The Eye of the Crown (Routledge Research in Early Modern History) [1 ed.] 9781032228297, 9781032228310, 9781003274391, 1032228296

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
List of figures
Acknowledgments
Introduction: Spycraft and Social Networks in Tudor England
1. New Monarchs, Reformation, and the Start of English Intelligence to 1553
2. Exiles, Diplomats, and William Cecil’s Spies, 1553–1570
3. Regnans in Excelsis, the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, and the Foundation of Walsingham’s Intelligence Service, 1570–1579
4. Jesuit Priests and Double Agents, 1580–1584
5. The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots, 1585–1587
6. Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity, 1587–1590
7. Master Secretaries, 1590–1598
8. Kingmaker and Spymaster, 1599–1603
Conclusion: A New King in the Network
Appendix
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

Routledge Research in Early Modern History

THE EYE OF THE CROWN THE DEVELOPMENT AND EVOLUTION OF THE ELIZABETHAN SECRET SERVICE Kristin M.S. Bezio

The Eye of the Crown

This volume discusses the development of governmental proto-bureaucracy, which led to and was influenced by the inclusion of professional agents and spies in the early modern English government. In the government’s attempts to control religious practices, wage war, and expand their mercantile reach both east and west, spies and agents became essential figures of empire, but their presence also fundamentally altered the old hierarchies of class and power. The job of the spy or agent required fluidity of role, the adoption of disguise and alias, and education, all elements that contributed to the ideological breakdown of social and class barriers. The volume argues that the inclusion of the lower classes (commoners, merchants, messengers, and couriers) in the machinery of government ultimately contributed to the creation of governmental proto-­ bureaucracy. The importance and significance of these spies is demonstrated through the use of statistical social network analysis, analyzing social network maps and statistics to discuss the prominence of particular figures within the network and the overall shape and dynamics of the evolving Elizabethan secret service. The Eye of the Crown is a useful resource for students and scholars interested in government, espionage, social hierarchy, and imperial power in Elizabethan England. Kristin M.S. Bezio is Associate Professor in the Jepson School of Leadership Studies at the University of Richmond, USA. Her background is in theater and early modern drama, and her publications include Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart History Plays (2015), “‘Munday I Sweare Shalbee a Hollidaye’: The Politics of Anthony Munday, from Anti-Catholic Spy to Civic Pageanteer (1579–1630),” in Études Anglaises (2018), and the edited volumes William Shakespeare & 21st Century Culture, Politics, and Leadership: Bard Bites with Anthony Presti Russell (2021), and Religion and the Medieval and Early Modern Global Marketplace (2021) and Religion and the Early Modern British Marketplace (2021), both co-edited with Scott Oldenburg.

Routledge Research in Early Modern History

Brokerage and Networks in London’s Global World Kinship, Commerce and Communities through the experience of John Blackwell David Farr The Early Modern State: Drivers, Beneficiaries and Discontents Essays in honour of Prof. Dr. Marjolein ‘t Hart Edited by Pepijn Brandon, Lex Heerma van Voss, and Annemieke Romein The Making of the Modern Corporation The Casa di San Giorgio and its Legacy (1446–1720) Carlo Taviani The Trial of Giordano Bruno Germano Maifreda A Genlis Education and Enlightenment Values Mrs Chinnery (1766–1840) and her Children Denise Yim Anti-Jacobitism and the English People, 1714–1746 Jonathan Oates The Eye of the Crown The Development and Evolution of the Elizabethan Secret Service Kristin M.S. Bezio Parliamentarism in Northern and East-Central Europe in the Long Eighteenth Century Volume I: Representative Institutions and Political Motivation Edited by István M. Szijártó, Wim Blockmans, and László Kontler For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Research-in-Early-Modern-History/book-series/RREMH

The Eye of the Crown The Development and Evolution of the Elizabethan Secret Service

Kristin M.S. Bezio

First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Kristin M.S. Bezio The right of Kristin M.S. Bezio to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Bezio, Kristin M. S., author. Title: The eye of the crown: the development and evolution of the Elizabethan secret service/Kristin M.S. Bezio. Other titles: Development and evolution of the Elizabethan secret service Description: Abingdon, Oxon; New York: Routledge, 2023. | Series: Routledge research in early modern history | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2022010185 (print) | LCCN 2022010186 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032228297 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032228310 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003274391 (ebook) Classification: LCC DA356. B49 2023 (print) | LCC DA356 (ebook) | DDC 327.1242009/031—dc23/eng/20220302 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022010185 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022010186 ISBN: 978-1-032-22829-7 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-22831-0 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-27439-1 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391 Typeset in Sabon by KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd.

Detail from The Rainbow Portrait (c.1600) presumed to have been painted by Marcus Gheeraerts the Younger, on display at Hatfield House in the collection of the Marquess of Salisbury. The painting is assumed to have been commissioned by one of Elizabeth’s principal advisors or by the queen herself. The detail of the painting shows the serpent-embroidered sleeve of Elizabeth’s dress alongside the ear-and-eye details of her bodice, illustrating the queen’s wisdom and the breadth and depth of the surveillance capabilities of her intelligence gatherers.

Contents

List of figuresviii Acknowledgmentsix

Introduction: Spycraft and Social Networks in Tudor England1 1 New Monarchs, Reformation, and the Start of English Intelligence to 1553

28

2 Exiles, Diplomats, and William Cecil’s Spies, 1553–1570

44

3 Regnans in Excelsis, the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, and the Foundation of Walsingham’s Intelligence Service, 1570–1579

68

4 Jesuit Priests and Double Agents, 1580–1584

102

5 The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots, 1585–1587134 6 Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity, 1587–1590

158

7 Master Secretaries, 1590–1598

186

8 Kingmaker and Spymaster, 1599–1603

221

Conclusion: A New King in the Network255 Appendix Bibliography Index

263 276 295

Figures

I.1 I.2 2.1 3.1 3.2 4.1 5.1 5.2 6.1 6.2 6.3 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 C.1 C.2 A.1

Illustration of two nodes with a single edge Small social network map example Social network map from 1558 to 1569 Social network map from 1558 to 1573 Social network map from 1574 to 1579 Social network map from 1574 to 1584 Social network map from 1585 to 1587 Social network map relative to the Babington plot only from 1585 to 1587 Social network map from 1587 to 1589 Social network map from 1585 to 1590 Social network map from 1580 to 584 Social network map from 1574 to 1589 Social network map from 1591 to 1598 Social network map from 1590 Social network map from 1591 to 1598 with Devereux faction highlighted Social network map from 1591 to 1598 with Cecilian faction highlighted Social network map from 1591 to 1595 Social network map from 1595 to 1598 Social network map from 1598 Social network map from 1599 Social network map from 1599 to 1603 Social network map from 1601 to 1603 Social network map from 1587 to 1589 Social network map from 1558 to 1603 Social network map from 1603 Social network map (expanded) from 1558 to 1603

18 18 61 86 94 120 136 151 176 177 178 191 194 196 210 211 213 214 223 224 232 246 247 258 260 265

Acknowledgments

This volume is the product of many years spent hunched over computers and books, attempting to track down the genealogies of obscure men and women from the sixteenth century, and much excited hand-waving at conferences and over lunch tables. The project as a whole is the result of a much smaller question that led me down the twisting trails of digital humanities and statistical methods, and it is the first of what I hope will be several studies that make use of a similar methodology. Thanks are owed, of course, to Dean Sandra Peart and the Jepson School of Leadership Studies for supporting the many summers of research and piles of books; to the librarians of Boatwright Library at the University of Richmond for securing access to the ONDB, State Papers Online, and EEBO; to Cassie Price for her generous assistance with proofing and citations; and to Michael Greenwood, Isabel Voice, and Ashraf Reza at KnowledgeWorks Global Ltd. for providing it with a publication home. Also instrumental to the cataloging, cleaning up, and visualizing of the spy database used in this project were Aaron Gano, who helped with network visualizations; Caroline Noonan, who helped with cleaning up the database; and—most especially—Marin Miller, whose work organizing, categorizing, proofreading, and cross-checking data tables resulted in the extensive list of spies and interconnections that form the basis of the statistical work in this volume. Without Marin’s two years of assistance, this project would have been even longer in the making. I also wish to thank my colleagues at the University of Richmond who aided with research access, statistical methods, and the use of Gephi: John Messer, Ryan Brazell, Andrew Bell, Rob Nelson, Lauren Tilton, Taylor Arnold, Carol Wittig, Lucretia McCulley, Anna Creech, Lynda Kachurek, and Jeannine Keefer, as well as the Digital Humanities Faculty Learning Community. Finally, I wish to thank/blame Crystal Hoyt for coming up with the idea of using social network maps to begin with and for lending me my first statistics textbook so that I might have some hope of understanding what I was doing. Gratitude is owed, as well, to the faculty of the Jepson School who attended my research presentations and provided questions and feedback

x  Acknowledgments that helped to guide the direction of the project, especially Peter Kaufman and Don Forsyth, as well as the various members of the Renaissance Society of America, the Rocky Mountain Medieval and Renaissance Association, the International Congress on Medieval Studies, and the Society for Reformation Research who heard and commented upon various pieces of this research throughout the years of its development, particularly (and most especially) Jim Forse, as well as Kim Klimek, Samantha Dressel, Ginger Smoak, Jennifer McNabb, Abby Lagemann, Maureen Thum, Rudy Almasy, Ed Boyden, James Kroemer, William Tanner, Mark Kaethler, Scott Oldenburg, and Erika Gaffney. As always, I am grateful for the support of family and friends, especially the patience of my husband, Kirk, who tolerated periodic ranting about malfunctioning programs, new spies, and lost data; Kat, who took the time to look at the maps produced throughout this project and make appropriately impressed comments and sympathetic noises; Angie and Laura, who put up with a humanist pretending to understand statistical methods; and my parents, Diane and Neal, for always remembering to ask when the book was going to come out.

Introduction Spycraft and Social Networks in Tudor England

Spycraft, or the practice of gathering, altering, and/or disseminating state-related information, whether openly or clandestinely, has been a fundamental part of statecraft as far back in history as we have records. It has been referred to as spying, espionage, and intelligence, and it has been linked to acts of assassination, sabotage, infiltration, and deception, in addition to the handling of information. In England, the locus of this study, the praxis of intelligence was not fully formalized until the development of proto-bureaucratic processes under the Elizabethan regime in the mid-­ sixteenth century. Although we have evidence of intelligence gathering and espionage long before the Tudor period, it was not until the reigns of the Tudor Henrys that it became explicitly tied to the monarchy, and not until Elizabeth I that an office and network became permanently (and formally) established as an essential component of the English government. The reign of Elizabeth Tudor is often referred to in concert with the “Cult of Gloriana” and the “Golden Age of England,” and problematically so. Although Elizabeth’s legacy did in fact (re)shape the national and ideological scope of England, we cannot neglect to recognize the degree to which the seeming unity created under her rule was a product of deliberate and frequent suppression and persecution, particularly of Catholicism and other dissenting views. Religious fractiousness was not unique, of course, to the Elizabethan reign, and it formed a significant part of the social, political, and religious landscape in England from the Henrician Reformation through the Civil War and into the Restoration—and after. The English bureaucratic intelligence service owes its existence to this very religious conflict. This project examines not only the origins of the English intelligence service—beginning in the reign of Henry VII—but also its ties to the end of feudalism and the Reformation. In particular, this volume highlights the formation of English intelligence as a byproduct of international religious conflict and conspiracy; it situates the work of the intelligence service as fundamental to forming Elizabethan English Protestant identity, which has remained a part of the English national mythos ever since. DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-1

2  Introduction In the process, it is necessary to scrutinize the significant historical events that shaped and reshaped English understandings of culture and politics (and religion), as well as how these events perpetuated and even produced a specifically English polity leading directly to the bureaucratization of government. Part and parcel with this process was an increasing anxiety about social and class mobility, creating space within the hierarchical government for men whose birth would otherwise have led—especially in the feudal period—to their exclusion. The consequence of these shifting paradigms and the development of a culture of intelligence—and surveillance—produced an English ethos of proto-nationalism deeply tied to both religious identity and a changing understanding of the relationship between monarch and subjects that reflected a new consciousness of bureaucratic power and social mobility. In other words, the idea of Englishness that we find in later centuries (and even arguably in the modern day) formed in large part thanks to the consequences of intelligence work. This was true not because spies themselves ran the government (although there is some argument that this was, at least in part, actually the case), but because their prominence within government service led to a redefinition of government work as an avenue for personal advancement, which both produced and (sometimes) undermined national loyalty. Although John Bossy argued in the early 1990s that, from a scholarly perspective, “Spies are taken to be unreliable providers of information… as a power in history they seem to be regarded as a nullity,” he also acknowledges that espionage and intelligence often form the backbone of “cold-war periods in history… and one of them occupied a good deal of the reign of Queen Elizabeth.”1 In fact, intelligence work—spycraft— reshaped both the structure of English government and the ways in which individuals thought of themselves in relation to that government, whether as enemies or potential agents. In short, the development of the English government from Henry VII through the end of the Tudor dynasty was deeply impacted by the use of spycraft in terms of political structure and hierarchy, the makeup of government officials (and the Privy Council), and, most significantly, the ideological sense of individualism that arose—in conjunction with the Reformation, educational development, and other significant (and not to be dismissed) influences of the era—concerning advancement, class mobility, and personal loyalty to the nation as polity rather than to the specific person of the monarch.

The Importance of Intelligencers Our modern understanding of the word “spy,” as is often the case with terms that have their origins in the medieval or early modern periods, is somewhat different from that which would have been held during the reigns of the early Tudors before the advent of state-sponsored intelligence

Introduction 3 work. “Intelligence,” less colloquial and more official, also has origins somewhat—although surprisingly not significantly—distant from its current usage. Modern theories of spycraft or intelligence, for instance, provide the following understanding: the process whereby policymakers—intelligence ‘consumers’, or customers, ask for information (their ‘requirements’), which the intelligence agency then proceeds to collect through the most appropriate means, be that secret or open source. Once gathered, the information is then processed (it may need to be translated, for example) and analysed as quickly as possible, before being passed to the policymakers. 2 Spycraft, or the process of gathering and transmitting intelligence, is the art or craft of engaging in the above process. Michael Smith provides a three-prong understanding of the purposes of intelligence: “strategic” (“the collection of information which keeps political leaders and their advisers, be they civil servants, diplomats or soldiers, well informed on the situation in target countries”), “tactical” (“information which would be useful to military commanders in the field”), and “counter-intelligence” (both acquiring information on an enemy’s intelligence and safeguarding one’s own).3 Although the methods employed by spies in the twenty-first century are often significantly different from those used in the fifteenth and sixteenth, the purpose nevertheless remains startlingly the same. As Bossy has observed, “The human feelings and relationships which pertain to the craft of spying are surely universal: the machinery, physical and administrative, will change.”4 The first person to publicly acknowledge the intersection between diplomats, couriers, and intelligences was Philippe de Commines, writing in France during the early Tudor era.5 Diplomats and messengers were expected—whether or not they were specifically termed “spies” or “intelligencers”—to act as such, engaging in negotiations and diplomacy, but also in discovering and transmitting state and personal secrets back home while abroad. It is therefore less the process of intelligence that has changed, but the persons engaging in it and their place in the government—the spy rather than the act of spycraft—that shifted in the sixteenth century.6 In medieval Europe (including England), the role of the “intelligencer” would have frequently been informal, a job given to servants or lesser nobles seeking to demonstrate their loyalty to a more powerful noble or to the monarch by passing on information gleaned through eavesdropping, illicit affairs, and snooping. The official interception of intelligence is documented in England as early as the reign of Edward II (r. 1307–1327), when the king seized letters entering or leaving England at the ports.7 It was perhaps more common for information, as such, to be passed by means of gossip both within and across class lines, but the ultimate purpose of such information was to enable those in positions of power to maintain that

4  Introduction authority, or for those in lesser positions of power to gain some amount of leverage over those above them in the hierarchy. It was part and parcel of courtly life that information played a significant role in state power as monarchs (and nobles) made use of “the observation and supervision of people” as a means to establish security by “encouraging and even creating breaches and tensions between people in both large and small matters” at court.8 The linguistic and historic origins of more traditional spycraft—which took place both within and outside of the court, domestically and abroad— draw from both communication and warfare, a hybrid role of both diplomacy and threat. These roles were “the nuntius (messenger) of medieval diplomacy and the explorator (scout) of medieval warfare.”9 Messengers had long been tied to the courts, and the role of the medieval military scout shifted “as the feudal hierarchy of military command gave way to a system of service and favor.”10 The rise of New Monarchies in the fifteenth century, coincident with the dissolution of feudalism, necessitated new modes of understanding and new methods of enacting governance within rapidly changing monarchical structures. The work of the military scout was thus combined with that of messenger to serve in the dual role of the spy, or “intelligencer”: a person whose purpose was both to carry information and to ensure that said information came only to those whom they served. Yet even when spies left the geographic location of the court, they were still deeply mired in court politics, both financially and culturally. As Daniel W.B. Lomas and Christopher J. Murphy remark in their analysis of intelligence, “intelligence services are shaped by the political context within which they operate.”11 Particularly as the sixteenth century turned, English courtly politics were as much about who had access to ­information—and intelligencers—as they were about who had wealth or political position. Many (including Robert Devereux, Sir Robert Cecil, and Sir Walter Raleigh) sought to increase political clout through the deployment of spies, both in order to gain leverage over their court rivals and to demonstrate their loyalty to the crown by exposing external (and internal) threats. This also meant, of course, that “spying and surveillance were influenced by practices and habits of thought cultivated by life at court,” creating factions and competition among agents that mirrored the atmosphere among courtiers.12 The lexicon with which spies were discussed in the period includes not only the relatively popular term “intelligencers,” but also “agents,” “messengers,” “spies,” “pursuivants,” “informants,” and the more generic “man” (which could also refer to servants or more banal employees). This diversity of language naturally makes tracing spies—and identifying which employees were spies—somewhat difficult, but it also suggests that when a person was referred to as an “intelligencer” (which was far more common than “spy”), that person played a particular rôle within not only the government, but also in terms of their contributions to state power.

Introduction 5 As John Michael Archer notes in Sovereignty and Intelligence, power and knowledge are intimately intertwined, with knowledge—and its spycraft sister, surveillance—helping to produce and reproduce state power through the perpetuation of officially sanctioned ideologies and structures: “power and knowledge were not identical in early modern England; they were separate domains joined through the mutually productive relationship between sovereignty and intelligence within a culture of surveillance.”13 This culture, one which originated in a courtly obsession with gossip and information, “enabled,” argues Archer, “the creation of the modern state” by means of the centralization of intelligence gathering under a governmental apparatus.14 It is not a coincidence that the formalized gathering of intelligence by the English government coincides with the official collection and storage of state documents.15 The State Papers were first gathered in the reign of Henry VIII, and an official State Paper Office was established in the 1570s.16 The keeping of official documents demonstrates the proto-­bureaucratization of information, the cornerstone of intelligence work. Those who worked as intelligencers, then, directly served not only the crown, but also the entire edifice of state power as direct agents of its perpetuation and enforcement. The gathering, guarding, and disseminating of intelligence participated in what Daniel Jütte explains is an “economy of secrets.”17 Jütte defines this economy of secrets as “all activities that involve trading, offering, negotiating, delivering, exchanging, and buying secrets.”18 The question then must become what constituted a “secret.” The economy of secrets—of several types, including natural, divine, state, worldly, and personal—was a fundamental component of knowledge production, education, courtly exchange, and diplomacy across Europe.19 It was also a leveling apparatus of sorts, as participants within the economy of secrets came from across social strata. 20 The economy of secrets thus provided a venue in and through which participants in these transactions were able to negotiate not only for the buying and selling of intelligence, but also for power and status based on the scarcity or value of the intelligence they sought to trade. Professional and amateur intelligencers within the government, of course, dealt primarily in state secrets, the guarding and exchange of which were, argues Lucian Hölscher, “a centerpiece of politics.”21 “The secret,” explains Jütte, became a vital part of statecraft: “The state had to create secret structures, acquire secret knowledge, and apply secret measures in order to ensure its capacity to act.”22 The purpose of the intelligencer was both to acquire knowledge for and disrupt knowledge about their own government in the service of state power. The former is perhaps the most obvious action associated with spycraft; the agent was responsible for observing the actions of persons both alien and citizen, in places both foreign and domestic, and transmitting knowledge about those persons back to a spymaster for the use of the state. The latter—the disruption of knowledge—is equally important to the function of the state relative to its enemies, both

6  Introduction within and without national borders. The disruptive agent—sometimes an agent provocateur or a double agent—was responsible for the transmission of false knowledge to other governments, either by manufacturing false intelligence or sabotaging existing intelligence already in the pipeline. In this way, spies were responsible not only for creating a flow of information to their own government, but also for disrupting, falsifying, and interrupting the flow of information to other governments or to factions or cells within their own country. What we find, then, is that intelligencers are the primary means by which the English government was able to control both its own citizens and the actions of its allies and enemies. This two-pronged approach to intelligence still remains in effect on an international scale in the twenty-first century, with most branches of state intelligence including both domestic and foreign services. 23 We also find that these intelligencers, despite providing copious knowledge (and, thereby, power) to their governments, are largely invisible to the work of historians. It was the very occupation of the expert intelligencer to be as absent from the record—and the surveillance of other parties—as possible: “the successful spy is the one who leaves no trace.”24 As Akkerman remarks in her study of female spies during the English Interregnum, “The spymasters of the day operated much like the modern historian,” having to sift through sheaves of papers, reading (sometimes literally) between the lines for meaningful content which reveals something about not only the state of mind of the writer, but also about the nation or regime in which they were writing.25 It is fitting, therefore, that we—as students of history—approach spycraft with a similar method.

Courtiers, Diplomats, Merchants, and Messengers: The Methodologies of Spycraft By the sixteenth century, most spies could be found serving as courtiers, diplomats, merchants, and postal carriers, as all four positions allowed for largely unrestricted—or at least unquestioned—mobility across domestic and international borders. From the fifteenth century to the twenty-first, notes Smith, “expatriates and businessmen—are still seen by MI6 as its most reliable source of intelligence.”26 Spies possessed identities that were fluid and difficult to contain; by their very nature, they were permitted access to multiple spaces and personae, creatures of multiple nations and multiple purposes, seeking to further the will of their monarchs or masters on the one hand, while simultaneously attempting to negotiate for their own safety (and, of course, benefit) on the other. Courtiers The intertwining of courtly machinations and power games within highlevel social and political intrigue reflects the permeability of the roles of

Introduction 7 courtier and spy, and it was not uncommon for courtiers to participate in both. High-ranking members of the court—such as Francis Walsingham or William Cecil—were most often the masters of intelligence. By the end of the Elizabethan era, it was the de facto responsibility of the Principal Secretary. Even the title of secretary is grounded etymologically as a keeper of secrets, dating back to the fourteenth century. 27 The role served, explains Angela Andreani, as “the lynchpin of the production of royal letters, of the letters of the Privy Council, and of formal grants and legal documents; and he had an overview of all matters of state, foreign and domestic, ordinary and extra-ordinary,” enabling him to best fulfill the position of the government’s spymaster. 28 In particular, the Secretary-spymaster had to be “informed of what has passed between this realm and others and know the foreign interlocutors of English policies,” as well as be cognizant of the goings-on between prominent domestic magnates. 29 It fell to the spymaster, whatever their official capacity, to coordinate information brought to them by lesser courtiers, distant relations, and paid servants, although some—Walsingham included—had themselves served in intelligence capacities, both at home and abroad. Managing daily life within the court was not dissimilar in many ways from acting as a spy embedded in hostile territory; both had to carefully negotiate their projected role in order to gain access to sensitive information and leverage that information to obtain power and security. Among the many means available to those engaged in such courtly intrigues were displays of loyalty (real or feigned), patronage, family ties, the exchange of information, and, of course, sexual manipulation (up to and including both carnal liaisons and matrimony).30 Most of these were part and parcel of courtly behavior, but the possibilities of shifting allegiances, plots, and jockeying for power were complicated by the potential interference of foreign powers, including, in the minds of most Elizabethan courtiers, the influence of Catholicism. It was this last, in particular, which most often led to the direct employment of espionage tactics, rather than the more straightforward use (or misuse) of gossip, at least in Elizabethan England. For Elizabeth, in particular, the familial, religious, social, and allegiance ties between and among her court presented particular difficulties in the face of religious conflict. Many of the northern noble families had strong links to Catholicism, and their geographic proximity to Scotland— and, in the early decades of Elizabeth’s reign, Mary Queen of Scots—led to increased concerns about their loyalty, which, in turn, produced a space in which spying flourished on both sides. Nobles interested in preserving or bettering their status sought ways through which they might either expose their rivals or maneuver themselves into better positions, and not all were particularly concerned with the politics (or religion) of those on whom they spied, so long as the outcome was increased power. It can be of no surprise, then, that this interwoven, complex network of

8  Introduction individuals inevitably produced a penchant for intrigue and intelligence gathering. 31 The essential purpose of espionage in the early modern period—throughout Europe, including England—was the use of information in the struggle for power, whether social, political, or even religious. It was not, as Jütte observes, used in the more modern understanding of agents operating as extensions of the government, following orders, but “as a relatively flexible system for circulating information in which secrets were exchanged as part of a quid pro quo of services.”32 This “economy of secrets” recognized and exploited the culture of gossip rampant in most European courts and formed a part of the foundation of diplomatic exchange and negotiation between courts, as well. Diplomats Among the many roles occupied by courtiers was that of foreign diplomat, an office that might be used by the crown both to further the career of a loyal aspirant and to remove, geographically speaking, a potential threat to domestic stability. As such, diplomatic offices were coveted by some and shunned by others, but nevertheless remained a fundamental component of English foreign policy. Most diplomats were understood to be also serving as de facto courtiers and spies on behalf of their home countries, an understanding that was, more often than not, completely true.33 It was widely recognized, of course, that the job of a diplomat was to negotiate on behalf of the monarch, which also meant that the diplomat stood in as a messenger, interpreter, and agent—and diplomats were often referred to explicitly as “agents” in official state documentation—for the monarch’s interests. As such, they were necessarily seen as intelligencers: individuals whose role required them both to observe foreign courts and to transmit whatever they observed in the best interest of their home country.34 What is distinctive about diplomats—and courtiers, to a certain extent— is that their purpose made them transparent, rather than hidden, intelligencers. A diplomat, by virtue of his title and standing as a representative of a foreign power, could not but be a visible agent of that power. As such, it was always clear that his motives were linked with those of his monarch— provided, of course, that he was not a double agent. Nevertheless (double agent exceptions aside), the public nature of courtiers and diplomats meant that they were openly understood as intelligencers, that their purpose was transparent to outside observers (such as the courts in which they were embedded), and that in their intelligencing, they were nevertheless “honest,” a stark contrast to those of lesser rank who were operating in the margins and shadows of domestic and international espionage.35 These more marginal figures—those who did not hold (or only hold) official positions as courtiers or diplomats—are far more interesting from a scholarly perspective precisely because their involvement in intelligence

Introduction 9 circles is a marker of the increased participation (and power) of those not traditionally included in official politics. Although many spies, moles, and agents (particularly sixteenth century and earlier) remain nameless or entirely unknown, the very fact that we know they must have existed indicates a profound shift in the operations of power to include commoners (and even criminals) as participating agents (not just servants or drudges) in the machinery of government. Merchants It is possible that the English convention of making use of merchants as intelligencers began with Sir Thomas Cromwell, who was himself a middle-­ man merchant in the wool trade in Antwerp before (and possibly after) entering government service.36 This is not to say that it is not logical to make use of merchants—and their high mobility—as agents, simply that Cromwell most likely began the tradition of doing so in an organized capacity following his own service to Henry VII. As with Cromwell, a merchant’s business made international travel justifiable and even expected; merchants and their trains—which often served as cover for messengers or spies—had the ability to cross borders between nations that might otherwise consider themselves at odds or to trace routes by both land and sea around hostile nations in order to gain access to exotic goods, particularly in Russia and the Levant. Merchants, often carrying English wool or cloth, were primarily traders, but the exchange of information, in addition to goods, provided a supplement to some and became a primary means of income for others who used trade as a cover rather than as the focus of their livelihood. Merchants had access to peoples and places that were sometimes unavailable to diplomats or courtiers, and they could provide information from and about multiple social strata. They had wide cultural knowledge, needing to be familiar with different currencies, exchange rates, languages, and customs.37 They were also expected to keep cartographic records of their journeys, maps that could serve secondary purposes as intelligence for military or expansionist operations, as they often contained “surveys of crown lands, coastal and river fortifications, county maps, plans of foreign sieges, as well as printed chorographies.”38 Geographic information could be as valuable as—if not more than—textual intelligence. Furthermore, merchants needed to communicate with their home countries; personal letters and letters of business were standard practice for those traveling abroad, and thus provided ideal—and unsuspicious—cover for the transmission of more sensitive intelligence under the guise of benign communication or shipments of goods.39 They could also be accompanied by material objects or trinkets, including “lists, pamphlets, books, coins,” and other miscellany.40 By the end of the sixteenth century, it was almost expected that spies had experience in trade; Walsingham’s patronage of the Muscovy Company and involvement in colonial exploration in Virginia

10  Introduction meant that spies were stationed in both the colonies and Russian trading outposts (including in Roanoke, as well as in the Muscovy Company and the Levant). It is likely that most mercantile outfits either employed, embedded, or transmitted information to intelligencers, either directly or via post. Messengers Messengers and couriers became responsible not only for transmitting communiques, but also for providing information about the state of the locales they visited and the persons with whom they interacted, providing intelligence—spying—as much as serving as postal carriers.41 Across Europe, the post served as a pipeline for news, gossip, and intelligence, and those who were responsible for carrying letters were often swept up in the politics of their masters, whether wittingly, willingly, or no. It is also worth noting that there were classes among messengers; some were commoners employed as runners, while others were themselves courtiers employed by specific higher nobles as a part of the patronage system, as in the French post established by Louis IX.42 Well-known courtier and author Michele Montaigne served as a courtier-­ messenger in the French post, most likely as an intelligencer in addition to a “regular” messenger, and “had first-hand experience…living the double life that such dealings forced upon the courtly servant, ambassador, or spy.”43 In this role, Montaigne gathered and transmitted information back to the French crown. In “Des Menteurs,” Montaigne argues that a good intelligencer ought to present information to his ruler in an objective fashion, rather than concealing or coloring that information for the pleasure of the monarch—the intelligencer’s duty was, first and foremost, to provide objective and accurate information.44 However, Montaigne also acknowledges, in “De l’Art de Conferer,” that the role of the courtier-messenger often clouded the information he (or she, although more rarely) was responsible for carrying, in addition to recognizing that courtiers who also supplied the role of messenger were frequently tempted to alter the nature of their messages in order to please  the person in power.45 In other words, messengers—particularly those who relied upon their masters for continued patronage or income— were often disposed toward presenting information in such a way that would please their patron.46 This problem of exaggeration by agents, either for praise, promotion, or financial gain, persists even in modern spycraft.47 For courtiers, this was likely quite tempting; as members of the court, they were under pressure to maintain and even improve their patronage relationship as a means of rising in courtly favor. Those who served merely as runners—those from the servant, common, and even lower gentry classes—more often worked for financial gain rather than social status and were less likely to have their fate tied to the contents of their intelligence.

Introduction 11

Intelligence Praxis: Letters, Ciphers, Black Chambers, and Deceptions But irrespective of their class status, messengers—in official postal lines or as parts of private or mercantile networks—participated in a complicated chain of information transmission that was written rather than memorized. It was through this post—rudimentary and unreliable in comparison to the global network of communication and parcel delivery it would eventually become—that the vast majority of written exchange was transmitted from one part of the world to another. Abysmally slow by modern standards, letters were carried by individuals via ship, caravan, horse, and on foot, but were more typically routed through a network of different carriers (using a combination of the above methods). If carried by an individual, the vagaries and loyalty—as well as the fragile health—of that individual had to be taken into consideration: sickness, injury, or death would stall or terminate the arrival of a message. If a network of couriers was used, instead, the long-distance interlocutors had to rely on the discretion of postal couriers—or, more typically, had to work to conceal the contents of their messages. Letters and Ciphers For all their unreliability—and susceptibility to external conditions, such as rain or sweaty pockets—letters were the primary means of transmitting information from one place to another. Individuals, as noted above, were less reliable and might, as in the childhood game of telephone, misremember or distort the message if it were only committed to memory. This meant that in addition to couriers and messengers, clerks—those who received and catalogued the contents of letters to official persons, at least—were also a frequent part of the intelligence chain. The clerks of the Elizabethan Privy Council drafted all foreign dispatch packets and were responsible for reading and cataloging incoming missives, in addition to taking notes on both outgoing messages and on the debates and decisions made in Council meetings.48 While clerks were not always included in the chain of intelligence transmission, they were frequently enough a part of it that we have evidence of their involvement, particularly in the more complex plots of the 1580s. Other limitations inhibited the transmission of a written letter’s contents: poor road conditions, adverse weather, the danger of robbery or illness, and—if the letter did arrive at its destination—the problem that its contents might be misunderstood or misinterpreted. And even if it was both received and apprehended, the post produced an entire set of expectations and behaviors surrounding the composition and receipt of letters and expectations of “privacy”; as Akkerman explains, the early modern use of “private” meant “‘secret’ or ‘familial’, because while a letter might be addressed to one person, it was rarely meant solely for that one person: letters were

12  Introduction read out aloud, shared amongst a small group of readers.”49 The set of social practices that arose around letters—composing, sending, receiving, sharing—­reflects the complicated ways in which the early moderns understood “privacy” when it came to the transmission of information. Although our modern understanding of “private” diverges somewhat from the way in which early moderns considered it, we can nevertheless employ Conal Condren’s understanding of the “public sphere” as “an expression of civil society, having an interstitial status between private relationships and the state,” constituted by “what they do, not where they do it.”50 Certainly, as many scholars have noted, “England in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries did not have the institutions and widespread freedom of assembly, association, and expression to enable a public sphere in the grand and singular sense espoused by Habermas.”51 Nevertheless, the dichotomy of public and private as we understand them finds its origins in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and may well have explicit ties to the culture of surveillance and espionage that characterized the period. For early moderns, the “private” person was one engaged in activities or discourse that had no bearing on their relationship to the state or to those outside of their immediate intimate circles; in other words, “private” acts were things that did not relate to the individual’s duty as a subject or role within political office or the established social hierarchy.52 For instance, “private persons” should not, according to Sir Ralph Sadler (1543), give advice to the monarch, nor should they disobey the sovereign.53 As such, Condren explains, “public or private status was also highly contingent and variable,” depending on the office (or lack thereof) and rank of the individual in question, as well as on their actions within a particular context.54 But one’s public role might also be economic, reflecting one’s standing as a merchant or consumer, or social, reflecting an expected class, gender, or age-related role according to traditional expectations. Those who challenged these expectations raised questions about—and called attention to—social, political, and economic hierarchies, but, in the process, also revealed the emergence of a division between public and private spaces. Douglas Bruster explains that “The nascent public sphere of the late Elizabethan era involved identity and decorum more than rationality or policy.”55 The transgression of existing paradigms of identity and class, in this context, was considered threatening, a deceptive violation of the status quo. Forms of identity deception—such as that engaged in by spies and informants—were dangerous precisely because they were meant to be hidden. It is therefore important to recognize that early moderns also considered “private” to mean “secret,” or “what was hidden beyond public scrutiny,” which entailed political as well as social secrecy.56 This understanding extended to news of family—those to whom one was bound through ties of kinship rather than social obligation or duty—as well as to information that one might wish to keep secret; such information could, of course,

Introduction 13 pertain to gossip as easily (indeed, one might imagine, more often) as it might to secrets of a more political nature, an elision that is less obvious to a modern audience, for whom political secrets are unlikely to be categorized as “private.”57 In fact, “The private could be the illegal,” in the sense that one acted privately when one disobeyed the monarch.58 The secrets encoded within letters took one of two forms, according to Jütte: simple secrets were often ciphered, in which form they are legibly secret, but only those with the code are capable of breaking it; reflexive secrets, by contrast, are concealed so that it is unclear to the lay reader that the information is encrypted because it is obfuscated as domestic chatter or a merchant’s ledger.59 Whether one’s “private” information was meant to be reflexively secret or simply secret (using Jütte’s definitions) was often determined by the importance of the information and whether the exchange was meant to be unknown or simply hidden. A cryptographic cypher or a visible seal could hide the contents of a letter, but not the fact that it was meant to be secret. Steganographic cipher and complex folded locks that were less overtly visible kept secret not only the contents of the letter, but also the fact that the information was of a secretive nature in the first place. Both forms were employed in Tudor intelligence. It is worth noting that the practice of cryptography in Europe did not become widely used until the early modern era. Jütte argues that widespread cryptographic practice was the byproduct of the shifting understanding of political theory in the aftermath of the dissolution of feudal structures.60 He explains that the state-sponsored spycraft “placed secret, and often morally reprehensible, methods in the hands of political ­authorities—especially in situations where the state faced dangerous threats.”61 In essence, the belief in the necessity of and the need to protect state secrets led specifically to the use (and, Jütte intimates, abuse) of secretive and nefarious methods in the name of state security. Based on this understanding, the interception of information by intelligencers and agents of the state de facto forces private (whether “familiar” or “secret”) information into the public sphere by revealing the contents of secret letters to the actors of state intelligence.62 As such, the surveillance culture of early modern England—and throughout Europe—in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries arose in opposition to the dissolution of feudalism and the beginnings of the bureaucratization of government. In essence, the rise of intelligence services as state apparatus functioned as a proto-­ bureaucratic response to the loss of power that accompanied the breakdown of feudal hierarchies, serving as a governmental arm of state power that sought to penetrate the emerging social barriers between public and private. Black Chambers It is because of this new dichotomy between public and private that the space of the Black Chamber came into being. Black Chambers, explains

