” (or feigned) pregnancy. The Golborne manuscript at Berkeley Castle is SL II, fol. 79; the Carey manuscript is in the same location, SL II, fol. 87. 25. Based upon only one note from a Jesuit spy who was living abroad (Garnet), the rumor spread that the baby had survived and that the new Earl William might therefore be “unearled” (Wilson, Shakespeare 177). Two or three contemporary researchers have concluded, rightly or wrongly, that worries about such a surviving infant led the Queen to delay Earl William’s marriage to Lady Elizabeth Vere until a full nine months had passed from the time of the baby’s latest possible conception. Some of these scholars also believed that Alice, playing for time (for whatever reason, they did not say), started these rumors and spread them. It is clear from Earl William’s dinner conversation with Philip Gawdy two or three weeks after his brother’s death that he had heard that the baby survived (Jeayes edition of Gawdy’s correspondence for May 1594). But it can be determined from the immediate post-mortem Golborne manuscript (“True Report”) and the Carey manuscript (his letter to his wife Elizabeth) that the baby did not actually survive—for which, see pp. 192, 194ff. 26. Case’s two conflicting urinalyses are cited in the Golborne MS 1.

CHAPTER 12 1. CACALSS MS. ZML 5/123. 2. Nicholl, Reckoning 238. 3. For a month or more, I entertained the possibility that the entire business of the intercepted Mordant letter might possibly have been a failed or aborted trap to lure Ferdinando to Richard Bold’s house in order to kill him there—a plot which would necessarily have involved Lloyd, as he reported the matter to the earl by a quickly delivered letter. I even ventured far enough with this conspiracy theory to wonder if Essex might have been behind sending the official Privy Council letter to Lloyd—for the council certainly sent the letter, and to many more local officials than Lloyd—as Essex was on the council at the time. The matter of sending the letters to the officials had

306

4. 5. 6. 7. 8.

9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16.

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

required a Privy Council vote and had caused much extra work on the part of those officials and their staffs after they received the letters. So, I concluded, this idea was not plausible. Some readers—especially those who love a good mystery—may disagree. CACALSS MS. ZML/5/223–225. Ibid. See the ODNB entry for Fitzwilliam. Wark 64–74, citing RHL XIX, ser. 3, ML 5, 223, and 236–230. For the fact that Bold Hall had been a gathering place for Catholics, see http://www.mordaunt.me.uk/lancs.html, “Mordaunt Genealogy and Family History Resource.” Letter of Ferdinando Stanley to Mayor David Lloyd of Chester, 5 April 1594. Ferdinando was careful to copy the letter to the vice chamberlain of Chester (“Serjeant Warborton”) on the same day. This letter is CACA: SS MS. ZML/5/222. I note that it is misdated as 2 April 1594 in the online NA. I have a Xeroxed copy. The deposition is in CACALSS MS. ZML./5/224. See “Persons Arrested at Chester 1594” CACALSS MS. ZM/L/5/218–243. CACALSS MS. ZML./5/224. See Secara 33–34. This letter is CP 26/11 in the Hatfield House Library. I have a copy. It is reprinted in Hatfield 5: 500. These two facts will, I think, be obvious to anyone who is even slightly familiar with Ferdinando’s correspondence. Again, I have a copy. The letter is CACALSS MS. ZML/5/222–225. See Wilson, Shakespeare 172, 434 and Jeffcoate 1876–1879. For responses to Jeffcoate, see Ihler 1187, Davies 1187—who linked the poisoning to the succession—and Houppermans 1187.

CHAPTER 13 1. The manuscript in question is MS. SS. 2. See Hatfield 4: 500. 3. Included in the Carey-Egerton-Leigh MS. “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby …” (Shrewsbury papers, LPL, reprinted in Lodge 2: 459–461, 2nd ed.) and then included in MS. SS. 4. Ibid. 5. Golborne MS. 1.

Notes

307

6. The story of the tall specter with a “ghastly and threatening countenance” was first recorded in MS. SS, probably around 1599. 7. The story of Ferdinando’s amazement at Golborne’s not having seen the tall man is first recorded in MS. SS. 8. MSS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh [“Touching…”] and SS. 9. Stow, Annales (1599/1600). 10. Ibid. 11. MS. Golborne 1. 12. MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh [“Touching…”]; Stow, Annales (1599/1600) [Stow added the word “strongly”]). 13. The phrase “Elizabethan voodoo” is Nicholl’s from Cup 188. The “wax image or doll” element is from MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh and from MS. SS. (The two manuscripts vary slightly as to the nature of the image; the former is probably the earlier version.) 14. The mention of Mr. Halsall’s taking an oath administered by Secretary Smith is from MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (“Touching…”). 15. The material about Ferdinando’s revised will is largely from Coward 37 (citing many original sources) and Wilson, Shakespeare 172. The quoted items are from Coward 37. I have been informed by Bruce Jackson of LRO that the will is neither original nor a probated copy (personal correspondence, 14 December 2007). 16. Bagley 68. 17. The source for the doctor’s use of diascordium is the manuscript titled “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby,” which I have alternately termed Carey-Egerton-Leigh in this book because the title (“Touching…”) was Gilbert Shrewsbury’s, not that of its author(s). The source for the liquids into which the diascordium was mixed is Stow, Annales (1599/1600). 18. Case’s administration of diaporecion is from MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (“Touching…”). 19. The report that Ferdinando’s urine “suddenly staid” is from Stow, Annales (1599/1600). 20. The report that the stoppage of the urine occurred exactly at the time as the witch “Jane” asked Secretary Golborne if it had stopped yet is, with different wording, from MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (including the quoted phrase “…not withstanding all helps … [the stoppage] so remained until he died”) and MS. SS. 21. For the events of Saturday 13 April, see MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (“Touching…”) and Stow, Annales (1599/1600).

308

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22. The “homely woman” element was first introduced in the MS. SS, from which it was copied by Stow for inclusion in Annales (1599/1600). 23. The sole source for this woman in the narrative of Ferdinando’s death is MS. SS, which, as noted elsewhere, may well not antedate 1599. As for the meaning of the phrase “homely woman” and “homely man,” see the entry for “homely” in OED 6. 24. The sources for these elements in the narrative are MS. Carey-EgertonLeigh (“Touching…”), MS. SS, and Stow, Annales (1599/1600). 25. As to Ferdinando’s saying he had had a “wrong wrest,” see Golborne MS. 2. As for the meaning of the term, see the OED entry for “wrest” n. 2 fig. 26. This element, in slightly varying forms, is from MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (“Touching…”), MS. SS, and Stow, Annales (1599/1600). 27. The sources for the chirurgeon material are MS. Carey-Egerton-Leigh (“Touching”) and Stowe, Annales (1599/1600), the latter of which was derived from the former or from some oral source. The source for Ferdinando’s telling Case, the doctor whom he loved, to give up is MS. SS. 28. The sole (late) source of this dubious material is SS, from which Stow copied it for his 1600 Annales. Coward drolly termed the speech “unlikely” (87). 29. The material about “corrupted and stinking humours” is from Camden, Life and Reign 115. 30. From the manuscript of Carey’s letter to his wife, for which see MS. CAREY in the abbreviations section. 31. These experienced practitioners knew, as one journalist put it, that ‘[T]his was no ordinary way to die in Elizabethan England.’ Between them, they had seen it all—including all the ‘maybe natural causes’ theories, which first show up in John Stow’s 1600 published account, and with which Devlin & Co. fuzz out at the end as a hedge bet.” See, for example, Devlin 112. 32. Golborne MS. 1. 33. For his consultation with physicians in Glasgow regarding the use of arsenic in the murder of Ferdinando, see Wilson, Shakespeare 172, 434. 34. For a contemporary Lancet article leaning toward the same conclusion, see Jeffcoate 1876–1879. 35. For responses to Jeffcoate, see Ihler 1187, Davies 1187—who linked the poisoning to the succession—and Houppermans 1187. 36. In thinking over how the poison might have been administered, given the difficulty involved in poisoning only one noble person at a time because of Tudor-Stuart dining customs, I considered for a while the idea that an individual “stirrup cup” might have been employed by the poisoner(s) prior to

Notes

37. 38. 39. 40.

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Ferdinando’s journey from Lathom to Knowsley with Case and Golborne. This was a cup of some hearty beverage that was given to a rider who had just put his foot in his stirrup prior to a journey or an engagement in a sporting event (such as tilting). It was an attractive thought, as it could explain both how Ferdinando got his individual dose and why he fell ill only a few hours after his arrival at Knowsley. But I found that there is no evidence for the term stirrup cup or for such a cup’s use (by any name) prior to 1681 (OED). I also considered the possibility that Ferdinando might have been poisoned at Bold Hall in Prescot after going there to arrest the Catholics of whom Mayor Lloyd had just informed him. I thought it was possible that he may have been offered some refreshment at Prescot and taken it—but the time between his trip to Bold Hall and his trip to Knowsley, where he fell ill, although it was only a few days, would have been too long for him to have remained well after receiving a huge dose of arsenic. For the Tudor-Stuart stigma attached to poison, see Somerset 312. Somerset 312. PRO SP 12/249, no. 63; see Hammer, Polarisation 156 for further information. Nicholl, Reckoning 246–247.

CHAPTER 14 1. I did, however, omit the irrelevant parts of Carey’s letter to his wife and the redundant parts of Stow’s Annales. 2. Warner’s book is Albion’s England (1596), which contains the earliest statement that Ferdinando was killed by the Catholics. He apparently believed that Ferdinando was killed not out of revenge but rather because his refusal of the throne mandated, in the eyes of the powerful Catholics in Europe, that he die for turning down the gift of the only true God. Because Warner’s verses are seldom reprinted and are not easily accessible, I here supply the relevant passages, followed by a modern prose paraphrase: Well answered once a King of ours the Pope, that bod him free Two Prelates, terming them his Sonnes: The King seem’d to agree, But sent their compleat Armor: looke are these thy Sonnes quoth he. False Hesket too not falsely spake, reporting lately this, That such as Papists would seduce, and of seducing mis, Are marked dead: For he to whom he so did say, feare I, Earle Ferdinando Stanley, so dissenting, so did trie,

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON As other Peeres, heere, and els-where, haue found the like no lye. Nor preached he the Pope amis, that did to him applie This Tex, to witt: This is the Heire, come on and let him die, Th’ Inheritance let vs inioye: Nought seeke they els, for why? Those bad be good that giue, those good be bad that Giftes deny, From Annanias literall fault they Consciences would tye: These death-eide Basilisques therefore in euerie Sense doe flie. A Peter-Penny, if withhild, knocks all the rest awrye. Hell, Heauen, Bulls, Pardons, Pope, and to be Pope, doth mony buy. Yea, too blasphemous, they in Single illegible letterroch vpon the Deitie, Though of these undefined span of illegible textifers haue been that perish through a Flie. Each sinne gainst God, how vile so-eare, will Popes with Pardons fit: Crosse but the Pope, pardon thou him, he will not pardon it. For Faith his common Plea is sword and fire against his foes: But who, but fooles, beleeue that Faith exacted is by bloes.

Here is my modernized prose “translation” of Warner’s hard-to-follow verses: “One of our British kings once answered the pope as follows, when the pope bade him to release two prisoners, terming them his sons. After first seeming to agree, he sent the pope instead their complete suits of armor, writing, “Look, are these thy sons?” False Hesketh too not falsely spake, reporting lately this to Ferdinando Stanley while trying to persuade him: those great ones whom the Papists tried to seduce but “miss[ed]” must become marked men and be killed. Ferdinando “tried” (tested) this maxim, and I fear that he found it to be no lie—that is, he found it to be true. For the pope did not preach in literal error when he applied to Ferdinando the text, “This is the rightful heir to the throne, so come on and let him die as ordained. Let us rejoice in his (lost) inheritance, for neither he nor anyone else should seek it while testing (and in effect denying thereby) the maxim just given. Why? Because people are good who give gifts (to the only real God), and people are bad who deny gifts, and it does not matter the size of the gift, great or tiny (“peter-penny”), for even a refused tiny gift, if refused from God, “knocks all the rest awry”—that is, all of the rest of one’s gifts and acceptances to and from God. For example, money given to God’s true priests can buy anything from God, but it must be in no smaller amount than that specified by the priest. This is blasphemous, of course, yet all too many who have refused their demands by not giving enough have “perished through a fly.” And each of us sins against God, no matter what pardons the pope and his minions might sell for money. If you pardon the

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pope for this, God will not pardon you. For God’s common plea to us to have faith is His sword and buckler against His foes. For who but fools (for example, the pope and all of the Catholics) believe that real faith can be bought by God by blows exacted through any of his supposed agents? —or who, by implication, believes that people can buy blessings from God with cash dispensed to the priests?” Lewkenor’s book is Estate of English Fugitives (1595). Bibliographical problems persist because it found its way into the Sadler papers, which were reprinted in the nineteenth century (The State Papers and Letters of Sir Ralph Sadler [1809]), leading some historians to have attributed the authorship to Sadler. It is not clear from the Sadler papers that this is from any journal of Sir Ralph’s; rather, it is unattributed in the papers, and it is odd that its text is identical to the text that was published by Lewkenor. Thomas Bell’s book is The Anatomie of Popish Tyranny (1603), and it is important to remember that Bell (also known as Thomas Burton) was the Catholic spy-turned-informant whose confiscated private notebook, mentioned earlier, was the source of much Cecil intelligence on the Lancashire Catholics in the 1590s. Bagshaw’s book is A Sparing Discourse of our English Jesuites (1601), and it blames the Jesuits abroad for Ferdinando’s murder. Sir Francis Hastings published An Apology or Defense of the Watch-Word Published by an English Spaniard Lurking Under the Name N.D. (i.e., Nicholas Dolman, the nom de guerre of Father Parsons) in 1600. Hastings was an eminent Puritan-leaning Church of England loyalist who had a crown claim—one he never actively pursued, although it was taken seriously by other people from time to time during Elizabeth’s reign. Hastings explicitly blamed Cardinal Allen (who was at the top of the English Catholic hierarchy) for Ferdinando’s death. William Camden’s fullest account is in his Annales of 1634, in which he wrote, “In his [Ferdinando’s] chamber was found a little Image made of Waxe, with the belly of it thrust through with haires, iust of the colour of those of his head which was layd there (as the wiser then thought) to remoue the suspition of poisoning him away and father his death vpon the art of Witchcraft.” 3. For Stow’s first account of Ferdinando’s death, see Stow, Annales (1600) 1275–1276. The manuscript I am calling “Stow’s source” resides with Stow’s other papers in BL, where it is catalogued as Harley 247, folios 204– 205v, article nos. 57 and 58. (Although it is assigned two individual numbers because it has two separate titles (“A Brief Declaration…” and “A True Report…”), it is actually a single document written in one hand. The hand is not likely Stow’s, according to Stow’s biographer Barrett L. Beer (“Stow”).

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4. The source is Carey’s letter to his wife (MS. CAREY). 5. Ibid. 6. Ibid. As I noted in my ODNB biography of William Stanley, he was apparently disliked intensely by most other members of his family and their married relations (including Carey), although there is no indication as to why. Carey’s calling him a “nidicock” is interesting but reveals nothing, for William was mentally competent—famously so. The best educated guess is that William alienated his family members by his (apparently) incessant flights from his responsibilities, as he is known to have been a world traveler before assuming the earldom in his thirties, and he was a writer of comedies for the “common stages” (in one critic’s phrase) after he assumed it. 7. See Knafla, Law and Politics 24. 8. See DHB 119, passim. 9. Hatfield 4: 515. 10. Hatfield 4: 515. 11. SS (BL Harley 247, fols. 204–205v, nos. 57 and 58). As noted, I “translated” his word “vichess” as “sickness.” Wilson thought it was probably an attempt to spell vicissitude (Wilson, Shakespeare) but when it is read in context, there would be no difference in the sentence’s meaning no matter which word was used. 12. See Nicholl, Cup 182. The Bath spas failed to cure him—see the entry for George Carey in ODNB. 13. The conclusion of Case and the other doctors, as given in Carey’s two display quotes, were included in Carey’s letter to his wife (MS. CAREY). 14. Ibid. 15. See MS. SS. 16. Carey’s letter to his wife (MS. CAREY). 17. The text of John Golborne’s report is that of the Golborne manuscript, for which see the MS. abbreviated Golborne. 18. The information in Carey’s letter was dependent upon what Golborne told Carey orally or within the text of his report. It is possible that Golborne got his information from hearing Ferdinando and/or Alice tell Case. But both Golborne’s document and Carey’s document imply clearly that, because there was no other explanation for Alice’s pregnancy, one or both of them must have told Case they had not had sexual relations and either one or both told Golborne as well, or else he was present when Case was told. 19. The Devlin quote about witchcraft prosecutions is from 112, citing Ewen 110.

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20. The mention comes in George Chapman’s dedication to his book Skia Nyktos: The Shadow of Night, which was published in that year although it was probably written in 1593, in which Carey is called “Hunsden’s heir”—that is, the son of Henry Carey, Lord Hunsden. The dedication is to a small group of men who are widely believed to have constituted such an informal group—a group including Ralegh, Harriott, the Earl of Northumberland, and others. The literature on the subject (and its relation to Shakespeare’s play) is, as I have termed it elsewhere in this book, literally voluminous. 21. This is new information, as no one investigating Ferdinando’s death previously, save perhaps for Carey and Egerton in 1594, had ever read Golborne MS. 2. It was therefore not known to exist before.