14  Introduction Akkerman, were offices whose express purpose was to gather written communiques, open them, glean important information from them, and then reseal them and move them onward through the postal chain, hopefully with the recipients never being aware that the contents had been perused.63 Their role, then, was to deliberately make the private—sealed information, whether personal or political—into the public as intelligence was transmitted from the letters into the vaults of the (public) state apparatus. Black Chambers (and their employees) thus became a central part of organized intelligence; nearly every government with a professional, centralized intelligence service had a Black Chamber with one or more code breakers whose purpose was to translate private information into actionable public intelligence. Naturally, the presence of these Black Chambers meant that intelligencers themselves had to evolve in response, developing methods of communication and techniques to help maintain secrecy—or, at least, to make it nearly impossible for Black Chambers to intercept information without the breach in security being known. If Black Chambers sought to access information without their interference being visible, they were also struggling to evaluate whether or not a particular letter contained information worth copying, a perennial concern when it comes to intelligence, even today.64 As literacy increased across Europe (including England), the volume of written letters also increased, which meant that more information was traveling through Black Chambers, much of it largely irrelevant to the interests of state intelligencers.65 In order to determine the value of information, Black Chambers relied on what Akkerman terms “the materiality” of the messages themselves, taking care to be able to decipher the significance of the materials and forms of the letters, including “handwriting, shellac seals, papered wafers holding the imprint of a signet ring, coloured floss, folding patterns that display tears, slits, cuts, or needle holes in specific places, the orientation of paper fibres, and paper locks that functioned like puzzles,” all of which might signify the presence of private or secret information.66 In other words, the very techniques used to ensure the security of a letter—or, at least, to indicate whether or not that security had been breached—often also served as an indicator to the Black Chamber that a letter contained information of potential interest. After all, the logic went, why would one go to the trouble of creating a complex floss lock for gossip about the neighbors? As a result, two things happened. First, Black Chambers had to become increasingly sophisticated at breaking these locks, as well as at interpreting ciphers, revealing “hidden” inks (such as citric acid), and reading—literally and figuratively—between the lines of otherwise bland letters. Second, of course, was that the spies became more and more skilled at evading the code-breaking and letter-opening techniques of the Black Chambers, using more complex locks or, by contrast, smaller indices of tampering, devising more complex codes (some of which remain un-cracked even today), and

Introduction 15 using coded language which concealed political information in the guise of gossip. This “deceptive letter-writing” extended to the materiality of the letters as well as their content, and intelligencers began to adopt more clandestine methods of sealing—simple folds, for instance—in order to minimize the attention paid to their letters by Black Chamber agents.67 In short, the means and methods of communicating intelligence—and of stealing it from other intelligencers—grew increasingly complex as spycraft matured throughout the sixteenth and into the seventeenth centuries. This complexity was a direct response to the parallel complexity of the bureaucratization of governments following the rise of New Monarchs, increasing class mobility, and the centralization of power around governments rather than personal monarchs. Deceptions By necessity, then, intelligencers functioned in ideologically liminal spaces between public and private, between office and individual, and in the grey areas that surrounded carefully delimited social and political roles. Spies— whether courtiers, diplomats, merchants, or messengers (or some combination thereof)—were, by the nature of their occupation, creatures of fluidity and uncertainty. They engaged in role play, both within and beyond the limitations of their social class, and manipulated expectations of their identities as a means to obtain, transmit, and even falsify intelligence. One of the essential components of spycraft was therefore deception. As Archer notes, “the identity of the spy was essentially duplicitous.”68 This duplicity had the potential to manifest in either the concealment of intention—­for instance, when a courtier sought information from a companion or rival and went out of their way to secure that information through secrecy or rumor—or the adoption of a secondary (or even tertiary) persona through which the spy engaged in surveillance, deliberate misinformation, or even sabotage. Moles—agents embedded in “hostile” or foreign spaces whose role was to provide information while deceiving their immediate employers about their loyalty—were also in such a liminal position, pretending loyalty to one master, while actually serving another (or, sometimes, both). In Iconologia (1593), Cesare Ripa provides a late-sixteenth-century view of the intelligencer that tells us something of the public perception of spycraft, if not of its actuality. Ripa describes the “Spia,” or “SPY,” as A Man in a noble Habit, hides most of his face with his Hat; his Cloak woven with Eyes, Ears and Tongues; a Lantern in one Hand; his Feet wing’d; a Spaniel by him on the Ground; his Nose in full Scent after his Game. His Cloths shew that he practices amongst Noblemen, as well as Vulgar; his Face, that he ought to pass incognito, never discovering

16  Introduction their Designs. The Eyes, &c. are the Instruments they use to please their Patrons The Lantern, that they spy Night and Day. The Dog, their smelling out Mens Actions, and their Inquisitiueness.69 This description calls to mind for Elizabethan scholars the infamous Rainbow Portrait (c.1600), in which Elizabeth’s garments are bejeweled with eyes and ears like those of the Spia in the Iconologia. These signifiers of surveillance aside, the clothing of a spy—whether courtier or commoner—­ did not necessarily conform to the social status of his (or her) birth. And yet, the difficulty of disguise was far more complex than the simple violation of social expectation (or the sumptuary laws of the Elizabethan period). The idea that clothing not only revealed hierarchical distinctions, but also that it might in fact influence the wearer’s behavior, created anxiety about disguise and costume, particularly if that disguise was associated with negativity.70 For instance, a spy who masqueraded as a priest or seminarian might be feared to become sympathetic to the Catholic cause; the fact that many spies were already converted (or persuaded) Catholics most likely only increased this concern. The hypothesis that a spy might be convinced to convert to Catholicism by wearing Catholic attire was most likely reinforced by the social pressures felt by double agents who were actually Catholic, as well as agents who lived alongside Catholics and may have become sympathetic as a result. There was likely also some anxiety produced by the fact that spies—and double agents—were adopting the very practice of disguising exploited by Jesuits and Catholic conspirators endeavoring to avoid discovery and prosecution. Thus deception—particularly as it was tied to religion—was, in addition to being a mark of social fluidity, an indication of questionable identity, loyalty, and morals. As such, then, spies were far more dangerous to the ideology of natural identity (and claims of divine right or providence put forth by monarchs) promulgated by elites across England and the Continent. It was therefore in the best interest of both the state and the spies themselves (for the latter, primarily for reasons of basic survival) that the best spies remained invisible, both to those upon whom they spied and, in many cases, even to those whose coin was ultimately the source of their employment.71 Many spies worked under assumed identities (some under multiple identities) and names, pretending religious, national, political, and class affiliations that did not align with their own. This was far more prevalent among merchant and common spies than it was for courtiers; the essence of the court was to be seen and known, and, therefore, courtier spies were more often responsible for eavesdropping, passing public information back to their home country, or—most common for ambassadors and diplomats— managing other spies and collecting and consolidating their information for transmission back to the monarch or home country.

Introduction 17 Yet spies were also able to leverage their work for actual, in addition to temporary, class mobility through loyal service (and, possibly, some form of information extortion, depending on the morals of the spy). Spies would be given roles within households that allowed them access to important persons—such as the Queen’s Messengers, who had physical as well as intelligence access to the monarch herself—and, thus, a non-trivial amount of influence at court, even if they themselves were not of a high enough class to qualify as “courtiers.” More than one gentleman of modest birth leveraged intelligence to gain positions in significant households, translating those positions into diplomatic ones, and then becoming—as did Sir Francis Walsingham, for example—members of the Privy Council with the ear of the monarch. Even putting aside the meteoric rises of outliers like Cromwell or Walsingham, the simple economic factor of employment enabled upward mobility for less prominent spies and messengers in the service of royal intelligence. Spies who began destitute—or in prison, which was not an unusual way for an individual to find himself the recipient of an offer to engage in espionage—were often able to convert their connections, skills, or knowledge into a sort of career that earned them a respectable (at least in financial, if not moral terms) living. When combined with the illusory class fluidity of spying, this very real social mobility served at once as a threat to and support of existing status hierarchies; spies challenged the status quo while simultaneously serving it.

Intelligence Networks and Social Network Analysis As a significant part of this project, I examine the development of the English intelligence network through a multidisciplinary lens, including both historical and historiographical work and an analytical methodology borrowed from the social and statistical sciences. Specifically, in order to analyze the development and evolution of the intelligence service from 1558 to 1603, I make use of social network analysis to provide a statistical and visual means of examining both the scope and intensity of the connections between intelligence agents, courtiers, and the targets of their spycraft.72 For the purposes of providing methodological clarity, I wish to provide a brief overview of social network analysis as it will appear in the volume. Social network analysis, in the most basic terms, is the study of things and the relationships between them. In this project, those things happen to be people: Cecil, Walsingham, and the agents, courtiers, and targets who made up the community of the intelligence world in early modern England. In the parlance of social network analysis, these are nodes. The relationships between them are called edges. This means that a simple social network is a series of nodes (usually dots) with edges (lines) between them. For instance, we might imagine a relationship between two men

18  Introduction

Figure I.1  Illustration of two nodes with a single edge

(in Figure I.1, Faustus Socinus, considered the “father” of Socinianism, and Sigismund II of Poland). Both Socinus and Sigismund II are nodes, and the line between them is an edge. In this case, the arrow points from Sigismund, the monarch, to Socinus, an Italian schismatic who sought religious refuge in Poland, because the directionality of their relationship is one in which Sigismund holds power over Socinus (who petitioned the king for sanctuary). This is also important in understanding who holds influence in a network. In social network analysis, we would say that Sigismund has a higher outdegree (because the arrow is moving out away from his node) than Socinus. Some relationships—like friendships—have symmetry; the power exerted by one party over the other is the same. One’s outdegree typically reflects the amount of power one has in the network. As more people—more nodes—enter into the system, the more complex the network map becomes. If, for example, we add a collection of people

Figure I.2  Small social network map example

Introduction 19 involved in the above map (which is the start, but certainly not the end), we might find a network that looks like figure I.2.73 This network has 11 nodes and 17 edges: 11 people with 17 different lines of connection between them. The color saturation of the node circles themselves is also important, as it indicates the level of importance of each node to the overall structure of the network. This is called centrality. The more central a node is, the more relationships (edges) pass through it relative to the rest of the network. A node with a high degree of centrality is thus a node through which relationships must pass in order to connect other nodes to one another. Here, it is also easy to see that the more connections a node has—like Rutter, to the left—the higher its centrality to the network. In statistical terms, this project uses non-directional eigenvector centrality as its means of measuring each node’s centrality. The more edges connect to the node, the more central it tends to be. Although we can see visually which nodes seem to be important, running statistical analyses can further illuminate the picture. The highest measure of centrality using this metric is 1; the most central node to the network thus has a centrality of 1. In the network above, the most central node belongs to Ralph Rutter, a spy working for Walsingham in Russia and a convert to the Socinian sect.74 The second-most-central node is Elizabeth’s, with a centrality measure of 0.763; Walsingham comes third, at 0.733. We can also calculate the average centrality for the network (using the mathematical average of all nodes’ centrality calculations) to determine just how influential any given individual is within the network relative to the other nodes. The average centrality of our sample network is 0.482, only marginally higher than that of Marlowe, at 0.458.75 In addition to centrality, we can statistically measure outdegree; this tells us the degree not only of connection, but also of power or influence over the network. We determine outdegree based on the number of edges (connections) that move outward in power from a node; in other words, we determine this based on authority, the type of a relationship, or official capacity. A monarch—Ivan, Sigismund, or Elizabeth—has power over those in their realm, thus the edge that runs from monarch to subject—say, Elizabeth to Rutter—is one of outdegree. Yet a spy engaged in espionage or intelligence gathering also exerts power, so Rutter—one of Walsingham’s spies—has a degree of power over his target, in this case, Ivan. If we consider Rutter’s relationship to Ivan, then, it is one that has bidirectionalty, or a degree of outward influence and a degree of inward influence. One’s outdegree measure is quite simply the number of outward edges one has; in this network, Elizabeth and Rutter both have an outdegree of 4, but Rutter also has an indegree of 7, which suggests that the relative power in the network is held by Elizabeth (who has an indegree of only 1, a reciprocal monarchto-­monarch diplomatic relationship with Ivan).76 Statistical methods also give us additional information about networks, including the overall interconnectedness of the network through its Global

20  Introduction Clustering Co-efficient (GCC); how dispersed the network is through Average Path Length (APL); and how large the network itself is not only through the number of nodes and edges, but also through its diameter, or the greatest number of steps between any two nodes. The Global Clustering Coefficient of a network is a measure of the average of all clusters within that network.77 In other words, the GCC measures how likely it is, within a group of people, for instance, that they all have connections to the other people within that group (measured from 0 to 1, with 1 indicating that everyone is connected to everyone else, and 0 indicating that no one is connected to anyone else). For this small network, we find that the GCC is 0.593. This tells us that this network is quite tightly knit. For instance, the clustering coefficient of the top 500 US Airports is only 0.351, and for medieval Florentine family ties across 15 families it is even lower, at 0.160.78 In other words, the links between these 11 people (across four different countries, it is worth noting) are more interconnected than between 15 families in medieval Florence or between the top 500 airports in the US. Average Path Length, or the average number of degrees (or steps) between one node and another, is another measure of connectedness. Here, the APL is 2.182, meaning we would need to travel through two nodes to get between any other two nodes; in human terms, this would mean tracing connections to two other people to pass a message from, for instance, Francis Kett to Francis Walsingham.79 There are shorter connections—Kett to Marlowe—as well as longer, of course—Kett to Ivan—which is why the average is about two. A lower APL would tell us that more people in the network would be immediately linked to each other, a higher that they are less closely tied. The final statistical metric I use is simply the size of the network itself, drawing from the number of nodes (people), edges (connections), and diameter (how widely spread). This network has 11 nodes, 17 connections, and a diameter of five—the longest length from one person to another (Sigismund to Marlowe, for instance, or Kett to Socinus). This means that everyone in the network is five degrees or fewer from everyone else, which is—as the other statistical metrics confirm—pretty closely connected. The network above is not immediately relevant to this project, but the methods used for its creation and analysis mirror those that will be used in this volume.80 The above set of nodes is much, much smaller; the list I have amassed of those tied to the intelligence network from 1558 to 1603 contains 430 nodes and 1100 edges; the significantly larger scope of the network dramatically alters the shape and statistical outcomes of the network analysis. However, the methods and processes remain consistent. In formulating the lists of nodes and edges, I specifically used only relationships that have been confirmed by historical data; that is to say, I have documented evidence (letters, accounts of people in the same room, collaborative works, or blood ties) of a connection for each edge in the network.81 In the process

Introduction 21 of data collection, I made use of both primary (works, letters, accounts) and secondary documents to note not only the existence of connections and individuals, but also the date range during which each relationship took place.82 In some cases, the beginnings and ends of relationships are marked by birth (in the case of family connections) or death (when someone no longer has an active part in the network), but in cases when documentation disappeared, I used the last confirmed date of activity within a network or relationship. Placing emphasis on certainty over probability means that my network is by necessity incomplete; however, I chose to focus on known information rather than speculation, and it is my hope that as we find additional information on spies and spy networks, others will be able to build on my work to add to the network as evidence dictates. Therefore, what appears in this volume is evidence only of what we can demonstrate with currently known historical documents. That said, the evidence we do have supports on both historical and statistical levels the hypotheses offered in this volume.

Overview of the Volume In Chapter 1, we begin with the history behind the development of the English intelligence service and its ties to the Reformation. The use of intelligence by the English government was—as far as records indicate—­ sporadic at best until the end of the Wars of the Roses and the breakdown of feudalism under Henry VII, the first Tudor monarch. It continued, albeit not in a centralized manner, in the reigns of both Henry VIII and Edward VI, closely tied to the Henrician Reformation and Edward’s move to radicalize Protestantism in England. Chapter 2 further recognizes the close interconnection between Prot­ estantism and specifically English (rather than European) intelligence. Although other Catholic nations made use of spies and espionage, spycraft fell out of official favor in England during the Marian reign, although it was practiced informally by those English in exile on the Continent as a way to maintain religious ties to family back in England. With Mary’s death, the members of Elizabeth’s new Protestant government imported lines and modes of communication from the English Protestant exiles spread across the Continent. From that moment onward, Elizabeth’s project to create Protestant Uniformity and the Catholic Church’s attempt—in Rome as well as Spain—to stop her provided the bedrock on which the formal, organized, and centralized English intelligence service was laid. This chapter also examines the shape and scope of Cecil’s early intelligence network using social network analysis modeling. Chapter 3 examines the rapid increase in English spycraft following the 1570 proclamation Regnans in Excelsis, which set in motion a variety of anti-Elizabethan plots involving Mary Queen of Scots. In the following decade, we see an increase in English concerns with religious violence

22  Introduction following the 1572 St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. In the 1570s, motivated by the Northern Rising and the Ridolfi Plot, we can observe the crystallization of intelligence praxis in England in Cecil’s network focused on protecting Elizabeth from assassination and conspiracy. It is also during this period that the intelligence service passed from Cecil to Walsingham, whose interests and connections throughout Europe and around the globe permanently established spycraft as an essential component of the English polity. In Chapter 4, we examine the further bureaucratization of the intelligence service and its expansion under Walsingham’s direction. Throughout the early 1580s, Walsingham (and Cecil, although the latter had acquired duties that distracted him from participating as frequently in intelligence circles as in the past) faced the new—and increasing—threat of the Jesuit Mission, which officially made landing in England in 1580. The arrival of Edmund Campion emphasized to Walsingham in particular the potential threat of English Catholics who had trained abroad and then returned to England. He also began employing double agents in the attempt to infiltrate and dismantle the threat, including Anthony Munday, whose account of a mission to Rome gives us an inside view of early modern English espionage. In addition, Walsingham was increasingly concerned with infiltrating and dismantling a variety of plots against the queen, including multiple assassination attempts and the Throckmorton Plot, which tied both France and Spain to Mary Queen of Scots. Chapter 5 addresses what is perhaps the peak of Walsingham’s career as spymaster: the Babington Plot and the prosecution of Mary Queen of Scots. During these years, the growing network of intelligence agents became increasingly centered around Walsingham as he shifted the scope and face of the spies in his network. This inclusion of new, and often lower class, spies had both ideological and practical evolutions for the broader English government and the intelligence service as a consequence of the Babington Plot and the execution of Mary Queen of Scots at its conclusion. In Chapter 6, we explore the height of the Elizabethan intelligence network as it negotiated one of the most profound shifts in English identity in the early modern period. The expansion of English interests across the globe at the end of the 1580s produced interest in the Levant, the New World, and the Ottoman Empire. All of this required the expansion of the intelligence network to include new peoples and places, even as the network’s agents struggled to provide information about the impending Spanish invasion of England. In the wake of the Armada’s failure, however, English proto-nationalism shifted the concentration of intelligence work yet again, beginning to include more radical Protestant non-conformity alongside Catholicism among the potential threats to national stability. By the end of the decade, the network shows the largest and most centralized version of the English intelligence service in existence since its inception under Cecil in 1559, and it would remain so for the rest of the Tudor era.

Introduction 23 Chapter 7 examines the dramatic—and sudden—changes to the English intelligence network following the death of Francis Walsingham in 1589. With the loss of its principal spymaster, the network became fractured, pulled in two directions by the court rivalry of the factions of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, and the Bacon brothers (Francis and Anthony) on the one hand, and William and Robert Cecil on the other. The chapter discusses the legacy left by Walsingham, as well as the struggle between Devereux and Robert Cecil to establish dominance as England’s next spymaster. Chapter 8 of the volume discusses the network in the aftermath of the death of another magnate, William Cecil, and his son Robert Cecil’s maneuvering in the face of wars in Ireland and the Netherlands, the Essex Rebellion, and the need for a stable succession. The chapter focuses on Robert Cecil’s increasing power and consolidation of the intelligence network in preparation for James VI’s accession to the English throne. It suggests that while Robert Cecil did manage to successfully negotiate both the threats of Devereux and Elizabeth’s death, the network he inherited was nevertheless fundamentally different than the early network first established by his father and then transformed by Walsingham. The conclusion briefly discusses the fact that Robert Cecil’s network was still successful, although smaller and less widespread than Walsingham’s: he thwarted a series of plots against King James and managed to secure peace with Spain within the first three years of Stuart rule. The conclusion reminds us that the emphasis placed in the Stuart era on the absolute power of the monarch ran counter to the style of proto-bureaucratic government developed under Walsingham and the Cecils, embodied by the intelligence service of the second half of the sixteenth century. Yet the Stuart network survived the most conflict-ridden era of English history, and the modern spy network now known as MI5 and MI6 persists thanks to its foundation based in the network built at the start of the Elizabethan era by William Cecil.

Notes 1. John Bossy, “Surprise, Surprise: An Elizabethan Mystery,” History Today 41, no. 9 (1991): 15–6. 2. Daniel W.B. Lomas and Christopher J. Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage: Secrets and Spies, Seminar Studies in History (London: Routledge, 2019), 4–5. 3. Michael Smith, The Spying Game: The Secret History of British Espionage, Reprint (1996) (London: Politico’s, 2003), 10–11. 4. John Bossy, Under the Molehill: An Elizabethan Spy Story (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 9. 5. Nadine Akkerman, Invisible Agents: Women and Espionage in Seventeenth-­ Century Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 4. 6. As Lomas and Murphy note, spying—both formally and informally—has existed since before clearly recorded history, with evidence that it took place in ancient Egypt, China, India, Rome, and Greece, and is even mentioned in the Bible (Lomas and Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage, 7–8).

24  Introduction 7. Lomas and Murphy, 8. 8. Norbert Elias, The Court Society, trans. Edmund Jephcott (New York: Pantheon Books, 1983), 129. 9. John Michael Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence: Spying and Court Culture in the English Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 4. 10. Archer, 4. 11. Lomas and Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage, 12. 12. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 3–4. 13. Archer, 2. 14. Archer, 6. 15. Angela Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office: The Production of State Papers, 1590–1596, Routledge Studies in Renaissance and Early Modern Worlds of Knowledge 1 (London: Routledge, 2017), 43. 16. Andreani, 43. 17. Daniel Jütte, The Age of Secrecy: Jews, Christians, and the Economy of Secrets, 1400–1800 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), 2. 18. Jütte, 2. 19. Jütte, 2–3. 20. Jütte, 12. 21. Lucian Hölscher, Öffentlichkeit Und Geheimnis: Eine Begriffsgeschichtliche Untersuchung Zur Entstehung Der Öffentlichkeit in Der Frühen Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979), 8, qtd. in Jütte, 19. 22. Jütte, The Age of Secrecy, 19. 23. Lomas and Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage, 7. 24. Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 221. 25. Akkerman, 221. 26. Smith, The Spying Game, 15. 27. “Secretary, n.1 and Adj.,” in OED Online (Oxford University Press), accessed 3 October 2021, http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/174549 28. Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office, 34. 29. Andreani, 35. 30. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 68. 31. Archer, 45–6. 32. Jütte, The Age of Secrecy, 62. 33. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 1. 34. It is worth noting that travelers in general were encouraged throughout the early modern period—including those not engaged in formal diplomacy—to act as spies on behalf of their home government. As Himmet Umunç explains, Since travel was thus considered at the time to be a valuable means of espionage, there were manuals and guidelines written for travellers and instructing them about what to observe and how to gather intelligence. A good example of such writings is obviously Bacon’s essay “Of Trauaile,” in which he gives a long catalogue of “the Things to be seene and obserued” (73) in foreign countries, ranging from social, political, economic and cultural life to logistic, military, naval and similar other strategical establishments. (Himmet Umunç, “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service: Marlowe and Turkey,” Belleten 70, no. 259 (December 2006): 906.) As a result, travelers, in general, were both potential sources of information for their governments and sources of threat to foreign governments, given the assumption that any foreign traveler had the capacity to report back to their country of origin.

Introduction 25 35. That said, the tactics of both diplomats and secret agents were often similar. For instance, Archer notes that the use of alcohol as a conversational lubricant was a common practice—and source of pride—for intelligencers and diplomats alike (Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 29). 36. J. Patrick Coby, Thomas Cromwell: Machiavellian Statecraft and the English Reformation (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009), 46. 37. Stephen Alford, London’s Triumph: Merchant Adventurers and the Tudor City (London: Penguin Random House UK, 2017), 40. 38. Robyn Adams, “Sixteenth-Century Intelligencers and Their Maps,” Imago Mundi 63, no. 2 (2011): 202. 39. Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 97. 40. Adams, “Sixteenth-Century Intelligencers and Their Maps,” 202. 41. Akkerman notes that the entire system of post in Europe rapidly developed from a means of ferrying innocuous messages into a complex mechanism for intercepting and copying—and then selling—sensitive information (Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 1). 42. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 25. 43. Archer, 26. 44. Archer, 27. 45. Archer, 35–6. 46. This is, of course, the source of the proverb “Don’t shoot the messenger”; messengers were naturally associated with the quality and tenor of the information they carried, and they therefore were inclined to present information that catered to the desires of the patron in order to protect their own lives and careers. 47. Lomas and Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage, 28. 48. Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office, 29. 49. Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 12. 50. Conal Condren, “Public, Private and the Idea of the ‘Public Sphere’ in Early– Modern England,” Intellectual History Review 19, no. 1 (January 2009): 16. 51. Eric Nebeker, “The Broadside Ballad and Textual Publics,” Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900 51, no. 1 (2011): 2. 52. Condren, “Public, Private and the Idea of the ‘Public Sphere,’” 23. 53. Condren, 22. 54. Condren, 23. 55. Douglas Bruster, Shakespeare and the Question of Culture: Early Modern Literature and the Cultural Turn (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 81. 56. Condren, “Public, Private and the Idea of the ‘Public Sphere,’” 23. 57. Condren notes that what was private was not necessarily divorced from public office, amusingly remarking that “At the scatological extreme the ‘privy’ was also called the ‘house of office’” (Condren, 23). 58. Condren, 25. 59. Jütte, The Age of Secrecy, 9–10. 60. Jütte, 56. 61. Jütte, 53. 62. It is also worth remarking that Habermas located the emergence of the public sphere as a product, as was spycraft, of the shift from feudalism to the early modern class system, which was deeply linked with market forces (Condren, “Public, Private and the Idea of the ‘Public Sphere,’” 16.). While Habermas focused on the eighteenth—rather than the sixteenth—century as the period in which this division most clearly emerged, I would suggest that the social underpinnings were clearly becoming visible as early as the Tudor period, particularly under Elizabeth. In our period, however, the dichotomy between public and private was not, as it would become in the eighteenth century, a

26  Introduction division between what one did as an individual versus what one did as an actor within the state; rather, “privacy” connoted what was not done explicitly for the state (as an office holder or a citizen), and thus often held a negative connotation that tied it to both secrecy and treason. 63. Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 19. 64. Lomas and Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage, 31. 65. It is worth noting that intelligencers were interested in more than just intelligence being passed by spies, ambassadors, or politicians. Personal letters of the kind written by and to family members had the potential to contain just as much intelligence of value to the state—about the movements of troops or ships, about crop yields or the prices of goods, about the morale in a particular city or part of the country—as did official or illicit communiques. 66. Akkerman, Invisible Agents, 19. 67. Akkerman, 22. 68. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 25. 69. Caesar Ripa, Iconologia: Or Moral Emblems (London: Benj. Motte, 1709), 72, https://resources.warburg.sas.ac.uk/pdf/noh390b2714105.pdf 70. Sarah Johanesen, “‘That Silken Priest’: Catholic Disguise and Anti-Popery on the English Mission (1559-1640)” (Renaissance Society of America, Toronto, March 17, 2019). 71. This, naturally, provides a challenge to the historian seeking to expose the doings of spies, as documentation of their work a) never existed, b) was destroyed by the spies or their masters, c) contains aliases or other elements of deception, or d) some combination of the above. 72. I used a program called Gephi for both the production of network images that appear throughout the volume and the generation of statistical data. Gephi is available as an open-source tool (“Gephi - The Open Graph Viz Platform,” accessed 28 May 2020, https://gephi.org/). 73. Kristin M.S. Bezio, “Marlowe’s Radical Reformation: Christopher Marlowe and the Radical Christianity of the Polish Brethren,” Quidditas: Journal of the Rocky Mountain Medieval and Renaissance Association 38 (2017): 150. 74. For more on Rutter, see Bezio, “Marlowe’s Radical Reformation.” 75. Methodologically, the social network program Gephi does these calculations for the specified number of nodes and edges. The list of nodes and edges is entered into Gephi as database spreadsheets (.csv files), one each for the nodes and another for the edges. Each relationship (edge) is also coded with a start and end date (when the two individuals first began interacting and when they last interacted) so that the network can be re-evaluated based on specific date parameters. 76. Statistically, this is a simple form of analysis, and one could imagine assigning weights to power-relationships in order to perform a more complex analysis of power and authority within networks. However, for this project I have chosen to keep the analysis more straightforward by not weighting the edges within the networks. 77. Yusheng Li, Yilun Shang, and Yiting Yang, “Clustering Coefficients of Large Networks,” Information Sciences 382–3 (March 1, 2017): 350, https://doi. org/10.1016/j.ins.2016.12.027 78. Li, Shang, and Yang, 355. 79. In the game “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon,” the APL is the average number of people needed to get from the player to Kevin Bacon—which is six. 80. The above network was taken from a smaller (albeit related) project tied to Christopher Marlowe’s use of Socinian theology in Doctor Faustus that used social network mapping to determine the degree of closeness between ­Marlowe and Socinus himself (four degrees) and may be found in Bezio, “Marlowe’s Radical Reformation.”

Introduction 27 81. Some projects, such as the fantastic Six Degrees of Francis Bacon, provide additional connections and levels of certainty (“Six Degrees of Francis Bacon,” accessed May 28, 2020, http://www.sixdegreesoffrancisbacon.com/? ids=10000473&min_confidence=60&type=network). 82. For instance, I draw from government documents found in the State Papers, materials on EEBO (such as collaborative plays, published treatises, and accounts of travels), and other archival resources, as well as histories, biographies, and other scholarly materials. The bibliography of this volume contains an additional section of sources used only in the creation of the network (in addition to the sources cited in the volume itself).

1

New Monarchs, Reformation, and the Start of English Intelligence to 1553

Before looking closely at the Elizabethan rise of spies and government agents, we need to examine the end of feudalism in England and the importance of religious conflict and reform. Without the end of feudal structures, it is difficult to say when or how the English government would have made the turn toward the bureaucratic. In specific, without the shift in class mobility made possible by the dissolution of feudalism and the rise of the New Monarchs, the type of men who became both government agents and proto-bureaucratic spymasters—such as Thomas Cromwell, William Cecil, and Francis Walsingham—would have faced significantly more structural impediments to their entrée into government service and intelligence work. It is equally difficult to imagine the rise in individualism, predicated, as Norman Jones has argued, in large part on personal confessionalism, without the Reformation.1 Both the religious movement inaugurated in Germany and the later Henrician Reformation altered the theological and political course of England. More importantly, however, the death of Henry VIII presaged about two decades of monarchical instability in England, beginning with the accession of Henry’s often ill and underaged son, Edward VI. Edward’s radical Protestantism (along with that of his advisors) seemed initially to continue the Reformist trajectory begun—although hesitantly— under Henry, but it was not to last. Nevertheless, Edward’s short reign sowed the seeds of the Protestantism that would come to reshape not only the English church, but the very core of English polity under Elizabeth after the young king’s death. More specifically, the events in the reigns leading up to Elizabeth’s accession paved the way not only for the political shift away from feudalism and toward proto-bureaucracy, but also for the social shift that encouraged those of lower status to become engaged in the business of statecraft. Without these sea changes, men like Cromwell, Cecil, and Walsingham would likely not have found places in their respective governments, and their particular brand of intelligence may not have evolved, or at least would not have emerged when and in the way it did. DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-2

The Start of English Intelligence 29

New Monarchy and the Rise of Henry Tudor, the “Spy King” In examining the reshaping of English government following the Wars of the Roses—commonly considered by historians to mark the end of English feudalism—we must acknowledge the pervasive, even invasive, nature of government in every aspect of English life during this same period. The rise of the Tudors marks the beginning of the transformation of the English social hierarchy from feudalism to a centralized proto-bureaucratic monarchy limited through Parliamentary representation and ratification.2 Although it may be tempting to align this increase in bureaucratic governance explicitly with the Reformation, it was Henry VII—not Henry VIII— whose reign indicates the end of the English feudal period. As Henry Allen Myers notes, Henry VII was one of the New Monarchs, a ruler who sought to divorce himself from the feudal hierarchy that left him overly beholden to the nobility, the very political situation that led, some hundred years prior, to the devastation of the Wars of the Roses.3 Rather than relying on a presumption of divine endowment—although they still laid claim to divine right—New Monarchs ruled with “a high degree of realism and practicality in coping with the problems of government,” leveraging fiscal responsibility and more conservative domestic and foreign policies which enabled them to break free from the feudal obligations to the noble hierarchy which had produced widespread conflicts throughout the prior two centuries.4 A not insignificant part of this “practicality” included the gathering of intelligence and the deployment of agents, at least for Henry VII. Early Tudor policies, in particular, focused on centralizing government, relying upon regular taxation and national military bodies (rather than independent, noble-controlled militias), employing both domestic improvements and international expansion in trade and diplomacy.5 The ultimate outcome of this more fiscally—rather than spiritually—oriented policy-­ making was an increase in prosperity, particularly among the lower and emergent “middle” (merchant and artisan) classes. Increased opportunities for international trade produced profit for merchants and traders and brought foreign coin to farmers and guilds at home, de-coupling the lower classes from their obligations to feudal lords and anchoring their loyalty more firmly to the monarch. As a consequence, Myers notes, these classes felt an increasing ability—and, eventually, responsibility—“to influence royal policy.”6 Alongside their growing influence, members of this subset of the commons also found themselves increasingly able to participate in civic life; as economic prosperity from trade spread throughout the non-landed classes, those classes began recognizing their ability not only to influence, but also to participate (directly or indirectly) in government. Concurrent with the increase of proto-bureaucratic government praxis was the development of the formal definition of the term “Privy Council”

30  The Start of English Intelligence by 1537 to be “a set number of people specifically named to that position,” which continued well into the latter centuries as the term used “to describe the main body for executive government.”7 While the term itself had been in use for decades, it had not yet been formalized, instead simply referring to a body of nobles providing council to the monarch at Whitehall (rather than in the Welsh Marches or the North) or those who had close access to the monarch’s person, rather than in reference to a specific set of persons whose political offices served as monarchical councilors.8 The codification of the role of these councilors as politicians in their own right signifies the transformation of the government away from feudalism and toward New Monarchy—particularly given the presence of Thomas Cromwell, a commoner, on the first formal Privy Council.9 It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that this was also the period—and these circumstances—during which English intelligence began to coalesce as an organized system within this new form of government. While “spies,” in the loosest sense of those who overheard or uncovered information and passed that information on to their employers or social betters, had been in existence as long as social strata (as the acquisition and transmission of knowledge is one of the primary means by which someone low in the social hierarchy might gain power or prestige), the deliberate organization and deployment of agents of intelligence seem to have originated in England with the rise of the New Monarch Henry VII and his son, Henry VIII. Aside from a possibly apocryphal incident in which the Saxon King Alfred snuck into a Danish camp in disguise, prior to the end of the fifteenth century, the English polity did not rely heavily on espionage, and, in fact, “came late to spying,” according to Michael Smith.10 Even the interception of messages from abroad was not undertaken until the reign of Edward II, who ordered “the seizure of ‘all letters coming from or going to parts beyond the seas.’”11 In 1432, Henry VI again “reminded ports officials that it was part of their duties to ‘make diligent scrutiny of all persons passing from parts beyond the seas to England to stop all letters concerning which sinister suspicions might arise.’”12 But these were largely isolated instances and certainly did not correspond to an organized office of intelligence within the government. Both Smith and John Michael Archer suggest that the English history of spycraft finds its true origins with the rise of the Tudor dynasty.13 Archer specifically points to Francis Bacon’s 1622 History of the Reign of King Henry VII, which focuses on the first Tudor monarch as keenly interested in developing and deploying intelligence, although this may be a stronger reflection of Bacon’s own involvement in spycraft than a wholly accurate history of Henry VII’s intelligence praxis. Nevertheless, Bacon’s attribution of the origins of English spying to Henry VII suggests that his reign must have been significant in the development of English espionage, even if he was not quite the highly organized spy King featured in Bacon’s biographical account.14 Bacon ties Henry VII’s New Monarchy to the long process of centralized espionage,

The Start of English Intelligence 31 a theoretical link constructed by a man intimately acquainted—as a courtly intelligencer himself, as well as the brother of a career spy and a manager of other agents—with the complexities of the early modern secret service. For Bacon, what was important about Henry VII was his use of proto-­ bureaucratic praxis during the evolution of the monarchy; Henry’s claim to the English throne was uncertain, at best, established by a marriage to a possibly illegitimate daughter of Edward IV with his own lineal claim shaky on Lancastrian terms. In short, the dubiety of Henry’s claim to the English throne required him to rely upon other forms of legitimation besides lineal heredity; in prioritizing other forms of sovereignty—fiscal competence, monarchical obligation, etc.—Henry de facto had to abandon the rigid lineal hierarchy of feudalism in favor of a more active and crossstrata model of participatory government that would provide him with the benefit of popular ratification. The dissolution of feudalism left a vacancy in terms of demonstrable governance, which required a replacement for the traditional hierarchy; instead of reliance upon the dual processes of divine right (which was arguably never a central pillar of English monarchy) and the feudal hierarchy, Henry VII instead established a government that drew upon the skills and knowledge of its Parliament and the precursor to the Privy Council, what Henry referred to as his “secretest,” a “small group of intimate body servants.”15 These servants, in addition to the monarch’s closest noble councilors, formed a hidden network of servants and support staff undergirding the rest of the nobility and even the English polity itself.16 Typically commoners, these servants, messengers, and agents of the king and court were equipped to overhear and transmit information from others of their lowly rank—as well as from those whose households they served. What we do know about Henry VII’s intelligence practices suggests that he made use of royal agents and diplomats in order to secure both fiscal and political power, deploying them domestically to head off various conspiracies—such as that of the pretender Perkin Warbeck—and abroad in order to aid in circumventing papal restrictions on trade.17 These agents were typically, according to Warbeck’s complaints, “not noblemen but ‘caitiffs and villains of simple birth,’” low status that was offensive to Warbeck, but that initiated the longstanding trend of employing commoners as intelligencers throughout the Tudor period.18 Most importantly, however, are the ideological implications of Bacon’s treatise, which suggest that he locates the origins of proto-bureaucratic governmental organization specifically in the reign of Henry VII. For Bacon, Henry VII was praiseworthy because of his ability to reign in peace, which included his ability to “commonly maintain intelligence” with foreign ambassadors, his possession of “a dexterity…to impropriate to himself all foreign instruments,” and the fact that he was careful and liberal to obtain good intelligence from all parts abroad: wherein he did not only use his interest in the liegers here, and his

32  The Start of English Intelligence pensioners, which he had both in the court of Rome, and other the courts of Christendom; but the industry and vigilance of his own ambassadors in foreign parts. For which purpose his instructions were ever extreme, curious and articulate; and in them more articles touching inquisition, than touching negotiation: requiring likewise from his ambassadors an answer, in particular distinct articles, respectively to his questions.19 The emphasis on the monarch’s ability to obtain, through agents, intelligence on foreign and domestic matters (as Bacon includes an account of Henry’s use of intelligence gathering against the pretender Perkin Warbeck, as well) illustrates the value of spycraft to the security of the Tudor state. 20 Bacon’s text—which also suggests that one benefit of proto-bureaucracy is transferring the responsibility for interpreting and sifting through intelligence from the monarch alone and distributing it to the king’s councilors— reiterates the importance of New Monarchy to the breakdown of personal rule and a renewed emphasis on limited participatory monarchy with a centralized, but shared, governmental structure. It appears likely from Bacon’s biographical history of Henry VII that spycraft became ideologically tied to the Tudor regime under its first monarch. Specifically, Archer suggests that “Bacon’s Henry VII monumentalizes another type of legitimacy, a sovereignty grounded in intelligence.”21 While Archer perhaps overstates both the general historical case and Bacon’s specific argument—it would hardly have been reasonable either in the late fifteenth or even the early seventeenth centuries to suggest that espionage alone ought to be the basis for government—his point remains germane. Among Henry VII’s actual historical exploits—as opposed to those conferred upon him by Bacon’s quasi-fictional history—was a network of alum smugglers based in Italy. 22 Henry’s principal agent in this scheme was Adriano Castellesi, a papal mediator sent to England who was immediately taken into Henry’s inner circle, gifted with wealth and titles (including Bishop of Hereford), becoming, suggests William Penn, “the king’s ‘creature’ as much as the pope’s, in the process becoming close to the shrewdest of all Henry’s diplomats.”23 Castellesi and Lodovico della Fava—a Bolognese banker—became deeply embroiled in Henry’s fiscal deals, including contracts with both the Medici and the Frescobaldis.24 The Frescobaldi family, to whom Thomas Cromwell had a connection from his youthful travels in Florence, also worked with Henry VII to defy the papal monopoly on alum, moving the material through England and distributing it to Northern Europe. 25 This ring, masterminded by della Fava and which likely involved Cromwell himself, as it was in place during his time in Florence, “netted both the Frescobaldi and the first Tudor king a fine profit,” constituting “a major component of Henry VII’s notorious wealth.”26 That a substantial portion of Henry’s income came from clandestine operations such as these suggests that he was, as Bacon implies, involved in espionage-like activities

The Start of English Intelligence 33 more extensively than perhaps was previously surmised, even if not to the same extent as the governments of his descendants. In addition to, or, indeed, perhaps as a part of, aiding English trade with the Frescobaldi family, Cromwell served in Antwerp in 1513–1514 and is described by John Foxe as having been “there retained of the English merchants to be their Clerk or Secretary, or in some such like condition placed pertaining to their affairs,” a remark that might be construed as having something to do with the passing of information, whether openly or clandestinely.27 Certainly, Cromwell was not part of an organized, state-sponsored spy ring (England’s intelligence capabilities were not yet so sophisticated), but he was likely a conduit—if not a producer—of information passing between the English merchants in Antwerp and those back at home. That Cromwell was embroiled in Henry VII’s alum smuggling helps to explain both his later access to the interior of Henry VIII’s government (by way of his work in the previous king’s finances) and his turn to mercantile and servant agents to facilitate his own political clout. Cromwell’s mercantile connections—which included both Southampton and Bristol in addition to Florence, Antwerp, and Brussels—most likely served as intelligence as well as diplomatic channels for the burgeoning spymaster in the early 1530s. For instance, Diarmaid MacCulloch notes Cromwell’s friendship with one William Popely, “one of his leading servants” in the 1530s. 28 Popely had also acted in 1518 “as royal courier to the King’s chaplain and diplomat William Knight, English ambassador in the Netherlands” as well as a “go-between” for Cromwell and Cardinal Lang. 29 Popely’s work, paralleling Cromwell’s own travels in the 1510s, most likely assisted in securing him a position within Cromwell’s personal intelligence service. In addition to mercantile endeavors, Cromwell had experience in the law, and by the time he entered the employ of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, was also a Member of Parliament. This background would have served him well in the capacities of Secretary of State and spymaster—a career pairing that would become all but assumed by the close of the seventeenth century.30 More importantly, it was also under Cromwell that English spycraft became explicitly associated with the Reformation.

The Reformation and the Rise of State Intelligence The sixteenth century saw the dawn of the Reformation with the NinetyFive Theses of Martin Luther in 1517 and the Henrician break from Rome in the 1530s, actions that fundamentally reshaped the politics and religion of Europe. However, it is important, too, to note that conflict between state and religious authorities was not in any way new to the Reformation. As J. Patrick Coby reminds us, “the place of church in civil society…had preoccupied authorities throughout the Middle Ages, with dramatic church-state clashes erupting at regular intervals.”31 Similarly, Eamon Duffy explains that the ostensible unity of Catholic Christendom “was a notion which, by

34  The Start of English Intelligence the sixteenth century, even Catholic princes were coming to reject.”32 This is not to take away from the impact or significance of the Reformation, but simply to recognize that conflict between spiritual and secular authorities did not arise from the Reformation and, in fact, already formed the backbone of inter- and intra-state violence across Europe well before the Reformation broke with the Roman Catholic Church. The Reformation did not reach England in a meaningful, political way until Pope Clement VII denied Henry VIII’s request for an annulment to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, in 1527 (since, of course, Henry had already received a papal dispensation to marry her, as his brother’s widow, in the first place).33 Although Protestantism—and Lutheranism, in ­particular—had gained some traction among scholars at Cambridge in the early 1520s, it was initially suppressed by the government under the direction of Thomas More, earning Henry the title “Defender of the Faith” from Pope Leo X in 1521.34 However, by 1529, Henry was willing to entertain (minor) doctrinal alteration if it would secure him the annulment he sought from Catherine. Given the enormity of separating the English church from Rome, it is somewhat surprising that the change moved so quickly, with Parliament ratifying the split through the 1534 Act of Supremacy that granted Henry VIII supreme authority over the Church of England and absolved him of any loyalty or obedience to the Papacy.35 Less than a decade after Henry’s dissatisfaction with Clement’s response, Henry was the head of a new English Protestant Church. Despite few initial doctrinal differences between Henry’s church and Rome, the English—often referred to as the Henrician—Reformation marks a socioreligious shift in English identity that perhaps better reflected English self-conception than the pan-European Catholic (and catholic) understanding of a universal Roman curia.36 From 1534, England’s church, even during the reign of the Catholic Mary, belonged not to the Papacy, but to its monarch, and thus distinguished English religion politically, as well as doctrinally, from that of its Catholic neighbors.37 The break between Rome and England—or, more accurately, perhaps, between Rome and London, given the persistence of Catholic practice in other, more rural parts of the country—also signified the beginnings of a longstanding conflict between England and Spain (periodically including France and the Netherlands) that formed an essential part of England’s cultural self-recognition in the latter half of the sixteenth and into the seventeenth centuries. The scission between England and Rome (and, via Rome, Spain) perpetuated religious and political conflict throughout the reigns of Henry’s children and marred even the best efforts of the Stuarts to mend the rift between England and the Catholic nations on the other side of the English Channel. Although recent historians have correctly noted the importance of “moving away from understanding the church and confessional groups as monolithic and rigid entities towards an appreciation of the diversity, complexity and unpredictability of shifting

The Start of English Intelligence 35 religious faiths in situ,” the (somewhat false) dichotomy between Catholic and Protestant that arose with the Reformation, nevertheless, served as a framework for conflict within individual nations and across national borders.38 It can thus be entirely unsurprising that religion—and, specifically, the conflict between Catholic and Protestant (and, to some extent, within Protestantism)—­fundamentally shaped English identity, culture, and politics for the remainder of the sixteenth and all of the seventeenth centuries, up to and even through the Civil War and into the Restoration. While Henry’s push to separate England from Rome was (probably) primarily motivated by personal interest rather than national sentiment, it followed in the ideological tradition of his father’s break from traditional feudal practice as a New Monarch. Thanks in large part to the influence of Cromwell, Henry VIII’s Reformation succeeded because he followed his father’s example of using popular ratification rather than decree; the catalog of legislation that made Henry VIII the head of the English church came not from royal decree, but from Parliament, an act that confirmed the authority of both Lords and Commons (as the proxy for the people) to participate in the governance of a New Monarchy. 39 And with that recognition came an increase in the participation of non-­ gentry—commons—in positions of influence, not only in the guilds, but also in political offices. By the reign of Henry VIII, it was possible for a yeoman—Cromwell, son of a “jack-of-all-trades” sheep farmer— to become one of the most powerful men in England.40 Like her father, Elizabeth, too, would employ more lowly men in prominent roles in her government and Privy Council. Cromwell’s involvement in the legislative processes participated in a pan-European movement “to liberate kings from papal control,” and, in the process, bind them—particularly in England—more firmly to the limited participatory structure of Parliamentary ratification in which “the monarch should be subject to both law and the expectations of subjects.”41 Cromwell’s role in facilitating the Henrician Reformation thus serves as an early example of the rise of bureaucratic power enabled by the dissolution of feudalism and the consequently increased emphasis on the participatory limitation of monarchical control. Similarly, his cultivation and use of his household as agents for the government further confirms the evolution of monarchy from highly personal to centralized proto-bureaucracy; Cromwell’s bevy of agents—his personal servants and employees—­emblematizes the extension of government not only into official positions, but also to the unnamed eyes and ears who gathered and consolidated information within a centralized department surrounding the Secretary of State. One of the most interesting—and least discussed—ways in which Henry’s government sought to keep centralized control over the nation (and over interactions with other nations) was through the development of an organized system of intelligence gathering. This is not to say that there were no spies or spymasters prior to the sixteenth century, simply that they

36  The Start of English Intelligence were not networked and organized (at least so far as we know—although it is admittedly difficult to trace men and women whose very job was to be untraceable). Historical wisdom tells us that the first truly organized cadre of English intelligence agents belonged specifically to Cromwell, by then Henry VIII’s Secretary of State and chief minister.42 Even before Henry was made the legal head of the English church, Cromwell was necessarily thrust into a position of having to defend the realm against Catholics seeking to retaliate against Henry’s annulment of his marriage with Catherine and his rejection of papal authority. MacCulloch notes that by 1533 “Cromwell was already directing efforts to confront these menaces”—the allies of Catherine of Aragon, who was understandably discontent with her position as Henry’s former wife; the growing cult of the Maid of Kent, Elizabeth Barton, reacting against the suppression of Catholicism; and the infiltration of Franciscan Observants into England with the intent of both supporting Catherine and undermining Reformation—“making full reports” to Henry.43 The means by which he did so included informants, agents, spies, and torturers, acting as both Henry’s principal secretary and as the realm’s (unofficial) spymaster. By the time the year was out, Cromwell had established himself—through a combination of influence and intelligence—as “really in charge of government,” per an anecdote from Charles V’s ambassador Eustice Chapuys, “transacting all matters in the realm.”44 Motivated by concern for the security of English sovereignty, by 1535— the year after the Act of Supremacy—Cromwell was sending agents to bargain with the Holy Roman Empire and counteract Catherine of Aragon’s attempts, at least until her death in 1536, to secure international allies in her bid to punish Henry. Responsible for negotiating England’s position with the Holy Roman Empire, Cromwell was repeatedly placed in a difficult position by Anne Boleyn, who understood that Charles V (via Chapuys) would benefit from her deposition from favor and the throne. When Henry publicly rejected Chapuys, Cromwell recognized that his own fortunes were bound up with Anne’s; if he was to succeed—and survive— in Henry’s court, she could not. Following this, on 24 April 1536, Cromwell obtained a patent of oyer and terminer that enabled him to employ 20 men “to investigate unspecified treasons in Middlesex and Kent counties.”45 Of the 20, certainly not all were aware of Cromwell’s intention—which was, at this juncture, to bring down the Boleyn faction, and Anne, specifically.46 In addition to this commission, which gave Cromwell legal authority to pursue rumors of treasonous activities, Cromwell had agents of his own, spies drawn from his personal servants and connections. These spies—who placed themselves at risk by repeating slander against the queen, itself a treasonous act under the 1534 Succession Act—reported overheard conversations in Anne’s court that implicated Anne and Henry Norris for plotting sedition: “She conjectured that Norris was procrastinating because he hoped to marry Anne

The Start of English Intelligence 37 once the king was dead: ‘You look for dead man’s shoes; for if ought came to the king but good, you would look to have me.’”47 Anne’s meeting with Norris was complicated by another supposed encounter, this time with a courtier and musician named Mark Smeaton, also overheard—and seen—by Cromwell’s spies. Smeaton, young and with fewer friends than Norris, was an easier target for Cromwell, who had Smeaton arrested and probably tortured. Smeaton “confessed to three counts of adultery with the queen and may have accused others in the bargain.”48 Between the conversation with Norris and the (possibly false) confession from Smeaton, Cromwell had enough evidence to present to Henry to ensure Anne’s downfall. While the subsequent trial was almost certainly a sham, largely conceived by Cromwell and Henry—and Anne’s enemies at court—to guarantee a guilty verdict for all involved (two further “adulterers,” William Bereton and Anne’s brother, George Boleyn, were also charged), what is interesting for the sake of this investigation is the way Cromwell leveraged crown funds to manage a network of men and (presumably) women to collect information, ostensibly to ensure the stability of the realm.49 When coupled with Cromwell’s use of diplomatic agents, whose purpose really was to ensure national security, these domestic spies revealed the importance of having government agents planted within the court as well as abroad. The model of using intelligence agents both foreign and domestic was one that would be revived and improved under future spymasters William Cecil and Francis Walsingham, whose system of intelligence became the historical foundation for the Secret Service Bureau (1909), MI5 (Security Service), and MI6 (Secret Intelligence Service) in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.50 In Cromwell’s defense—for, after all, using one’s personal intelligence network to create a conspiracy of adultery and incest in order to secure one’s own political supremacy is not what one typically considers ­“laudable”—he used his semi-formal network of agents for larger purposes than to support his own career. Even before his interference in Henry’s marriages, Cromwell served as a liaison between the English ambassador to Brussels, John Hacket, and the government, specifically, Henry and Wolsey. Hacket’s correspondence helped to establish an early “royal news service” that brought international intelligence from Brussels back to England, both “official dispatches” and what MacCulloch calls “more unbuttoned” news and opinions for Cromwell.51 Later in Henry’s reign, Cromwell continued to pursue a variety of sources of intelligence in the support of national security. In 1538, for instance, Cromwell employed these agents in the suppression of the Exeter Conspiracy and the dissolution of the White Rose faction. 52 Among the rebellions against Henry’s religious supremacy was one spearheaded by the surviving Plantagenets, including Reginald Pole and Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, after whom the conspiracy was named.

38  The Start of English Intelligence Despite an accord with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, Henry remained concerned about the Catholic factions in England, particularly the White Rose, which he ordered Cromwell to “eradicate.”53 By this point, Cromwell had already planted an agent in the Pole household, and Hugh Holland had been keeping Cromwell informed of the White Rose’s plans. Cromwell ordered Reginald’s brother, Geoffrey, arrested and tortured, and Geoffrey confessed “certain proofs and confessions” that led to the further arrests of Courtenay, Henry Pole (Lord Montague), Edward Neville, Thomas West (Lord Delaware), Holland, Nicholas Carew, Gertrude Courtenay (née Blount, Marchioness of Exeter), Margaret Pole (née Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury and daughter of George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence), and two unnamed priests.54 All but Geoffrey Pole, Thomas West, and Gertrude Courtenay were eventually executed.55 Cromwell’s success at suppressing the Exeter Conspiracy—although argued by some to have been inflated by Cromwell himself in an effort to boost his standing with Henry—further cemented not only Cromwell’s reputation, but also the value of an intelligence service to the crown. Yet Cromwell’s agents were not truly an organized secret service; rather, they were his personal servants and messengers, their backgrounds and training most likely in service or mercantile business, and they were not equipped—nor, likely, funded—the way a centralized intelligence service would be. As a result, Cromwell’s agents were only able to aid him in his plans, not ferret out secrets within the court independent of his orders. This meant that Cromwell was himself blindsided by the political machinations of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, father of Catherine Howard, Henry VIII’s fourth wife, which led to Cromwell’s arrest and execution in 1540.56

Edward VI, Protestantism, and the Merchant Companies Although far from consolidated or formalized, as it would become in subsequent centuries, the origins of the English intelligence service were tied to religious conflict and the Reformation, both in the cases of Anne Boleyn and the White Rose faction. It is perhaps deeply ironic that the system that would protect Anne’s daughter from a multitude of conspiracies under Walsingham was the very one created for the express purpose of destroying Anne herself. Yet even the unofficial practice of “informing” upon one’s neighbors—common throughout the Tudor period—was tied inextricably to matters of religion, particularly during the early years of the Henrician Reformation and Mary’s Counter-Reformation. 57 But whether formal or informal, the process of spying was part and parcel of the power of the early modern English state; its development, deployment, and entrenchment in English government changed not only the ways those in power maintained the status quo, but also enabled those without power to make use of “intelligence” in order to reshape the sociopolitical hierarchy in their favor.

The Start of English Intelligence 39 However, with Henry VIII’s death in 1547, his only surviving legitimate son, Edward VI, assumed the throne under a Regency Council due to his minority. During his reign, Edward and his Council instigated a program of stringent Protestant reforms to the Church of England, whitewashing cathedrals, instituting a reformed Book of Common Prayer, and pushing the religious line further toward Continental Reformation than his father. However, despite attempts by Edward and his Councilors to attain a uniform rejection of Catholic praxis, the government encountered considerable resistance. In particular, the north of England rejected both Henry’s and Edward’s orders to strip the churches of their Catholic iconography. Despite this, by 1552, the liturgy had been shifted to more closely match Continental Protestantism, although doctrine was not officially changed until 1553.58 Yet even by the end of Edward’s reign, the idea that England was a Protestant nation remained tenuous and, in certain areas of the country, even patently false, laying the groundwork for the religious tensions that would eventually be the central preoccupation of the intelligence work of the future Elizabethan government. This reluctance of many English to convert may be found in parish registers and sales records, as, most churches, “despite massive sales and alienations, especially after 1549, retained many items of their medieval furnishing, though now in storage not in use.”59 At this point in history, it is worth remembering, England had only not been Catholic for slightly over a decade, and most adults in the country—and a few minors—could easily recall when Catholicism, not Protestantism, had been the officially sanctioned religion and their king named Defender of the Faith by the Pope. It can hardly be surprising, then, that “there is abundant evidence of continuing loyalty to the Pope and belief in his primacy in England.”60 Nevertheless, “the Edwardian regime could not have succeeded in so outrageously sacrilegious a project unless that project offered sites of convergence between government and popular interests that encouraged significant collaboration from below” on the matter of Protestant Reformation, particularly in the whitewashing of churches and stripping of the altars.61 Certainly there were many in England who were uninterested in or even actively opposed to Edward’s reforms, but there must have been—as Ethan Shagan suggests—those who were just as actively promoting the Reformation, whether for spiritual, economic, or political reasons.62 Whatever the motivations of those who supported the Edwardian reforms, their impact was ultimately less theological or doctrinal than it was political and ideological: “The principal effect of public Reformation polemic, in other words, was not to convert the people of England to a new religion but rather to build a culture in which division rather than unity was acknowledged as the fundamental wellspring of politics.”63 If the Henrician Reformation had been (largely) doctrinally conservative, the shift during Edward’s short reign toward a more evangelical praxis made possible not only the later Elizabethan return to Protestantism, but also a recognition

40  The Start of English Intelligence that religion was as potentially divisive as it was unifying—a lesson that played out not only in England, but across the Continent for the rest of the sixteenth century. Despite this, however, Edward’s reign ultimately had less of an impact on the future religious conflict in England than did that of his eldest half-sister, Mary. Also crucial to the development of international intelligence was the expansion in Edward’s reign of English mercantile reach to more distant shores. During the Henrician Reformation, the English increased their presence in Antwerp, a city that served, in the sixteenth century, as the gateway to Eastern Europe and global trade for English merchants. More important, however, was the establishment of a mercantile conglomerate by Sebastian Cabot, a merchant and cartographer who had traveled to both Asia and North America (in search of the Northwest Passage) and thereby introduced England to the world beyond Europe. In 1553, Cabot founded a small trading corporation he referred to as “The mystery and company of the merchants adventurers for the discovery of regions, dominions, islands and places unknown,” a company that later came to be known as the Muscovy Company.64 Cabot’s people—on his voyage in search of Cathay during which he “discovered” Russia, earning the company its “Muscovy” epithet—were trained in gathering intelligence, not for the purposes of statecraft, but for mercantile gain. Yet Cabot instructed his men to be moderately friendly with the locals, but also to gather information: The crews were to observe and listen; not to give away anything about their religious practices; to be courteous and friendly; to be careful not to be tempted by gold, silver or riches into parting with their own goods; not to stay too long in one place; and generally to exercise ‘prudent circumspection.’65 Given Cabot’s connections to prominent figures in the government—both Henry Sidney and William Cecil were investors in his new company, which also received a Royal Charter—it is almost certain that whatever Cabot’s men might learn of interest to the state would likely have been passed on. It was the beginning of a rich (in all senses of the word) relationship between England and Russia, one that led to the creation of future companies— including the Virginia Company and East Indies Company—and spurred English imperial expansion in intelligence as well as trade. Yet, the significance of the Muscovy Company would decline in the years that immediately followed, as, with Edward’s death, concerns with English participation in international trade were pushed somewhat to the side in the ensuing religious fracas. As the men who supported Edward would soon discover, Mary was far less interested in establishing English supremacy across the globe than she was in returning it to the Catholic fold. Those who did not hold with this program found themselves exiled from the court—and, for some, the country—and limited in authority and capacity.

The Start of English Intelligence 41 For the next approximately five years, the religious, political, social, and mercantile shifts that had taken place at the end of the Henrician and during the Edwardian reigns would be paused or turned back, many of them either ceasing altogether or forced to move to the Continent during Mary’s tenure on the throne. However, it would turn out that this temporary stoppage of development would ultimately serve those who weathered it quite well, laying the foundations for the establishment, upon Mary’s death, of the intelligence service that would bolster England’s so-termed Golden Age.

Notes 1. Norman Jones, Being Elizabethan: Understanding Shakespeare’s Neighbors, digital (Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell, 2019). 2. See Kristin M.S. Bezio, Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays: History, Political Thought, and the Redefinition of Sovereignty ­(Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2015). 3. The other prominent fifteenth-century New Monarchs were Ferdinand and Isabella in Spain and Louis XI in France (Henry Allen Myers, Medieval Kingship (Chicago: Nelson-Hall, 1982), 299.). 4. Myers, 299. 5. Myers, 300. 6. Myers, 318. 7. Diarmaid MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell: A Revolutionary Life (New York: Viking, 2018), 398. 8. MacCulloch, 398. 9. It is worth noting, as does MacCulloch, that the formalization of the Privy Council served not only as a check on Henry VIII’s power, but also on Cromwell’s influence by introducing additional clerks and increasing the quantities of official records to hold members of the Privy Council accountable for their actions and expenditures (MacCulloch, 398–99.). 10. Michael Smith, The Spying Game: The Secret History of British Espionage, Reprint (1996) (London: Politico’s, 2003), 36. 11. Smith, 36. 12. Smith, 36. 13. Smith, 37. 14. John Michael Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence: Spying and Court Culture in the English Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 134. 15. Thomas Penn, Winter King: Henry VII and the Dawn of Tudor England (Simon and Schuster, 2013), 113. 16. For a full argument on the relationship of divine right—or lack thereof—to the evolution of the English monarchy into the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, see Bezio, Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays. 17. Penn, Winter King, 28. 18. Penn, 34. 19. Francis Bacon, The History of the Reign of King Henry VII, ed. J. Rawson Lumby (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1885), 216. 20. Bacon, 129. 21. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 135. 22. Potassium alum, used for its medicinal and cosmetic properties, was one of the most lucrative products in the late medieval and early modern ­marketplaces.

42  The Start of English Intelligence











Fraud was a commonplace practice on the part of customs officials and merchants attempting to evade the king’s fees and taxes, something Henry sought to put a stop to (Peter Ramsey, “Overseas Trade in the Reign of Henry VII: The Evidence of Customs Accounts,” The Economic History Review 6, no. 2 (1953): 174.). In order to avoid both the layers of fraud that accompanied traditional routes, monarchs—including Henry VII—turned to authorizing smuggling through the use of the Privy Seal and pardons in order to smooth the passage of alum across national borders (Ramsey, 175.). In 1503, the papacy—in control of the principal potassium alum mine not in the Ottoman Empire—sought to raise prices to extortive levels, operating cartels in order to maintain a stranglehold monopoly on the material in Europe (Penn, Winter King, 202.). Henry’s operatives worked out of Bruges, smuggling the alum through the Mediterranean to England, and from England back out to the rest of the Continent (Penn, 202.). 23. Penn, Winter King, 116. 24. Penn, 198. 25. MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 24. 26. Penn, Winter King, 252; MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 24. (“Recently discovered” as of 2018.) 27. John Foxe, The Acts and Monuments of John Foxe, vol. V, The Church Historians of England: Reformation Period (London: Seeleys, 1857), 363. 28. MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 43. 29. MacCulloch, 43. 30. J. Patrick Coby, Thomas Cromwell: Machiavellian Statecraft and the English Reformation (Lanham: Lexington Books, 2009), 48. 31. Coby, 1. 32. Eamon Duffy, Saints, Sacrilege & Sedition: Religion and Conflict in the Tudor Reformations, Paperback (2012 hardcover) (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 12. 33. Certainly, there were instances of Protestant uprisings and suppression throughout English history, such as the Lollard revolt led by Sir John Oldcastle in 1414, but Protestantism was not meaningfully considered by the government until Henry VIII. 34. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 59. It was certainly helpful to the Lutheran faction in England that Anne Boleyn (and her immediate family) were sympathetic to the doctrinal arguments of Lutheranism, and Henry’s attraction to her thereby softened his view of Protestantism, particularly when it was the Pope who refused his petition for annulment (Coby, 77.). 35. There were other acts that presaged the 1534 Act of Supremacy, including Henry’s demand that Parliament rule on his annulment (1529); the 1532 Supplication Against the Ordinaries, the Submission of the Clergy, Act in Conditional Restraint of Annates, Act of Appeals, and Act of Restraints in Appeals; the 1533 Act in Absolute Restraint of Annates, Act of First Fruits and Tenths, and the Ecclesiastical Licenses Act (also known as the Dispensations and Peter’s Pence Act); all before the Act of Supremacy in 1534, which was supported by the Treasons Act of the same year (which made it treasonous to question the king’s supremacy) (Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 113–15.). 36. As Christopher Haigh notes, “The king did not envisage schism, and still less would he countenance heresy...Henry turned on his clergy not in pursuit of Protestantism or an autonomous Church of England, but because he could think of no better way to promote his divorce than to bully the priests” (Christopher Haigh, English Reformations: Religion, Politics, and Society Under the Tudors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 106.) 37. Interestingly, although Spain and France (mostly—France was a hotbed of religious conflict throughout the sixteenth century) remained ruled by

The Start of English Intelligence 43











Catholic monarchs, the period of New Monarchy similarly influenced both nations to decrease papal influence within their own governments, securing the power to appoint ecclesiastical offices for the monarch rather than the Pope or a papal legate, as well as exerting secular control over papal declarations (Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 5.). 38. Adam Morton and Nadine Lewycky, “Introduction,” in Getting Along? Religious Identities and Confessional Relations in Early Modern England— Essays in Honour of Professor W.J. Sheils, ed. Nadine Lewycky and Adam Morton (London: Routledge, 2016), 2. 39. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 15. Coby also rightly notes that Henry was most likely not a party to the fact that using Parliament was a de facto admission of limitation on his royal authority; Henry was typically of the opinion that his will was (or should be) law, and expected that Parliament would confirm it. 40. Coby, 45. Needless to say, Cromwell’s rise to power cultivated quite a bit of resentment on the part of the nobles who surrounded him, since it was their power that was in decline under the New Monarchy (MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 14.). 41. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 3; Bezio, Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays, 29. 42. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 163. 43. MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 230. 44. MacCulloch, 230. 45. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 125. 46. Members of the commission included Cromwell, Audley, and the Lords of Norfolk, Suffolk, and Wiltshire, among others, as well as two knights and nine judges (Coby, 125.). Given that the Earl of Wiltshire was Thomas Boleyn, it seems highly likely that Cromwell kept his true intents hidden until he brought forward evidence damning Anne in court. 47. Coby, 126. 48. Coby, 128. 49. Coby, 128. 50. Daniel W.B. Lomas and Christopher J. Murphy, Intelligence and Espionage: Secrets and Spies, Seminar Studies in History (London: Routledge, 2019), 10. 51. MacCulloch, Thomas Cromwell, 26. 52. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 146. 53. Coby, 146. 54. Coby, 147. 55. Pole was pardoned for turning state’s evidence, West was fined and released, and Courtenay was imprisoned until 1540, then released. 56. Coby, Thomas Cromwell, 187. 57. Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence, 4. 58. Haigh, English Reformations, 180. 59. Duffy, Saints, Sacrilege & Sedition, 120. 60. Duffy, 198. 61. Ethan H. Shagan, Popular Politics and the English Reformation, Reprint (2005), Cambridge Studies in Early Modern British History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 267. 62. Shagan, 272. 63. Shagan, 199. 64. W. Noël Sainsbury, ed., Calendar of State Papers, Colonial Series, East Indies, China and Japan, 1513–1616 (London: Longman, Green, Longman & Roberts, 1862), 3. 65. Stephen Alford, London’s Triumph: Merchant Adventurers and the Tudor City (London: Penguin Random House UK, 2017), 72.

2

Exiles, Diplomats, and William Cecil’s Spies, 1553–1570

With Edward VI’s death and his sister Mary’s rise to the throne came a religious reversal, with Mary seeking to restore the Catholic Church throughout England to a virulent degree—an act that established deep and long-lasting hostilities between English Protestants and Catholics, providing the instigation for not only future plots against Elizabeth, but also the secret service that would act to counter them. Furthermore, the circumstances of the Marian Counter-Reformation produced a set of men whose religious beliefs sent them into exile, men whose membership in a clandestine network of underground English Protestants began their training in political subterfuge. Mary’s reign—and her violent persecution of Protestantism—must thus be considered ultimately responsible for the reversal that would take place at her death; it was because of Mary’s anti-Protestant policies that men like Francis Walsingham were radicalized on the Continent and professional government officials like William Cecil learned the strategies of diplomacy and manipulation that enabled them not only to survive Mary’s reign, but also to emerge on the far side fully committed to a Protestant England and the new queen whom they believed was the way to achieve it. And, in the aftermath of Mary’s reign, these men similarly understood that in the face of potential threats from Catholic nations like France and Spain, as well as the Catholic threat from within, they needed to turn to intelligence work in order to secure Elizabeth’s throne.

Instability and the Religious Pendulum, 1553–1558 Only six years after his accession, Edward VI succumbed to illness, and Mary immediately and forcefully sought to return England to the Catholic Church with a proclamation on 18 August 1553.1 Although she initially declared that both religions might be practiced “till such time ‘as further order by common assent may be taken,’” Mary soon attempted to enforce—something she was only able to do, ironically, as the head of the English church, a role that Parliament insisted she retain despite its contradiction under Catholicism—Catholic doctrine and practice, and she was DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-3

William Cecil’s Spies 45 more than willing to follow through on the threat of burning (the conventional form of punishment for heresy) in order to do so.2 She began by removing Edward’s Council and household—most of whom had been staunchly Protestant—and replacing them with Catholics.3 Mary—and her government—took the smoothness of her accession over rival claimant Lady Jane Grey (named by Edward VI, but unratified by Parliament) as a providential sign that God sanctioned the return of England to the Catholic Church. Although many of her supporters were Catholic, she “enjoyed a broader base of support than this implies, at the start of her reign at least,” in large part due to dynastic loyalty to the Tudor name, if nothing else.4 Even the southeast of England, “where the Protestants were strongest,” supported Mary’s claim against Jane Grey; however, suggests Jasper Ridley, this may have been because “her subordinate officers at Framlingham led the people to believe that the Protestant religion would be preserved, and that Mary took care to say nothing to contradict this impression.”5 The questions raised by these claims—­unsubstantiated by the official record but frequent enough to make Ridley’s hypothesis plausible— suggest that perhaps Protestantism had a stronger spiritual foothold than it is typically given credit for having. It is also worth noting, however, that post-Reformation English Catholicism would never be the religion it had been before 1535 and the Act of Supremacy, as even Mary remained, by the will of Parliament, the political head of the English (Catholic) church. Despite their minority in numbers, English Protestants during Mary’s reign were vocal and prominent.6 Nearly 800 radical or evangelical Protestants, unwilling to participate in Catholic Mass as required by Marian law, chose instead to exile themselves to the Continent, migrating to Geneva and other parts of Switzerland, Germany, or the Netherlands where their religious doctrine might be publicly practiced.7 R.J. Acheson suggests that the experience of these exiles—including Walsingham, Elizabeth’s future Secretary of State—was fundamental to the formation of “the theological cornerstone of the Elizabethan ecclesia Anglicana,” the Church of England.8 Those who fled England in order to maintain the right to practice Protestantism made, it soon became clear, a wise choice, as the Marian regime ultimately became virulently and violently opposed to any who rejected the Catholic faith. Following Thomas Wyatt’s nearly successful 1554 Protestant rebellion in Kent, Mary’s government “reenacted the Acts for the Burning of Heretics of 1382, 1401 and 1414.”9 In July, Mary welcomed and married the Catholic Prince Philip of Spain, whose religious devotion was frequently blamed for the increase in heresy trials. On 4 February 1555, Mary’s government burned its first heretic: a Protestant divine by the name of John Rogers, executed at Smithfield for “heretical pravity and exerable doctrine.”10 His was the first of more than 300 heresy burnings, nearly all of which “were ‘sacramentaries’, and were burned to

46  William Cecil’s Spies death for denying the Real Presence, whatever other heresies they might also have committed.”11 The Marian government far outpaced her predecessors and contemporaries in terms of executions for heresy, accounting “for almost 10 per cent of the heresy executions in Latin Christendom between 1520 and 1565.”12 By contrast, during the Lancastrian period, only 16 heresy executions took place over 39 years and three reigns, and although the accession of the Tudors saw a marked increase in those numbers, Henry VII burned only a dozen (in 24 years), while Henry VIII oversaw the execution of 90 (over 37 years).13 Edward VI, whose reign, like Mary’s, was comparably short (six years versus Mary’s five-plus), burned only two, while in the first year of her reign alone, Mary presided over 88.14 By the end of her rule, Mary would execute about 300, “a statistic made all the more sobering,” notes David K. Anderson, because these executions “were concentrated into a three-year space: from Parliament’s restoration of the old heresy laws (shelved during Edward’s reign) in the winter of 1555 to the Queen’s death in 1558.”15 Elizabeth burned only six in 45 years, and James, despite the Gunpowder Plot and the renewal of anti-Catholicism thereafter, only two.16 Even including those non-conformists executed for treason rather than heresy, Elizabeth’s government killed another 189 Catholics, and James’s an additional 25 (for respective total of religiously motivated executions at 195 and 27).17 Given the rate at which the Marian government was prosecuting—and persecuting—Protestants, it can hardly be surprising that both Protestants and Catholics alike began to object, and “in London there were sometimes protests from the spectators when a heretic was burned.”18 While it is true that “All Tudor governments were committed to a policy of religious uniformity, and had few qualms about employing some form of coercion against those who stepped out of line,” the rate at which the Marian regime executed religious dissenters was extreme.19 Open dissent in the face of anti-Protestant persecution no doubt contributed to the atmosphere of religious division in the country, but it also helped to smooth the transition from Mary to Elizabeth when Mary’s illness became apparent—after all, it must have seemed unlikely that Elizabeth would follow in her sister’s bloody footsteps, particularly from the Protestant perspective.