CHAPTER 15 1. The quoted text is that of the Golborne MS., for which see MS. GOLBORNE. 2. The quote containing the words “A vehement suspicion…” by Carey is from Hatfield 4: 517. 3. The term exalted title, with respect to Michael Doughtie’s position as the clerk of the kitchen at Knowsley, was used to characterize the position’s importance (in specific contrast to the term’s connotation today) in Sanders and Irvine 41. 4. Actually, Robert Doughtie was the older of the two brothers (he was born on 6 February 1551, whereas Michael was born on 22 November 1554), but Leigh and Carey would have had no reason to know this, just as they would have had no reason to know that the man’s name was Robert rather than Richard. The brothers were the sons of “Willi.” [William] Doughtie and were born in Yorkshire. See the online IGI records under these names. Their dates match the timeline perfectly for the date of Ferdinando’s death and for the known dates of both men’s service to the Derby earls; moreover, they are the only Robert and Richard Doughties (under any spelling) who are listed as brothers in the IGI for this whole period. 5. DHB 23–24. 6. See Loomie 14. 7. See Nicholl, Cup 189, 192. 8. Hatfield 357. The Crown’s investigation of Ferdinando’s murder apparently ended almost as soon as it had so grandly and ceremoniously begun. After Egerton and Carey quickly reached the decision that witchcraft was responsible, their prime witch suspect was jailed for the murder in Lancashire, and

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Robert Doughtie fled, the Crown abruptly and unceremoniously shut the investigation down. As I have argued, however, even though they may have believed that the witches had killed Ferdinando with Doughtie’s knowledge and complicity, this conclusion certainly served as a convenient way to relieve Alice from any embarrassment regarding either her guilt in the murder or her illegitimate pregnancy.

CHAPTER 16 1. As noted in the text, it was almost certainly written by Chaplain William Leigh, Sir George Carey, or Sir Thomas Egerton—singly or in collaboration. The manuscript, of which I have a copy, is in the Talbot Papers LPL, where it is catalogued as MS. 3199j 713-14-15. A nineteenth-century transcription, which is inaccurate in minor ways, is provided in Lodge 2: 459–461, although I am not certain that Lodge included it in his eighteenth-century (first) edition. 2. For Carey’s handwriting, I consulted David J. H. Smith, curator of Berkeley Castle, where some of Carey’s correspondence resides (personal correspondence, 1 May 2008). For the handwriting of Egerton, I consulted his biographer Louis A. Knafla (personal correspondence, 23 April 2008).

CHAPTER 17 1. The story of Stow’s asking the beggars to accept him into their order is from the ODNB entry for Stow. 2. Beer, Tudor England 185. 3. See the note to pp. 200–202. 4. Stow also must have seen the Carey-Egerton-Leigh manuscript, however, as his Annales contains at least two apparently cribbed “parallel passages” from that document that are not in the intermediary Stow’s source manuscript. Among these are the phrase “melting of his fat” and the information that Dr. Case administered “unicorn horn” to Ferdinando. 5. Bagley 67; emphasis added. 6. Stow, Life And Reign [1631 ed.] 767. 7. See Knafla, Law and Politics 32. 8. Ibid. 9. CSP Dom, 1591–1594, 527, 1611). Also see the ODNB entries for Thomas Egerton and Alice Spencer Stanley. 10. This Barnfield material is from Daugherty, “Question” 45–61 and Daugherty, William Shakespeare appendix 2.

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11. Daugherty, “Question” 57, 60, 61 and Daugherty, William Shakespeare appendix 2. 12. Thomson, Shakespeare’s Professional Career 46–48. 13. Knafla, Law and Politics 33. 14. The letter was quoted by Wilson, Shakespeare 76–77, 177. 15. A facsimile of Earl William’s letter is provided in Lucas 233. 16. For these pastoral identifications, see Strathmann 33–57; see also Oram 547 and Heywood 38, as well as Koller 155–158. 17. See May, “Spenser’s” passim. 18. See May, Elizabethan 370ff. 19. Buck’s poem, published as a book, is Dapnis Polystephanos (1605). I investigated all of these issues in my book William Shakespeare, Richard Barnfield, and the Fifth Earl of Derby.

CHAPTER 18 1. The quote from Yorke is from Wilson, Shakespeare 176. It was also cited by Devlin, Edwards, and all of the others scholars who believe Burghley was the murderer. 2. The scholar’s name was E. B. Goodacre, and the source was a letter written from him to Titherley (24). These letters are not to be found in the Jeayes edition of Gawdy’s correspondence. 3. All known examples of Ferdinando’s poetry are reprinted in May, Elizabethan 370ff. 4. The quoted material from Lefranc is from his Under the Mask 447–448. 5. Another distant possibility is that two months before she miscarried in March of 1594—that is, in the previous January—she had still harbored hopes of Ferdinando’s being named by Elizabeth as her heir to the throne. If so, Alice might have intentionally tried to get pregnant by someone other than Ferdinando in the hopes of having a male child. She would have known that one disincentive for Elizabeth’s naming him would be the lack of a male heir upon his own death, and she may have felt she would have a chance of bearing a son with another father, by that means not only making it easier for Elizabeth to name Ferdinando as her successor but also making it possible for an heir of hers and Ferdinando’s to carry on their lineage as crown holders. This scenario, however, would depend upon Ferdinando’s being to some extent supportive of the idea of her trying to have a son by another man in order that he might become king and “his” sons would go on to be kings—as he would surely have known (as he surely did in fact know) that the male child Alice bore prematurely in March was not his.

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6. See the entry for William Stanley, the sixth Earl of Derby, in ODNB. (In the interest of full disclosure, I note that I am the author of this biographical entry.) 7. For Earl William’s backing of the Paul’s boys, see Gair 116–118, 123, 128–129, 131, 137, 170, 186; for his backing of the Boar’s Head under the leadership of his man Robert Browne, see Berry 34, 36. 8. See the ODNB entry for William Stanley, the sixth Earl of Derby. 9. The lease Earl William made to Robert Doughtie is LRO ref. DDK/133/3 1595–96. 10. The Harington information, including the quoted material by him, is from Donno 229 and passim. 11. The best and most obvious introduction to the fascinating, under-studied Case is his ODNB entry, although I note that its author did not seem to know for certain the fact that he was indeed Ferdinando’s lead doctor during his fatal sickness. I think the only real source for this fact—the only one to say that he was the famous Dr. Case of Oxford—is the Golborne MS. (“A True Report…”). 12. Cites for “Dr. Hackett”: see Canino 202. See also Cokayne 4: 212 and the Collins edition of Bridges Peerage 3: (eds. 1709, 1812) 81. Gibbs also cited Camden’s Annales (1594). None of these sources has any reference to Hackett. As mentioned in the text, Gibbs was apparently conflating his Hacketts, Heskeths, and Halsalls, ultimately confusing Hackett with Richard Hesketh.

CHAPTER 19 1. The Williamson material is from Hatfield 5: 253ff. Williamson’s account of what he said Countess Mary Talbot had told him has endured several parsings and reparsings, but with respect to “suspects,” the most astute analysis is that of Donno 249. 2. Hatfield V 255. 3. For this fact, see Hatfield 5: 527.

CHAPTER 20 1. Hatfield 4: 357. 2. These facts, which, as noted in the text, I discovered all too tardily, are explicitly provided in DHB 23, 24, 215.

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3. Portrait of Ferdinando Stanley. The portrait was completed only five to eleven days prior to the earl’s ingesting the poison that killed him. (Because the portrait is dated “March 1594” and because the New Year began on 25 March in Elizabethan Lancashire, it had to have been completed between the twenty-fifth and the thirty-first—or else it would have been completed at the end of 1593. Ferdinando first fell ill from the poison on 4 April 1594. Thus, the calculation is a simple one.) The portrait found its way into the Farington (Ffarington) family’s holdings at some point in the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, and one of William Farington’s descendants, a “Miss Farington,” reported in the nineteenth century that the portrait had been presented to her antecedent William Farington by one of the Derby earls or widows (Raines lxv). William Farington was longtime comptroller or steward to the Derby earls; he kept the Derby Household Books, published in the nineteenth century (for which also see Raines lxv). “Miss Farington,” still residing at the ancient Worden Hall, had a few woodcut copies of the portrait made as gifts, and beneath each she had the artist reproduce Earl Ferdinando’s signature. One of these she allowed to be reproduced for Raines’ Chetham Society publication of the household books and paid for the cost of reproduction herself (lxv). Finding this reproduction, Alan Keen traced the painting to an Eric B. Porter, who had bought it at auction in 1951. Keen included a black and white reproduction in his and Roger Lubbock’s book The Annotator (facing p. 84). Seeing this reproduction, the historian Ian Wilson began searching for the original in order to include a black and white copy in his biography Shakespeare: The Evidence. He managed to locate the portrait around 1990, which had then been inherited by the buyer’s widow, Mary Porter. With her permission, Wilson took an excellent 35mm color photograph of the painting (in its frame) and subsequently reproduced it in Shakespeare: The Evidence, but alas only in black and white (Wilson, Shakespeare following 114 and emails to the author). It is Wilson’s reproduction that furnishes the cover for this book. Since that time, it has been reproduced once more in black and white by Park Honan for his biography Shakespeare: A Life (following p. 240), also with Mary Porter’s permission. It is now once again in private hands, and it was exhibited in Searching for Shakespeare at the National Portrait Gallery and the Yale Center for British Art in 2006 and then reproduced in the book of the same name (Cooper 4, 124). 4. Cooper 123. 5. The Jesuit Father Garnet wrote a private message, much quoted, saying that “[t]he marriage of the Lady Vere to the new Earl of Derby is deferred,

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by reason that he [William] stands to be unearled, his brother’s wife being with child, until it is seen whether it be a boy or no.” See Wilson, Shakespeare 177, citing material in Hatfield, vol. 4, for the spring of 1594. Garnet’s note has been the sole source of this famous historical rumor—which fact does not mean that the rumor was not afloat at the time in Elizabeth’s England. Based on the correspondence of Philip Gawdy, cited earlier, it is clear that his old friend the new Earl William had heard it—but he had also heard that the child was male. The child was indeed male, as is known from the earliest reports of observers who were present, as noted earlier. But it is also known from those reports that the child, which was miscarried at two months, had not survived.