The Privy Council, Uniformity, and Elizabeth’s Future Spymasters, 1558–1560 As several scholars have noted, upon Mary’s death on 17 November 1558, England was, by and large, contentedly Catholic in its religious doctrine and practice. 20 While Mary’s rule—in particular, her foreign policy decisions and virulent persecution of heresy—was politically and socially unpopular, it was her actions, not her faith, to which most objected; it is well worth noting, as well, that resistance to the Marian regime came from a select few, rather than the nation as a whole. However, in London,

William Cecil’s Spies 47 where English Protestantism had been strongest, Mary’s death enabled the return to England of those Protestants who had fled to the Continent to escape persecution and heresy burnings and quickly produced a destructive and sometimes violent counter-Counter-Reformation as Protestants sought to forcibly reenact the stripping of the churches that took place under the sanction of Edward VI.21 Although the government verbally condemned such actions, no real attempt to curtail them took place, as they demonstrated religious support—ostensibly—for the new regime. Yet elsewhere in England, Catholic praxis continued unabated, an early indication that England would remain a nation divided by religion. While Elizabeth faced tacit opposition from Catholic practitioners throughout the country, that opposition was direct when it came from the English bishops. For instance, “both houses of Convocation signed a protestation affirming both the Catholic doctrine of the mass and the papal supremacy,” and the bishops, as well as the collegiate heads at Oxford and Cambridge, refused to agree to the Oath of Supremacy affirming Elizabeth the head of the church. 22 It was therefore immediately clear that the process of (re)converting the entire country to Protestantism would be complex. The more radical of the Protestant evangelists—who were, after all, men with power and influence in their own right, both at home and abroad— were unlikely to be pleased by a lackluster or compromising position, often referred to by such persons, remarks Alan Smith, “as ‘a clocked Papistrye or a mingle-mangle.’”23 It was critical for Elizabeth, however, not to push religious reform too quickly. The Elizabethan Compromise, as many scholars have since noted, was a work that ultimately functioned not because of its prohibition of religion, but because of its tacit plurality: We must recognise that England’s Church was not confessional in the same way as many of its European cousins. From Henry VIII’s confused via media, to the rapid chopping and changing of faith which marked the mid Tudor reigns, and the frustrated compromise of the Elizabethan Religious Settlement, the English Church was a deeply ambivalent and unstable body from its inception, and one which continually housed plurality. 24 As Adam Morton and Nadine Lewycky argue, the circumstances that led to the development and perpetuation of the Elizabethan church meant that, out of necessity, that church was structured around doctrinal and practical toleration of religious differences. Thus, even as the government entered into an age of anti-Catholicism, the de facto plurality of the Elizabethan Compromise—despite Morton and Lewycky’s description—would actually prove to be more stable than even those masterminding its implementation most likely could have predicted. Elizabeth’s desire for compromise meant that she included many Catholics in the Parliament of 1559, and, although she released “two-thirds

48  William Cecil’s Spies of Mary’s privy councilors, she retained many former Marian councilors on her own Privy Council,” and many other Marian officials “continued to be employed in various official capacities.”25 Her decision was a political one; it “enabled the regime and its advocates to craft an image of the queen as the merciful, forgiving mother of all her people,” regardless of religion. 26 It was vital, however, for the government to replace the two-thirds who had been dismissed with men who would support the new regime’s religious policies. It required the right men in the right positions of power in order for this new Elizabethan reformation to be properly enacted, which meant that the open seats in the Privy Council needed—as was so often the case with the changing of a regime—“to be drastically recast” in order to (mostly) replace Mary’s old guard with those of the new, evangelical faith. 27 Among these new men in Elizabeth’s first Privy Council was William Cecil, her brother’s former Secretary of State. The members of the new Elizabethan Council were by and large Protestant, and many fell on the more evangelical rather than conservative side. In addition to Cecil, the new Council contained Edward Finnes de Clinton, William Howard, and William Herbert, all of whom had served both Edward and Mary; Cecil further recommended Sir Thomas Parry, Sir Ralph Sadler, Richard Sackville, and Francis Russell. 28 Other members of Elizabeth’s first Council included Matthew Parker, Nicholas Bacon, Francis Talbot, William Paulet, Thomas Smith, and Henry FitzAlan, in addition (of course) to Cecil himself. 29 They were, many of them, newly wealthy, and the Protestant cause helped to protect their economic interests. In addition, several—as well as other members of Elizabeth’s newly formed court—were recently returned exiles from abroad, having fled England to escape the Marian religious persecutions. Fear of once more becoming subject to a Catholic monarch “made them now look to Elizabeth as the avatar of their religious faith and of the faith of the nation in itself.”30 Supporting this Privy Council was a newly elected Parliament, which included nineteen returned Marian exiles, one of whom was Walsingham, a man who would go on to become almost as vital to the Elizabethan regime as Cecil himself.31 Because of the influence of these men in her court and Council, in addition to pressure from Elizabeth herself, Parliament passed the 1559 Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity reestablishing the Church of England as Protestant and reinstituting the last Edwardian Book of Common Prayer before the end of April 1559.32 Understanding the shift of religious loyalties solely based on the legal outcomes, such as the passage of these acts, ignores the significance of the objections raised by the existing ecclesiastical hierarchy. The acts, for instance, passed by only three votes, and every bishop present in Elizabeth’s first Parliament—all of whom had achieved their positions under Mary—“voted against both Acts, making the Elizabethan Settlement the first religious change in English history ‘without the consent of a single churchman.’”33 In response to this show of dissent, Cecil instituted the Oath of Supremacy for all prelates; if a bishop refused, he was

William Cecil’s Spies 49 removed from office, and by November of 1559, none of the bishops who remained were loyal to the Catholic Church.34 Their departures meant that men more disposed toward Elizabeth’s brand of religion could be appointed in their places. William Cecil Cecil was one of the most instrumental men to this process, and his position within the English government led him to aid in the creation of a Devise for the Alteratione of Religione, which outlined the process—including the Acts of Supremacy and Uniformity and the Oath of Supremacy—by which the new Elizabethan government once again altered the religion of the state.35 Described by Stephen Alford as “the best political mind of his generation,” Cecil was instrumental to the survival of the Elizabethan regime.36 Furthermore, it was due to Cecil’s influence and experience that the gathering of intelligence once more became a fundamental part of the English government. Born in 1520 on the eve of the Reformation, Cecil was nothing if not a clever man more than capable of reading between the proverbial lines of the royal court. His political career began during the reign of Edward VI as secretary to the Lord Protector, Edward Seymour, and he went on to serve as the secretary to John Dudley, then Earl of Warwick. 37 During Edward’s reign, Cecil was among those sent to serve in the military campaigns in Scotland alongside Lord Protector Seymour. While on campaign, Cecil developed the habit—one vital to the preservation and transmission of intelligence—of keeping meticulous notes on his experiences and observations, so much so that the official account, written by William Patten, was based on Cecil’s journal.38 This habit of paying critical attention to detail not only served Cecil in terms of sifting through intelligence, but also in his practice of training agents in the future. With Edward’s death, Cecil was one of the Lords who signed the document approving Privy Council support for the crown to pass to Jane Grey— albeit under duress and after several days feigning illness in an attempt to avoid doing so. When he did sign it, he did so only as a witness that the other Lords were subscribing to the declaration, a nuanced distinction that gave him plausible deniability when later questioned by Mary.39 However, as Alan Smith observes, Cecil inscribed the most damning of them not with his own name, but with those of John Dudley, by then Duke of Northumberland, and Sir John Cheke.40 Yet by (belatedly) proclaiming his loyalty to Mary in a personal “submission,” Cecil managed to maneuver himself, yet again, into a position that reflected loyalty to the new regime and was permitted to continue at court (although not in quite so elevated a capacity) provided he outwardly conformed to Catholicism and abjured Protestantism.41 During Mary’s five-year reign, Cecil bided his time, taking care of his estates and serving in Parliament and diplomatic service to France.42 It was

50  William Cecil’s Spies perhaps during the latter that he came to recognize the importance of intelligence to the success of both diplomacy—which Mary’s reign struggled to manage, particularly in religious war-torn France—and policy management. Yet Cecil had little in the way of referent power during Mary’s rule. Nevertheless, Cecil, as was fitting for a future spymaster, successfully managed a double political life: on the one hand, a loyal subject and, on the other, a supporter of dissidents. In particular, Cecil sought to leverage his own financial stability in order to support Protestantism in England—within reason, of course. He maintained contact with those men who felt their faith too strong to remain in England—men like Francis Walsingham, who sought shelter in the Protestant nations of the Continent. Yet he also maintained connections to those who, like himself, outwardly conformed to Catholicism, but internally harbored more reformed beliefs. Furthermore, his relationship to the illicit printer John Day serves as an example of this mitigated position in which Cecil was able to negotiate between his own loyal persona and the reformed obligations of his spiritual conscience. Only a few months into Mary’s reign, Cecil enabled Day to establish a printing press on his own land, in the village of Barholm in Lincolnshire, in order to produce subversive, anti-Marian tracts.43 Cecil was tied to Day only through one mutual employee and the simple fact that he owned the land on which Day’s press stood. His unofficial sponsorship of Day reveals not only his tacit support for reformed religion and his disapproval of Mary’s regime, but also his awareness of the importance of print culture in the shaping of public ­opinion—a practice that he would adopt in a more official (although still clandestine) capacity later in his career. Also critical to his future contribution to intelligence was Cecil’s involvement in global trade. Early in 1555 he became a financial supporter of both the Merchant Adventurers and the Muscovy Company, a move that would pay off both economically and politically. Like Cromwell before him, Cecil recognized the political—as well as fiscal—benefits of mercantile investment. By the end of the sixteenth century, the Merchant Adventurers and the Muscovy Company would become heavily involved in the intelligence trade as well as the mercantile one, carrying messages, information, and spies into Asia and across the Atlantic to spy on the Spanish in the New World. In 1555, of course, this was still a distant future, but Cecil’s ties to both companies eventually helped to link together merchant-agents and the English government across most of the known globe. By 1558, when Mary’s fatal illness became evident, Cecil recognized that his best chance for restoration to government work lay not with the current regime, but with its successor, and was already at Elizabeth’s side as her unofficial Secretary when the Council’s designees arrived at Hatfield to proclaim Elizabeth queen.44 Throughout the 1550s, Cecil had carefully balanced his connections to both the Marian regime, with which he was on “good terms,” and to Princess Elizabeth.45 Late in February of 1558,

William Cecil’s Spies 51 Elizabeth visited London, and Cecil arranged a meeting, recorded by a servant named Quentin Sneynton as costing 3d. for the trip there and 2d. for the return by boat on the Thames.46 That meeting proved to be critical, both for Cecil and for the princess he courted. Within hours of Mary’s passing, the proclamation of Elizabeth as queen was read publicly in London. Three days after her sister’s death, Elizabeth named Cecil to her Privy Council, and he retained his post and influence until his death in 1598; it made him arguably the most powerful of any man or woman in the Elizabethan government. Elizabeth’s trust in Cecil was nearly absolute—with only a few periods of exception over a 40-year span—and their working relationship in fact helped to cement (although Elizabeth likely would have been horrified to think so) the shift from personal, albeit limited, monarchy to proto-­ bureaucracy that took place during her reign. When he took the oath of office, Elizabeth told Cecil that “without respect of my private will you will give me that counsel that you think best. And if you know anything necessary to be declared to me of secrecy, you shall show it to myself only, and assure yourself I will not fail to keep taciturnity therein.”47 According to Alford, Cecil “took these words very seriously. His job was to speak his mind as freely and frankly as he could.”48 In short, he swore to do the duty not simply of a counselor, but of an officer of government in a much more modern sense than either he or Elizabeth could have understood in 1558. Put simply, Elizabeth’s injunction not only gave Cecil permission to speak his mind, but also established that the will of the monarch did not, in fact, take primacy over good council and the common good. By investing in his council—and his ability to uncover secret information—Elizabeth created the opportunity for the evolution of the English government into a centralized, bureaucratic institution. Although it would not fully achieve this during her reign—and, in fact, did a bit of backsliding under the Stuarts—the very presence of her letter to Cecil shifted the way he and his successors considered their role in government, both in terms of their duty to guide (rather than simply obey) the monarch and in terms of their obligation to manage a formal intelligence network in order to ensure national and monarchical security. It must therefore be unsurprising that it was Cecil who first sought to reestablish organized intelligence in the Elizabethan government. In fact, he began the process of instituting an international network of English agents during the first 24 hours he held the office of Secretary to Elizabeth, sending Thomas Gresham to Antwerp in a diplomatic capacity to reestablish England as an ally, taking literally the early modern definition of “secretary” as “keeper of secrets.”49 In the fall of 1559, Cecil also moved to ensure that Scotland remained tied to England rather than France, despite the presence of the Queen Regent, Marie de Guise. In order to create a crisis in France, Cecil helped to spur on Huguenot dissidents, drawing French attention away from Scotland. Elizabeth, giving in to Cecil’s pressure, also

52  William Cecil’s Spies ordered Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, to Scotland in a diplomatic capacity to negotiate (albeit not terribly successfully) with Marie de Guise.50 Known to history as the Tumult of Amboise, this crisis precipitated the later French Wars of Religion that raged throughout the 1560s and into the 1590s, including the 1574 St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, which played a critical role in English anti-Catholicism. In 1559, Cecil encouraged a French Huguenot called La Renaudie—who had been brought to visit London by Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, acting as an English diplomatic agent in France—to kidnap the young Francis II. 51 Early the following spring, some number of rebels—estimates suggest over a thousand—attempted to storm the Château at Amboise to seize the young French king, but were defeated (and those who survived executed) by forces under the command of Francis de Lorraine, Duke of Guise, and Charles de Lorraine, Cardinal Lorraine. 52 Both men would become longstanding enemies of the French Huguenots and the English, possibly because of England’s known involvement in supporting La Renaudie and Louis de Bourbon, Prince of Condé, suspected as the mastermind behind the plot and an ally of Cecil’s. 53 Although Cecil was not directly responsible, his ties—both directly and via Throckmorton—suggest his recognition of the importance of international intelligence activity to England’s security. As the Tumult of Amboise suggests, the primary threats to England were intertwined with the question of its religious affiliation; had Elizabeth agreed to convert to Catholicism or to permit her country to remain tied to the Papacy—or had she accepted Philip II’s marriage proposal—England would have retained the protection of Spain and would not have needed to be concerned with the religious wars in France. However, Elizabeth’s Protestant disposition (as moderate as it was) and the more radical evangelicalism of her Council, deliberately selected by Cecil, virtually guaranteed that England would be positioned in direct religious opposition to her nearest neighbors to the north, south, and west (Scotland, France, and Spain). Francis Walsingham If England was both to survive and thrive as a Protestant nation, it needed more than just Uniformity; it needed international ties and the capacity to ensure its own security against incursions from foreign armies and agents alike. In order to achieve this goal, Cecil gathered a bevy of agents and diplomats—including Throckmorton and the young Puritan Member of Parliament Francis Walsingham. Walsingham, self-exiled during the Marian regime, returned to England to stand for election to the House of Commons in 1559, hopeful that Elizabeth’s accession meant the return of Protestantism and governmental support for ecclesiastical and doctrinal reform. In him, Cecil recognized zeal and an acute eye for diplomatic and political detail.

William Cecil’s Spies 53 Like Cecil, Walsingham had been raised and educated in the midst of the Reformation, attending Cambridge University (King’s College) during the early years of Edward VI’s rule.54 In order to study the law, in 1552, he enrolled in Grey’s Inn, located both ideologically and geographically close to Edward’s Reformation court. John Cooper speculates that his proximity may have led to Walsingham’s involvement in Wyatt’s Rebellion in 1553, and if Walsingham himself was not, certainly several members of his family were, including one or more of the cousins with whom he traveled to Geneva.55 While in exile, Walsingham lived in Padua, where he assumed the role of representative for the English law students at the university, an early indication of his proclivity for diplomatic civil service.56 In Padua, Walsingham “had an excellent opportunity to study the two great masters of the craft, Venetian and Jesuit, both at work,” an experience that contributed to his skills as a diplomat and an intelligencer, particularly when it came to languages and codebreaking.57 It was also during his exile that he developed his general philosophy of government service: to observe all that was around him, making note of both geographic features, such as fortifications and deployments, and the agents employed in foreign courts, describing such men using the metaphor of “conduit pipes, though they themselves have no water.”58 It was a philosophy Walsingham would maintain from the time he entered service in the Elizabethan government until his death in 1590, serving himself as a conduit through which intelligence would travel from agents around the world back to Cecil and Elizabeth. Even newly returned from abroad with a cosmopolitan sense of global politics and a keen desire to help shape the new Protestant England, Walsingham was already poised not only to participate in, but also expand Cecil’s fledgling spy network. Already in 1559 Walsingham had invested in the Muscovy Company, following Cecil’s 1555 example, becoming “an ‘assistant’ or director,” a role that enabled him to provide direction for and gain intelligence from a variety of merchant-spies for the next two decades.59 Not long after, he was employed by Cecil to go undercover on a clandestine operation on behalf of the government, thereby embarking upon one of the most valuable government partnerships of the Elizabethan period.60 By 1560, the early trajectory of Elizabeth’s reign had already been established, although there were as of yet few specifically defining moments. Cecil’s return to power and his inclusion of Walsingham in his early intelligence network was also a formative part of the Elizabethan establishment, and their shared concern about the Catholic threat to Protestantism ultimately played a deterministic role in the bureaucratization of intelligence gathering and the centralization of the government institution. The first few years of Elizabeth’s rule therefore gave more lip service than policy enforcement to the official shift away from Catholicism, due in large part to Elizabeth and Cecil’s practical recognition that an abrupt transition

54  William Cecil’s Spies would only antagonize those who were comfortable with Catholic tradition. Despite the ratification of the Act of Uniformity in 1559, the actuality of the transition was slow, designed to ease most of England back to the Protestantism of Edward’s reign and mitigate the possibility of rebellion. This was an intentional and deliberate move on the part of Elizabeth’s reform-oriented Privy Council under the direction of Cecil, who understood perhaps better than anyone the dangers presented by radical religious shifts.

The Rise of the Cecil-Walsingham Regime, 1560–1570 Although the first few years of Elizabeth’s reign were relatively peaceful, rebellion—particularly, religious rebellion—was the hallmark of the next few decades. Catholicism was still, in the 1560s, the more popular religion among the commons in England. The decade between 1560 and 1570 was pivotal in turning the religious tide. As Emma Watson notes, “Catholicism in the 1560s was sufficiently widespread and flourishing,” particularly in the north, “to have appeared a credible alternative to the Elizabethan settlement, and the belief that Catholicism would one day be restored does not appear to have been uncommon in the decade before 1569.”61 In considering the state of English religious stability in the first decade of Elizabeth’s reign, it is important to remember that although she officially enforced the Acts and Oath of Supremacy, Elizabeth, unlike her sister, was uninterested in prosecutions of a religious nature, an ideology that reflected compromise rather than radical reform. The official government policy was the appearance of conformity rather than enforced conversion, and Elizabeth—­sometimes to the consternation of her more evangelically minded advisors—was loathe to engage in overt persecution. However, she and her Council agreed that interference from foreign nations on the matter of religion needed to be curtailed. By the summer of 1562, Cecil was concerned enough about the machinations of the Spanish Ambassador, Alvarez de Quadra, that Cecil “tampered with the ambassador’s secretary, obtained from him secret papers and even intercepted dispatches” in an attempt to expose (and thus curtail) Spanish involvement in a variety of conspiracies to depose or assassinate Elizabeth.62 Although Cecil accused de Quadra of involvement in a variety of affairs—being a party to conspiracies, aiding Irish treasons, and giving masses in the embassy to which he supposedly invited English Recusants—his actual participation was questionable in all but the last.63 Cecil demanded that de Quadra leave the country; de Quadra refused, but his standing at court became slightly more tarnished by the accusations. Spain, of course, was both financially and spiritually interested in controlling the English crown and—after Elizabeth refused to marry her sister’s husband—made every attempt either to negotiate for a Catholic husband for the English queen or find a replacement for her altogether. As every

William Cecil’s Spies 55 attempt to convince Elizabeth to marry failed (some more rapidly than others), Spain became increasingly interested in backing conspiracies to replace Elizabeth with her northern Catholic cousin, Mary Queen of Scots. When Mary’s first husband, Francis I, died at the end of 1560, Mary became a marriageable candidate, and the governments of England, France, and Spain all had a renewed stake in Mary’s future. With de Quadra’s departure from England, matters became more urgent. In part, the English Parliament and Privy Council responded by attempting to secure their own line of succession. If Elizabeth married, they argued, and produced an heir, then England’s security would be ensured and the threat from Mary would no longer be relevant. Elizabeth was uninterested in such arguments from the beginning of her reign, telling Parliament that “when the public charge of governing the kingdom came upon me, it seemed to me an inconsiderate folly to draw upon myself the cares which might proceed of marriage. To conclude, I am already bound unto an husband, which is the kingdom of England, and that may suffice you.”64 After the House of Commons petitioned her again in 1563, she reiterated, saying, “I assure you all that though after my death you may have many stepdames, yet shall you never have any a more mother than I mean to be unto you all.”65 When it became clear that Elizabeth was steadfast in her rejection of marriage, Parliament attempted to convince her to name an heir of her own choosing. Elizabeth absolutely refused, arguing that while the majority of her subjects were undoubtedly loyal to her, “yet is nowhere so great perfection that all are content,” and so to proclaim her heir would be to provide a “second person” behind whom rebellions could rally.66 This debate came to a particularly frantic head in 1562 when Elizabeth contracted a severe case of smallpox, which many members of the Council were convinced would be fatal. It led Cecil and the Council to attempt to establish a means by which the nation could continue with no definitive heir, a move that— although it had no immediate legal implications, as Elizabeth survived her illness—was an ideological sea change in the understanding of the form and function of government. In 1563, Cecil offered a solution that would, in theory, prevent the Council’s worst fears—loss of government stability, civil war, and invasion (by one of England’s Catholic neighbors, either Spain or France). He suggested that should the worst come to pass and the queen die successor-less, the Privy Council itself should be given the authority to rule until such time that it could name a new monarch.67 In essence, Cecil’s proposal—which anticipated the Civil War by almost a century and the Glorious Revolution by a century and a half—represented the possibility of fully bureaucratic governance at a time when bureaucracy was yet being gestated. It articulated the unwritten and largely unspoken assumption that monarchical power was limited and tied to the ratification of Parliament, despite the publicly repeated mantra of divine endowment.68 Cecil’s plan reified the

56  William Cecil’s Spies English common law understanding of limited monarchy by transferring power directly to Parliament, instead of presuming transference to the heir with the approval—embodied during the coronation ceremony—of Parliament. Although the proposal was not so radical as to suggest not choosing a monarch (as would happen in 1649), the very notion that Parliament would be capable of ruling in a monarch’s stead was drastic, and Elizabeth refused to authorize it. The proposal fell out of discussion with Elizabeth’s recovery, although it did not completely disappear and resurfaced in 1584 with the Bond of Association, although Elizabeth yet again refused to authorize it. Nevertheless, the proposal itself stands as an indication of the shifting ideology surrounding the English polity; succession—and its processes— was no longer taken for granted, and the men at the center of government were more willing to publicly recognize that the government was an institution and not solely the product of its king or queen. Although it seemed to matter little in the sixteenth century, this distinction became vital to both the smooth transition of power from Elizabeth to James in the early seventeenth century, facilitated by intelligence agents, as well as to the violent removal of Charles four decades later. But in middle of the 1560s, with Elizabeth immovable, the Council had no choice but to turn to other means of maintaining national security. It was then that Cecil began seriously engaging agents and cryptographers— including John Dee, a former Catholic-turned-alchemist and mathematician who brought cryptography to Cecil’s attention—in the process of gathering and encoding information pertinent to the maintenance of Elizabeth’s state. Cecil also had to manage diplomatic relations with France and, even more importantly, keep control of events in Scotland, which posed the most immediate threat to its southern neighbor. The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots From 1565 to 1568, Mary Queen of Scots had essentially undermined her own rule, jeopardizing her authority within her own country and alienating the Protestant Lords in the Scottish Parliament. When, in 1567, she married James Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell—whose involvement in the murder of her previous husband, Henry Stuart, Duke of Albany and Lord Darnley, was highly suspect—it seemed almost certain that her reign could not last. Cecil dispatched Nicholas Throckmorton—who had previously served in France and knew Mary from her time in the French Court during her first marriage to Francis—to Scotland both to negotiate between Mary and her rebellious Parliament and, of course, to gather intelligence to be sent back to England. By the end of July, however, Mary had lost control of her government, was forced to abdicate, and was imprisoned, leaving the Scottish throne to fall to her infant son, James.69 While Elizabeth was horrified that a Parliament thought itself capable of removing an anointed

William Cecil’s Spies 57 monarch, Cecil was pleased with the outcome, writing that “All things are quiet within this realm,” praising the moderation of James Stewart, Regent and Earl of Moray, and the triumph of a Protestant government.70 With Mary and her Catholic allies removed from power in Scotland, Cecil recognized that England had gained a more stable northern neighbor—although he also understood that as long as Mary lived, she remained a threat to Elizabeth and England. The French once more became an active concern in Scottish affairs in 1568 when Henri, Duke of Guise and heir to Francis de Lorraine, and Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, sought to free Mary from imprisonment in Scotland and bring her back to France.71 Henry Norris, acting on behalf of Elizabeth and Cecil in Paris, reported back to England that “there are certain Italians sent into England by the Cardinal of Lorraine to practise against her.”72 In order to counter this plot, Norris advised Cecil to employ Captain Tomaso Franchiotto—known pseudonymously as “Captain François”—to investigate further.73 Cecil, unable to take the time to control Franchiotto’s moves personally, delegated the task to the young Walsingham, who was fluent in both French and Italian, thanks to the years he’d spent in the Continent during Marian rule.74 Walsingham, detail oriented and a committed Protestant, fulfilled his duty to Cecil, relaying Franchiotto’s information even when he was uncertain whether or not the information was of significant value.75 The information Franchiotto gave to Walsingham included possible enemy spies and a caution to “beware of poison in her food or her bedding.”76 He also established his own network of informants across London, including the Lord Mayor, who was to report the movements of any foreign nationals in the city.77 For the most part, Walsingham learned that the plot to rescue Mary was largely talk and very little action; the French Wars of Religion kept the Guise and Cardinal Lorraine preoccupied within their own borders, and Philip of Spain—who was ostensibly the financial backer for the plot—was himself overcommitted in the Netherlands. Walsingham’s determination, therefore, was that this particular scheme was not worth pursuing—and he was right. Not long after, in May of 1568, Mary escaped Lochleven Castle and fled south into England, where Elizabeth offered her “protection,” with the caveat that Mary had to address the accusations of conspiracy, treason, and murder leveled against her by the Scots.78 Until Mary satisfactorily answered the charges against her—to Elizabeth and her Privy Council—she would remain under English guard—ostensibly for her own safety, of course. As far as Cecil was concerned, however, Mary’s presence in England was a veritable political disaster.79 Mary’s arrival— and the need for the Council to decide what to do with her—coincided with increased hostilities between England and Spain resulting from English involvement in privateering, otherwise known to its victims as “piracy.”

58  William Cecil’s Spies The Problem of Spain From 1567 until the turn of the decade, England became—in part at Cecil’s exhortation—involved in unofficially sanctioned privateering targeting Spanish ships headed to and from Africa and the New World. Although piracy as a widespread practice had begun, at least among the exiled Protestant English, under Mary’s rule, during Elizabeth’s reign it was openly—if ­tacitly—accepted as a pseudo-honorable means of maintaining English naval pride.80 For instance, late in 1568, when storms drove a dozen Spanish ships to take shelter in the English ports of Southampton and Plymouth, the English government seized the coin—which was “technically … the property of the Genoese banking houses which were lending it to King Philip”—with the argument that England needed “to borrow it,” instead.81 The Genoese did not openly object, although Philip unequivocally did.82 The impound of the Spanish vessels eroded the uneasy truce between Elizabeth and Philip II and increased concern over the possibility of a Spanish plot or all-out invasion. Cecil’s promotion of piracy had two immediate outcomes: first, it produced a tradition of English privateering; second, it spurred the Spanish to close their Dutch ports to English trade, a consequence that, in the long term, embroiled the English in the Protestant rebellions in the Spanish Netherlands and produced resentment of Cecil among English merchants who lost trade income due to the Spanish embargo.83 Eventually, however, English naval involvement with the Spanish Main in the New World would establish an even more extensive intelligence network that reached from the colony of Virginia all the way to Russia and the Levant. It also exacerbated the atmosphere of anxiety that already characterized the Council and court when it came to diplomatic relations with Spain. Add to this pressure from France to aid Mary Queen of Scots and opposing arguments from Scotland to imprison her, and the Privy Council was hard-pressed to find a peaceful outcome. Cecil’s personal vendetta against Mary—as the most viable yet Catholic replacement for Elizabeth—meant that the Secretary was uninterested in aiding her cause and allying with the French, which further increased concerns about a Catholic alliance between France and Spain against England. Those concerns were not unfounded. Cecil shared Walsingham’s sentiment that “there is lesse daynger in fearinge to muche than to little,” an ideology that served both men well in this situation.84 Indeed, Philip II did in fact conspire with the Guises to place Mary on the English throne, although the fruits of their machinations would not end with the turn of the decade. In the early months of 1569, the Huguenots in France faced active persecution, and Spain increased its military pressure in the Netherlands, while the Guises continued to provide support—and funds—to Mary by means of spy networks of their own. For Cecil, the activity of these Catholic powers was a hallmark sign of uncertainty, and he sought every means—including intelligence—to counter them.

William Cecil’s Spies 59 The Problem in the North However, the most immediate problem came not from foreign powers, but from the Catholic nobles still in England. The 1560s concluded with the 1569 uprising of the northern earls in rebellion against Elizabeth—specifically, against her Protestant mandate—essentially repeating the Pilgrimage of Grace that had risen against Henry VIII. Led by Charles Neville, Earl of Westmorland, and Thomas Percy, Earl of Northumberland, the rebels were united behind a banner bearing the insignia of the Five Wounds of Christ, “symbolising the presence of Christ in their midst” and wearing tabards styled after those worn by crusaders with a red painted cross.85 Percy and Neville, accompanied by over 300 horsemen, attacked Durham Cathedral, destroying Books of Common Prayer and English vernacular Bibles and stopping Protestant services, before turning south towards London.86 Neville and Percy claimed that the focus of their rebellion was not Elizabeth, per se, but the “sinister and detestable counsel” she was receiving from “certain common enemies of this realm about the Queen’s Majesty’s person”: namely, Cecil and the Protestant members of her Privy Council.87 However, this rebellion was not only an attempt by the northern Catholics to reassert their religious dominance or to protect the queen, but also a last-ditch attempt by the earls to cling to the pre-War of the Roses feudal hierarchy that had made them so powerful. It was perhaps the latter of these—the desire on the part of the Percys and Nevilles to maintain their historic feudal authority—that doomed their rebellion more than their Catholicism. After all, scholars have noted that, at this time, both the noble and common populations in the North were predominantly, if not entirely, Catholic. Yet the purpose of the rebellion was not simply to enforce Catholicism, but to replace the queen and Council, which the earls recognized as committed to the Protestant cause. As such, their initial objective was to secure the freedom of Mary Queen of Scots from her elegant imprisonment in England. When the government discovered the plot, it removed Mary to Coventry, and the rebellion rapidly collapsed. Neville was persuaded to turn himself in to the government in exchange for his life, although it would take another two years to arrest Percy in the Netherlands.88 One product of the backlash against the suppression of the Northern Rising was the increased preoccupation with Mary Queen of Scots on the part of other, more circumspect nobles in Elizabeth’s court. Thomas Howard, Earl of Norfolk, was among the most powerful remaining peers following the fall of Percy and Neville, and their destruction led him to turn not to open rebellion, but to conspiracy, allying himself with Mary and her supporters in England, Scotland, France, and Spain. Although he denied these connections when pressed by the queen in November of 1569, neither Elizabeth nor Cecil believed his denials. Using the fledgling intelligence network Cecil was working to establish, Cecil kept a close watch

60  William Cecil’s Spies over Howard’s movements and correspondence, particularly as they concerned Mary. Although nothing would come of Howard’s intrigues in the 1560s, his interrogation by the queen led to both increased caution on his part and more stringent surveillance of the peerage by Cecil, whose experience in suppressing the Northern Rising had only reinforced his belief in the importance of cultivating an extensive intelligence network. It also presented Cecil with the opportunity to engage directly in the same kind of propaganda he had used during Mary’s reign when he surreptitiously employed John Day to print anti-Marian pamphlets from his lands in Lincolnshire. In 1569, however, Cecil turned to a playwright-turned-government-agent as his principal cog in the Elizabethan propaganda machine. The agent in question was Thomas Norton, who had been called to the bar in 1563 and served as the standing counsel for the Stationers’ Company.89 His involvement with both authorship and the theatres—Norton authored devotional poetry and co-authored the play Gorboduc with Thomas Sackville while both were students—particularly when coupled to his official capacity with the Stationers’ Company and previous work with Cecil’s printer John Day, made him an ideal candidate for Cecil’s propagandist purposes. The publication Cecil commissioned, A discourse touching the pretended match betwene the duke of Norfolke and the queene of Scottes (1569), was addressed to “the Queen’s Majesty’s poor deceived subjects in the north” and specifically contrasted the power of the Elizabethan government favorably with the failure of the Northern Rising.90 With the rebellion itself put down, the court appeared—at least on the surface—subdued by the combined power of the Queen and her Council, although Cecil and his agents, and Walsingham in particular, were uninclined to rest on their proverbial laurels. Although contained, Mary was alive and well, and her family connections to the Catholic Guises in France remained a latent threat, as did Philip of Spain, still aggravated by English privateering in the Atlantic and Mediterranean. But, at the close of 1569, England had been firmly—although slowly and carefully—established as a Protestant nation in a sea of Catholic nations whose focus quickly became ensuring that England (and Elizabeth) did not long remain so.

Cecil’s Early Intelligence Network During these early years, Cecil began to develop a network of informants, agents, and diplomats whose work for the English government not only enabled him to direct counter-insurgency movements against uprisings such as the Northern Rising, but also laid the foundations for future intelligencers. Beginning from a list of Cecil’s known agents, we can use social network mapping and analysis to get a more comprehensive picture of the ways in which Cecil and his agents interacted with one another, with the targets of their intelligence, and with other prominent members of

William Cecil’s Spies 61

Figure 2.1  Social network map from 1558 to 1569

the Elizabethan government.91 The map above reveals not only the configuration of the agents in Cecil’s employ, but also uses statistical analysis to evaluate the complexity and density of the network. Looking at the directionality of the network here contributes to a fuller understanding of the power dynamics between individuals. For instance, during this period, Walsingham and Cecil were both subjects and direct servants of Elizabeth I; the directionality of the relationship between Elizabeth and these two men was thus outward from Elizabeth (and inward for both Cecil and Walsingham). However, as Walsingham and Cecil worked together more frequently, their relationship shifted from that

62  William Cecil’s Spies of patronage (outward from Cecil to Walsingham) to collegiality, and the directionality between Cecil and Walsingham shifted from directional to symmetrical (both out and in for both nodes). Statistical analysis of a network thus takes into account the directionality of its relationships and is represented in this study by the relative size of the nodes (more power, or a higher outdegree, is indicated by a larger node). In this case, Cecil has the highest outdegree, with 23 edges leading outward from his node (Walsingham has 9, and Elizabeth 10). Outdegree tells us that within the intelligence network, Cecil had the greatest influence, followed by Walsingham, despite the fact that the latter did not yet possess a title or official position that reflected that influence. The network thus reflects the significance of relationships that may or may not be evident from the historical record, allowing us to see the ramifications of unofficial power within the intelligence service (and, by extension, the importance of unrecognized influence to the court and even the nation as a whole). If we examine the centrality of the network above, Thomas Sackville (Baron Buckhurst and Member of Parliament) connects to Nicholas Ousley (one of Walsingham’s agents) only by means of Walsingham; Walsingham is thus central to the connection between Sackville and Ousley. So while Sackville and Ousley are only two degrees from one another, Walsingham is a necessary intermediary in their connection. In this study, centrality is indicated by the saturation of the color in the network (the darker the node, the more central it is in the network). Considered in statistical terms, we can put a numerical value to each node’s centrality. The most central figure in this network is—­unsurprisingly— William Cecil, with a centrality of 1. Walsingham is the second most central figure, at 0.525, with Elizabeth third, at 0.468. If we consider that the mathematical average centrality for the whole network is only 0.148, we can determine that Walsingham, Cecil, and Elizabeth are significantly more central than the average (which is entirely expected).92 Other prominent figures in espionage at the time, such as Francisco Thomaso (0.327), one of Cecil’s principal couriers, also have a higher centrality than average, although markedly lower than that of the three primary nodes. In the network for 1558–1569, Cecil is both the most central and has the highest outdegree, closely followed by Walsingham, and then the queen herself.93 It also helps to demonstrate that although history—particularly the secondary record—places emphasis on the roles of the few, there are many—at least 66—men (and possibly a few women) involved in maintaining English national security. With one hundred connections (edges) between them, these 66 individuals (including Cecil, Walsingham, and Elizabeth) were still relatively loosely connected, with an Average Degree of only 1.515—meaning that most people had fewer than two connections on average. This is borne out in an Average Path Length (APL) of 3.211 and a Global Clustering Coefficient (GCC) of 0.3211. This APL tells us that most people were more than three degrees from most other people and there was

William Cecil’s Spies 63 about a 32% chance that they knew or had encountered another member of the network during the years from 1558 to 1569. As we will see, for most of the periods in the Elizabethan regime, the average degree is higher, the APL is shorter, and the GCC is higher—which is what we ought to expect as the network matures and Cecil and Walsingham became more comfortable in their roles as spymasters. Its fledgling nature notwithstanding, by the end of the Northern Rising in 1569, Cecil’s network was firmly established. It would continue to grow in the early years of the 1570s until he passed its reigns to Walsingham, whose prominence in Cecil’s early network was already more than evident by this time.

New Religious (In)Stability The Northern Rising aside, for the most part, Cecil and Walsingham—and, by extension, the government more generally—held on to the belief “that the old faith would gradually wither away when deprived of state support,” a belief that was, as later years would show, ill-founded and overly optimistic.94 Yet by the close of 1569, the official proscription of Catholicism in England had yet to yield the extreme level of persecutions that characterized Mary’s reign. Although Elizabeth’s rule would not achieve the same level of bloodiness that stained her sister’s, her government would soon develop a reputation for hunting priests and Recusants. In the first decade of Elizabeth’s reign, both Catholics and Protestants found themselves compromising on matters of religion in terms of both doctrine and practice. Catholics conducted masses in private chapels with less frequency than when it had been officially sanctioned, keeping sacred artifacts hidden in trunks, closets, or even in plain sight.95 Protestants, especially those who were more reform minded, were also constrained by Elizabeth’s doctrinal caution, and some—the more radical Calvinists and Puritans—remained equally discontent with the Elizabethan religious compromise as their Catholic neighbors. Yet although matters of religion were precarious, the practice of compromise meant that Elizabeth’s government was able—for the first decade, at least—to balance the complexities that characterized her reign. An unmarried female ruler, a change of official religion, and the loss of the last vestiges of the feudal social hierarchy all problematized the reign of the final Tudor monarch in England. However, the outcomes that resulted from Elizabeth’s tenure helped to further shift English polity toward bureaucracy and centralized institutional government, in large part due to the influence of William Cecil. By 1570, Cecil was an inextricable part of that government, one of the most powerful men not only in England, but throughout Europe. Walsingham, having proven himself as Cecil’s middle-man agent and acquitted himself as a diplomat in Paris, was well on his way to establishing his own reputation

64  William Cecil’s Spies as both intelligencer and spymaster. Both men would be instrumental over the next two decades to not only the stability of England, but also to the establishment of a new proto-bureaucratic form of government based on the machinery of espionage and surveillance capable of ensuring the perpetuation of the English polity through the death of Elizabeth.

Notes 1. Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400–1580 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), 528. 2. Duffy, 528. 3. Karl Gunther, “The Marian Persecution and Early Elizabethan Protestants: Persecutors, Apostates, and the Wages of Sin,” Archiv Für Das Studium Der Neueren Sprächen Und Literaturen 107 (2016): 145. 4. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 23. 5. Jasper Ridley, Bloody Mary’s Martyrs: The Story of England’s Terror (New York: Carroll & Graf Publishers, 2001), 45. 6. Christopher Haigh, English Reformations: Religion, Politics, and Society under the Tudors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 235. 7. John Coffey, Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England 1558-1689, Studies in Modern History (Harlow: Longman, 2000), 80. 8. R.J. Acheson, Radical Puritans in England 1550–1660, Seminar Studies in History (London: Longman, 1990), 7. 9. Ridley, Bloody Mary’s Martyrs, 60. 10. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 80. 11. Ridley, Bloody Mary’s Martyrs, 7. 12. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 81. 13. Ridley, Bloody Mary’s Martyrs, 140. 14. Ridley, 140. 15. David K. Anderson, Martyrs and Players in Early Modern England: Tragedy, Religion and Violence on Stage, Reprint (2014, Ashgate), Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016), 30. 16. Anderson, 30. 17. Anderson, 32. 18. Ridley, Bloody Mary’s Martyrs, 143–4. 19. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 81. 20. Alan Gordon Smith, William Cecil: The Power behind Elizabeth, Reprint (2004) (Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 1934), 43; Eamon Duffy, Saints, Sacrilege & Sedition: Religion and Conflict in the Tudor Reformations, Paperback (2012 hardcover) (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 208; Haigh, English Reformations, 238. 21. Smith, William Cecil, 55. 22. Duffy, Saints, Sacrilege & Sedition, 208. 23. Smith, William Cecil, 51. 24. Adam Morton and Nadine Lewycky, “Introduction,” in Getting Along? Religious Identities and Confessional Relations in Early Modern England— Essays in Honour of Professor W.J. Sheils, ed. Nadine Lewycky and Adam Morton (London: Routledge, 2016), 19. 25. Gunther, “The Marian Persecution and Early Elizabethan Protestants,” 144. 26. Gunther, 148. 27. Smith, William Cecil, 53.

William Cecil’s Spies 65 28. Smith, 53. Smith erroneously lists the “Sackville” appointed to the Council as Thomas, Richard’s son. While Thomas Sackville was a member of the Privy Council, his appointment didn’t take place until 1586. 29. Smith, 53–4. 30. William Haller, The Elect Nation: The Meaning and Relevance of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1963), 84. 31. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 40. 32. W.J. Sheils, The English Reformation 1530–1570, Seminar Studies in History (New York: Longman, 1989), 53. 33. Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400– 1580, 566; Lena Oetzel, “When Criticism Becomes Resistance: The Marian Episcopacy in 1558/59,” Archiv Für Das Studium Der Neueren Sprächen Und Literaturen 107 (2016): 119; Norman L. Jones, Faith by Statute: Parliament and the Settlement of Religion (Cambridge, 1982), 150, qtd. in Oetzel. 34. Smith, William Cecil, 66. 35. Smith, 50. 36. Stephen Alford, Burghley: William Cecil at the Court of Elizabeth I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 12. 37. Smith, William Cecil, 24–5. 38. Alford, Burghley, 34. 39. Smith, William Cecil, 29–30; Alford, Burghley, 58–9. 40. Smith, William Cecil, 31. 41. Smith, 33–6. 42. Smith, 36; Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 32. 43. Alford, Burghley, 66–67. 44. Smith, William Cecil, 40; Alford, Burghley, 82. 45. Alford, Burghley, 80. 46. Alford, 81. Sneynton’s records are the only reason we know this meeting took place, as Cecil was careful to ensure that no one could accuse him of disloyalty to the still-living Queen Mary. 47. Elizabeth I, Elizabeth I Collected Works, ed. Leah S. Marcus, Janel Mueller, and Mary Beth Rose (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 2000), 51. 48. Alford, Burghley, 89. 49. Smith, William Cecil, 49; Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 132. 50. Smith, William Cecil, 76. 51. Smith, 77. 52. “Conspiracy of Amboise – Britannica Academic,” accessed 6 March 2019, https://academic-eb-com.newman.richmond.edu/levels/collegiate/article/ Conspiracy-of-Amboise/6055. 53. Smith, William Cecil, 77. 54. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 13. 55. Cooper, 25. 56. Cooper, 27. 57. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 25. Walsingham left Padua in 1556 and seems to have disappeared from the historical record. It seems likely that he spent some of this time in France—with which he was familiar enough to be later employed as ambassador—and may also have visited acquaintances whom he knew from his time in exile in Basle, Strasburg, and Frankfurt (Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 53). 58. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 30. 59. Cooper, 45. 60. Cooper, 49.

66  William Cecil’s Spies 61. Emma Watson, “Clergy, Laity and Ecclesiastical Discipline in Elizabethan Yorkshire Parishes,” in Getting Along? Religious Identities and Confessional Relations in Early Modern England - Essays in Honour of Professor W.J. Sheils, ed. Nadine Lewycky and Adam Morton (London: Routledge, 2016), 108–9. 62. Smith, William Cecil, 96. 63. Smith, 96. 64. Elizabeth I, Elizabeth I Collected Works, 59. 65. Elizabeth I, 72. 66. Elizabeth I, 66. 67. Alford, Burghley, 124. 68. It is also eerily reminiscent of Gwenard’s proposal in Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville’s Gorboduc, particularly noteworthy since Sackville and Norton themselves both became prominent members of Elizabeth’s government (and Sackville would remain a Privy Councilor into the reign of James I) (Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville, The Tragedie of Gorbodvc, Whereof Three Actes Were Wrytten by Thomas Nortone, and the Two Laste by Thomas Sackuyle, Early English Books Online (London: William Griffith, 1565), http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/ books/tragedie-gorboduc-whereof-three-actes-were/docview/2269047329/ se-2?accountid=14731). 69. Alford, Burghley, 137. 70. William Cecil, “Sir William Cecil, to Sir Henry Norris,” in Cabala, Sive, Scrinia Sacra, Mysteries of State and Government: In Letters of Illustrious Persons and Great Ministers of State as Well Forreign as Domestick, in the Reigns of King Henry the Eighth, Q: Elizabeth, K: James, and K: Charles: Wherein Such Secrets of Empire, and Publick Affairs, as Were Then in Agitation, Are Clearly Represented; and Many Remarkable Passages Faithfully Collected. Formerly in Two Volumns. To Which Is Added Several Choice Letters and Negotiations, No Where Else Published. Now Collected and Printed Together in One Volumn. With Two Exact Tables, the One of the Letters, and the Other of Things Most Observable, ed. G. Bedell and T. Collins (London: G. Bedell and T. Collins, 1663), 141. 71. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 5. 72. Sir Henry Norris, “Sir Henry Norris to Cecil,” July 23, 1568, SP 70/100 f.59, Calendar of State Papers Foreign, Elizabeth, 1558-1589. Ed. Allan James Crosby. Vol. 8: 1566-1568 London, England: Longman & Co, Truebner & Co, Parker & Co, Macmillan and Co, A&C Black, A. Thom., 1871, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4311602400&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it= r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar. 73. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 5. 74. Plowden, 5. 75. Plowden, 6. 76. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 52. 77. Cooper, 52. 78. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 9; Alford, Burghley, 151. 79. Alford, Burghley, 151. 80. Smith, William Cecil, 130. 81. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 2. 82. Plowden, 2. 83. Smith, William Cecil, 134. 84. Francis Walsingham to William Cecil, “Francis Walsyngham to Sir William Cecil,” December 20, 1568, SP 12/48 f.165, The National Archives of the UK.

William Cecil’s Spies 67









State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com. newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304184583&v=2.1&u= vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript. 85. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 53. 86. Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 21. 87. Alford, Burghley, 160. 88. Smith, William Cecil, 143. 89. Marie Axton, “Norton, Thomas (1530x32–1584), Lawyer and Writer,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, 2008, https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/20359. 90. Thomas Norton, A Discourse Touching the Pretended Match Betwene the Duke of Norfolke and the Queene of Scottes (London, England: John Day, 1569), https://www.proquest.com/eebo/docview/2240939015/citation/ D8D4F27D94024BFFPQ/1; Axton, “Norton.” 91. The Introduction provides a more comprehensive overview of social network analysis as a method. 92. We should recognize that this high degree of centrality comes in part because records focus on the doings of significant persons rather than servants or lowly common agents. However, we should also expect that the focus of the network—Elizabeth—and its principal spymaster—Cecil—would be central to its operations even if we had complete data about every agent and their interrelationships. 93. This is not to say that Cecil and Walsingham were more influential than Elizabeth in all matters (a complete courtly network would place her more firmly in the center. In a network of courtly, familial, political, and intelligence interactions for the same period (1558–1569), Elizabeth is the most central (at 1), with Cecil at 0.827. (See Appendix for further details.) 94. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 85. 95. Claire Marsland, “The Material Culture of Catholicism and Confessional Politics in Early Modern England” (Renaissance Society of America, Toronto, March 17, 2019).

3

Regnans in Excelsis, the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, and the Foundation of Walsingham’s Intelligence Service, 1570–1579

The years from 1570 to 1579, when plots became so ubiquitous in Elizabeth’s reign that it would have been surprising to go through an entire year without one, established some of the most fundamental elements in Elizabethan English life. From the arrival in 1570 of the papal bull Regnans in Excelsis to the Ridolfi Plot to the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the 1570s established religion as the driving force of conflict in England and in her relationship with both France and Spain, laying the groundwork for future decades of conflict. The terms of Regnans and violence of the massacre not only provided the foundation for decades of English propaganda focused on fear and paranoia, but also served as the impetus for the expansion and early institutionalization of the English intelligence service in the name of national security. Yet the most fundamental change in the English secret service was the seemingly meteoric rise of Sir Francis Walsingham from a minor aide to William Cecil to ambassador of France to Principal Secretary in less than a decade. If Cecil was responsible for the (re)foundation of English intelligence, it was Walsingham who made it indispensable and guaranteed its permanent place in English polity. In the process, Cecil and Walsingham also changed the shape and face of English government, incorporating men and women from across class strata and creating the nascent beginnings of governmental bureaucracy. In so doing, they shifted both the nature of government power and the expectations of who could—and could not— participate in the processes and praxis of statecraft.

Regnans in Excelsis: The Aftermath of the Papal Bull of 1570 On 25 February 1570, Pope Pius V issued a declaration that fundamentally reconfigured the English government’s relationship with the papacy and Catholics in general. Called Regnans in Excelsis (“he that rules in heaven above”), the bull declared that “we do out of the fullness of our apostolic power declare the foresaid Elizabeth to be a heretic to have incurred the sentence of excommunication” and released “the nobles, subjects and people DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-4

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 69 of the said realm…to be forever absolved from such an oath and from any duty arising from lordship, fealty and obedience.”1 In it, Pius stated that Elizabeth was an illegitimate ruler who had usurped the religious authority of the papacy, declared her a heretic and a danger to the Catholic faith, and proclaimed her excommunicate.2 As a consequence, he further absolved her subjects of their loyalty to her, excusing and tacitly encouraging dissent, revolt and even—or so claimed the English government—assassination. As such, it signaled to Cecil that the government needed to work specifically and directly against Catholic conspiracies, and from 1570 forward, it became the principal driving cause behind many English intelligence operations. In essence, Cecil and his Protestant co-Privy Council members viewed the Regnans as tantamount to a declaration of spiritual war on Elizabethan Protestantism. Issuing the bull was also, in hindsight, a terrible mistake. Pius had assumed that he had the unswerving support of the powerful European Catholic princes—particularly Philip II of Spain and Charles IX of France—in enforcing the terms of the bull, which, Pius believed, would eliminate Elizabeth and present an opportunity for either Charles or Philip to invade England and restore the island nation to the Catholic fold. But Pius had not consulted with either king.3 Regnans in Excelsis was posted publicly in England, presumably by a Catholic or Recusant, having been attached to the outside of the Bishop of London’s door on 25 May 1570.4 Although its display was intended as an attack on the Church of England, it had almost the opposite effect, galvanizing the English government into public anti-Catholic legislation and consolidating support for England specifically with support for the Protestant church. As Alice Hogge observes, Pius had achieved what Protestant Parliamentarians had so far only dreamed of. In showing that a strict adherence to the Catholic faith was now mutually incompatible with loyalty to Elizabeth, he had bound Anglicanism to Englishness more firmly than ever. And he had given to an anxious English nation the cast-iron proof that the more devout the Catholic, the more danger they presented to the realm.5 Without the bull, England’s slow process of re-conversion back to Prot­ estantism would likely have continued to follow its extant trajectory; although there were those among Elizabeth’s court and Council who wished for a swifter process, Cecil and others understood that time and incremental reform would likely be the most effective means of securing a wholly Protestant England. However, with the arrival of Regnans in Excelsis, any toleration for Catholic praxis or doctrine had to be swiftly eliminated, expediting the conversion process. Furthermore, the very fact that the bull was an official declaration rather than the polemical work of a disenfranchised or radical English Catholic

70  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service suggested that the Catholic threat was primarily external, and those English who did ascribe to Catholicism were themselves agents (or victims) of Catholic machinations. For Cecil, particularly, Regnans in Excelsis provided demonstrable proof of an international Catholic plan to unseat Elizabeth and take control of England, by invasion if necessary. It also provided authorization of assassination, lending legitimacy to individual plotters and more widespread conspiracy under the blanket absolution offered by the Pope. Cecil’s fear of Catholic conspiracy was reinforced when Henry Norris, working as a diplomatic agent in Paris, wrote to Cecil not long after the publication of the bull to inform him that three Catholic spies had been sent to England: John Delgado (at the ambassador’s house), Peter Benavides, Diego Ridiera (“a tall man of person, eyed like a cat”), and an unnamed man with “but one eye and a cut over the face,” all of whom had been sent to undermine Elizabeth’s authority and promote Catholicism (and disobedience to the queen) in England.6 These spies—working for the allied Catholic forces of both France and Spain—seemed to Cecil confirmation of those nations’ adherence to the terms of the bull and their absolute loyalty to the Pope. However, in France and Spain, both Charles IX and Philip II opposed the bull, recognizing in it an attempt to enforce papal supremacy over temporal monarchs; both France and Spain outlawed its publication or posting.7 The feudal idea of monarchical loyalty to the Pope had long since dissolved during the reigns of the parents and even grandparents of current heads of state, and Pius’s attempt to reassert papal dominance was unappreciated even in Catholic nations. For Catholics in England, the bull was even more problematic, as it functionally required them to make a choice between their religion and their queen. In order to be good Catholics, they had to recognize papal supremacy. In order to be good subjects, they had to reject it. Those who wished to be both were trapped between the proverbial rock and hard place; most chose to either try to remain invisible or to outwardly conform, as the bull forced the Elizabethan government into more active persecution of Catholicism. The official English fear of Catholicism was justified by Regnans in Excelsis, and, despite the government’s best efforts, Catholicism (particularly in the North) was not ebbing away as it had anticipated. In fact, “it was feared that disaffected Catholics could form a fifth column for a foreign Catholic invasion.”8 This was, of course, largely fantasy—both on the part of external Catholic forces and internal Protestant ones—and had the unfortunate outcome of increasing the persecution of Catholics who wished only to negotiate the paradox of being loyal Catholic subjects without being tainted by the actions of a radical few. In 1571, in response to the bull, Parliament passed an act against papal bulls, the Act against Fugitives over the Sea, and an Act “whereby certayne Offences bee made Treason.”9 The first, whose full title reads “An act against

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 71 the bringing in, and putting in execution of bulls, writings or instruments and other superstitious things from the see of Rome,” declared it treason to “hold or stand with, to set forth, maintain, defend or extol the same usurped power” of Rome.10 The second, designed to stop English citizens from going to Rome or attending seminaries on the Continent, declared the property of persons traveling abroad without a passport from the Queen forfeit.11 The third, explains Mark Rankin, “forbade anyone ‘malitiously advisedly and expressly [to] utter or declare by any Pryntinge Wrytinge Cyphryng Speache Wordes or Sayinges’ that Elizabeth ought to be harmed, that any person ought to succeed her, or that a foreign power ought to invade England; such statements ‘shalbe taken deemed & declared…to be High Treason.’”12 All three were enacted in direct response to Regnans in Excelsis and marked the beginning of not only pro-Protestant, but also explicitly anti-Catholic, legislation and intolerance on the part of the government.

Domestic Conspiracy and Catholicism Another event that held significant implications for the machinery of the Elizabethan government was the elevation, on 25 February 1571, one year to the day after the declaration of Regnans in Excelsis, of Sir William Cecil to the title of Baron Lord Burghley.13 Thirteen years into her reign, Elizabeth formally acknowledged, before Parliament, the Privy Council, and the court, the importance of her Secretary, providing him with noble status to reflect his power in government. For some—particularly those whose birth was more humble—Cecil’s new title demonstrated the increasing possibility for social mobility that characterized the reigns of New Monarchs in the aftermath of the dissolution of the feudal order.14 For others, especially those magnates who had been born into the peerage, Cecil’s elevation was a marker of the deterioration of noble lines. Among these latter were a handful of Catholic peers whose response to the dual threat of an elevated Lord Burghley and Regnans in Excelsis was to engineer—with the financial and ideological backing of the Guise faction in France and Philip of Spain—the overthrow of Elizabeth and the installation of the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots. Already in the works by the time Pius issued his bull, the conspiracy sprang from correspondence, begun in 1568, between Mary and the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Howard, and was accelerated by Regnans and Cecil’s increased authority to enforce Protestantism. Howard—like Northumberland in the Northern Rising of 1569—was a vestige of the feudal era when peers held considerably more authority. Arguably one of the most powerful nobles in England, Howard had a blood-claim to the crown by way of Anne Boleyn and also maintained considerable wealth and influence at court, making him a not inconsiderable threat to Elizabeth’s throne.15 In addition, Howard had a significant following among both the commons and the nobility, particularly among the Recusant Catholics in the

72  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service north of England, who were still smarting after the failure of the Northern Rising. The conspiracy appealed to the nobles who had lost power as a consequence of the dissolution of feudalism at the end of the fifteenth century and who faced additional losses as punishment for their refusal to convert to Catholicism under the Act of Uniformity. In addition, it also appealed to members of the commons and gentry who sought to return England to the Holy See. As a part of the plot, Howard had garnered the support of a handful of other magnates interested in bringing down not Elizabeth, specifically, but Cecil. These included Henry FitzAlan (Earl of Arundel), William Herbert (Earl of Pembroke), and William Parr (Marquess of Northampton).16 They employed the aid of Robert Dudley (Earl of Leicester), whose known rivalry with Cecil made him inclined to support their venture. The plot seemed to have been modeled after the similar conspiracy that engineered the downfall of Thomas Cromwell, ironically enough, under the reign of Henry VIII, with the intent of accusing him in the Privy Council of corruption and mismanagement, then arresting him and dragging him to the Tower of London.17 However, unlike Cromwell, who had not recognized the value of a permanent organized intelligence network, Cecil received word of the intended action and took steps both to protect himself and involve Elizabeth, who defended her Principal Secretary vociferously, putting a decisive end to the plot against him.18 The plan to remove Cecil—the portion of the plot in which Dudley, who was then in a position of some disgrace with the queen, had been involved—was abandoned, but the actions of Howard and his co-conspirators may have permanently settled the importance of an intelligence network in the Principal Secretary’s mind, as England would never again be without one.

Testing the Network: Ridolfi, Story, and Baillie The events of 1570, in fact, demonstrated precisely how important it was to have a professional intelligence service. While agents had been employed to provide information for the preceding few years of Elizabeth’s reign, Cecil had not yet begun to explore the full potential of his intelligence network as a coordinated body through which he might specifically target information or individuals. But in 1570, the combination of the Ridolfi Plot and the need to extricate one Dr. John Story from the Netherlands to stand trial in England presented an opportunity for scattered agents to be coalesced into a more directed and organized body.19 Employing Roberto Ridolfi Cecil’s spies would continue to prove advantageous, as the conspirators, although they abandoned the plot to overthrow Cecil, continued to pursue

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 73 their plans to supplant Elizabeth with Mary Queen of Scots. Among the men Cecil employed in this affair was Francis Walsingham, who worked with Cecil’s other agents to put pressure on the information network surrounding Spanish ambassador Don Guerrau de Espés, who was himself in correspondence with both Howard and Mary. 20 An Italian named Roberto di Ridolfi, in the process of negotiating with Elizabeth over the Genoese gold taken by Elizabethan privateers, was also running messages between Howard and de Espés, making promises about refunding the value of the gold taken from Spanish ships on Cecil’s orders. 21 Ridolfi had been living in London for nearly a decade, conducting business with and among the wealthy. 22 Walsingham handily discovered Ridolfi’s presence and had the Italian brought in for interrogation, keeping him at his own house on Seething Lane. Ridolfi confessed to business transactions with Howard and John Leslie, Bishop of Ross. He also admitted to knowledge about the proposed marriage between Howard and Mary. 23 Eventually, Ridolfi confessed to having taken a considerable sum of money (about twelve thousand crowns) from Pope Pius V. 24 Ridolfi gave further information in writing to Elizabeth, who agreed to a highly conciliatory arrangement that would permit Ridolfi to continue to do business in England, most likely thanks to his part in helping to ensure that England kept Genoese bullion confiscated from Spain. Some scholars suggest that Ridolfi somehow “outsmarted” Walsingham, who was still relatively green in matters of intelligence.25 However, within a year, Walsingham was back in contact with Ridolfi concerning affairs in Flanders, suggesting that Walsingham had established a more longstanding relationship with the Italian spy. 26 It is, therefore, entirely possible that Walsingham had not been outsmarted at all and that the whole enterprise had been concocted by Cecil (with Walsingham’s assistance) to expose the Catholic plot against Elizabeth’s life. Elizabeth also conveniently happened to be in possession of the key to the ciphers Ridolfi subsequently exchanged with Mary, further suggesting his complicity with the English government. 27 Given that Walsingham was promoted to the position of ambassador to France as a consequence of the outcome of the plot, it seems more likely that the new spymaster had begun his career as he would continue it, by convincing Ridolfi to work for him instead of Spain. The Extradition of John Story In August, following Ridolfi’s departure for the Netherlands, Cecil received word about exiled English Catholic Dr. John Story (lawyer and lay brother of the Franciscan order), who had been hired by Fernando Álvarez de Toledo (Duke of Alva) to inspect English ships in Antwerp, looking for “revolutionary literature.”28 Story had served in Parliament under Edward VI and challenged Edward’s fitness for rule, causing Story to be imprisoned

74  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service in the Tower. 29 He had remained active in Mary’s government, and, indeed, sat in the first Parliament of Elizabeth’s reign until he gained Cecil’s enmity by objecting to the Act of Supremacy and suggesting that the bishops should have “chopped at the roote, which if they had done, this gere had not now cum in question,” a statement that the treatise A Declaration of the Lyfe and Death of Iohn Story (1571) glosses as “here in most traitorously he ment the distruccion of our dere and Soueraigne Lady Queene Elizabeth.”30 He was subsequently arrested in the spring of 1560 and held in custody until the circulation of the Oath of Supremacy in 1563, when, Ronald Pollitt notes, he—like many English Catholics—was faced with three choices: “He could take the oath and betray his faith. He could refuse the oath, and thus risk punishment for treason. Or, he could contrive to escape from the Fleet and seek refuge abroad. Doctor Story chose to flee.”31 By 1570, Story was in the Low Countries, having gained the assistance of Spanish Ambassador Álvaro de la Quadra in securing passage out of London and England. He was working for Álvarez as a customs officer, giving him the ability to search all incoming vessels for contraband—and information.32 Among the central agents to the mission was one John Prestall, a known associate of the English alchemist, mathematician, and cryptographer John Dee and his alchemical circles and an agent whose work for Cecil likely dates to the early 1560s.33 A probable double agent, Prestall had been involved in the creation of a political prophecy at the time of Elizabeth’s accession that had landed him briefly in prison, the position from which he most likely came into contact with Cecil. Like many agents of the period, Prestall’s low social status—not only was he a commoner, but he was also a criminal—was the very reason he was employed in government service. This status has, historically speaking, led to the scholarly neglect of these agents’ narratives—Prestall, for instance, is rarely discussed—and a misapprehension about the overall significance of the roles played by common intelligence agents in the establishment of the English spy networks and their overall significance to early modern statecraft.34 Following his first release, Prestall served in the Low Countries in 1562 and 1563, leading to the arrest of the Pole brothers and Prestall’s own conviction in absentia, but he appealed to Cecil personally. 35 Cecil did not secure him a pardon, and upon returning to England in 1564, Prestall was again arrested and imprisoned in the Tower, where he remained for the better part of a year until being released to work for Cecil in 1565.36 Prestall was in Scotland during the late 1560s with the exiles of the Northern Rising, and it was there that he most likely came into contact with Story, working for Álvarez and seeking to make contact with English Catholics.37 Once in contact, Prestall and Story concocted a plan to assassinate the young James VI to make way for either Philip II or Don John of Austria (his brother) to marry Mary Queen of Scots.38 Yet we should not assume that Prestall had by this point turned his loyalty (if, in fact, he had any, as many English agents in this period appeared to be motivated primarily

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 75 by self-rather than national-interest) to Spain or the Catholics. In 1570, a letter from John Marsh—governor of the Merchant Adventurers and one of Cecil’s most trusted agents in the 1570s—indicates that Prestall made contact and was traveling to meet with Álvarez and would report back.39 Ultimately, Prestall’s motives—and loyalties—remain uncertain, but Story’s were clearly focused on the elevation of Mary Queen of Scots to the English throne and the restoration of England to Catholicism. Story, therefore, was a significant threat, but one who had available to him a veritable slew of potentially important information that Cecil very much wanted. Recognizing Story’s combined value and danger, Cecil asked Marsh to have Story abducted. Marsh employed Roger Ramsden, Martin Bragge, Simon Jewkes, and William Parker (the last of whom was a customs searcher alongside Story) to kidnap Story, load him on a ship, and have him sent back to England so that he could be interrogated.40 Specifically, Ramsden, Jewkes, and Bragge convinced Parker and Story to accompany them onto a ship owned by Cornelius van Eycke, at which point they captured Story and set sail for Yarmouth.41 The details and process of this mission—which Pollitt refers to as “a ‘black’ operation”—helped to establish intelligence as not simply the gathering of information, but also the deliberate and organized execution of covert operations; eventually, it would come to include the gathering and disseminating of (sometimes misleading) information, the production of propaganda, espionage and sabotage, smuggling, and the transportation (willing or unwilling) of agents and other important persons.42 What Cecil confirmed through the information extracted—although the reliability of information given under torture was considered questionable as truth, even in the sixteenth century—from Story and reported by agent John Lee and Ramsden (who wrote directly to Cecil himself) was that there was in fact a continued Catholic plot against Elizabeth’s life that targeted Mary Queen of Scots as her replacement.43 Story was interrogated, tried, and sentenced to death, being executed on 1 June 1571 by drawing and quartering.44 The Interrogation of Charles Baillie and the Ridolfi Plot Named Lord Burghley in the aftermath of Story’s trial and execution, Cecil leveraged his new peerage to expand his intelligence network. In April of 1571, Cecil interrogated Charles Baillie, who was arrested by Thomas Cobham upon Baillie’s arrival in Dover with a packet of letters (several in cipher), a copy of Regnans in Excelsis, and a pamphlet entitled A Defence of the Queen of Scots and the Duke of Norfolk, provoked by a hostile Discourse touching their Pretended Match written by Francis Walsingham.45 Cecil made use of an agent already in place in Marshalsea Prison, William Herle, a textile merchant and former servant of Sir Thomas Gresham. Herle had been caught up in the Northern Rising of 1569 and charged with piracy before being recruited to work as one of Cecil’s

76  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service agents.46 Herle wrote to the Privy Council while in prison: “mi Lords of the Cowncell in the sayd petycion som servyce (havyng their good oppinion & cowntenance) which shalbe of importance to her Majestie & without charge to ani.”47 Cecil used Herle as his agent provocateur in Marshalsea to discover Baillie’s secrets by having him carry ciphered letters between Leslie and Baillie, which of course he took to Cecil—in the manner of a Black Chamber—for perusal (and copying) first.48 Herle obtained enough information from Baillie to reveal a connection between Mary Queen of Scots and Leslie by passing not only oral information, but also copies of every letter sent from Baillie to Leslie.49 What is particularly interesting about Herle, as Robyn Adams notes, is that he was self-conscious about his status as an agent provocateur and the power that status granted him. 50 Specifically, Herle understood his precarity as a prisoner having been arrested for his involvement in the 1569 Northern Rising, but he also recognized that his knowledge granted him a certain amount of power—his intelligence enabled him to “exploit,” to use Adams’s term, his position in order to secure his own freedom and some amount of social status that would otherwise have been stripped from him.51 Herle’s letters (from 1559 to 1588) provide a picture of a man who understood the significance of the patronage network, as well as the interplay between intelligence work and that network, since he specifically targeted Cecil, Walsingham, Dudley, and even occasionally Elizabeth herself as patrons and recipients of information. Herle was also notorious for including maps, illustrations of local sieges, and drafted military movement plans.52 One example of a packet sent by Herle dated 3 March 1582 contained not only ten pages of letter, but also (a) a letter from a ‘principall state man’, (b) a list of the names of former members of the Council of Finance in the Low Countries, (c) a list of the magistrates and officers of the city of Antwerp together with a list of mustered men from each guild within Antwerp, (d) a document containing ‘general occurrents’ from Rome… (e) three newly minted coins, and (f) a map depicting the castle of Bronkhorst in Gelderland.53 Herle’s letters (and their addenda) may have been rather more loquacious than most intelligence packets sent back to England, but they serve as an apt illustration of the varied means by which intelligence agents transmitted information. They also demonstrate Herle’s particular value, given the volume of content he generated over the years of his service under Walsingham, Dudley, and Cecil. In addition, Adams notes, part of Herle’s success as an agent provocateur came from his “marginal and penurious status.”54 In other words, Herle’s social fluidity contributed directly to his capacity for successful intelligence gathering by enabling him to speak across class, social, and even religious boundaries.