EPILOGUE 1. Devlin 114. 2. This information is from the front matter of Golborne’s three books dedicated to Egerton, all of which note in the first person that the author is in the Fleet. See also Heltzel 108–109; Knafla, “ ‘Country’ Chancellor” 52 [in Fogle and Knafla, Patronage in Late Renaissance England, Clark Memorial Library at UCLA 1983; and Maltby passim. 3. It is attributed to Golborne in “Early English Books Online,” and it is listed as anonymous in the revised ESTC. 4. Heltzel 109. I would like to know that too, but I doubt that Golborne’s story had a happy ending with Egerton in charge of its narrative. 5. Golborne, Dispute “Preface to the Reader.” 6. The poem by Ferdinando Stanley was included in Brittons [Nicholas Breton’s] Bower of Delights (1591) sig. D1v-2. It is one of four poems Ferdinando is known to have written, and it was attributed to him by the man who discovered the other three much earlier, Steven B. May, who reprinted it in his Elizabethan Courtier Poets 370–371. I have abridged and slightly modernized the text.

WORKS CITED MANUSCRIPTS Berkeley Castle Muniment Room MS. SL II, fol. 79. John Golborne’s official position paper arguing for poison as the cause of Ferdinando Stanley’s death: “A True Report.…” Signed by Golborne on page 2. Endorsed by Sir George Carey, with the note “This for poyson in Carey’s hand to the right of Golborne’s signature. Late April, 1594. MS. SL II, fol. 87. Sir George Carey’s letter from London to his wife Elizabeth telling her of Ferdinando Stanley’s death and of Dr. Case’s deathbed diagnosis, which was voiced immediately afterward, of “flat poisoning, and nothing but.” British Library MS. Harley 247, fols. 204–205v, article nos. 57 and 58. No. 57 is titled “A Brief Declaration…” and No. 58 is titled “A True Report of such Reasons and Conjectures as Caused Many Learned Men to Suppose Him to be Bewitched,” yet the two constitute one document written in one hand. This is the manuscript that is referred to in this book as Stow’s source (abbreviated SS), for Stow copied it verbatim into an updated edition of his Annales (1600) (see publications list). The hand in which the manuscript was written is not Stow’s. The manuscript was derived almost totally from MS. Talbot 3199j (see the entry under Lambeth Palace Library). Cheshire and Chester Archives and Local Studies Service MS. ZM/L/5/123. Letter from Mayor David Lloyd of Chester to Ferdinando Stanley of 2 April 1594.

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MS. ZM/L/5/218–219. Letter from Mayor David Lloyd of Chester to Lord Burghley and the vice chamberlain of Chester, following up on the letter Lloyd had written to Ferdinando Stanley the previous day (i.e., 2 April), 3 April 1594. MS. ZM/L/5/221 is the verbatim testimony from Robert Sefton transcribed by Mayor David Lloyd of Chester, 2 April 1594. MS. ZM/L/5/224. A verbatim list of questions asked of Richard Bold under oath by Ferdinando Stanley. (Signed by Bold. The manuscript may be written in the hand of John Golborne, the earl’s chief secretary, who accompanied the earl to Bold’s residence in Prescot), 2 April 1594. MS. ZM/L/5/225. Letter of Ferdinando Stanley to Mayor David Lloyd of Chester and/or the vice chamberlain of Chester, the last letter the earl wrote to anyone, 5 April 1594. MS ZM/L/5/223–225. Letters between Agnes Mordant (Mordaunt) and Edward Cooper (Cowper). Gloucester County Record Office MS MF/1161, Letter Book 2, no. 12. Nineteenth-century machine copy of the original manuscript of Sir George Carey’s letter to his wife (see the entry under Berkeley Castle). MS MF/1161, Letter Book 2, no. 79. Nineteenth-century machine copy of the original manuscript of the John Golborne report (see the entry under Berkeley Castle). This copy lacks the second page with Golborne’s signature. Hatfield House Library MS. CP (Cecil papers) 26/11. Ferdinando Stanley’s emergency letter to Sir Robert Cecil asking him to “steed the bearer” (to help the deliverer) to make its case to Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, 2 April 1594.

Works Cited

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Lambeth Palace Library MS. Talbot (Talbot/Shrewsbury papers) 3199j, fol. 677. Letter of the Earl of Essex to Ferdinando Stanley, 24 February 1594. MS. Talbot (Talbot/Shrewsbury papers) 3199j, fol. 685v. Letter of Ferdinando Stanley to the Earl of Essex, 16 March 1594. MS. Talbot 3199j, fol. 698. Letter of Ferdinando Stanley to the Earl of Shrewsbury, revealing that Richard Bold had plotted to assassinate him in the past and that he feared another attempt would be made by Bold and his cohorts, February 1594. MS. Talbot 3199j, fol. 709. Letter of Ferdinando Stanley to the Earl of Shrewsbury, 16 March 1594. MS. Talbot 3199j, fols. 713, 714, and 715. This is the report of Ferdinando Stanley’s death entitled “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby.” It was written between 28 and 30 April 1594, and it makes the case for witchcraft as the cause of Ferdinando’s death. It is one of the two adversarial briefs that were apparently demanded by Sir Thomas Egerton, the other being the one that was written by John Golborne and labeled “For Poison” by Sir George Carey (see earlier entry under Berkeley Castle). I conjecture that the writer was William Leigh, Stanley’s chaplain, who was one of the few people who were present when the earl died and who was one of the two retainers who carried the news of his death to London (the other was Golborne). It is endorsed by Gilbert Talbot, the seventh Earl of Shrewsbury, whom Stanley on his deathbed had named as his chief trustee. BL MS. Harley 247 (see the entry British Library), which served as the direct source of the death’s report in Stow’s Annales (1600), is based almost totally upon this manuscript. Lancashire Record Office MS. DDK/6/21. Will of Ferdinando Stanley, dated 12 April 1594. MS. DOK 133/3. Deed from the sixth Earl of Derby granting property to Robert Doughtie in association with his brother “Sergeant” Michael Doughtie. 1 March 1596.

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Sheffield Archives MS. BFM (Bacon Frank Manuscripts) 2/12. The last letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury to Ferdinando Stanley, imploring him to take Richard Bold and other of his former retainers back into his service in order to satisfy the Earl of Essex as well as Gilbert’s and Williamson’s urgings on Essex’s behalf, 29 March 1594.

PUBLICATIONS Acts of the Privy Council of England. Hereford (UK): Her Majesty’s Stationers Office, 1613–1783. Anonymous. “Original Letter from Sir George Carey.” Notes and Queries 4.4 (December 1869): 471. Print. Bagley, J. J. The Earls of Derby, 1485–1985. London: Sidgwick and Jackson, 1985. Print. Bagshaw, Christopher. A Sparing Discourse of Our English Jesuites. London, 1601. Print. Baildon, William Paley, ed. Les Reportes del Cases in Camera Stellata, 1593–1609. London, 1894. Print. Baines, Edward. History of Lancashire. 4 vols. Lancaster, 1868. Print. Beer, Barrett L. Tudor England Observed: The World of John Stow. Gloucestershire: Sutton, 1988. Print. ———. “Re: Stow.” Message to the author. 4 April 2008. E-mail. Bell, Thomas. The Anatomie of Popish Tyranny. London, 1603. Print. Berry, Herbert. The Boar’s Head Playhouse. Washington: Folger Shakespeare Library; London and Toronto: Associated University Presses, 1986. Print. Breton, Nicholas. Brittons Bower of Delights. London, 1597. Print.

Works Cited

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Bridges, Egerton. Peerage of England. Ed. Arthur Collins. London, 1812. Print. Bruce, John, ed. Correspondence of James VI of Scotland. London, 1861. Print. Buck, George. Daphnis Polystephanos. London, 1605. Print. Calendar of State Papers, especially Series Domestic, Spain, and Rome. Public Records Office/National Archives, London. Series volumes have various publishers and various dates. Print. Camden, William. The Life and Reign of that Famous Princesse Elizabeth. London, 1634. Print. Canino, Catherine Grace. Shakespeare and the Nobility. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Print. Cecil, William (Lord Burghley). A True Report of Sundry Horrible Conspiracies of Late Time detected to have (by Barbarous murders) taken away the life of the Queene’s most excellent Majesty. London, 1594. Print. Chambers, E. K. The Elizabethan Stage. 4 vols. Oxford: Clarendon, 1923. Print. ———. Shakespearean Gleanings. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1944. Print. ———. Sir Henry Leigh. Oxford: Clarendon, 1936. Print. ———. Sources for a Biography of Shakespeare. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1946. Print. Chapman, George. Skia Nyktos: The Shadow of Night. London, 1594. Print. The Cheshire Sheaf. See Sanders, Francis, and William Ferguson Irvine. Clifford, Arthur, ed. The State Papers and Letters of Sir Ralph Sadler. Edinburgh, 1809. Print.