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 77 When Herle accidentally revealed his cover—causing Baillie to go silent—Cecil brought in William Parker.55 Parker, who had helped Cecil interrogate Story the previous year, impersonated his previous victim, visiting Baillie at the Marshalsea and convincing him to turn traitor and aid Cecil in breaking the cipher on the letters Baillie had carried.56 Baillie did so, revealing the key to the ciphers, but also that he had been sent from the Netherlands by Ridolfi. Ridolfi, already known to Cecil, was a known— or at least suspected—double agent, as discussed earlier. The conspiracy revealed by Baillie, now known to historians as the Ridolfi Plot, intended to enable Spain to land a military force and instigate a Fifth Column uprising of English Catholics to depose Elizabeth.57 Baillie also revealed the involvement of two English peers in the scheme, although he could not provide names, explaining that they were always referred to as “the number 30” and “the other to 40” (who were eventually revealed to be John Lumley, Baron Lumley, and Howard himself).58 Once Herle and Parker had obtained this information from Baillie, Cecil turned to Sir John Hawkins, serving at the time as a privateer tied to Elizabeth’s government. Hawkins had been reporting on the current state of affairs in the Spanish Navy, with whom he had needed to negotiate— and pretend loyalty to—in order to secure the release of English sailors who had been held captive at San Juan de Ulloa.59 From his inside position, Hawkins confirmed the connection between Philip II of Spain and Mary Queen of Scots, which, in concert with the intelligence garnered from Herle and Parker, enabled Cecil to convince Leslie to reveal everything he knew, including the plot to replace Elizabeth with Mary, who would wed Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.60 Leslie also confirmed the involvement of Sir Francis Englefield, Anne Percy (Countess of Northumberland), Leonard Dacre, and John Hamilton, an agent of Mary’s.61 Cecil confronted—through George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, who had been entrusted as Mary’s keeper beginning in 1568—Mary with the intelligence gathered from Ridolfi, Baillie, and Leslie, which she (naturally) denied. Yet at the same time, Cecil and Walsingham were receiving news from Ridolfi about his reception in Rome by the new Pope, Gregory XIII, to whom he presented letters from Mary attesting to Ridolfi’s loyalty and begging for aid from the papacy.62 Gregory shared Pius’s distaste for Elizabeth, having his Cardinal Secretary explain to two visiting English citizens that “there is no doubt whatsoever that who sends that guilty woman of England out of the world with the pious intention of doing God’s service, not only does not sin but gains merit.”63 By the end of the summer, Álvarez had convinced Philip II to become more deeply engaged in the conspiracy in the hope that Mary’s marriage to Howard would secure a return of Catholicism and submission to the papacy in England.64 The plot was cracked open by a messenger named Thomas Brown, a draper solicited—or so he was told—to carry £50 in silver by Archbishop James Beaton, Keeper of the Great Seal of Scotland, then serving as

78  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service Mary’s ambassador in France, to the bailiff of Howard’s estates, Lawrence Banastre. Brown was asked to carry the parcel on 29 August, but the weight of the bag aroused Brown’s suspicions, and he discovered that it held not £50 in silver, but £600 in gold in addition to a packet of letters.65 Brown, aware of the penalty of disloyalty and, most likely, with full awareness that he was likely to receive monetary remuneration, took the parcel and its contents directly to Cecil.66 Cecil was less interested in the money than he was the letters, which provided proof of Howard’s involvement beyond the testimony of somewhat untrustworthy persons (such as Baillie). By 2 September, Howard’s Secretary, Robert Highford (sometimes recorded as Hickford) was in the Tower of London.67 The ciphered letters were given to Highford, who—under threat of torture—decoded them and informed his interrogators (two of Elizabeth’s Council, Sir Thomas Smith and Dr. Thomas Wilson) that the key to the cipher, written in Howard’s Bible, was at Howard House “under the mat, hard by the window’s side, in the entry towards my lord’s bedchamber, where the map of England doth hang.”68 Although the key was not found in the place Highford indicated, another coded letter was, this one from Mary to Howard, and Highford was convinced to recall another potential hiding place under the tiles of the roof, where it was duly revealed with the help of Sir Ralph Sadler, although a third cipher remained conveniently missing.69 Howard attempted to negotiate with Cecil in order to secure liberty for his servants, but failed to do so, and on 15 September—only two weeks after Brown’s discovery—Cecil had secured a warrant to torture William Barker, who had given the gold to Brown, and Lawrence Banastre (sometimes Bannister), its intended recipient.70 Banastre and Barker confessed their part as go-betweens for Howard, Lesley, and Mary, although they insisted that they did not know the purpose or content of the messages and parcels they carried. It wasn’t much, but the information they gave Cecil led to a search of Howard’s papers, conducted by one Henry Skipwith, one of Cecil’s agents and a steward of crown lands. It was Skipwith who discovered the location of Howard’s Bible, including the elusive ciphers—three of them—that Cecil had been pursuing for several weeks.71 When coupled with still more letters intercepted or discovered en route to Howard and Mary, these ciphers, as well as the testimonies of Baillie and Leslie, all but ensured the failure of the Ridolfi Plot. In October, Cecil designed and published—with the assistance of his favorite printer, John Day—what Alford terms “a piece of anonymous but officially sponsored propaganda” entitled Salutem in Christo, which claimed to be a personal communique from “‘R.G.’ to his brother-in-law,” but which reads very much like Cecil’s hand.72 It was an “official leak” of the government’s information on what would come to be called the Ridolfi Plot, designed to sway public opinion against Howard and the conspirators.73 The immediate outcome of the government’s publication of this information was a direct threat against not Elizabeth, but Cecil himself. De

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 79 Espés paid a visit to Michel de Castelnau, the French ambassador to Scotland (although then in London), with a proposal to join forces and eliminate Cecil.74 Herle, who had been invaluable in uncovering the details of Baillie’s connection to Lesley, was yet again at the center of the exposure of a plot—this one to be enacted by Kenelm Berney and Edmund Mather, who planned to shoot Cecil (with an arquebus) at Charing Cross.75 They then intended to take advantage of the chaos surrounding Cecil’s death to mount a rescue of the imprisoned Howard using a rope bridge.76 Both men also supported the Ridolfi Plot, but had recognized (or, perhaps, had been encouraged to recognize) that the primary threat to the plot’s success came not from Elizabeth, but from her master of intelligence. The threat against Cecil’s life was, therefore, a rather backhanded compliment to his effectiveness. The arrest and interrogation of Berney and Mather further exposed the interconnections between Howard and Mary, the surrounding conspiracy for them to marry, and the plan for Mary to replace Elizabeth as queen of England. In order to encourage the conspirators—so that they would become overconfident and condemn themselves—Cecil turned yet again to the press of John Day. He circulated a pamphlet entitled The copie of a letter written by one in London to his frend (anonymous, of course) with the sole purpose of confirming that the officially “leaked” letters were genuine (although of course they were not) in order to sway public opinion against Mary Queen of Scots.77 The Cecilian propaganda machine was successful yet again. In January of 1572, Howard was brought to trial for his role in the conspiracy, and de Espés lost his post as ambassador and was removed from England at the behest of the queen. Howard was, to the surprise of no one, convicted of high treason and executed on the morning of 2 June 1572 on Tower Hill. Cecil also attempted to convince Elizabeth to bring charges against Mary for her role, but Elizabeth—concerned by the implications that one could try (much less execute) a monarch—firmly refused. Her reluctance, very likely justified in theoretical terms, nevertheless permitted plots with Mary at their center to continue to percolate well into the 1580s. In the aftermath of the Ridolfi Plot, it was clear that Cecil’s position within the Elizabethan government was both central and secure. Although he and Elizabeth had periodic disagreements over specific policies and implementations, his role was critical to the security of her regime. By the start of 1572, as the outcome of the Ridolfi conspiracy suggests, Cecil had also become the head of the Elizabethan intelligence network, which itself was rapidly becoming a centralized part of the Elizabethan governmental institution. His daily dispatches included diplomatic letters and communications from both English and foreign ambassadors. In addition, of course, he had embedded clandestine agents throughout the court, noble households, and in the merchant and livery companies. He employed code breakers and cipherers to both conceal and acquire secrets, using the intelligence

80  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service brought to him not only to maintain Elizabeth’s security, but also to inform his advice to her and the Privy Council at large on policy.78 The bureaucratic work of managing and running a governmental intelligence service, including encoding and breaking ciphers, managing agents, and evaluating intelligence reports, formed an essential component in the institutionalization of the English monarchy. With an active network— rather than a loosely gathered cluster—of international and domestic agents, Cecil’s intelligence service was capable of providing coordinated information with actionable results. Although the notion of a network of this nature had been pioneered among courtiers—and used, in England, by Henry VII and Thomas Cromwell—it had not previously been centralized and institutionalized as a governmental apparatus in the way in which Cecil managed it in the 1570s. The next few decades would put this new part of the Elizabethan government machine to the test. Not long after the death of Thomas Howard, on 15 July 1572, Cecil received a promotion to the position of Lord Treasurer. It was a demonstration of the power of an intelligence network that included (semi-)professional spies, like Herle, Parker, and Hawkins (who had other careers, but whose work was frequent and carefully managed enough to qualify them for the label). Cecil’s appointment to the position of Lord Treasurer also necessitated calling Walsingham back from his diplomatic post in France to assume the position of Secretary of State (or Principal Secretary). However, before Walsingham could be recalled, he became witness to one of the most bloody—and influential—events of the French Wars of Religion, the St.  Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, an event that shaped his virulent anti-Catholicism even as it created deep-seated fears of a similar Catholic event in England.

Marriage Negotiations and the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre Having been named to a diplomatic post in France in 1570, Walsingham arrived in Paris on New Year’s Day of 1571, accompanied by one of his agents (and brother-in-law), Robert Beale.79 He attempted, with very mixed results, to negotiate the marriage of Henri Valois, then Duke of Anjou, to Elizabeth, despite the fact that it was unclear whether or not Elizabeth actually intended to follow through on any promises of marital interest. However, if Elizabeth were to marry, a prince of France was a natural choice. The Huguenot Church was among the largest of the Protestant churches in Europe, and the French royal family—although Catholic— was frequently politically resistant to attempts by the Papacy to enforce its authority, making it more likely to entertain the notion of marriage to a Protestant queen. Nevertheless, Walsingham’s was a thankless job performed in hostile territory. He was instructed to explain that Elizabeth could not marry

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 81 “anyone she had not yet seen in the flesh,” but this was a minor matter easily remedied by putting Henri on a ship.80 The more difficult and delicate matter was that of religion; Elizabeth also refused to marry anyone who would not at least outwardly conform to the English Church. While Cecil was hopeful that Valois would agree to appease Elizabeth’s conscience by agreeing to follow the English Book of Common Prayer in order to become King of England, both he and Walsingham understood, more pragmatically, that this was a delay tactic on Elizabeth’s part that would keep her out of marriage with anyone else and might help to maintain friendly relations with France. Above all, she wanted Walsingham to negotiate for open trade between England and France, despite religious differences.81 Walsingham, described by Don Juan de Luniga, the Spanish ambassador in Paris, as “blunt and uncourtly,” was also primarily in charge of negotiating for the Treaty of Blois and maintaining alliances with the French Huguenot faction.82 The Huguenots—like the English—were concerned about increasing Spanish power in the Netherlands, and Walsingham sought to use negotiations in France both to bolster French royal support of the Protestant cause and to decrease Spanish Catholic influence.83 By late summer of 1572, it was clear that Walsingham’s diplomatic work was not likely to yield the results the English had hoped. Although eventually resolved, the Treaty of Blois was a Pyrrhic victory that further alienated the Spanish, and, in fact, the situation was about to become even more volatile—and not in the favor of the Huguenots—than the English had anticipated. Historians lay the blame for the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre at several different pairs of feet, including those of Charles XI, the Guise family (specifically, Henri, the Duke of Guise), and the French Queen Mother, Catherine de Medici. Plowden suggests that Catherine’s fear of losing power was the impetus; Alford places blame on Charles XI; and R.J. Knecht vilifies the Guises, specifically Henri and Charles (then Cardinal of Lorraine).84 The English at the time preferred to accuse Philip II and the Pope for manipulating Charles.85 Whatever the truth—which is likely, as is often the case in history, a mixture of all of these—the outcome of the events of 24 August 1572 included a dramatic shift in the way English Protestants perceived their relationship with their Catholic brethren and severely damaged the diplomatic relationship between England and France. As in England, France had a long history of religious schism and disagreement, beginning even before the Reformation, but decidedly exacerbated by it. Walsingham had been dispatched by Cecil to Paris to aid with this pipe dream of Catholic-Protestant peace, which, it was hoped, would mitigate Spanish power and bring something resembling stability to the Netherlands. But France would demonstrate, instead, that Cecil’s and Walsingham’s paranoia about Catholics might, in fact, not be paranoia at all.

82  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service The 18 August wedding of Marguerite Valois, sister to Charles XI, to Henri Bourbon, the king of Navarre, was meant to be a gesture toward reconciliation between the French Catholics and the Huguenot faction. It was attended by the royal family as well as representatives of the Huguenot cause, including Admiral Gaspard II de Coligny, Huguenot leader and friend to the French king. It was this friendship that caused concern on the part of the Catholic faction, particularly Catherine de Medici and Henri and Charles de Guise. In particular, it was feared that Coligny would manage to persuade Charles into supporting open war with Spain in the Netherlands, which might, in turn, lead to war in France.86 The allied Catholic faction of Catherine and the Guises determined that the only available course of action was the assassination of Coligny. The assassin’s shot was taken (probably by Charles de Maurevert) on 22  August, but, thanks to the admiral’s need to fix his shoe, instead of being killed, Coligny was wounded in the arm, much to the consternation of the ignorant king, who sent his own private physicians to tend to his wounded friend.87 The inquest commissioned by Charles found that the shot was taken from the window of a home that belonged to the Guises, a circumstance that Catherine convinced her son was a necessary preemptive strike against a faction that was plotting Charles’s death.88 The account of Gaspard de Saulx states that Charles and his council “decided that civil war had become inevitable and that ‘it was better to win a battle in Paris, where all the leaders were, than to risk it in the field and fall into a dangerous and uncertain war.’”89 According to French historian R.J. Knecht, the killing began in the early morning hours of 24 August 1572 with the murder of Coligny by the king’s guard, under the command of Henri de Guise. They threw his body out the window, at which point “Guise is said to have kicked it, and the head was then cut off and embalmed for dispatch to Rome. A Catholic mob mutilated the headless corpse and dragged it through the streets for three days, before it was hanged at the gibbet of Montfaucon.”90 Before the “battle,” which continued for more than six days, was over, more than 3,000 Huguenots died in Paris, and the violence spread from the capital city into the countryside. Over the next two weeks, the killing of Protestants continued, with as many as 70,000 dying across France by mid-September.91 In Paris itself, there was widespread carnage. In addition to the loss of life, hundreds of homes were destroyed and pillaged, mass executions of Protestants took place on the edge of the River Seine (into which the bodies were subsequently thrown), and the king himself, clearly failing to understand what he had sanctioned, “appears to have suffered a nervous breakdown.”92 Those who participated in the slaughter, both in Paris and across the French countryside, typically believed that they were following the orders— explicit or implicit—of Charles IX, despite evidence that Charles personally issued letters to his officers ordering them to contain the violence.93 While Protestant Europe was understandably horrified by and condemned the

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 83 massacre, the Guises, particularly Charles de Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, triumphantly claimed responsibility for it, which suggests some amount of premeditation and intention, even if the atmosphere of violence that resulted was far greater than they likely expected.94 Francis Walsingham, serving as ambassador to France, was in the middle of it all. A staunch Protestant, Walsingham was undoubtedly both horrified and terrified by the slaughter, concerned that even diplomatic allowances might not protect him from the rioting Catholics intent on violence. Nevertheless, Walsingham apparently went out of his way—and put himself at risk—to open the doors of his Paris home in Saint Marceau to Protestants seeking shelter, an act which appears in an account of the massacre by a spy named Tomasso Sassetti, one of Walsingham’s agents in Paris.95 Timothy Bright, an English physician studying medicine in Paris at the time of the massacre, described Walsingham’s house as “a very sanctuary” for Protestants who undoubtedly otherwise would have lost their lives in the carnage.96 Among the victims of the massacre were some of Walsingham’s friends and acquaintances in Paris, including the philosopher Pierre Ramus.97 Walsingham and his future son-in-law, Philip Sidney, who was with him in Paris at the time, were deeply affected by what they witnessed in the days from 24 August to 1 September, when Walsingham received an audience with the French king. The worst of the violence had abated on 26 August when Charles declared the actions a preemptive strike against those who had sought his death, although the killing of Protestants continued in the provinces into October. Nevertheless, as Walsingham’s carriage made its way to the palace under royal protection, he “was subjected to abuse and insults hurled by the still rampaging mob.”98 Once he arrived, Charles informed Walsingham that he had been acting to protect the royal ­family— namely himself and the queen mother—from a treasonous conspiracy, and he deeply wished to maintain a friendly relationship with Elizabeth.99 Walsingham was in a difficult position. On the one hand, he was the representative of a Protestant nation in the midst of explicit anti-Protestant violence; on the other, England needed French support in the Netherlands and in matters of trade. He had to negotiate carefully, and, therefore, he appeared to accept Charles’s explanation for the violence. He arranged for Elizabeth to stand as godmother to Marie Elizabeth, Charles’s daughter, and reinvigorated marriage negotiations, this time with Hercule de Valois, the Duke of Alençon (Charles’s youngest brother), known colloquially to the English court as “Monsieur.”100 But even as Elizabeth ingratiated herself with the French royal family, Walsingham was also bartering for English munitions to support the Huguenot cause in the Netherlands and La Rochelle.101 It is worth noting that, in the extended aftermath of the massacre, England continued negotiating the possibility of a wedding between Elizabeth and Valois, who became Duke of Anjou with the elevation of his brother to the

84  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service throne as Henri III upon Charles’s death. The seriousness of this discussion is somewhat debatable, however, as the age gap between Elizabeth and her supposed suitor (23 years) was rather significant, and, by this date, it was undoubtedly clear that the queen was likely past child-bearing years. Smith describes the unlikely couple in particularly unsympathetic terms: The lady, at the time, was in the neighbourhood of five-and-forty, of wizened countenance, and with a towering red wig to conceal a head that was totally bald. Her lover was nearly twenty years younger, dwarfish in stature, and of almost preternatural ugliness.102 However, his dubious attractions aside, Valois purported sympathy for the Huguenot cause, which made him more sympathetic to the English and allowed Elizabeth to use marital negotiations as a tactic to press for toleration of Protestantism.103 Somehow, Walsingham managed this convoluted diplomatic balancing act successfully—or, at least, successfully enough—although the events of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre would permanently taint his perception of Catholicism and the French. When Cecil received Walsingham’s dispatch on 11 September, carried in the memory of a courier (probably Walter Williams) due to Walsingham’s fear that a written letter would be intercepted, he replied that “Sir I see the Devil is suffered by almighty God, for our sinns to be strong… and therfor we are not only to be vigilant for our own defence against such traytorous attempts.”104 The English navy readied itself for possible invasion from either France or Spain, and a special emergency meeting of the Privy Council was called. Not long after, boats filled with Huguenot refugees from France began to arrive, bringing with them tales of violence far more widespread than Paris.105 In England—indeed, among Protestants across Europe—the events of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre was demonstrable proof of an international Catholic plot, involving France, Spain, and the papacy, to eliminate Protestantism.106 It was an indication that England was not safe from external threats and a warning that the Catholic threat could come from within, a mobilized Fifth Column that could—and would—strike at the crown at the English church whenever it saw the opportunity. The French ambassador in London, Michel de Castelnau, observed that the people evinced “extreme indignation and a marvellous hatred against the French.”107 The response across Protestant Europe was similar. In the Netherlands, William of Orange decried Charles’s actions, and Ivan IV Vasilyevich (known as “the Terrible”), who was keen to support English trade, also condemned the massacre.108 Among Catholics, however, the massacre was cause for open celebration. The pope called for fireworks and bonfires for three nights in order to celebrate the slaughter and had a commemorative medal cast.109 Reportedly, the Pope proclaimed the news of the massacre “a hundred times more welcome than the news of the great naval battle of

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 85 Lepanto,” ordered Te Deums to be sung, and called for children to dance in the streets in celebration of the massacre.110 Similarly, in Spain, Philip II “‘began to laugh’ and…wrote to Catherine congratulating her on possessing such a son and to Charles on possessing such a mother.”111 The religious conflict lines were clearly drawn and appeared vividly to all concerned. When it came to religion, no one in Western Europe appeared to be interested in toleration. The English government, as it had done following the 1569 Northern Rising, increased anti-Catholic pressure. By October 1572, the government issued a special book of common prayer that included an explanation of the significance of repentance: O hearken to the voice of our prayer, our King and our God: for unto thee do we make our complaint. O Lord, the counsel of the wicked conspireth against us: and our enemies are daily in hand to swallow us up. They gape upon us with their mouths: as it were ramping and roaring lions. But thou, O Lord, art our defender: thou art our health and our salvation. We do put our trust in thee, O God: save us from all them that persecute us, and deliver us. O take the matter into thy hand, thy people commit themselves unto thee: for thou art their helper in their distress. Save us from the Lions’ mouths, and from the horns of the Unicorns: lest they devour us, and tear us in pieces, while there is none to help.112 The news of the massacre intensified fear of religious war and civil discord, increased concerns about security in the port cities and along the Scottish border, and instigated both parochial and national crackdowns on extant anti-Catholic legislation. These crackdowns required the use and expansion of the intelligence networks. Pressure both in the public and at court (including among the Council) tried to steer Elizabeth away from continued diplomatic relations with France, but the English queen—much more of a practitioner of realpolitik than her reform-minded Council—was willing to smooth things over, at least to an extent.113 However, practically speaking, England could not afford to break with France. Instead, fear about the “Lions’ mouths” (the Catholic French—particularly the Guises) came to be redirected at England’s other main Catholic threat, also tied to France and the Guises: Mary Queen of Scots.114 First, however, came Cecil’s elevation to the position of Lord Treasurer and the return of a very relieved Walsingham to English shores late in 1573. Upon his arrival, he stepped into Cecil’s politically impressive shoes,

86  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service including the proto-bureaucratic tasks of everyday governance and the management of gathering intelligence and presenting it to the queen and Council.115 Cecil’s early intelligence network, which drew from his business and personal contacts spread across the Netherlands, Switzerland, and England, had enabled the Secretary of State to manage not only his own political position, but also the national security of Elizabeth’s England. It was this network that Cecil passed on to Walsingham upon his return, one which would serve its new master even better than it had its old. If we examine the intelligence network below as it appeared in the years from 1558 until 1573, we find that it contains 107 nodes and 186 connections.

Figure 3.1  Social network map from 1558 to 1573

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 87 In this network—of spycraft-related relationships from 1558 to 1573— the central figures are Cecil and Walsingham, as indicated by their slightly larger node size (outdegree, or degree of influence) and dark color (centrality). It is noteworthy here that Walsingham, who is not yet a spymaster, has become more central to the network than he was in the 1560s. Given his role as spymaster and Principal Secretary, Cecil’s statistical centrality is the highest, at 1, and Walsingham’s is second highest at 0.564 (a slight increase from 0.525 since 1569). Elizabeth, by comparison, has a lower centrality at 0.364 (versus 0.467 in 1569). Correspondingly, we see the number of outdegree relationships for Elizabeth is at 13, while those for Cecil (41) and Walsingham (22) are higher as she begins to increasingly trust Cecil and Walsingham to act in matters of intelligence without significant oversight. If we recall that the Global Clustering Coefficient tells us how interconnected that network is, we can use the above to determine how likely it is that any of Cecil’s agents knew one another. For Cecil’s spy network from 1558 to 1573, the GCC is 0.405, or about a 40.5% chance of any one member of the network being immediately connected to any other member of the network. The Average Path Length of the Cecelian spy network is 3.147, meaning there are, on average, just over three degrees between any one person and another in the network. It is also important to note the size of the network when evaluating this number. For instance, the diameter of the network (the longest direct path between nodes) is seven, meaning that the APL is slightly under half the diameter. It is also worth noting that there are 107 total nodes, with 186 interrelationships (edges) between them. This means that for the period of 1558–1573, Cecil employed at least 107 agents in intelligence work, and they were moderately interconnected.116 What we can determine from this map is that in the years from the beginning of Elizabeth’s reign to 1573, Cecil was central—both literally and statistically—to the development and management of the English intelligence service. His node in the network is large, saturate, and contains a significant number of outward edges. However, as is also visually obvious, Walsingham—despite not officially being a member of the Privy Council—appears equally prominent. The network therefore tells us that Walsingham is almost as important to the creation and early operations of the intelligence service as its original spymaster. It is therefore unsurprising that although Cecil was responsible for establishing a centralized intelligence service, Walsingham was the man who made it an inextricable part of the English government machinery.

Walsingham: The Rise of the Queen’s “Moor” It was December 1573 before Walsingham could actually assume the duties of Principal Secretary, ostensibly in service to Cecil, although there is some question—particularly later in his career—of how much Walsingham actually obeyed his superior (although they were frequently in agreement on

88  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service matters of policy). Although he held the position of Secretary jointly with Sir Thomas Smith, Walsingham’s extensive international background meant that he assumed most of the duties associated with diplomacy and foreign affairs.117 He also de facto inherited the early intelligence network established by Cecil (although Cecil never left intelligence work, and would, in fact, reassume the official post upon Walsingham’s death). Within the intelligence service, Cecil was known by the code “A.B.,” while Walsingham, appropriately enough as his successor, by “C.D.”118 When Walsingham took control in 1574, English intelligence was already capable of revealing and exploiting conspiracies against the throne; Walsingham would turn it into an active weapon as well as an effective system of defense. Cecil had agents operating in the Low Countries, Switzerland, France, and England; Walsingham’s network was much more extensive. By 1590, he received regular reports from a dozen agents in France, nine in Germany, four in the Italian states (including Rome) and in Spain, three in the Netherlands, and individuals in Russia, Constantinople, Algiers, Tripoli, and elsewhere in the Levant and the New World.119 It was commonplace for Elizabethan diplomats—which Walsingham himself had been from 1570 until his return to England in 1574—to establish their own intelligence networks in the nations in which they served.120 Walsingham had done so, as had Thomas Sackville (who overlapped with him in Paris in 1571 and spent a brief period in Austria in 1566), who by this time was an active part of Cecil and Walsingham’s campaign to suppress recusancy in Sussex.121 The practice of managing an intelligence network was thus something with which Walsingham was already familiar on a smaller scale, and he was surrounded in Elizabeth’s government by other men who also understood and had participated in intelligence gathering and spycraft. Thus, as he embarked upon his own role as the master of Elizabeth’s intelligence service, Walsingham was particularly well suited to make it successful, and he was well positioned as Cecil’s protegee to have access to the people and resources he needed. With his own international experience as a diplomat and, during Mary’s reign, as an expatriate, Walsingham was able to expand Cecil’s largely domestic network into an institution designed to support not only England, but also Protestantism on an international scale. Within a few years, Walsingham possessed custody of the Privy Seal and had established himself as a central pillar of the Privy Council and one of the—if not the—most powerful men in England.122 Late in 1574, the perennial problem of Mary Queen of Scots resurfaced when a young stable hand named Steward admitted to the government that he had helped to carry letters between Mary and a man named Alexander Hamilton, a tutor employed by George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury and then-keeper of Mary in England.123 Steward’s information led Walsingham to a London printer by the name of Henry Cockyn, who—under interrogation in the Tower of London—confessed to using his shop as the start

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 89 and endpoint for Mary’s written communications.124 Several couriers were exposed—including Hamilton and Thomas Morgan (Talbot’s former Secretary)—as well as Henry and Philip Howard, brother and son to the late Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.125 However, the contents of the correspondence appeared benign, and although Walsingham and Cecil expressed concern, Elizabeth refused to press the matter further, more concerned about spoiling Anglo-Gallic relations in the wake of Charles XI’s recent death than she was in the exchange of letters between the Howards and Mary. Nevertheless, Walsingham recognized the potential beginnings of a conspiracy and was unwilling to allow the Northern earls—who, after all, had a history of both Catholicism and plotting—to continue without keeping a close eye on them. Walsingham also shared Cecil’s deep distrust of Mary, and he had no intention of ceasing surveillance on her, either. Their distrust was not misplaced. Following the failure of the Ridolfi scheme, Mary Queen of Scots stipulated in her will that she granted her rights of succession to King Philip II of Spain—a (completely illegal) designation that was tantamount to a plea for Philip to liberate her from her English prison.126 Even though no overt action—aside from the temporary detention of a few of the couriers—was yet taken against either Mary or the Howards, 1575 marks the beginning of an extended intelligence campaign surrounding both factions and their international connections, including Philip II of Spain and the Guises, Henri (Duke of Guise) and Charles (Cardinal Lorraine). For the next 15 years, Walsingham was at the center of most of the conspiracies targeting England and Elizabeth, manipulating agents and engineering the successful entrapment of spies and conspirators belonging to Spain, France, Mary Queen of Scots, and Recusant factions. Even more devout a reformer than Cecil, Walsingham was often characterized as dour and Puritanical, never once appearing to play the role of the courtier or flatterer, unlike many other members of the court and Council.127 He habitually wore black, most likely a testament to his dislike for ornamentation and his Puritan sensibilities, which led to the queen calling him her “Moor,” saying that “she doth know her Moor cannot change his colour.”128 Walsingham was both a strange kind of pet and one of the most powerful men in the Elizabethan court; Cecil and the threat of nearly constant conspiracies gave him the opportunity to redefine the role of Secretary as spymaster. Walsingham, it is well worth noting, embodied the mobility and fluidity that characterized spycraft and intelligence work. Having been born a commoner, Walsingham was unlike the courtiers who surrounded him, even Cecil, whose birth placed him far lower than the magnates over whom he ultimately held sway. Walsingham’s meteoric rise—particularly given his absence from England during the Marian regime—must be attributed in part to Cecil’s notice, but also to the very particular religious milieu of early modern England. In specific, the dichotomization of Catholic versus Protestant produced an atmosphere of persecution and hostility that

90  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service enabled Walsingham to succeed as an intelligencer and, as he grew more experienced and connected within the court, as Councilor, Secretary, and spymaster in spite of—or, perhaps, because of—his religious and personal oddities.129 By 1574, the Privy Council had 16 members, although not all of them spent the majority of their time at the court, preferring to run their estates in person. This meant that the primary actors of the Privy Council were those whose residences or offices kept them centered in or near London, including Cecil, Walsingham, and Dudley.130 The latter two were particularly interested in continuing to support Huguenot action in the Netherlands by funding the revolt being led by William of Orange and Louis of Nassau in opposition to Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, the Duke of Alva, and Don Jon of Austria, the Governor General of the Netherlands (and half-brother to Philip II).131 Two years later, in December of 1576, Don John informed Elizabeth that he might have need of her coastal harbors in the process of returning his troops home by sea, requesting her permission to do so if driven to it by inclement weather. However, one of Walsingham’s agents in the Netherlands, Thomas Wilson, informed the English government that this request might be a cover-excuse for something more nefarious, spurring Walsingham to begin gathering intelligence on Don John from a variety of sources, including the ambassador to France, Amias Paulet, and William of Orange himself.132 In 1578, Elizabeth ordered Walsingham and William Brooke (Baron Cobham) to serve on a diplomatic mission to the Low Countries with an entourage of more than 60 gentlemen.133 This was designed as a show of wealth and force, an enticement to William of Orange, and a deliberate threat against Philip II. During the late 1560s and early 1570s, the Spanish had executed more than 18,000 Protestants in the Low Countries, and William sought English financial and military support for the Protestant cause.134 The mission also convinced both Brooke—acting on behalf of Cecil—and Walsingham that there was only one possible outcome to the unrest in the Netherlands: England had to commit herself to support the Dutch against Spain before France could become involved.135 Although at this historical juncture, Elizabeth did not commit formally to English engagement in the Netherlands (despite the arguments of some of the men on her Council), there were a number of English soldiers and mercenaries fighting alongside the Dutch Protestant rebellion in the late 1570s and early 1580s.136 At the same time, Walsingham was also attempting to track the movements of a Catholic Devonshire soldier named William Stukeley who had turned against England and sold his sword to Spain in support of a possible Spanish invasion of England. Stukeley had served under Don John in the Netherlands and was attempting to convince Pope Gregory XIII to bankroll a Spanish invasion of Ireland (where Stukeley had also served under

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 91 Elizabeth before his defection).137 Walsingham’s network, including a merchant named Henry Gilpin stationed in Naples and an unknown source in Rome reporting to another merchant, Christopher Hoddesdon, with the Muscovy Company—in addition to Paulet and Wilson—carefully tracked Stukeley’s movements to Lisbon, where he was persuaded to turn his small fleet in service of Portugal against the Muslims in North Africa (and died at Alcazar in that campaign).138 Although Stukeley turned out not to be a legitimate threat against Elizabeth, his intentions made clear to Walsingham (and Cecil, of course) the scope of papal interest in an invasion of England. While Gregory XIII had not given Stukeley substantial support, he did legitimize Stukeley’s gambit against Ireland as a means to a larger invasion of England, demonstrating the actual threat against Elizabeth’s reign from the broader Catholic powers in Europe. When coupled with Philip II’s foothold in the Low Countries— and Don John’s attempt to launch an invasion from there—papal support intensified English concerns about active threats. Ireland, in particular, became a locus of potential Catholic insurrection, and the Papacy bankrolled several attempts to invade Ireland, including that of James Fitzmaurice in 1579. Fitzmaurice allied himself with an English Catholic named Nicholas Sander, who had been involved in the 1569 Northern Rising and had assisted with the dissemination of Regnans in Excelsis in 1570.139 Sander, Fitzmaurice, and a band of followers (perhaps as many as six hundred) landed at Smerwick and attempted to convince Irish nobles to support their cause.140 However, Walsingham—via Paulet— had been warned well in advance of Fitzmaurice and Sander’s intentions, and although they managed to gain some converts to their cause, they were rapidly defeated.141 Some years later, Cecil’s propaganda machine published an account of Sander’s death in Execution of Justice (1583) that claimed that Sander “wandering in the mountains in Ireland without succor, died raving in a frenzy.”142 Although each of these incidents was not, by itself, particularly problematic for English national security, when taken together, they paint a picture of continuous plotting against Elizabeth and England rooted in the rhetoric and beliefs of the Catholic cause. For Walsingham, the English intelligence service was not simply a means of supporting and protecting Elizabeth; rather, he understood English foreign policy as necessarily tied to “‘spiritual fruit’ and the ‘advancement of the gospel.’”143 In other words, Walsingham was concerned about English security as it related directly to the promotion of Protestant doctrine and praxis, and he believed in Elizabeth as a representative of that cause. By the end of the 1570s, Walsingham was firmly established as Elizabeth’s chief spymaster; other members of the Council recognized his significance and authority as Secretary and head of the secret service, and many deferred to his judgment in matters of conspiracy and plot. His experience in diplomacy in France and the time he had spent abroad in Switzerland

92  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service and Padua had given him both political and linguistic fluency across most of Europe. William Camden remarked, after Walsingham’s death, that he was “cunning and subtile” in seeking “to discover their secret Practices.”144 Following in the pattern established by Cecil (and Cromwell before him during the reign of Henry VIII), Walsingham’s network began with his own household servants and the merchants employed by the Muscovy Company, in which he had a share. He began with individuals, but it was not long before he recognized that in order to protect Protestantism and the Elizabethan regime, he would need an extensive international network of agents who could provide intelligence on the movements of individuals and nations across Europe and beyond. As a consequence, Walsingham made a concerted effort to expand his network of agents, relying heavily on merchants in the Levant and the Muscovy Company. Walsingham was a member of the Muscovy Company by 1568 and was likely involved as early as 1562.145 In 1577, he likewise became affiliated with the President, Assistants, and Fellowship of Merchants of Spain and Portugal, and he became a supporter of the Levant Company around 1578, trading out of Constantinople.146 In addition to these, Read notes, “he revealed an active interest in the affairs of the Venetian Merchants, the Turkey Merchants, the Eastland Merchants, and the more venerable company of Merchant Adventurers. Indeed, it is fair to say that there was no branch of English trade in which he was not interested.”147 Walsingham’s involvement with overseas ventures—in particular, the New World—demonstrated England’s early bid for imperial power and was also a point of significant concern to the Spanish. In 1578 and 1579, Bernardino de Mendoza wrote no fewer than thirteen letters, in cipher, to Philip II about the details of Martin Frobisher’s voyages to Ireland and the New World, his discoveries of ore (which would turn out not to be the gold he thought it was), and his activities, all communicated by means of a Spanish spy embedded in Frobisher’s crew, most likely on board the Ayde.148 Bernard Allaire and Donald Hogarth posit that the spy was likely an Englishman named Robert Denham, the chief assayer on the Ayde who accompanied Frobisher on both his second and third voyages, the same accounts given by Mendoza.149 Allaire and Hogarth also speculate that Denham may have been—since he was a known Protestant—a double agent, providing information to Mendoza to “throw him off track.”150 But whether an English or Spanish agent, the evidence of his work confirms the close interconnection between imperial exploration and intelligence work for both England and Spain, a relationship that would persist into the reign of James and the foundation of the first English colonies in the New World. Among the men who reported back to Walsingham during the 1570s on the movements of Stukeley, Sander, and others were a bevy of merchants, including (possibly) Denham, Paulet, Wilson, Gilpin, Hoddesdon, Roger Bodenham, Botolphe Holder, John Dunne, and a man known only

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 93 as “Best.”151 These agents brought news of the movements of the Spanish, French, and Italians (both Rome and the various city-states, such as Florence, Venice, and Naples), including military preparations, but they also served as an historical representation of the significance of intelligence to the international power struggle. In addition to his network of individual agents, Walsingham had connections among pirates and privateers based in England, France, and the Netherlands (the latter both Huguenot forces), whose ships were used to gather intelligence, but whose actions in the seas across the globe also secured (read, “stole”) funds and resources that went to support the international Protestant cause.152 The men (and a few women) who worked for Walsingham crossed boundaries of sex, religion, national origin, and class. Yet despite this, there was, to a certain extent, some similarity among the bulk of intelligence agents in Walsingham’s service. They were, according to Charles Nicholl, of relatively low social status, commoners, certainly, most likely artisans or merchants.153 In many cases, such spies were found in the servant ranks of more prominent households, particularly if those households were known or suspected Recusants, their loyalty secured to Walsingham through monetary means. Yet although most such agents were gained through the promise (and payment) of funds, Nicholl notes, they professed nationalism: ‘Though I am a spy, which is a profession odious though necessary, I prosecute the same not for gain, but for the safety of my native country.’ So wrote Nicholas Berden in 1586, though his career of bribery and extortion makes this ring a bit hollow.154 Certainly there were exceptions to the description Nicholl provides (one which applied to Berden, at least, and to several dozen other “regular” agents who served as couriers, messengers, and informants), but it does indeed seem that both proto-patriotism (or, at least, loyalty to the queen) and financial gain played a significant role in the recruitment and retention of Walsingham’s agents. If we examine Walsingham’s early network—from when he took control in 1574 until the end of 1579—we can see that he was already establishing a significant role for himself within the network in Figure 3.2. If we look at this network in comparison with Cecil’s from 1558 to 1573, we find some similarities (particularly in shape), but also some prominent differences. What is immediately visually evident is that Walsingham’s node has become larger than Cecil’s, which tells us that Walsingham has a higher degree of influence over the network than before he took control of the intelligence service; this is not in the least bit surprising, although the shift took place in a very brief amount of time, which is noteworthy. He is also now at the center of the network, with a centrality of 1, while Cecil’s centrality has dropped to 0.714 (which is nevertheless substantially higher than the centrality of anyone else in the network).

94  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service

Figure 3.2  Social network map from 1574 to 1579

We also find that the Global Clustering Coefficient of Walsingham’s early network is almost identical to that of Cecil’s network at 0.404 (in comparison with 0.405), likely indicating that Walsingham’s initial five years as spymaster followed the pattern established by Cecil. The Average Path Length is also nearly identical, at 3.143 (compared to 3.147 under Cecil). The diameter of the network, seven, is also identical. These similar statistics would suggest a similarly sized network, as well. However, despite this, Walsingham’s 1574–1579 network is in fact larger, with 126 nodes (compared to 107) and 196 edges (compared to 186). In other words, Walsingham has managed to maintain the relative density of the network despite increasing its size, which suggests impressive influence and organizational capacity.