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INDEX

Addams, Charles, 179 Allen, Elizabeth (sister to Cardinal William), 121 Allen, William (Cardinal), 2, 10, 20, 33, 42, 45–46, 50–51, 55, 67, 78–79, 83, 89, 98, 101, 113, 116–117, 120–121, 156, 243, 267, 284, 301n21, 311n2, 331 “Amintas” (pastoral name for Ferdinando Stanley), xix, 229–231, 330 “Amaryllus” (pastoral name for Alice Spencer Stanley), xix Archbishop of Canterbury, 185 Ashton, Alice, see Hoghton, Alice Ashton Aughton, 35–36 Bacon, Anthony, 47, 50, 53 Bacon, Nicholas, 51 Bagshaw, Christopher, 193–194, 311n2, 322 Sparing Account of our English Jesuits, 311 “Bakehouse Plot,” 113ff Bate, Dr. (member of Dr. Case’s team at Ferdinando Stanley’s bedside), 225, 277 Barnfield, Richard, 226ff Affectionate Shepherd, 226ff Cynthia, 226ff “Barnes” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell

Baylie, Richard. 3–4, 10, 59–63, 65–67, 70–71, 80–81, 91–93, 104, 298n2 Beauchamp, Lord, see Seymour, Edward Beer, Barrett L., xii, 217, 311, 314n2, 322 Bell Inn (Canterbury), 4, 10, 59–60, 62 Bell, Thomas, 42–43, 194, 295n26–29, 296n33, 311n2 Anatomie of Popish Tyranny, The, 311n2 “Bell’s Book,” 42 Bezoar Stone (Medicine administered to Ferdinando Stanley as antidote for poison) 183, 204, 214, 246 “Bishop of Chester” (satirical title assumed by Thomas Bell), see Bell Berkeley Castle, xii, xiv, xv, 193–194, 206, 288n13, 305n24, 314n2, 319–321, 328 Berkeley Castle Muniment Room, 329, passim Berkeley, Sir Thomas, 194 Berry, Herbert W., xii, 316n7, 322 Boar’s Head Playhouse, 240, 316n7 Bold, Elizabeth Gerard, 303n10 Bold, Henry, 159, 266–267, 274 Bold Hall, 137, 143, 146, 161, 175, 177, 181, 269, 274, 303n10, 306n8, 309n36

336

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Bold, Richard, 137–140, 143–147, 153, 155, 159, 161–167, 169–170, ch. 12 passim, 180–182, 245, 250, 254, 256, 258–259, 262–263, 265–266, 268–269, 274–275, 302n9, 303n10, 305n3, 306n8, 309n36, 320–322 Brandon, Eleanor, 24 Breton, Nicholas, 318n6 Brittons Bower of Delights, 318n6 Brereton, Sir Randal, 41 Brewerton (Brewerton Green, Brereton), 4, 74, 82–84, 86, ch. 6 passim, 95, 121, 300n5 “Brief Declaration” (MS.), see “Stow’ Source” (MS.) Brinson, Richard, 43, 45 British Library, 319, passim Brook, Henry, 98, 169 Brook, Lord, see Greville, Sir Fulke Browne, Robert, 316 Browne, Thomas, 185 Brussels, 23, 44, 98–99, 243, 290n9, 297n3, 304n13 Buck (Buc), Sir George, 232, 315n19 Daphnis Polystephanos, 315n19 Buckhurst, Lord, see Sackville Thomas Burghley, Lord, see Cecil, William Burton, Thomas, see Bell, Thomas Caeliano, Torquato (pseudonym of Robert Chester), 279 Calais, 45ff Calvin, John, 243 Canino, Catherine G., 26, 28, 33, 247, 287n3, 290n13, 291n16, 291n24, 291n33, 316n12, 323

Canterbury, 4, 10, 59–60, 62, 66, 73, 135, 185 Camden, William, 9, 188, 194, 222, 274, 308n29, 311n2, 316n12, 323 Camera Stellata, see Star Chamber Campion, Fr. Edmund, 37, 69 Canon, Dr. (member of Dr. Case’s team at Ferdinando Stanley’s bedside), 225, 277 “Carey-Egerton-Leigh” (MS.), see “Touching the Death . . .” (MS.) Carey, Elizabeth Spencer (wife to Sir George and mother to Lady Elizabeth), 188, 229–232 Carey, Elizabeth (daughter of Sir George, later wife to Sir Thomas Berkeley), 194, 206 Carey, Sir George (later Baron Hunsden), 7–9, 76–77, 92, 188– 189, 193–201, 205–207, 211–213, 215–216, 218–223, 225–226, 229, 237, 241–242, 261–262, 266, 269, 271–273, 278, 280, 288n13, 289n9, 289n13, 289n16, 291n14, 299n14, 300n6, 304n24, 305n25, 306n3–4, 307n8, 307n12–14, 307n17–21, 308n24, 308n26–27, 308n30, 309n1, 312n4–7, 312n13, 312n16, 312n18, 313n20–21, 313n2, 313n4, 313n8, 314n1–2, 314n4, 319–322 Carey, Sir Henry (Baron Hunsden), 77, 291n14, 313n20 Case, Dr. John, xxi, 5–6, 13, 171, 181–188, 199–200, 203–204, 212, 220, 225, 245–247, 269–273, 277, 305n26, 307n18, 308n27, 309n36, 312n13, 312n18, 314n4, 316n11, 319

Index Castle Reuthen (Stanley residence, Isle of Man), 292n26 Cavendish, Sir Charles, 149ff Cecil, William, xviii, 4–5, 9–14, 18–20, 22–23, 33–34, 37–40, 43–53, 55, 61, 64, 81, 112–116, 118, 122, 126–131, 148, 173, 178, 181, 185, 190–191, 194, 197, 228–229, 234–235, 239, 242–243, 250, 268, 289n11, 292n35, 294n7, 296n41, 314n1, 320, 322 True Report of Sundry Horrible Conspiracies . . . . Cecil, Sir Robert, 4, 18, 23–24, 38, 60–61, 63–65, 73, 81, 90–91, 94–98, 111, 116–122, 125–130, 165, 168, 177, 180–181, 185, 191, 196–197, 208, 234, 264, 290n9, 291n14, 296n49, 320, 326 Cecyll, Fr. (double agent), 114ff Chaderton, Thomas (Bishop), 24–25, 73, 111–112, 133, 135, 187, 299n2 Chambers, E. K., 27, 54–55, 287n5, 288n8, 295n20, 297n62, 323 Chapman, George, 313n1 Skia Niktos: The Shadow of Night, 313n1 “Chaumont, M.” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell Charyllis (pastoral name for Anne Spencer Sackville), 229 Chloris (Spenser’s pastoral name for whichever woman he believed to be Ferdinando Stanley’s mother and Henry Stanley’s wife in the 1590s, either Margaret Stanley or Jane Halsall), 229

337

Cheshire and Chester Archives and Local Studies Service, 319, passim Chester, 5–6, 42, 131, 133, 138–139, 142, 171, 173–175, 177, 180–182, 197, 213, 241, 268–270, 306n9, 306n11, 319–320, 332 Chester, Robert, 279 Christie, Agatha, 234 Murder on the Orient Express, 234 Cinque Ports, 59 Clement VIII, see Pope Clement VIII Clerkenwell, 54 Clifton, Mrs., 84 “Clouts” (rags), 32 Cobham, Eleanor, 30 Cobham, Lord, see Brook, Henry Coke, Sir Edward, 190 Institutes, 190 College of the Clementium, 45 Counter-Reformation, 25, 102, 104–105, 243, passim Coward, Barry, 43, 112, 241, 289n1, 295n23, 296n32, 297n67, 301n3–4, 301n9, 307n15, 308n28, 324 Cowper (Cooper), Edward, 174ff, 320 Cromwell, Oliver, 9 Croxeth, 293 Cupid (pastoral name in Barnfield’s Affectionate Shepherd), 228 D., N., see Dolman, Nicholas Dacre, Fr., 152 D’Andrada (Andrada, de Andrada), Emanuel, 45–50, 55, 296n40

338

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Daphnis (pastoral name for Richard Barnfield), 226ff Day, Mr., 174, 176 Death (pastoral name in Barnfield’s Affectionate Shepherd), 228 Dee, Dr. John, 14, 35, 38, 44–45, 64, 101, 295n10 Derby, countess (wife of Earl Ferdinando), see Stanley, Alice Spencer Derby, countess (wife of Earl William), see Stanley, Elizabeth Vere Derby, dowager countess, see Stanley, Margaret Clifford Derby, fifth earl. see Stanley, Ferdinando Derby, fourth earl, see Stanley, Henry Derby, sixth earl. See Stanley, William Derby, seventh earl, see Stanley, James Derby Household Books, see Farington De Ribas, Juan, 61 De Valera, Cipriano, 278 Devoyon, Simon, 278 Deventer, 20, 33, 45, 72, 234 Devereaux, Robert, 20, 23ff, 46–47, 50ff, 59ff, 73, 88, 103, 111, 122ff, 128, 131, 136–137ff, 156ff, 174ff, 177, 184, 190ff, 239, 243, 249ff, 262ff, 275, 303n5–8, 304n16, 305n3, 321–322 Devlin, S. J., Christopher, 9–15, 20, 37, 41, 43, 50, 60, 64–65, 93, 99, 102, 112, 115, 138, 141,

Devlin, S. J., Christopher (continued ) 188, 201, 208, 234, 289n10–12, 289n15, 289n17–18, 292n34, 295n23, 296n30, 296n32, 296n42, 296n49, 297n68, 298n18, 298n21, 300n6, 300n12, 300n14, 300n20, 301n23, 301n4, 302n2, 302n6, 308n31, 312n19, 315n1, 317n1, 324 “Earl and the Alchemist, The,” 9, 15, 325, passim Diaporcion (medicine administered to Ferdinando Stanley), 307n18 Divine Right, 17ff, passim Dolman, Nicholas (pseudonym of writer of pro-Catholic tracts, now thought to be the nom de guerre of Fr. Robert Parsons, Cardinal William Allen, and Fr. Francis Englefield), 156ff, 292n30, 298n23, 311n2 Conference on the Succession, 155ff Donne, John, x Douai, 84 Doughtie, Michael, 208, 241–242, 313n3, 313n4, 321 Doughtie, Robert, 9, 191, 207–209, 212, 241, 245, 261–262, 265–267, 271, 274, 313n3–4, 314n4, 314n8, 316n9, 321 Doughtie, William or Willi, 213n4 Dover, 47ff Dover Castle, 49 Dudley, Robert, 20, 33, 72, 140, 143, 191 Eagle Tower (Lathom Palace), xx Edward III (King of England), 23 Edward IV (King of England), 31

Index Edwards, Francis, 234, 289, 290n18, 290n7–8, 295n23, 300n3, 301n22, 301n7, 301n18, 309n19, 315n1, 324 Egerton, Mary, 196 Egerton, Sir Thomas, xii, 8, 13, 108–109, 130–131, 142, 168, 193, 196–199, 205–207, 211–213, 215–216, 218–220, 222–226, 228, 232, 237–240, 265, 268, 271–273, 278–280, 306n3, 307n8, 307n12–14, 307n17–18, 307n20–21, 308n24, 308n26–27, 313n21, 213n8, 314n1–2, 314n4, 314n9, 318n2, 318n4, 321, 327–328 Elizabeth I, Queen of England, passim “Elstred, Tragical Complaint of” (Lodge), 230–232 Ellesmere, Lord, see Egerton, Sir Thomas Enos, Carol Curt, xii, 43, 290n1, 293n1, 295n18, 325 Erlich, Bruce, 31 Ernest (Ernst), Archduke of Austria, 61, 102–105 Essex, second Earl of, see Devereaux, Robert Farington (Ffarington), Miss, 317n3 Farington (Ffarington), William, 267ff ,317n3, 332 Derby Household Books, 36–37, 266ff, 317, 332 Faulcon, Abraham, 97–98, 100ff, 108–109 Faunt, Nicholaas, 47ff Fayercloth, Hugh, 38

339

Fenton, Simon, x First Part of the Contention (anon. play), 27, 330 Fitton, Sir Edward, 8, 141, 200, 215, 262 Fixer, John (double agent), 113ff Fool, see Henry Flynn, Dennis, x “Franquelin, M.” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell Ganymede (pastoral name in Barnfield’s Affectionate Shepherd), 226ff Gawthorpe Hall (home of the Shuttleworths), 70, 299n3–4, 326 Garnet, Fr., Henry 116, 305, 317–318 Garter, Mr., 134 Gerard, Catherine (wife of Thomas Hoghton and Alexander Hoghton), 40 Gerard, Fr. John, 51, 116–117, 331 Gerard, Sir Thomas, 117, 143 Gerard, Elizabeth, 294n1 Gloucester County Record Office, xiv, 194, 206, 305n24, 320 GOLBORNE, see MS. GOLBORNE Golborne (Goulborne, Goulbourne, Golbourne, Goldborn, Goldbourne, etc.), John, 5–8, 133, 181–182, 185, 187–188, 193–194, 196–198, 200–202, ch. 15 passim, 212, 214, 219–222, 225, 246, 262, 269–273, epilogue passim, 288n13, 289n7, 289n16, 304n24, 305n25–26, 306n5, 307n7, 307n11, 307n20, 308n25, 308n32,

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THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

Golborne (continued ) 309n36, 312n17–18, 313n1, 313n21, 316n11, 318n2, 318n3 , 318n4, 318n5, 319–321, 326 Actes on the Dispute and Conference Holden in Paris (author), 270ff Discourse Upon the Catalogue of the Doctors of God’s Work by Simon Devoyon (translator), 278 Golborne Report, see MS. GOLBORNE Two Treatises by Cipriano de Valera (translator), 278 Goldsmith, William, 46–47, 51, 296n49 “Goldsmith, The,” see Faulcon, Abraham Gorey, Edward, 179 Grave’s End, 62 Greene, Robert, xviii Greville, Sir Fulke, 151 Guendolena (pastoral name in Barnfield’s Affectionate Shepherd), 227ff “Hackett, Dr.,” 247 “Hallins, Peter” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell Halsall, Anne, 294 Halsall, Henry (father to Jane Halsall), 293n1, 294n1 Halsall, Jane (mother of Richard Hesketh, common-law wife of Gabriel Hesketh and Earl Henry Stanley), xiii, 30–31, 36, 134, 184, 229, 267, 293n1, 294n2–3

Halsall, “Master,” 6, 184, 200, 307n14 Halsall, Robert, 293n1, 294n1 Hamburg, 57 Hammer, Paul E. J., 15, 47, 49, 72, 138, 165–166, 288n9, 289n18, 296n44, 297n5, 297n53, 299n5–7, 302n1, 302n5, 302n16, 303n19, 304n14, 304n21, 309n30, 326 Hampton Court (home of the Earl of Essex), 159, 165, 257 Hampstead, 63 Hardwick, Bess of, see Talbot, Elizabeth Harington, Sir John, 135, 245, 316 Metamorphosis of Ajax, 245 Hastings, Sir Francis, 22, 61, 66–67, 157, 194, 251, 253–255, 298n23, 311n3, 327 Apology or Defense of the WatchWord . . . , 311 Hastings, Henry, 106 Hatfield House, 306 Hatfield House Library, 306, 320, passim Heltzel, Virgil, 279 Heneage, Sir Thomas, 8, 128–131, 147, 196–199, 206, 211–212, 223, 271, 273 Henry (Derby fool at Lathom), 267 Henry V, King of England, 28–29 Henry VII, King of England, 22, 24, 29 Henry VIII, King of England, 2–3, 5, 22, 24, 290n1, 290n10 Herbert, William, 27 Hesketh, Gabriel (father to Richard), 35–36, 40, 292n1, 325

Index Hesketh, Isabel Shaw (wife to Richard), 4, 9, 22, 38, 67, 84, 92–93 Hesketh, Richard, 2–4, 7, 9–15, 24, 33–34, 111–112, 117–123, 125–129, 133, 152–153, 157, 163, 165, 173–174, 192, 194–195, 197–198, 240, 242–244, 247, 251–252, 257, 259, 264, 266–268, 273, 275, 288n1, 289n3, 289n11, 289n13, 292n35, 293n1, 295n10–11, 295n18, 295n23, 296n32–33, 296n35, 298n21, 298n25, 298n2, 299n13, 299n17, 300n5, 310n2, 316n12, 325; ch. 3 (passim), ch. 4 (passim), ch. 5 (passim), ch. 6 (passim), ch. 7 (passim), appendix (passim) Hesketh, Thomas (brother to Richard, later knighted), 37, 93, 126, 128–131, 146–147, 295n9 Hesketh, “Thomas 2” (Richard Hesketh’s victim), 87 Hesketh, Sir Thomas of Rufford, 41 Hesketh, William, 65, 121 Hickman, Lady Dixy, 65 Hickman, Walter, 64–65 Hickman, Mr. (possibly William, possibly fictitious), 10, 64–65, 80–81, 89 Hickman, Bartholomew, 13 Hickman, William, 13, 64–65, 80–81, 89 Hoghton (Houghton, etc.), Alexander, 40–41, 293n1 Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), Alice Ashton, 40

341

Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), Catherine Gerard, 41 Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), Thomas (“Thomas 1”), 40 Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), Thomas (“Thomas 2”), 39–43, 89, 267 Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), Richard, 40 Holles, Sir William, 149 Holles, John 149, 159, 250 Holmby, 140 Holt, Fr. William, 2, 33, 55, 64 “Homely Woman” element in the narrative of Ferdinando Stanley’s death, 185ff, 220, 308n22, 308n23 Honigmann, Ernst, 27, 39, 290n13, 291n15, 295n15, 295n20, 327 Horseley Park (location of Sir Thomas Stanhope’s deer park), 151 Howes, Edmund, 217, 221–222, 332 Hunsden, Earls of, see Carey, Sir George, and Carey, Sir Henry Huntingdon, Earl of, see Hastings, Henry International Genealogical Index, xv, 292, 328 Isle of Man (owned by Derby earls), 7, 134, 174, 211, 240, 291n26, 292n26, 294n1 Islington, 10, 14, 63, 65, 79–80, 88, 297n14, 328 Jackson, Bruce (Lancashire Record Office), xii