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 95 We also see the beginnings, in Walsingham’s network, of prominent new figures. In Cecil’s original network, the three most prominent nodes in both saturation and size are Cecil (with a centrality of 1), Walsingham (0.564), and Elizabeth (0.364). A handful of other figures have moderate saturation, including Ridolfi (0.322), and a handful of lightly saturated nodes appear, as well, including Thomaso (0.207), Rutter (0.293), Glover (0.293), and Randolph (0.313).155 But in Walsingham’s network, Elizabeth (0.193) has comparatively faded in significance; although she is the reason for the network’s existence, her involvement with the agents has lessened. Similarly, some of the other agents are beginning to fade from prominence (Rutter, now at 0.274, for instance), while others—such as playwright Anthony Munday (0.439), Thomas Norton (0.281), and merchant Anthony Marlowe (0.155, cousin to Christopher)—are beginning to gain prominence. Outdegree tells us something similar. In Cecil’s network, Cecil is (obviously) the most powerful, with the highest outdegree (41), with Walsingham (22) the nearest behind in rank. From 1574 to 1579, however, Walsingham has increased his outdegree connections to 43, with Cecil having lost eleven (30). By the mid-to-late 1570s, Elizabeth has slipped further from the network, allowing only those closest to her to report its doings, as she has only eight connections (all outdegree). Our strange outlier in Walsingham’s fledgling network is Munday, with a rather high outdegree of 23 (all in 1579).156 As extensive as this network appears in hindsight, it is important to remember that it was undoubtedly even more so—Walsingham was careful and deliberate with his information. He was known for burning his correspondence with agents, reporting only what he deemed important and necessary to Cecil, the Council, and the queen. This pattern of destruction, which was essential to maintaining the secrecy of the intelligence service, means that many of Walsingham’s agents will forever remain unknown, but this historically lamentable concern about secrecy also made him one of the most successful spymasters in Europe. In the beginning, this network—both domestic and international—was neither housed nor funded by the Elizabethan government; rather, the financial and organizational burden of managing the intelligence service fell entirely to Walsingham (as it had to Cecil before him). Headquartered (loosely speaking) in Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane, the service had close proximity not only to the seat of government, but also to the Tower and prisons, where Walsingham’s agents were responsible for both formal and undercover interrogation of political and Recusant prisoners.157 He employed men (and even a handful of women)—across all classes and occupations—whom he deemed capable of gathering and transmitting intelligence. He was also more than willing to pay non-agents for any information they might be willing to sell to their government, and he garnered a reputation for “pay[ing] well for it.”158 As such, Walsingham was actively engaged—although he certainly would not have said so—in the breakdown

96  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service of the social barriers that characterized feudal and early modern England, but that were rapidly beginning to dissolve. This network, encompassing, at its height, at least “fifty-three spies and eighteen agents at foreign courts, as well as a host of informers within the English realm itself, some of them turncoats, others from the detritus of Tudor society,” was instrumental in cementing the strength and stability of England.159 Such a carefully organized intelligence system would not have been nearly so necessary—and would not have become quite so vast—without the radicalization of Catholicism that took place under the rise of the Jesuits. Up to the end of the 1570s, England—and, therefore, Walsingham—was concerned with pressure from Spain and the religious wars in France, as well as the ties between these two Catholic countries and Scotland to the north. The rebellions of Catholic subjects had thus far been traced specifically to international conspiracies, including Philip II and the Guises. However, despite the presence of Recusancy in England and pressure from Regnans in Excelsis, it was not until the Jesuit Mission to England that the real power of Walsingham’s intelligence service as a state apparatus was brought to bear.

Notes 1. Pius V., “Pope Pius V’s Bull against Elizabeth (1570),” in Tudorhistory.Org, ed. Lara E. Eakins, 1570 2013, http://tudorhistory.org/primary/papalbull. html 2. Pius V. 3. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 18. 4. Alan Gordon Smith, William Cecil: The Power behind Elizabeth, Reprint (2004) (Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 1934), 144; Stephen Alford, Burghley: William Cecil at the Court of Elizabeth I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 163. 5. Alice Hogge, God’s Secret Agents: Queen Elizabeth’s Forbidden Priests and the Hatching of the Gunpowder Plot (New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2005), 47. 6. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 1. 7. Smith, William Cecil, 144. 8. John Coffey, Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England 1558–1689, Studies in Modern History (Harlow: Longman, 2000), 86. 9. Coffey, 86; “An Act against the Bringing in, and Putting in Execution of Bulls, Writings or Instruments and Other Superstitious Things from the See of Rome,” Pub. L. No. 13 Eliz. Cap. II (1571).§ 71–3. 10. “13 Eliz. Cap. II” (1571). 11. “Act against Fugitives over the Sea,” Pub. L. No. 13 Eliz. Cap III (1571). 12. Mark Rankin, “Richard Topcliffe and the Book Culture of the Elizabethan Catholic Underground,” Renaissance Quarterly 72, no. 2 (2019): 497; “An Act Whereby Certayne Offences Bee Made Treason,” Pub. L. No. 13 Eliz. Cap. I (1571). 13. Alford, Burghley, 166. 14. It is worth noting that Elizabeth was highly selective in her distribution of wealth and titles, and social mobility of this kind was still an exception in

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 97 sixteenth-century England rather than the rule. An elevation like Cecil’s was rare, and Elizabeth was far more inclined to keep tight control over peerages, titles, and monetary rewards than not. For Cecil to have been so elevated by a Queen who was disinclined to do so is a mark of his importance in her regime. 15. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 8. 16. Plowden, 11. 17. Plowden, 11. 18. Plowden, 11. 19. Ronald Pollitt, “The Abduction of Doctor John Story and the Evolution of Elizabethan Intelligence Operations,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 14, no. 2 (1983): 131, https://doi.org/10.2307/2539942. 20. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 14. 21. Plowden, 15. 22. Alford, Burghley, 167. 23. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 15. 24. Alford, Burghley, 168; John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 57. 25. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 17. 26. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 59. 27. Cooper, 59. 28. Smith, William Cecil, 147. 29. Pollitt, “Abduction of John Story,” 132. 30. Anonymous, A Declaration of the Lyfe and Death of Iohn Story, Late a Romish Canonicall Doctor, by Professyon (London: Thomas Colwell, 1571), B1r. 31. Pollitt, “Abduction of John Story,” 135. 32. Pollitt, 136. 33. Michael J. Devine, “John Prestall: A Complex Relationship with the Elizabethan Regime” (Master of Arts, Wellington, Victoria University of Wellington, 2009). 34. The only study focusing on Prestall, specifically, is Michael J. Devine’s Master of Arts thesis from 2009, “John Prestall: A Complex Relationship with the Elizabethan Regime,” although he is mentioned in Ronald Pollitt’s “The Abduction of Doctor John Story and the Evolution of Elizabethan Intelligence Operations” (1983). 35. Devine, “John Prestall,” 67–73. 36. Devine, 76–7. 37. Pollitt, “Abduction of John Story,” 138. 38. Devine, “John Prestall,” 91. 39. Devine, 92–3. 40. Smith, William Cecil, 147. 41. Pollitt, “Abduction of John Story,” 146–7. 42. Pollitt, 140. 43. Ramsden wrote on behalf of himself and his fellow merchants, Bragge and Jewkes (SP 12/74 f.73). The State Papers indicate that Cecil—now Burghley—­and his agents (specifically, William Herle, who worked for Cecil throughout the 1570s and 1580s) were dealing with both Ramsden’s information and the arrest of Charles Baillie at the same time in 1571 (SP 53/6 f.64), including some hint that Story (and Prestall) may also have been tied to the Ridolfi Plot. 44. Pollitt, “Abduction of John Story,” 152. 45. Smith, William Cecil, 154; Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 23.

98  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 46. Robyn Adams, “‘The Service I Am Here for’: William Herle in the Marshalsea Prison, 1571,” Huntington Library Quarterly 72, no. 2 (2009): 217; Robyn Adams, “A Spy on the Payroll? William Herle and the Mid Elizabethan Polity,” Historical Research 83, no. 220 (2010): 272. 47. William Herle to Nicholas Bacon, “Wm. Herlle to the Lord Keeper,” January 1570 [1571], SP 12/77 1v, The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond. edu/mss/retrieve.do?sgHitCountType=None&sort=RN-SORT&inPS=true& prodId=SPOL&userGroupName=vic_uor&tabID=T005&searchId=& r e s u lt L i s tTy p e = R E S U LT_ L I S T& c o nt e nt S e g m e nt= & s e a rc hTy p e = StandardsBrowse¤tPosition=0&contentSet=GALE|MC4304105651 &&docId=GALE|MC4304105651&docType=GALE&searchId=&viewtype= Calendar 48. Adams, “The Service I Am Here For,” 222. For more on Black Chambers, see the Introduction. 49. Alford, Burghley, 170. 50. Adams, “The Service I Am Here For,” 218. 51. Adams, 18. 52. Robyn Adams, “Sixteenth-Century Intelligencers and their Maps,” Imago Mundi 63, no. 2 (2011): 203. 53. Adams, 204. 54. Adams, “The Service I Am Here For,” 226. 55. Smith, William Cecil, 156. 56. Smith, 156. 57. Smith, 157. 58. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 29, 39. 59. Smith, William Cecil, 158. 60. Smith, 161. 61. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 30; Alford, Burghley, 171. 62. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 32. 63. Qtd. in Winston Graham, The Spanish Armadas (London: George Rainbird Limited, 1972), 52. 64. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 34. 65. Plowden, 36. 66. Plowden, 36. 67. Alford, Burghley, 173. 68. Alford, 175; Qtd. in Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 36. 69. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 37. 70. Alford, Burghley, 176. 71. Alford, 177. 72. Alford, 177. 73. Alford, 178. 74. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 56. 75. Alford, Burghley, 184. 76. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 72. 77. Alford, Burghley, 186. 78. Alford, 167. 79. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 61; Patrick Collinson, “Servants and Citizens: Robert Beale and Other Elizabethans,” Historical Research 79, no. 206 (November 2006): 503, https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1468-2281.2006.00396.x 80. Alford, Burghley, 190. 81. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 65. 82. Cooper, 63. 83. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 49.

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 99 84. Plowden, 50; Stephen Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I (New York: Bloomsbury, Inc., 2012), 51; R.J. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 3rd Edition (1989), Seminar Studies in History (London: Routledge, 2010), 25. 85. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 51. 86. Plowden, 49. 87. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 48; Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 50. 88. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 48; Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 50. 89. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 49. 90. Knecht, 49. 91. John Guy, Tudor England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 278; Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 51. Knecht says that historical estimates for deaths in Paris range from 2,000–4,000 (Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 50). 92. Alford, The Watchers, 51. 93. Knecht, The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598, 51. 94. Knecht, 50. 95. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 2. 96. Qtd. in Cooper, 79. 97. Cooper, 62. 98. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 51. 99. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 81. 100. Guy, Tudor England, 282. 101. Guy, 282. 102. Smith, William Cecil, 190. 103. Smith, 187. Nothing, of course, came of these discussions, as Valois—named governor of the Netherlands in 1581—contracted malaria and died in 1584. 104. William Cecil to Francis Walsingham, “Ld. Burleigh, to Fr. Walsingham,” September 11, 1572, Cotton Vespasian F/V f.148, British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4318870312&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it= r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript 105. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 51. 106. Guy, Tudor England, 278. 107. Qtd. in Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 51. 108. Plowden, 51. 109. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 44–8. 110. Graham, 44–8. 111. Graham, 48. 112. William Keatinge Clay, ed., Liturgical Services, Liturgies and Occasional Forms of Prayer Set Forth in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth (Eugene, Oregon: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2004), 610–1. 113. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 52. 114. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 123. 115. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 88. 116. These numbers are most likely smaller than the actuality of Cecil’s network due to the inevitable lack of documentation about spycraft, particularly considering that there were likely a goodly number of agents who were only used once, to carry a message or pilfer a document. I use agents whose presence appears in the historical record, either in government or personal documents, so the actual numbers are probably at least half again as large. Under

100  Walsingham’s Intelligence Service ­ alsingham—who had a propensity for burning documents—the recorded W numbers are also undoubtedly far lower than the actual population of agents. 117. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 52. 118. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 3 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 269. 119. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 54. 120. Plowden, 54. 121. Rivkah Zim, “Sackville, Thomas, First Baron Buckhurst and First Earl of Dorset (c. 1536–1608), Poet and Administrator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/24450 122. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 88. 123. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 56, 58. 124. Plowden, 57. 125. Plowden, 57. 126. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 53. 127. Alford, The Watchers, 261. 128. Qtd. in Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 125. 129. Cooper, 131. 130. Cooper, 90. 131. Cooper, 75. 132. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 58. 133. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 107. 134. Beth Norris, “London Aliens,” InteractiveResource (The Map of Early Modern London, 2016), Austin Friars, https://mapoflondon.uvic.ca/ALIE1.htm 135. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 108. 136. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 68. 137. Plowden, 59. 138. Plowden, 60. 139. T.F. Mayer, “Sander [Sanders], Nicholas (c. 1530–1581), Religious Controversialist,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2014), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/24621 140. Mayer. 141. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 60. 142. Qtd. in Mayer, “Sander.” 143. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 64. 144. William Camden, The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess Elizabeth, Late Queen of England Containing All the Most Important and Remarkable Passages of State, Both at Home and Abroad (so Far as They Were Linked with English Affairs) During Her Long and Prosperous Reign, Fourth Edition (London: M. Flesher, 1688), 444, http://newman.richmond. edu:2048/ login?url=https://www.proquest.com / books/ history-mostrenowned-victorious-princess/docview/2240956365/se-2?accountid=14731 145. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 3:370. 146. Read, 3:371–2. 147. Read, 3:391. 148. Bernard Allaire and Donald Hogarth, “Martin Frobisher, The Spaniards and a Sixteenth-Century Northern Spy,” Terrae Incognitae 28, no. 1 (1996): 49. 149. Allaire and Hogarth, 56. 150. Allaire and Hogarth, 57. 151. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 61. 152. Plowden, 61. 153. Charles Nicholl, The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1992), 108.

Walsingham’s Intelligence Service 101 154. Nicholl, 108. 155. The Rutter in this network is in fact the same Rutter in the smaller network in the Introduction. Careful observers will also find Ivan the Terrible in this network, as Rutter’s job was in fact to spy on the Russian Czar. 156. Because Munday’s work, although begun in 1579, comes to fruition in 1581– 1582; it is discussed in Chapter 4. 157. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 167. 158. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 2:320. 159. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 17.

4

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents, 1580–1584

When the Jesuit mission to England officially launched in 1580, it brought with it new Catholic incursions into the country and an increase in the levels of government surveillance and paranoia. As the Wars of Religion extended into the new decade and Spain began to seriously consider launching an invasion of England with the express purpose of restoring England to the Catholic faith, this anxiety persisted and deepened among the queen, her Privy Council, the court at large, and even the general population in the south of England (the north remained more conflicted, given its historical Catholicism and history of resistance to Tudor rule). Although the activity of the Catholic League of Spain, France, and Rome had largely subsided by the end of the 1570s, the events of the early 1580s spurred Henri de Guise to reinvigorate its activities, increasing the potential threat of Catholic France and Spain, both in the Netherlands and in England itself. In political terms, men like Cecil and Walsingham, in their efforts to maintain English stability and establish English identity as definitively Protestant, increased expenditures on intelligence and diplomacy, working actively to grow the number of agents and the expansiveness of their reach. In large part a response to the start of the Jesuit mission, the domestic network of spies came to include multiple men whose religious persuasion was Catholic (rather than pretended Catholicism, although that was common, as well), although their political loyalties leaned toward Elizabeth, a position that would continue to create internal conflict within the English Catholic community well into the seventeenth century. With the support of both the Catholic League and the Jesuit mission, conspirators among the English Recusants—who were, it must be noted, relatively few and far between in the grand scheme of things, although certainly far from imaginary—renewed their interest in Mary Queen of Scots as a potential replacement for Elizabeth, either upon the eventuality of her death or in a more immediate, deliberately hastened future. Mary’s ties to the Guises (and thus to the Catholic League) made her a continual target for Walsingham’s agents and a frequent subject of debate in both Parliament and the Privy Council. In particular, the Throckmorton Plot DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-5

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 103 (in 1583), ostensibly spearheaded by Francis Throckmorton, was a covert attempt primarily by the Spanish to remove Elizabeth and replace her with Mary. The Throckmorton Plot tested Walsingham’s intelligence service and demonstrated both the spymaster’s savvy and the increasing complexity of espionage, as well as the lengths to which both the Spanish and English governments were willing to go to ensure the triumph of their separate religions.

The Pope’s Priests: Robert Parsons, Cuthbert Mayne, and John Hart In the years leading up to 1580, as Walsingham began to transform the English secret service in the aftermath of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, English Catholics were attempting to reclaim a community identity as English Catholics.1 For the most part, these Catholics were—despite Elizabethan government propaganda—uninterested in politics, yet the predominant narrative of Catholicism as told by the officially sanctioned presses was one of a hidden “Fifth Column” of militant Catholics ready to march forth and destroy the Elizabethan regime at a command from Spain or the Pope. Certainly, there were threats to both the queen and her Protestant government from Catholic individuals—such as Thomas Howard and his conspiracy. But was the imagined threat of Howard’s co-religionists really as significant as it was painted by Cecil, Walsingham, and their propagandists? The answer is complex. On the one hand, it appears that most Catholic practice was private, contained within individual households and, often, even supplementary to participation in government-sanctioned Protestant worship. On the other hand, however, there was the rising threat of a militant branch of Catholics spearheaded by a man whose goal was, specifically, the political and religious overthrow of the English government and the replacement of Elizabeth with the Spanish Infanta Isabella. This man was the Jesuit Robert Parsons. Parsons began his career as a probationer fellow at Balliol College, Oxford, although his tenure in that role rapidly ended following accusations of incompetence as bursar. Parsons then undertook a journey to Padua to study medicine under the patronage of Thomas Sackville, at the time Lord Buckhurst.2 However, in 1574, Parsons abandoned his medical ambitions at Louvain, where he instead “performed the spiritual exercises of Ignatius of Loyola under the direction of the Jesuit William Good,” leading to his entrée to the Jesuits as a postulant in July 1575, before he took his vows as a priest in 1578.3 In 1559, shortly after Mary I’s death, Philip II of Spain founded a university seminary at Douai “for the express purpose of combatting Protestant heresies.”4 External pressure from Calvinists in Douai led to the expulsion of the seminary in 1578, when it was moved to Rheims upon the invitation of Henri and Charles de Guise, the Duke of Guise and Cardinal of Lorraine

104  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents (also Archbishop of Rheims).5 As Austin Gray observes, “from 1580 to 1587 Rheims was the centre of almost every plot against England and Elizabeth.”6 It was only two years later, in 1580, that Parsons—along with William Allen, the English founder of the seminary at Douai, the Jesuit general Everard Mercurian, and another Jesuit by the name of Edmund Campion—set out for England with the mission “to strengthen the resolve of the Catholic faithful, forestall gradual absorption into the state church, and establish a network of support.”7 The priests were smuggled into England separately, in disguise, and began their work. Among the events that galvanized the Jesuit mission was the arrest and execution in 1577 of a priest by the name of Cuthbert Mayne, a college classmate of Campion’s at St. John’s College, Oxford.8 After taking his vows in 1575, Campion returned to England with Mayne, who was in disguise as a steward, and both stayed at the house of Francis Tregian.9 Ensconced in Tregian’s household, Mayne conducted mass “freely throughout Cornwall,” attracting the attention of the Bishop of Exeter, William Bradbridge, who “had been instructed to deal severely with the Catholics in Cornwall.”10 The local sheriff, Richard Grenville, was summoned and conducted a search of Tregian’s household, revealing Mayne and uncovering a small collection of papers and Catholic objects, including a copy of a papal bull and several Agnus Dei pendants, both of which were prohibited by law.11 Mayne was arrested, imprisoned, and tried by Sir Roger Manwood and Sir John Jeffreys under the charges of possessing a papal bull, publishing a papal bull, defending the Pope, distributing Agnus Deis, and celebrating Catholic mass.12 Tregian, in whose house Mayne conducted mass, was sentenced to 24 years imprisonment.13 Mayne, who steadfastly refused to acknowledge Elizabeth as the head of the English church, instead insisting on papal supremacy, was convicted of treason and sentenced, and then was hung, drawn, and quartered on 30 November 1577.14 Mayne’s martyrdom galvanized both the Jesuit mission and English anti-Catholic legislation and emblematized the fate that awaited 188 future Catholic martyrs of the Elizabethan regime.15 It is worth noting that Elizabethan religious persecution led to the imprisonment of approximately 285 Catholic priests, some of them for upwards of three decades.16 Catholic lay people also faced imprisonment and fines, as well as execution, but there was a significant difference between the persecutions of the Elizabethan government and those conducted by the preceding Marian government. Elizabethan persecutions were tied to politics rather than simply religion, in which—largely thanks to the 1570 Regnans in Excelsis—the criminalization of Catholicism was inextricably tied to plots and assassination attempts working to bring down the Elizabethan regime.17 If the Marian persecutions had been concerned about religion, Elizabethan anti-­Catholicism used religion as a signifier for political alignment rather than a direct concern; priests and Recusants were hunted down

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 105 in Elizabethan England, but they were not burned for heresy. Instead, one’s religion became part and parcel of one’s politics, making religious belief tantamount to political affiliation. Already concerned about the possibility of internal Catholic rebellion— thanks in large part to the Northern Rising—Walsingham and Cecil pressed the government to conduct a census of Recusants in the same year, a few months after Mayne’s arrest and a month before his execution. More than 1,500 identified Recusants were listed, with a third of them indicated as gentlemen (in a population of almost four million).18 These numbers were taken very seriously by the government and by Walsingham in particular, whose focus turned explicitly to the discovery of Recusancy and Catholic plotting throughout England, with special attention paid to the presence of hidden priests whose mission was not only to bring the mass to England, but—thanks to the influence of militant Jesuits like Parsons—to undermine and even overthrow Elizabeth’s government. Parsons’s position was tenable in large part because of English Catholic concerns that the anti-Catholic campaign of the Elizabethan government would actually be successful; in the years leading up to 1580, both because of and despite the proclamation of Regnans in Excelsis, English Catholicism was widely suppressed, although typically nonviolently. In large part this was thanks to Walsingham and Cecil’s shared understanding that violence—and active persecution of the kind that had characterized Mary’s reign—led to martyrdom, and martyrdom produced radicalism.19 Instead, Catholic praxis simply began, in most parts of England, to fade, a state that increased the anxiety of those Catholics who remained.20 It was this anxiety which led Allen and Parsons to convince Mercurian to authorize the Jesuit mission. In 1580, Mercurian agreed to send, under Allen’s leadership, 100 priests to England. Those hundred—which included Parsons and Campion—were to focus on encouraging continued Catholic practice to the exclusion of Anglican worship, principally among the gentry and nobility. 21 The mission received some support from Philip II, the French King Henri III, and Henri de Guise, who also sought the financial backing of Philip and Rome for his newly founded Catholic League in the early 1580s.22 This alliance with the Catholic League placed England on the forefront of not only defending its own national identity from outside forces, but also of standing in defense of European Protestantism at large. 23 The primary purpose of the mission, at least according to Allen and Mercurian, was to undermine the tacit acceptance most English Catholics had come to exhibit concerning the Elizabethan regime; during the first two decades of Elizabeth’s rule, most English Catholics sought to justify a kind of dual allegiance to her and to the Catholic Church by attempting to separate their temporal and spiritual loyalties. 24 By the 1580s and the arrival of the Jesuit mission, however, both Rome and Elizabeth were attempting to force the decision, each claiming that loyalty to one prohibited loyalty

106  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents to the other. Parsons’s more militant outlook put pressure on English Catholics and missionary priests not only to remain loyal to Rome and the Catholic Church, but also to disavow Elizabeth, their Protestant neighbors, and all of England itself. This hardline tack on the part of both the Jesuits and the Elizabethan government forced English Catholics into a position where they had to choose between their nation and their faith. Some, as had happened under Mary’s reign, chose self-imposed exile, with most English Catholic exiles settling in France (Louvain, Rheims, Paris) or Rome. 25 Many of these Catholic exiles were on the more radical end of the spectrum and encouraged their families back in England to reject their Protestant neighbors and government. 26 Others capitulated to one side or the other, choosing loyalty to the Pope or their queen when they were no longer able to maintain the delicate balance of both. As Cooper hypothesizes, without the militancy of the Jesuit mission, this decision likely would not have come to a head, and many English Catholics would have remained silently dedicated to both the old religion and the new regime. 27 The immediate legislative response to the arrival of the Jesuit mission was the passage of the Act to Retain the Queen’s Majesty’s Subjects in their True Obedience in 1581, an increase in Recusancy fines, and the issuing of the Statute Against Seditious Words and Rumours, also 1581, which criminalized those who chose to “devyse and wright printe or setforthe, any mannr of Booke Ryme Ballade Letter or Writing, conteyning any false sedicious and slanderous Matter,” or anyone who would “Procure or cause any suche” document “to be written printed published or set forth.”28 Both would be followed four years later, in 1585, by the more explicit Act against Jesuits, Seminary Priests and such other Disobedient Persons. 29 In Parliament, Sir Walter Mildmay, a prominent member of Elizabeth’s Privy Council and Chancellor of the Exchequer (as well as brother-in-law of Walsingham), exhorted Parliament “to look more narrowly and straitly” at English Catholics, “to retain the queen’s majesty’s subjects in their due obedience,” by force or imprisonment if necessary.30 Those who were detained were often fined, imprisoned, and questioned by agents of the crown (often affiliated with the intelligence network in some capacity). The methods employed by interrogators were not gentle; although English law forbade torture except in extraordinary circumstances—and required a warrant from the monarch—and Elizabeth herself “remained squeamish,” torture became an increasingly popular means of addressing the Jesuit problem as fears of imminent Catholic invasion and conspiracy grew following the start of the mission.31 Protestantism dominated in Parliament, at court, and in the rhetoric issued by the government and preached in pulpits throughout London

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 107 and the rest of England.32 However, as Haigh aptly remarks, these laws and proclamations “were creating a Protestant nation, but not a nation of Protestants.”33 Religious belief remained—as Haigh’s comment implies— an individual matter, but public practice and outward conformity were the business of the government and its propagandists, and those who defied the model became the targets of Walsingham’s spy network. Yet although, as Read explains, “it is clear that while the statutes assumed all priests from abroad to be ipso facto traitors, the Queen was very unwilling to allow them to be executed on that legal assumption alone.”34 Elizabeth—like Walsingham and Cecil—understood the importance of not creating martyrs, particularly in terms of international diplomacy. However, despite her reluctance and Walsingham’s political savvy, both queen and spymaster found that the Jesuit mission would begin to force their hand more frequently into trial and execution. The first Jesuit to be arrested and executed following the start of the mission was John Hart, who had arrived in England at Dover on 5 June 1580.35 A few months previously, he had preached to English Catholic exiles that the English throne should rightfully be given to Mary Queen of Scots. Furthermore, he promised an impending Spanish invasion and urged his audience to retain symbols of their Catholicism to ensure their safety during that invasion: “The queen and her councillors would ‘have such reward, as obstinate heretics ought to have, by the laws of God.’”36 Following his arrest, Hart was interviewed at Nonsuch by Walsingham himself, who, according to Hart, treated him with some clemency: “Hart was allowed ‘libertie of conference at home, first in my owne countrie, and afterward in prison.’”37 Although convicted of treason, Hart’s sentence was repeatedly delayed, and he spent multiple years in the Tower before his eventual deportation to France early in 1585.38 Hart’s imprisonment undoubtedly provided Walsingham with information on the workings of the seminary at Rheims under Allen’s control, and although Hart maintained adherence to Catholic doctrine while in prison, the uncharacteristic mercy shown to him suggests that his information proved useful. Hart’s presence in England—like that of the other Jesuits—sponsored as it was through the financial backing of the Catholic League, represented the combined threat of Rome, France, and Spain.39 His interrogation at Walsingham’s hands, although mild, reminds us that Jesuits were considered not heretics (as Mary had considered Protestants), but traitors, agents of foreign powers who sought the end of a political regime rather than religious conversion. One of the central men to the Elizabethan process of interrogation was Thomas Norton, graduate of the Inns of Court, one-time playwright, author, “rackmaster,” and, in the words of Patrick Collinson, “the indispensable link-man between the government and the city of London.”40 Norton’s position was reinforced by Cecil, who, explains David K. Anderson, “took up his pen to defend the violent measures that the queen’s government had taken against the English Catholic

108  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents missionaries who had in recent years been arrested, charged with treason and executed.”41 Cecil and Norton both believed the Jesuits to be “soldiers of Rome,” foreign combatants “not worthy of the sympathy of any loyal Englishman.”42 In a letter to Walsingham defending his actions in the Tower, Norton writes that “no man was tormented for matter of religion, nor asked what he believed of any point of religion, but only to understand of particular practices for setting up their religion by treason or force against the Queene.”43 The emphasis on treason was important in terms of justifying the deaths of the Jesuits and their supporters, but also because it authorized the full force of the Elizabethan secret service in support of the government and the stability of the commonwealth, rather than the more tenuous justification of violence and prosecution in the name of faith alone. The differentiation between these was important ideologically for the formulation of English proto-nationalism, but also for the nascent bureaucracy being built by Walsingham and Cecil. Even in the sixteenth century, there seemed to be a burgeoning understanding that spiritual matters were somehow personal and that a government that sought to legislate beliefs might be trespassing outside of its purview. This was, of course, not present in either statute law nor in political theory, but, rather, can be found in evidence based largely on the methods and means by which sixteenth-century governments were—and were not—prosecuting religious heresy. The international reaction to the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, for instance, was mixed, and suggests an increasing intolerance on an international scale for extensive violence as a means of securing religious conformity. Similarly, Elizabeth’s turn away from heresy persecutions (when such had been her sister’s methodology) toward treason focused both statute and ideological formulations of crime away from spiritual belief and onto political action as the prosecutable crime.44 Certainly no one—least of all Elizabeth, Cecil, or Walsingham—would have suggested a separation between the spiritual and the political; for Walsingham in particular, devout Protestantism was a driving force in his political ambition and actions. So, too, religious practices such as attendance at church and the use of the Book of Common Prayer were legislated by Parliament, and failure to comply resulted in fines and imprisonment that became increasingly stringent in the 1580s.45 Nevertheless, the legal distinction between heresy and treason being made by the Elizabethan regime is an important turn away from the English crown as a judge of heresy and toward a more politically oriented position in which, as Haigh has observed, England became a “Protestant nation” divorced from being a “nation of Protestants.”

Anthony Munday and Edmund Campion A few years into the Jesuit mission, a young poet and pamphleteer by the name of Anthony Munday published a remarkable text excoriating the perfidy of Catholics, and English Catholics and Jesuits in particular. This

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 109 pamphlet, known as The English Romayne Lyfe (1582), was printed in London by John Charlewood for Nicholas Ling at St. Paul’s Churchyard. It is interesting to us not simply as an artifact produced by one of Walsingham’s agents, but as a work that is simultaneously an intelligence report, a piece of anti-Catholic propaganda, and a public commercial document. It provides an account of the work of an Elizabethan intelligencer abroad, under an assumed name, working from within a Catholic seminary to undermine efforts to convert English citizens to Catholicism and further the Jesuit mission in England. It thus stands as an example of the kinds of actions taken by English intelligence agents working “undercover” and also as a documentation of the public’s awareness of such actions (albeit after the fact). Romayne Lyfe is therefore a representation both of the increasing atmosphere of surveillance that characterized England in the 1580s and the work being done by Walsingham’s intelligence service to maintain footholds in Catholic communities both domestically and abroad. The pamphlet’s rather lengthy subtitle promises to educate its readers on the English Seminary in Rome: The English Romayne Lyfe. Discouering: The liues of the Englishmen at Roome: the orders of the English Seminarie: the dissention betweene the Englishmen and the VVelshmen: the banishing of the Englishmen out of Roome: the Popes sending for them againe: a reporte of many of the paltrie Reliques in Roome: their Uauntes vnder the grounde: their holy Pilgrimages: and a number of other matters, worthy to be read and regarded of euery one. Added to this is a promise that “There vnto is added, the cruell tyranny, vsed on an English man at Roome, his Christian suffering and notable Martirdome, for the Gospell of Iesus Christe, in Anno. 1581.”46 The author is noted only as “A.M.” and the frontispiece is inscribed with “Honos alit Artes. Seene and allovved.”47 Munday’s pamphlet was clearly authorized—“Seene and allovved”—by the Stationers’ Register, but he takes care to further legitimize it by dedicating it to a handful of the Privy Council: To the right Honorable Sir Thomas Bromley, Knight, Lord Chaunceller of Englande: William [Cecil], Lorde Burleigh and Lord Treasorer: Robert [Dudley], Earle of Leicester, with all the rest of her Maiesties most Honourable priuie Councell, A.M. wisheth a happy race in continuall honour, and the fulnesse of Gods blessing in the day of ioy.48 The specific focus on Bromley, Cecil, and Dudley suggests that Munday was more than aware of the nature of the pamphlet as a piece of explicit anti-Catholic propaganda, and, furthermore, it suggests some familiarity with the Council itself, as he directs the pamphlet by name to three of its members.49 The contents of the pamphlet are even more remarkable, as they narrate not only propagandist invective against Catholics, but also provide an insider’s view into a tumultuous period at the English Seminary in Rome, a

110  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents period in which—it becomes clear after reading both Munday’s and Jesuit accounts—Munday himself played a role, potentially at the behest of one or more members of the Privy Council. As Peter Lake and Michael Questier have noted, the Jesuits in Rome interpreted the student uprisings in the summer of 1579 “to be part of an attempted coup, underwritten by the regime in England, the purpose of which was to secure mastery of the institutions and funds of the Catholic community in exile.”50 Although Munday does not mention funding in the Romayne Lyfe, his account does indeed seem to support some level—whether anticipatory or ex post facto—of support for the coup on the part of the English establishment. The pamphlet outlines Munday’s involvement as beginning in 1578, when Munday and another young English gentleman named Thomas Nowell crossed the English Channel bound for France, Venice, and Rome, ostensibly out of a “desire to se straunge Countreies, as also affection to learne the languages, had perswaded me to leaue my natiue Countrey, and not any other intent or cause, God is my record.”51 According to Munday himself, the stated purpose of the voyage was to learn foreign languages and sow his wild oats, as he writes in the introduction to the Mirrour of Mutibilitie: at that time beeing very desirous to attaine to some vnderstanding in the languages, considering in time to come: I might reap therby some commoditie, since as yet my vvebbe of youthfull time vvas not fully vvouen, and my vvilde oates required to be furrovved in a forreyne ground, to satisfye the trifling toyes that dayly more and more frequented my busied braine: yeelded my self to God and good Fortune, taking on the habit of a Traueler.52 Such assertions would not necessarily have been unusual. It was common, for instance, for young men of good breeding to travel to the Continent to improve their station, although it could also raise suspicions about their intentions, particularly if they traveled to predominantly Catholic locales.53 Certainly, Munday’s justifications for travel in Romayne Lyfe accord with this set of expectations, even if his own biography as the orphaned son of a draper seems too low status to qualify as good breeding, per se. The pamphlet itself serves as a preemptive counteraction to the potential for criticism or suspicion by reconfiguring foreign travel in service of the home nation. It was especially important for Munday to mitigate such criticism because, Gallagher continues, “the accusation of Catholic sympathies was a common slander leveled at Italianates in early modern England.”54 Since Munday’s travels included Rome, such accusations needed to be addressed—particularly if he had no interest in conversion. But whatever he claims, Munday’s banal assertions should be met with a fair amount of skepticism, as it seems rather unlikely that he did not have (or at least did not develop) ulterior motives for his travels.