342

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

James I, King of England (and James VI, King of Scotland), 9, 18, 21–23, 33, 53–55, 61, 77–78, 116, 122–123, 127, 140, 152–153, 157, 169, 192, 224, 232, 244, 250, 252, 254, 257, 260, 264–265, 295n9, 295n21, 323–324, 333 Jane (witch), 7, 9, 186, 200, 207, 214, 261, 307n20 Jeffcoate, M. D., William, 189, 306n16 Joyner, Dr. (member of Dr. Case’s team at Ferdinando Stanley’s bedside), 225, 277 Judas, 57 Kelly (Kelley), Sir Edward, 44–45, 98–99, 101 Kelly (Kelley), Joan (wife to Sir Edward), 101 Kemp, Sir Thomas, 304 Kinney, Daniel, xii Knafla, Louis A., xii, 328 Knowsley Hall, xvii, 5, 7, 37, 71, 178, 181–183, 204, 213–214, 236, 246, 270, 272, 287n2, 288n12, 309n36, 313n3 Lambeth Palace Library, 321, passim Lancashire Record Office, 321, passim Latham (or Lathom), Thomas, 138–140, 147, 163–164, 166–167, 169, 245, 263, 273 Langton, Sir Thomas, 38–43, 87–93, 127–128, 252, 267, 332 Lathom Hall, xvii, xx, 5–6, 8–9, 12, 20–21, 24, 34, 36–37, 64, 68–73, 81, 122, 125, 132, 146, 171, 173,

Lathom Hall (continued ) 175–177, 180, 182–183, 186, 200, 203–205, 208, 213, 219–220, 236, 245–246, 261, 263, 266–271, 309n36, 329 Lea Hall (nr. Preston), 39–40, 87, 89 Le Carre, John 47 Lee, Sir Henry, see Leigh, Sir Henry Lee, Wiliam, see Leigh, William “Le Faye, Monsieur,” see Standen, Anthony Legh, Piers, 141 Leicester, Earl of, see Dudley, Robert Leigh, Catherine or Katherine, 196 Leigh, Francis, 196 Leigh, Henry, 42–43, 99–108, 289n2 Leigh, Sir Thomas of Stoneleigh, 184, 196–197, 207–208, 212, 242, 261–262, 266, 271, 313n4 Leigh, William (Chaplain), xiv, 8, 187, 193, 196–198, 207, 211–213, 215–216, 218–220, 222–223, 225–226, 271, 273, 278, 280, 307n3, 307n8, 307n12–14, 307n17–18, 307n20–21, 308n24, 308n26, 308n27, 313n1, 314n4, 321 Leigh, Sir Henry, 288n8, 323 Lewin, William, 185 Lewkenor, Sir Edward, 243 Lewkenor, Lewis, 109, 194, 243, 298n21, 300n22, 311n2, 329 Estate of English Fugitives, 109, 243, 311n2, 329 Lewkenor, Samuel, 102–103, 109 Lloyd, Mayor David of Chester, 173, 175–178, 180, 182, 269, 306n3, 306n9, 309n36, 319–320

Index Locrine by W. S., 230ff Lodge, Edmund, 213, 215, 298n21, 302n4, 302n8, 306n3, 314n1, 329 Lodge, Thomas, 230ff Fig for Momus, A, 230 Phyllis, 230 “Tragical Complaint of Elstred,” 231 London Clockworkers Company, 38 Longsden, Benjamin (Sheffield Archives), xii Lopez, Dr., 190 Lord Strange’s Men or Lord Strange’s Players, see Strange’s Men Machiavelli, Nicolo (“Machiavellian,” etc.), 33k 57, 233 Manley, Lawrence, 30, 290n13, 291n22, 330 Markham, Gervase, 149–150 Markham, Sir Thomas, 149–151, 158–159, 250, 252, 255 Markham, John, 154, 158–160, 259, 303n3–7 Marlowe, Christopher, x, 174, 192 “Martin, Giles” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell McClellan, Sir Ian, 60 Melville, Herman, 287 Moby-Dick, 287 Milton, John, 238 Comus, 238 Mollington (nr. Chester), 174 Molyneaux, Anne (mother of Jane Halsall), 293n1 Molyneaux, Sir Richard, 294n1 Moody, Michael, 117

343

Mordant (Mordaunt) family, 303n10, 304n10, 320, 330 Mordant (Mordaunt), Anne, 303n10 Mordant (Mordaunt), “Anyone named,” 182 Mordant (Mordaunt), Agnes Janet Booth, 163, 174–176, 258 Mordant (Mordaunt), Jane 313n10 Mordant (Mordaunt), Lewis, 144, 164 Mordant (Mordaunt), “Young Master,”174–176, 245, 274 Mordant (Mordaunt), William, 313n10 Morley, Alice Hoghton (Houghton, de Houghton, etc.), 40 Morris, Erroll, x Mortlake (home of Dr. John Dee), 14, 38 Motte, M. de la, 61 MS. GOLBORNE, 203ff, 212, 219, 221, 223, 225, 269, 272, 280, 320 Muller, Claire (Lambeth Palace Library), xii N.D., see Dolman, Nicholas Nashe, Thomas, x, xviii, ix, 253, 330, 253 “Choice of Valentines,” 253 National Archives (UK), xv, 147, 294n3, 304n16, 323 National Portrait Gallery (London), 317n3 Needham, Francis, 302n37 New Park, xvii, 3–4, 11, 37, 64, 68–69, 71, 73–74, 82, 84, 88–89, 92–93, 266, 298n25 Newton, Baron of, see Langton, Sir Thomas

344

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

Newton, Baroness of, see Newton, Evelyn Newton, Evelyn Caroline, BromleyDavenport Legh, 141, 330 Nicholl, Charles, x, 15, 113, 185, 192, 208, 289n18, 295n23, 300n1, 301n5, 301n10, 305n2, 307n13, 309n40, 312n12, 313n7, 330 “Nidicock” (i.e., fool, Sir George Carey’s derisive name for Earl William Stanley), 13, 196, 289n13, 312n6 “Northern Court,” xvii, 37, 287n3 North, Lord, see North, Roger North, Roger, 169 Northumberland, Earl of, see Percy, Henry Northwich, 241 Ormeston (Ormiston, Ormston, Oremestone), Mr., 84ff, 163, 299n17 Ormskirk (Stanley family burial site), 132 Osbaldeston, Mr., 133 Owen, Fr. Hugh, 2, 24, 33, 53–55, 60–62, 66, 165, 290n9, 304n13 Parker, Sir Nicholas, 59 Parsons, Fr. Robert, 2, 33, 113, 115–117, 154, 156, 292n30, 311n3, 331 Peele, George, xix, 331 “Polyhymnia,” xix, 331 Pembroke, earls of, see Herbert, William Pembroke’s Men, 27, 330 Percy, Henry, 22, 156, 273, 313n20 Persons, Fr. Robert, see Parsons

Petti, A. G., 15, 289n18, 301n17, 332 Phelippes, Thomas, 24, 46–47, 50, 52–53, 55, 116, 145, 159–160, 165, 290n9, 296n37, 304n13 Philip II, King of Spain, 3, 20, 33, 47, 83, 152–153, 209, 262, 288n1 Phyllis (pastoral name in Spenser, in Lodge’s Phyllis and in a poem by Ferdinando Stanley, figuring Elizabeth Spencer Carey in Spenser and possibly in Lodge and Stanley), 229ff Pius V, see Pope Pius V Pope Clement VIII, 3, 8, 18, 32–34, 56, 78–79, 83, 152, 244, 284, 309n2, 310n2, 311n2 Pope Pius V, 18, 242, 260, 274, 283, 288n1 Porter, Mrs. Mary, 317n3 Portrait of Ferdinando Stanley (1594), 270, 317n3 Preston, 39, 240 Prague, 44–45, 79, 97–103, 105–109, 281, 285 Privy Council, 4, 54, 60, 90, 128, 148, 151, 154, 158, 174–175, 195, 243, 305n12, 306n3, 322 Project REED, 287, 329, 332 Radcliffe, Robert (earl), 292n14 Ratcliff, Alexander, 150 Reformation, 25, 56, 73, 78, 82, 112, 288n7 Reuthen, see Castle Reuthen Revels, Office of, 54ff Richmond, duke of, see Stewart or Stuart, Lodovick

Index Rickert, Edith, 147 “Rivero, Bartolomio” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell “Rivers, Anthony” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell “Robinson, Robert” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell Rochester, 62 Rosa solas (medicine administered to Ferdinando Stanley), 182, 284 Rowse, A.L., x Rudolf II (Holy Roman Emperor), 44–45, 98, 106 Rufford, 41 S., W. (author of Locrine), 230 Sackville, Thomas, 169, 184 Gorboduc, 184 Salisbury, John (later knighted), 36, 134 Salisbury, Ursula Stanley, 36, 134, 294n1 Salusburie (Salisbury), Owen, 191 St. Albans, 63 St. John’s College, Oxford, xix, xxi St. John of Jerusalem, Palace of, 54 “St. Main” (alias of William Sterrell), 296 Savage, Edward, 184 Savage, Sir John, 141 Sefton, Robert, 174–177, 320 Seymour, Edward, 22, 157 Shakespeare, Wiliam, ix, xvii, xviii, xx, 26–33, 36, 39, 41, 54–55, 134, 184, 189, 201, 208, 226–227, 231, 244, 279, 288n13, 289n14, 289n19, 290n13, 291n14–15, 291n20–24, 295n25, 291n26, 293n1, 295n18, 295n20, 295n22,

345

Shakespeare, Wiliam (continued ) 304n20, 305n25, 306n16, 307n15, 309n33, 312n11, 313n20, 314n10, 315n11–12, 315n14, 315n19, 315n1, 317n3, 318n5, 323–327, 329–330, 332–333 Hamlet, 31–32, 121 Henry VI, Part 1, 28 Henry VI, Part 2, 27, 30 Love’s Labor’s Lost, 31, 291n26 Midsummer Night’s Dream, 31, 332 “Phoenix and the Turtle,” 36, 134, 279 Richard III, 28, 30, 240 Shake-Speares Sonnets, 55 Titus Andronicus, 27 Twelfth Night, 39 Shakeshafte, William, 41, 87, 89 Shaw, Isabel, see Hesketh, Isabel Shaw Sheffield Archives, 322, passim Shrewsbury, seventh earl, see Talbot, Gilbert Sidney, Sir Robert, 49 Skrymsher, Elizabeth, 227 Smith, David J.H. (Berkeley Castle), xii, 288n13, 305n24, 314n1 Snowden, John (spy alias used by Fr. Cecyll), see Cecyll Somerset, Edward, 53ff Southwell, Fr., 116 Spencer, Alice, see Stanley, Alice Spencer Spencer, Sir John, xix, 293 Spencer, Sir Thomas of Althorp, 229ff Spenser, Edmund, xviii, xix, 108, 229–232, 238, 288n10, 314n17, 330–332

346

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

Standen, Anthony, 46ff, 67, 288n1, 296n40, 326 Stanhope, Sir John, 158, 303n3, 303n4 Stanhope, Sir Thomas, 148ff, 159ff, 249ff, 254ff, 258ff Stanley, Alice Spencer, passim; see esp. 235ff Stanley, Sir Edward, 3, 11, 71–73, 83, 132–133, 254, 299n2, 299n5 Stanley, Elizabeth Vere, 13, 19–20, 226–228, 240, 305n25 Stanley, Ferdinando, passim (For 1594 portrait of Fedinando Stanley, see Portrait) “Sonnet by Ferdinando Earl of Derby,” 230 Stanley, George, 28 Stanley, Henry, xviii, 3, 11, 20–22, 24, 27, 29–31, 34, 36, 39–40, 56, 63–64, 67–72, 74–77, 81, 87, 102, 114, 117, 122, 128, 131–134, 139, 142, 145, 155, 157, 163, 208, 223–224, 229–230, 234, 240–241, 245, 268, 287n2, 287n6, 292n1, 293–294n4, 296n49, 298n2, 302n6, 303n10 Stanley, James, 240 Stanley, Margaret, xviii, 5, 19–21, 24, 29–32, 36, 122–123, 134, 156–157, 224, 227, 229, 234, 290n1 Stanley, Sir Thomas, 28–29, 294n Stanley, William, 7, 13, 19–20, 31, 45, 157, 185, 196, 208, 223–224, 226–228, 230, 232, 234–242, 244–245, 247, 252–253, 255, 274, 305n25, 312n6, 315n15, 316n6–9, 317n5, 318n5

Stanley, Sir William, 2–3, 10, 12–13, 20, 31–33, 45, 48–49, 51, 56, 62, 67, 72, 74, 77, 79, 84–85, 89, 98, 101, 108, 112–113, 116–117, 126, 152, 174, 234, 243, 267, 283–284, 287n2, 289n13, 291n14 Stanley, Sir William (re Richard III), 28–29, 31 Star Chamber, 151, 250, 255, 302n14, 322 Stephenson, Fr. Thomas, 45, 79, 97–108, 281, 284, 301n14 Sterrell, William, 46ff, 51ff, 67, 116, 296n37, 296n51 Stirrup cup, 309n36 Stow, John, xii, xv, 9, 14, 193–194, 215–223, 225–226, 272, 288n12, 289n8, 307n9, 307n12, 307n17, 307n19, 307n21, 308n22, 308n24, 308n26, 308n27, 308n28, 308n31, 309n1, 311n3, 314n1, 314n4, 314n6, 319, 321–322, 332 Annales of England, 194, 219, 222, 272, 289n8, 307n9, 307n12, 307n17, 307n19, 307n21, 308n22, 308n24, 308n26, 308n27, 308n28, 309n1, 309n3, 314n4,316n12, 320, 322 332 “Stow’s Source” (MS.), 218ff., 288n12, 311n3, 314n4, 319 Strange, Lord, see Stanley, Ferdinando Strange’s Men, xx, 25–28, 41, 330 Strelley, Philip, 160 Stuart or Stewart, Lodovick, 133 Succession Question re Elizabeth I, 17ff, passim Sussex’s Men, 291n14

Index Talbot, Elizabeth, 147, 255, 329 Talbot, Edward (brother to Gilbert), 255 Talbot, Gilbert, xix, 21, 132, 138, 141–142, 145–155, 158–170, 184, 194–195, 211–212, 239, 245, 249–252, 254–259, 263–266, 269, 274, 302n13–14, 303n18, 303n8, 304n15, 304n19–20, 307n17, 321–322 Talbot, Mary, 55, 144, 147–150, 152, 154, 263–264, 273, 304n20, 316n1, ch. 19 (passim) Talbot Papers, xiv, 302n4, 303n9, 304n17, 314n1 “This for Poison” (Golborne), see MS. GOLBORNE Thorpe, Thomas, 55 Three Tuns Inn (Fleet Street), 149 Thynne, Francis, 241 Tinoco, Manual Luis, 192 Topcliffe, William, 33 “Touching the Death of the Earl of Derby” (MS.), xiv, 194, 211ff, 215ff, 273, 278, 280, 306n3, 307n8, 307n12–14, 307n17–18, 307n20–21, 308n24, 308n26–27, 314n4, 321 Tower of Madness (Lathom), xx “True Report” (MS.), see “Stow’s Source” (MS.) Tuchman, Barbara W., x Practice of History, The, x Turvey, third baron of, see Mordant, Lewis Unicorn horn (antidote for poison administered to Ferdinando Stanley), 184, 204, 214, 246, 215n4

347

Verstegan, Richard, 117, 303, 331 Waad, see Wade Wade, William, 4–5, 52, 60–63, 79, 81, 84–91, 93, 96–100, 104–106, 108–109, 120–121, 148, 153–154, 252, 298n15, 300n5 Walton, Baron of, see Langton, Sir Thomas Walton, Roger, 192 Walpole, Henry or Hugh, 50–51, 117 Walsingham, Sir Francis, 113, 191, Wanstead, 140 Warner, William, 194, 244, 274, 309n2, 310n2, 311n2, 313 Albion’s England, 194, 244, 274, 309n2, 310n2, 311n2, 313 Waterworth, John, 10–11, 63, 80–81 Wax image (for black magic), 7, 183–184, 200, 214, 222, 247, 307n13, 311n2 Weeks, Mr., 63 Weever, John, 39, 295n15, 327 White Lion (inn in Islington), 10, 14, 63, 65–66, 71, 73–74, 79–81, 88 “White, William” (alias used by Lord Burghley when writing to his spies), see Cecil, William “Weir War, The,” 148ff, 153, 158ff, 259 “Wicham, Henry” or “Wycham, Henry” (alias of William Sterrell), see Sterrell Wier, Nevada, x Wilson, Ian, xii, 14, 31–32, 189, 270, 272, 288n12, 289n18, 290n13, 291n21, 291n25, 292n27, 295n23, 304n20, 305n24, 306n16, 307n15,

348

THE ASSASSINATION OF SHAKESPEARE’S PATRON

Wilson, Ian (continued ) 308n33, 312n11, 315n14, 317n3, 318n5, 33 Wilson, Thomas (spy name for Fr. John Fixer), see Fixer Williamson family, 303n10 Williamson, Nicholas, 138, 144–148, 150–155, 159, 163, 165, 174–175, 192, 239–240, ch. 19 passim, 262–264, 274, 302n9, 302n13, 302n17, 317n, 322 Williamson Papers 147, 302n9 Windsor Castle, 4, 95, 120

Wolley, Elizabeth, 224, 228 Woodward, Philip, 51, 296n45 Worcester, Earl of, see Somerset, Edward Worthington, Dr. Thomas, 2, 4, 10, 12, 33, 54–56, 67, 74, 81, 83–86, 98–101, 163, 243, 267, 289n1 York, Edward, 192 York, Elizabeth, 28 York (Yorke), Sir Roland, 13, 315n1, 234 Zutphen, Battle of, 72