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 111 Whether Munday began his journey with the intention of becoming a Catholic or whether he was—as he claimed in the Romayne Lyfe—a true and loyal Protestant subject has been debated by the few scholars who have studied Munday’s life and work. Some scholars, like Celeste Turner Wright and Donna B. Hamilton, have suggested that Munday was himself a Recusant or was at least sympathetic to the Catholic cause, while others, including Michael E. Williams, suggest that Munday’s journal began innocently enough, but his experiences in France and Rome caused him to move from apathy to anti-Catholicism.55 Still others, such as G.K. Hunter, Brian Lockey, and Adam Kitzes, express deep doubt that Munday’s motivations were ever anything but self-servingly mercenary, albeit in service to the English government.56 Given later evidence—and Munday’s behavior throughout the rest of his life—it seems that the latter option is more likely than the former, although I agree that it is debatable just how underhanded Munday’s motivations were from the beginning. It is certainly possible that Munday simply took advantage of an opportunity to take a fully funded trip to the Continent and was unconcerned about the religious or political affiliations of his patron or companion. It is also quite possible that Munday was already engaged in the double life of a spy. While I tend to agree with those who suggest that Munday’s motives were never fully sympathetic to the Catholic cause, his loyalties were absolutely unaligned with the Recusants by the time of his return. Prior to his departure, Munday had been apprenticed under the printer John Allde, who released him so that he might travel with the financial backing of Edward de Vere, the Recusant Earl of Oxford. 57 Munday was of a similar age as the other seminarians he met in France and Rome, but also similar in age to the university students who were being recruited by Walsingham’s intelligence service. Although we don’t have direct evidence that Munday was recruited to work for the government prior to his 1578 departure, his account of the journey provides multiple indications that Munday at least provided intelligence to Walsingham and other members of the Privy Council upon his return. His account of the journey reveals information about Catholics living both abroad and at home in England, and he makes repeated assertions that he had learned more than he was able to publish. In addition, Munday traveled under a name other than his own, as he explains: When I was at Paris, the Gentlemen tooke me to be a Gentlemans Sonne heere in England, whom I refuse heere to name, but as it seemed they were somewhat perswaded of him: I perceiuing they tooke mee for his Sonne, called my self by his name, where through I was the better esteemed, and beside, loued as I had beene he in deede. When they vnderstoode my fellowes name to be Thomas Nowell, they whispered among themselues, and sayd vndoubtedly, he was kin to Maister

112  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents Nowell the Deane of Paules: and if they wist certainly that he were so, they woulde vse him in such gentle order, as they woulde keepe hym there, so that one day he shoulde stande and preache against his Kinseman.58 Munday’s desire to be identified as someone other than who he was—as this “Gentlemans Sonne”—strongly suggests that if he were not already acting as an English agent, he was aware enough of the illicit nature of his travels to understand that taking a name other than “Anthony Munday” was in his best interest, particularly in contrast to the fact that Nowell went by his own name (even if he did pretend a familial connection that did not exist). Furthermore, upon his arrival at the Vatican, Munday signed his name as “Antonius Auleus” (which might be translated to “Anthony behind the Golden Curtain”), suggesting his desire to obscure his identity from the Catholics, unlike his companion, Nowell, who not only signed his own name, but enrolled at the seminary and eventually took Holy Orders. 59 Munday, by contrast, returned from Rome in 1579 and soon became deeply embroiled in the Elizabethan government’s active prosecution of Catholics. Regardless of his original motivations, Munday’s trip to Rome was highly eventful, and the close parallels between his account (as published in the Romayne Lyfe) and other contemporary and later Catholic histories of the same events suggest that, while prone to histrionics and a considerable quantity of purple prose, Munday’s presentation of events is overall surprisingly accurate. Turner Wright notes that “the records of the Roman seminary show that Dr. Maurice Clenocke became rector in 1578 and was ousted in March, 1579; in that mutiny, certainly, Mundy figured,” an assertion confirmed by Munday’s own documentation and by later Jesuit historians such as Williams, Anthony Kenny, and Ethelred L. Taunton.60 Romayne Lyfe therefore serves as both a history of the events it contains and as a unique example of an intelligence report that was actually made public. While in Rome, Munday became embroiled in a political coup at the English seminary in the early spring of 1579 that “ousted” the Jesuit rector. Newly established in 1578, the seminary had been placed under the control of the Jesuits, who were actively interested in training missionaries to re-convert England to Catholicism.61 By the time of Munday’s arrival, less than a year later, there was already tension between the seminarians, many of whom were uncomfortable with Jesuit militancy and the talk of an active mission being sent to England. In Romayne Lyfe, Munday describes friction between the English and Welsh students, accusing the rector of giving preferential treatment to the Welshmen. Historical accounts—including those told by the Jesuits—tell a more complicated story that recognizes not only national, but sectarian conflict. Taunton, in his comprehensive history of English Jesuits, explains

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 113 that in late 1578, “the students of the English college at Rome came to the conclusion they had found in the Jesuit Superiors a King Stork in place of a King Log,” referring to one of Aesop’s fables in which a colony of frogs asks Zeus for a ruler and are given a log—which they reject, mocking it.62 Upon hearing their complaints, Zeus sends a stork, which proceeds to eat them, a cautionary tale of divine right popularized in the fifteenth century in England by William Caxton.63 “This feeling,” Taunton continues, “was fomented by the anti-Jesuit party among the English exiles…and now all the cry was to get rid of the Jesuit Superiors and restore the government to the Clergy, or give it to the Dominicans.”64 Parsons’s account confirms that the English-Welsh divide mentioned by Munday played a role, but also acknowledges that “Touching Mr. Morrice [Clenocke], his government, I think verily and do partly know also that it was insufficient for such a multitude.”65 Among those whom Clenocke was “insufficient” to govern was, of course, Munday, who writes in Romayne Lyfe that When I had beene there a pretty while, I know not how Doctor Morris [Clenocke] conceiued anger against me, but he would not suffer me to tarry any longer in yͤ Colledge. As for my fellow, his sincerity in their religion was such, his natural disposition so agreeable with theirs, and euery thing hee did esteemed so well: that Doctor Morris would suffer him willingly to remain there, but he could not abide me in any case.66 Although one imagines that Munday—who admits elsewhere in the treatise to interrogating other seminarians and openly defending the queen— knew very well why ‘Doctor Morris’ disliked him, and, furthermore, all but coerces his way back in by persuading his classmates to mutiny: Be side, they mooued a certaine speech amongst themselues, that if I were not receiued into the Colledge amongst them, and vsed in euery respect according as they were: when I returned into Englande, being knowen to come from Roome, I might be compelled to tell the names of them that were there, and what confidence I had among them, so that their parentes and freends shoulde be discouered, and them selues be knowen against their comming into England. To auoyde therefore any such doubt, vntill they had mee sworne to Preesthood they would keepe me there, and then I should be as deepe in any matter as they.67 Among those with whom Munday allied himself in Rome were other agents in the service of Walsingham, including Gilbert Gifford, Salomon Aldred, and Charles Sledd.68 It may be, therefore, that even if Munday had not originally traveled abroad with the intention of acting as an agent, that his alliance with Gifford, Aldred, and Sledd in Rome acted as a catalyst to his conversion from tourist to intelligencer.

114  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents Munday and the other rebellious students appealed directly to Pope Urban VII, who received them in his chamber to hear their complaint: Then we went with him [M. Creede] to the Popes Pallace, where comming into the Popes Chamber, and hauing euerie one kissed his foote: we stayed to attende what was his pleasure. But before he spake any woorde, with a dissembling and hippocriticall countenaunce, he fell into teares, which trickled downe his white beard: and began in Latin with these, or the very like woords. O you English men, to whome my looue is such, as I can no way vtter, considering that for me you haue left your Prince, which was your duetie, and come so farre to me, which is more then I can deserue: yet as I am your refuge, when persecution dealeth straightly with you in your Countrey, by reason of the hereticall Religion there vsed, so will I be your Bullwarke to defend you, your guide to protect you, your Father to nourish you, and your freend with my hart blood to doo you any profite.69 The outcome of this meeting—Munday cheerfully reports—was that “Thus was the strife ended, and my selfe and my fellowe, admitted by the Popes owne consent, to be Schollers there.”70 Yet this triumph was followed by an illness that reveals two things about Munday. First, that he was fairly popular among (or at least not universally loathed by) his fellow seminarians. Second, however, we find, in retrospect, that Munday was not a charitable, kind, or equitable person, although someone intentionally acting as an agent provocateur could hardly be expected to be so. For although during his sickness, “I was then remooued to a verie fayre Chamber, where the Schollers euery daye would come and visite me, vntyll such tyme as I recouered my health againe,” Munday later turned on the very men who showed him kindness.71 Yet despite his apparent animosity toward the priests, “While recovering from his illness, Munday befriended the priests who shared his cell, Henry Orton and Lucas Kirbie, who lent Munday money for the trip back to England with the promise that he would pass along letters from the seminarians to their friends and family at home.”72 However, when Munday returned from Rome in 1579, he became involved in the Elizabethan government’s active prosecution of Catholics, including assisting with the arrest and executions of Orton and Kirbie, the same men who had nursed him back to health in Rome. In the trial (shared with Campion), Munday testified that “he [Munday] being in Lions at France said unto this desponent [Orton], that her majesty was not lawful queen of England, and that he ought her no kind of obedience.”73 Orton denied knowing Munday and accused him of atheism: he [Munday] was an Atheist; for that beyond the seas he went on pilgrimage, and received the Sacrament, making himself a Catholic, and

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 115 here he taketh a new face and playeth the Protestant, and therefore is an unfit and unworthy Witness to give in evidence or depose against life. Munday, the Witness, answered, That in France and other places he seemed to favour their religion, because he might thereby undermine them and sift out their purposes.74 Although he testified against Campion, Richard Bristow (who he claimed planned to blow up the queen with “fire works”), and Orton, none of them admitted to knowing Munday.75 However, upon the scaffold, Kirbie— against whom Munday had similarly testified—cried out, “O Mundy! Consider with thyself how untruly thou hast charged me with that which I never said nor thought!”76 Of course, we cannot say whether Munday’s account is completely truthful; certainly, he went to Rome, and it seems likely that he was involved to some degree in the events that led to the coup in the seminary, but whether or not he overheard the conversations he claimed in the trial, we cannot know. It must be said, however, that it is almost certain that English agents were not infrequently paid to offer such testimony, whether or not they had been involved in the events on trial or, indeed, whether or not those events ever actually took place. In addition to providing testimony at the trials of Kirbie and Orton, Munday clearly gave evidence to the Privy Council, most likely including those to whom the Romayne Lyfe is dedicated. In addition, throughout the tract, he not only insults Catholics and the Catholic faith, but also frequently names names or, if he does not, strongly intimates that he has already done so to the Privy Council: “Then [a priest] read their names vnto me, which, that all may perceiue the villainous & trayterous mindes of our owne Countriemen: I will set down, euen in the same manner as he read thē”: I, beeing but the reporter, may be pardoned and not reprooued. First, (quoth he) here is my Lord Keeper [Bromley], the Bacon hogge, the Butchers sonne, the great guts, oh he woulde fry well with a faggot, or his head would make a fayre showe vpon London bridge, where I hope shortly it shall stand. Next is eloquent Maister Cecill, Lorde Treasorer, you shall shortly see if he can saue his owne life with all yͤ with he hath: had it not been for these two before named, England had gon to wracke long since. Then heere is the Earle of Leicester, the Queenes Ostler, & his brother Ambrose Dudly, a good fat whorson, to make Bacon of: with other words of my Lorde of Leicester, not here to be rehearsed. My Lord of Bedforde, he for sooth is yͤ Queenes Coozin, we will see how finely his Coozin & he can hang together. Sir Fraunces Walsinghā, & Doctor Wilson, they be her Secretaries: for euery warrāt they haue suffered, to apprehend any of our Priestes, our freends or other, by that time they haue coūted their reckoning, they shall find they haue a deere

116  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents payment. Sir Christopher Hatton, he pleased yͤ Queene so wel, dauncing before her in a Maske, yͭ since yͤ time he hath risen to be one of yͤ Counsell: with other words, which I referre for modestie. Sir Fraunces Knowles, and other of the Counsell whose names I well remember not: he gaue them many a heauy threatning. Then opening the paper farder, at the end therof was a great many of names, of Magistrates & other belonging to this Cittie, among whome was Maister Recorder, Maister Nowell Deane of Paules, Maister Foxe, Maister Crowlye, & sundry other, whose names I cannot very well remember, and therefore an loth to set downe any thing, but that whereof I am certainly assured: but verye well I remember, ther was no one named, but he had the order of his death appointed, eyther by burning, hanging, or quartering, and such like.77 When taken alongside Munday’s participation in the coup against Clenocke, his uses of aliases, his slandering of Catholicism, his dedication of the Romayne Lyfe to members of the Privy Council, and his participation in the trials and executions of men who called him friend while he was in Rome, Munday’s account—in both its accuracy and detail—strongly intimates that Munday had already been involved in government scheming (or, at the very least, intended to be involved) by the time his boat arrived in France, if not before he ever left English shores. Certainly, Romayne Lyfe is not meant to be a comprehensive account of the actual praxis of spycraft, since to do so would reveal the inner workings of a secret process that, in order to be effective, must remain secret. However, the publication of Munday’s observations, his partial account of recalling names and information, and the institutional processes that led to the arrest and execution of people named in the Romayne Lyfe all provide an outline of intelligence work. It is likely that Munday’s pamphlet was intended to encourage others with similar information—names, accounts of travel to places like Douai or Rome, etc.—to come forward with that information as informants. In fact, whether or not Munday had been an intentional agent prior to his departure, the narrative of Romayne Lyfe suggests that he was able to become one precisely because of his willingness to pass on intelligence upon his return—a narrative that would have appealed (and perhaps did appeal) to others whose religious politics may have been similarly conflicted or ambivalent as those Munday presented early in Romayne Lyfe. But regardless of its beginnings, Romayne Lyfe’s demonstration of intelligence gathering—including Munday’s role in the coup against Clenocke— is given considerably more heft by the fact that it was followed by active prosecution. The deaths of Kirbie and Orton provided the tangible evidence that the institution of the Elizabethan intelligence service was both active and effective, providing reassurance to loyal Protestants and a warning to

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 117 those who might consider supporting the Catholic cause. It also contained explicit vilification of the Jesuits in Rome, a deliberate propagandist move designed to reinforce the hunting and prosecution of Jesuits by the government in England. Munday followed the publication of Romayne Lyfe within a few weeks with his account of the apprehension and execution of one of the more notorious Jesuits of the early mission: A Discoverie of Edmund Campion (1582). The Discoverie of Campion, printed by Edward White in London, includes yet another excoriation of Catholicism, along with an account of the trial and execution of Campion, Ralph Sherwin, and Alexander Briant. The frontispiece includes a note appended to the authorial claim: “published by A.M. sometime the Popes Scholler, allowed in the Seminarie at Roome amongst them.”78 This note indicates the likely publication order of Romayne Lyfe and Discoverie of Campion, since Munday appears to assume (or, at least, hopes) that readers would recognize the same “A.M.” as “sometime the Popes Scholler” from Romayne Lyfe. The notoriety of Campion—particularly so soon after his execution—undoubtedly lent further credibility both to Munday’s account and, by extension, to the intelligence work being done ostensibly to protect England from the threat of Catholicism. Campion himself—who entered England as a part of the Jesuit mission with Parsons and a third priest named Ralph Emerson—had caused considerable consternation with the publication of a treatise known as “Campion’s Brag,” The Great bragge and challenge of M. Champion a Jesuite, cōmonlye called Edmunde Campion, lately arrived in Englande, published in London in 1581.79 It is worth noting that Allen and Mercurian—despite pressure from the Pope and Parsons—had been reluctant to engage in the kind of militant missionary work that earned the Jesuits the enmity of the English government. Allen in particular was hesitant to send priests to England given the current atmosphere, risking their lives and, he believed, the purity of their faith while entering England in disguise (Campion, for instance, arrived disguised as an Irish jeweler, and Parsons wore the garb of a soldier from the Low Countries).80 Yet despite Allen’s reluctance, the mission known to the English as the “Jesuit Invasion” nevertheless commenced, and its initial outcomes were as bloody as Allen had feared.81 Campion’s Brag was in part responsible for this, as was Parsons’s militarism and the involvement of the new Spanish ambassador to London, Bernardino de Mendoza. It also happened that Walsingham’s agents had intercepted a letter from Rome to the seminary at Rheims containing information about a group of Jesuits—Campion, Parsons, and Emerson—who had recently departed Rome to participate in the English mission.82 Armed with this information, the port cities were under orders to be wary of newcomers or those who seemed out of place. The Jesuits were prepared for this

118  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents and split their party, initially eluding capture. Both Parsons and Campion essentially toured England, traveling from one Recusant house to another, conducting mass and giving sacraments to those who continued to adhere to the Catholic faith. In July of 1581, Campion was en route to Lancashire and stopped briefly at Lyford Grange in Berkshire. Another guest of Lyford Grange at the time was one George Elliot, a former Recusant and one of Walsingham’s spies recruited from prison after he had offered up his “services” to Dudley.83 Elliot was one of Walsingham’s most productive agents, a frequent discoverer of missionaries and priests, a pursuivant who was recognized as a considerable threat to the Jesuit mission.84 Elliot posed as a Catholic wishing to hear mass and, meanwhile, sent a cohort to summon the magistrate to arrest Campion. Warned by a lookout, the household hid Campion in the house in a priest-hole, a ruse that worked for two days before someone (perhaps Elliot, perhaps one of the other agents who arrived to aid in the search) spotted the glint of light in a stairwell where there should not have been light.85 Campion was arrested and taken to London, where he was imprisoned in the Tower and interrogated by Thomas Norton, John Hammond, and Robert Beale, another of Walsingham’s agents and Clerk of the Privy Council, who would go on to serve in the House of Commons.86 Present at his interrogation were Cecil, Dudley, Sir Christopher Hatton, and Bromley, the core members of Elizabeth’s Privy Council.87 Campion’s imprisonment and interrogation lasted until October, by which time he had named “many of those who had sheltered him and they were in due course, during or after his life, examined and often fined or imprisoned. However— as he declared at Tyburn, his place of execution—he does not appear to have revealed where he said mass, and he certainly did not renounce his faith.”88 During his trial, at which the government brought forward “George Eliot, who had procured Campion’s arrest, Anthony Munday, Charles Sledd, and H. Caddy, who claimed to have talked with or eavesdropped on the ‘conspirators’ abroad” as witnesses, Campion defended himself and his co-religionists, although there was never any doubt about the outcome of the trial.89 Campion, Briant, and Sherwin were drawn and quartered on 1 December 1581. In both Munday’s narrative of Campion’s arrest and execution and his Romayne Lyfe, we find accounts not simply of intelligence work, but of the complex network of patronage, disguise, and deception necessary for the praxis of espionage. We learn that an intelligence agent might need an alias, that he might travel alone or with companions, and that—particularly if he is infiltrating a Catholic seminary or household—he must have more than a propagandist’s understanding of the faith he is to emulate. Although Munday does not appear to have been raised Catholic, his acquaintance (Thomas Nowell) certainly was, and Munday needed enough comprehensive knowledge to pass not simply as a Recusant, but as one pious enough

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 119 to enter the seminary and gain an audience with the Pope. Furthermore, we learn that it was a requirement of the intelligence trade that an agent must be inured to the harsh realities of governmental persecution; in the process of his work, Munday lost men who were ostensibly his friends, men who nursed him while he was ill, but whose lives he sacrificed at trial for the theoretical good of his country. Men like Anthony Munday therefore must have been governed in their actions either by an enormity of faith or nationalism, if we consider them in a more positive light, or by deeply mercenary motives, if we take a more jaded perspective. Certainly, we have evidence of all these factors playing a role in the lives of different intelligence agents, both in England and abroad, working for any of the major players in the international game that was the religious conflict of the early modern period. Men (and women) gave their lives for their king or queen, for their Protestant or Catholic faith, and for their nation. Some agents also risked (and lost) their lives for a motive no purer than gold and silver. The difficulty in discerning the difference fell firmly on the shoulders of the spymasters who had to determine whether an agent would betray them at the scent of a richer patron or whether a homeland or religion of birth—as many agents seemed to “switch” religions more than once—would seduce them away, taking with them state secrets to share or sell. We know that some of Walsingham’s agents seem to have fallen prey to such temptations, but we also know that others—including Munday— worked long and very busy careers for the English government, continuing in their work in times of financial hardship as well as plenty. So for all our discomfort at Munday’s willingness to sell out his Catholic compatriots to the Elizabethan government, we know that he continued his work for the government well into the Stuart era, demonstrating that, at least in some things, his loyalty was not entirely for sale. We must attribute such longevity of agents at least in part to the cleverness of Walsingham himself, whose work during the 1580s so deeply entrenched the intelligence service into the English polity that it has been in continuous operation since. Walsingham’s Agents: The Spy Network and the Throckmorton Plot The early 1580s thus saw a surge in work—and the need for such work— for Walsingham’s intelligence service. The continuous stream of Jesuits helped to support those Catholics already living in England by providing them with holy relics, texts, and the other artifacts of Catholic worship. The Jesuits also clandestinely conducted the rites and rituals Catholics missed in the English church. Walsingham’s agents were employed in seeking out both priests and worshippers. Agents served the crown by operating disguised as one or the other (some switching back and forth); in

120  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents prisons, such as the jail at Wisbech; at seminaries at Rheims and Rome, like Munday; and in Recusant households throughout England. They sent information back to Walsingham through letters, couriers, and in person, and formed the backbone of English attempts to counteract both the formal Jesuit mission and the myriad conspiracies and plots—both those serious and those formed by radical outliers—that transpired in the decade from 1580 to 1590. Through social network analysis, we can see the rapid expansion of the network from its Cecilian form to the shape it took under the guidance of Walsingham, both in terms of the raw numbers of agents involved to the complexity of the network itself. These data matter more in comparison than alone, in particular when we consider the shift in the intelligence service between Cecil and Walsingham. Historical evidence—letters, documents, finances, and other materials—suggests that Walsingham rapidly expanded the intelligence service during the late 1570s and early 1580s. The social network below map agrees:

Figure 4.1  Social network map from 1574 to 1584

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 121 For the years from 1574 to 1584 (five fewer years than the Cecelian network from 1558–1573 found in Chapter 2), Walsingham’s network contains 217 nodes (110 more individuals, so more than double the network) with 425 connections (239 more), with an average per-person connectivity of 1.959 (close to the 1.738 of Cecil’s network). This tells us that both Cecil and Walsingham relied on similar network styles to manage their agents— unsurprising, since we know that Walsingham learned from Cecil. For Walsingham’s network, other numbers, too, are similar. Although Walsingham’s network has a larger diameter (at ten, rather than seven), its GCC is lower, at 0.353 (compared to 0.405), suggesting that the network is somewhat less tightly knit, unsurprising, given that it is more than twice the size. Its APL is 3.275, also similar to (although slightly larger than) the Cecilian network (3.147), despite its significantly larger footprint. However, there is a considerable difference in the visual focus of the network; Walsingham’s centrality and outdegree are markedly more noticeable. In the earlier Cecilian network, there is a centrality difference between Cecil and Walsingham of 0.436 degrees (with Cecil at 1, and Walsingham at 0.564). From 1574 to 1584, however, although Cecil has the second-highest degree of centrality, there is a 0.555 degree difference (Walsingham at 1, Cecil at 0.445), almost exactly reversing their relative importance. The outdegrees of this network, however, are the most telling. From 1574 to 1579, as we saw, Walsingham has an outdegree of 43. Appending the years 1580–1584 adds an additional 48 outgoing edges to his node (for a total outdegree in the above network of 91). Cecil, by comparison, has an outdegree of 36, while Elizabeth has an outdegree of only 15. The jump in Walsingham’s influence within the intelligence network situates him as significantly more important to its expansion and maintenance than even Cecil had been in the 15 years prior to Walsingham’s assumption of the spymaster (and Principal Secretary) role. Certainly, Cecil did not leave behind spycraft; his outdegree is still very high in the 1574–1584 network, suggesting that Walsingham’s efforts were not intended so much to curtail Cecil’s power as to grow and centralize the intelligence service itself. This is most likely due to the fact that after 1574, Walsingham was the principal spymaster, with only peripheral figures (like Anthony Munday, with a centrality of 0.298, ranking third highest, and with an outdegree of 27) having subsidiary networked connections, and those figures only to the subject of their investigations. (The cluster surrounding Munday is almost entirely priests he encountered in Rome and documented in the English Romayne Lyfe, men to whom Walsingham had no direct connection.) Where Cecil’s network had an almost triangular shape, with agents surrounding him, Walsingham, Elizabeth, and Ridolfi, Walsingham’s network shows a much higher degree of central focus around the spymaster himself. What we can glean from these network maps, as well as from the historical record, is that Walsingham’s network was larger and more widespread than Cecil’s, and that both were based on the same fundamental

122  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents ideological principles and contained several of the same individuals. It can hardly be surprising, then, that the early years of Walsingham’s work as spymaster (and Secretary) followed in the pattern of his predecessor, who, after all, had been highly successful at rooting out plots against the queen and bringing those responsible to trial and execution. By 1582, Walsingham was receiving an annual stipend for his work in intelligence, presumably as a means of funding the network. Cooper notes that the records we have indicate that Walsingham received £750 in 1582, and that he was given annual grants to subsidize intelligence work that rose throughout the 1580s to approximately £2,000 before dropping again to around £1,200 in the aftermath of the Spanish Armada.90 Yet despite this funding (roughly $144,000, $384,000, and $230,400, respectively, in early twenty-first century terms), Walsingham often complained of inadequate financial resources for his work, and frequently supplemented crown money with his own.91 In fact, the lack of support from Elizabeth was a nearly constant subject of his letters to both her and Cecil, which often begged for additional resources and bemoaned his own destitution as a result of inadequate intelligence funding. Yet the very fact that Elizabeth authorized a budget for Walsingham when she had not for Cecil ten years prior demonstrates the evolution of the intelligence service into a necessary part of the government machine. It was a part that, over the 1580s—as the financial records suggests—would demonstrate that it was well worth the crown’s investment. When, in 1583, Walsingham revealed information about yet another plot to assassinate Elizabeth and place Mary Queen of Scots on the throne, he turned to many of the same agents that Cecil had used to foil the Ridolfi plot. He also brought in more agents, both in England and abroad (specifically, in Rome, France, and Spain), with the aim of catching the men who sought to depose Elizabeth and elevate Mary. As Parsons wrote in October of 1581, Catholic hopes were firmly connected to Scotland—whether through Mary (still under house arrest in England) or through the manipulation of her son, James, now seated on the Scottish throne and under the thumb of Esmé Stuart, Seigneur D’Aubigny and Duke of Lennox.92 Esmé Stuart, cousin to King James VI, had been sent to Scotland by Henri de Guise in 1580, ostensibly to claim the earldom of Lennox (later elevated by James to a dukedom), in an attempt to gain James’s support for the Catholic cause and cement a political and religious alliance between the Scottish king and France and the Catholic League.93 By the next year, according to Mendoza, James was well and truly under Stuart’s control, placing England in the difficult position of facing a potential invasion from the north as well as across the English Channel.94 However, the religious politics in Scotland soon removed James from the ostensibly undue influence of the Guises’ Catholic League. In August of 1582, King James found himself facing a conspiracy of his own, one that would later be termed the Raid of Ruthven. The Protestant Earls of

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 123 Scotland, in opposition to Esmé Stuart and his Catholic faction, forcibly removed James from Stuart’s influence—by kidnapping the king—and then exiled Stuart and his party from Scotland (whereupon they returned to France).95 A future attempt to use Stuart to influence his monarch-cousin ended with Stuart’s death from a severe illness before a year was out. Yet it was clear to Walsingham and Cecil that Scotland remained the central focus of the Catholic League’s attempts to overthrow the Elizabethan regime. In the late spring of 1582—before the Raid of Ruthven played out— Walsingham’s agents at the Scottish border intercepted William Watts, a priest disguised as a tooth-drawer. In his possession, Watts had a mirror with a false back created for him by Mendoza to facilitate illicit communication. Although Watts managed to extricate himself from imprisonment by means of bribery, the mirror was delivered to the Warden of the Middle Marches, Sir John Forster, who discovered letters written to Esmé Stuart in its back; he immediately passed this correspondence to Walsingham, providing evidence of the link between Mary, Philip II, Henri de Guise, and the Jesuit mission.96 While not enough to act—yet—the letters to Stuart put Walsingham and the intelligence service on alert, leading to the apprehension of other couriers employed to link France and Spain to Mary, including both George Douglas and the Jesuit William Holt, both arrested in 1583.97 However, the lynchpin to uncovering the Throckmorton Plot—as it would come to be called—was an embedded spy by the name (or the pseudonym) of Henry Fagot. Alison Plowden believes that Fagot was a Frenchman by birth and had been placed in service to the French ambassador in London, Michel de Castelnau, Sieur de la Mauvissière.98 However, John Bossy has argued that Fagot must have been the alias of Giordano Bruno, a Neapolitan philosopher living and working in London at the time.99 Regardless, “Fagot,” whoever he was, uncovered the suspicious (and frequent) letters of Francis Throckmorton, the nephew of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, Elizabeth’s former ambassador to France.100 Throckmorton, a Catholic, had been recruited by Parsons, and arranged—according to Fagot—to procure some 1,500 crowns for Mary’s use.101 Yet the mysterious Fagot was not the only agent providing information from the French embassy to Walsingham. In addition, Walsingham received intelligence from Jean Arnault (alias “Chérelles”), secretary to Castelnau; Claude Leclerc (“Courcelles”), also employed by Castelnau; Laurent Feron (an English-born French national), scribe in the French embassy; and William Cornwallis, a recusant English Catholic who had—in what he claimed was “a foolish fit of discontent”—offered his services to Mary and Castelnau (perhaps at the behest of Henry Percy, Earl of Northampton) before confessing to Walsingham.102 It is also worth remarking that Castelnau seemed oblivious to the number of moles and agents in his own house: “if we can judge by what he told Mary, he did not suspect treachery under his roof but was shattered by Throckmorton’s arrest because he had become very fond of him.”103

124  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents Feron is perhaps the most interesting of these figures, as he was not interested in fully betraying France or Castelnau, but he was horrified by the implications of treason he read in the letters he was required to copy. As such, Feron acted in the unusual capacity not of a double-­ agent, specifically, but of an altruistic mole, revealing information to Walsingham for ethical rather than fiscal purposes (although he was paid for his efforts). He was also deeply concerned about his cover, writing to Walsingham with a plea to “keep all this as secret as you possibly can, so that Monsieur the ambassador absolutely does not realise.”104 It was vital to Walsingham’s operation that Feron’s identity remain secret; in fact, Bossy hypothesizes that Cornwallis went unpunished (although he was shunned from court for the better part of a decade) in order to maintain this secrecy.105 As Walsingham’s agents tracked Throckmorton, yet another Catholic— John Somerville—was intent upon eliminating Elizabeth by means of assassination. He left Warwickshire on 25 October 1583 and headed to London with the intention of finding the queen, as he “‘meant to shoot her [Elizabeth] with his dagg [pistol], and hoped to see her head on a pole, for that she was a serpent and a viper’ (CSP dom., 1581–90, 126).”106 His principal mistake was in announcing his purpose to some guests at an inn on his journey, and he was arrested and interrogated, although his confession did not seem to implicate anyone other than himself.107 He was convicted of treason and moved to Newgate Prison, where, on 19 December 1583, he was found strangled in his cell, officially ruled a suicide.108 Francis Throckmorton was arrested in November 1583 and interrogated. Although seemingly unconnected to Somerville, Somerville’s actions, interestingly enough, are what spurred Walsingham to plead with Thomas Wilkes, the Secretary of the Privy Council, to prevail upon Elizabeth to authorize Throckmorton’s torture.109 She agreed, permitting Walsingham and Norton to make use of torture in order to determine the extent of both the plot and the potential for foreign invasion associated therewith.110 Subjected to the rack, Throckmorton supplied the information the Privy Council desired, identifying the involvement of Henri de Guise and his plans to lead an invasion to liberate Mary from her English confinement. Specifically, Guise intended to send a force of approximately 12,000 men from Spain, Bavaria, and Italy to land in Lancashire with the hope of inciting English Catholics to rebellion in support of Mary.111 It had been the duty of Francis Throckmorton and his brother Thomas to lay the foundations for this ostensible Catholic uprising.112 He was aided in this by Mendoza and supported—although not overtly—by Castelnau. Mendoza’s involvement was such that he could not feasibly claim ignorance, and he was hastily exiled from England.113 Both Throckmortons were executed for their involvement in the plot on 10 July 1584 at Tyburn, and Francis, at least, “was reported to have died ‘very stubbornly’, refusing to ask for the queen’s forgiveness.”114

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 125 The discovery and revelation of the Throckmorton Plot was a demonstrable victory for Walsingham’s intelligence network that enabled the Principal Secretary to justify the need for—and expense of—an office dedicated specifically to the gathering of intelligence and infiltration of homes and locales known for Catholic sympathies. At the very least, the network’s success in uncovering and prosecuting the involvement of both Francis and Thomas Throckmorton gave Walsingham leverage within the government structure—to petition Elizabeth for additional financial support—­ and served as a tool of propaganda. Its success was touted in a government-sanctioned pamphlet entitled A Discoverie of Treasons Practised by Francis Throckmorton (1584), imprinted by Christopher Barker, the queen’s printer, and with the author initials Q.Z. (some attribute authorship of the pamphlet to Thomas Wilkes, the Secretary of the Privy Council, others to Norton or Cecil or even Walsingham himself).115 Although the focus of the pamphlet was on the achievement of the government in stopping the conspiracy—a tactic designed to make public the government’s authority and success at surveillance—the curtailing of the Throckmorton Plot happened largely by accident. This increased rather than mitigated Walsingham’s paranoia about constant conspiracy and led him to engage torture as a more frequent method than seems to have been warranted by evidence. After all, Conyers Read remarks, “Walsingham could never be sure, after Throgmorton’s unexpected revelations, what conspiracies might be eluding his knowledge, or from what unexpected quarter he might get information indispensable to the preservation of his religion, his country, and his Queen.”116 In essence, then, although the English government claimed the discovery of the Throckmorton Plot as a public victory, the happenstantial nature of its revelation served principally to increase anxiety within the government itself concerning both the internal threat of the Fifth Column of secret Catholics and the external threat of invasion from Spain or France. Parliament once again—as it had in 1581 following news of the Jesuit mission’s arrival—authorized increased persecution of Recusants, implementing harsh fines and bringing known Catholics before the Assizes.117 Yet in addition to proclaiming the authority of the Elizabethan government, the Discoverie of Treasons also propagandized England as the focal point for a new Protestant Reformation, arguing that England stood not only for England, but for global Protestantism against the evils of Catholicism.118 Cecil sought to amplify its argument in another pamphlet of his own, The execution of iustice in England for the maintenaunce of publique and Christian peace (1583), also printed by Barker (and reprinted in a “corrected” edition a month later in January of 1584). Cecil’s pamphlet spurred Cardinal William Allen, in Douai, to print a response, A true, sincere and modest defence of English Catholiques (1584), seeking to defend his seminarians from the accusations of treason contained in both the Q.Z. and Cecil treatises.119

126  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents What is most significant about the aftermath of the Throckmorton Plot is that its discovery and the executions of the Throckmorton brothers increased rather than appeased concerns about the threat posed by Catholics within and without England. At the start of 1584, following the arrests of Francis and Thomas, Walsingham’s agents increased the pressure on Recusant nobles. In January, Robert Beale interrogated Lord Henry Howard about correspondence between Howard and Charles Paget, an agent of Mary’s active in Paris.120 It was this interrogation that specifically revealed the link between the Throckmorton conspiracy and the international powers of France and Spain. Concerns about international Catholic conspiracy were further amplified in July when Walsingham and Cecil received news of the assassination of William of Orange, who was killed by three gunshots in his home in Delft by one Balthazar Gérard, thought by Cecil and Walsingham (among others) to have been a Spanish agent.121 The news “created panic among English politicians who feared that Elizabeth, too, might fall victim to the bullet or knife.”122 The Privy Council yet again attempted to convince Elizabeth of the importance of naming an heir; 20 years prior, the Council (and Parliament) had exhorted her to marry, but by 1584 Elizabeth’s childbearing years were likely behind her, and the alternative was for her to name her successor—something she point-blank refused to do. Faced with Elizabeth’s recalcitrance, the Privy Council was forced to find an alternative means of ensuring state security. Facing the loss of the martial champion of the Protestant cause in William of Orange, England found itself at the forefront of the international conflict between Protestantism and the Catholic Church as Spanish supremacy seemed increasingly inevitable.123 The Parliamentary response was to require the Bond of Association (1584), a document that mandated all signatories to swear—upon pain of prosecution and death—to uphold Elizabeth’s right to rule England. The intention of the bond was to act as a reminder of nobles’ obligations to their monarch and the threat of execution should they betray her. In the months following the passage of the bond, another plot—known as the Parry Plot—unfolded, compounding the Council’s desire to strictly enforce the bond.124 William Parry himself had previously been an agent in Cecil’s employ, sent to France with the intention of sending “any such obseruations as may do you seruice I will do my duety and endeuor to sutisfie your L. expectacon.”125 In his letter to Cecil, Parry sold his services and knowledge to the Elizabethan government for pay, a common enough exchange for intelligence agents. He repeatedly offered Cecil “the seruice of such as one as studieth dayly how and in what sorte he may best and most acceptably discouer his redynes to honor and serue you.”126 Such letters offering to gather intelligence were fairly commonplace for both Cecil and Walsingham—giving them ample opportunity to be selective in choosing their agents. After some time spent working for Cecil, by the early 1580s,

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 127 Parry had become a respectable Member of Parliament (despite a shady past that included both attempted murder and burglary).127 However, while in France, Parry encountered Thomas Morgan, secretary and spy for Mary Queen of Scots, who convinced Parry (according to the charges against him) to undertake the assassination of Elizabeth.128 Although he initially denied involvement, the testimony of Edmund Neville suggested Parry’s guilt and was eventually used to convince Parry to confess (without torture). He claimed, however, that his conspiracy with Morgan was part of an intentional deception to reveal treasons against Elizabeth, rather than a sincere agreement to take part in assassination.129 Some scholars suggest that Parry was, instead of a villainous conspirator, a victim of the Elizabethan propaganda and paranoia machine, which needed to demonstrate the dangers of Catholicism in general and Mary Queen of Scots in specific to sway public opinion in their favor.130 Yet Parry’s lack of communication with either Cecil or Walsingham suggests that perhaps his insistence on innocence was fraudulent. Although at one point—under torture—Parry confessed to wrongdoing, he recanted, then persisted throughout the trial in repeatedly “declaring himself innocent of all charges.”131 Yet his position—one shared by a large number of agents, although most knew to keep it to themselves—as a Catholic sympathizer was too volatile for the government to continue tolerating.132 To the end, Parry claimed that he only ever sought to aid the Queen, penning a final confession of his involvement with Morgan addressed to Elizabeth herself: W my hart and soule I do much honor and love you, am so inwardly sory for my offence and redy to make you amendes by my death and pacience. Discharge me a culpa. I besech you good Lady but with a poena. And so farewell moste gratiouse and the best natured and qualified Quene y t euer lyued in England. Remember yor infortunate Parry chiefly ouerthrowen by yor hard hand. Amend y t in the rest of yor seruants, for y t is past with me yf yor grace be not greater then I looke for. And last and euer, good madam, be good to yor obedient catholick subiects. For the bad I speake not.133 Regardless of the truth or falsehood of Parry’s claims, he was executed as a traitor to the queen on 2 March 1585 at Westminster Palace. Parry’s trial demonstrates—depending on one’s point of view, of course—the complex and often risky relationship of spies and double agents to the government. On the one hand, agents like Parry were a valuable source of information and could make use of their important role in government to gain wealth and power. On the other, however, spies who were less cautious or simply unlucky—as many were, perhaps including Parry—could find themselves on the swinging end of the traitor’s rope, regardless of their true motivations. If, as was perhaps the case with Parry (and perhaps again with the unfortunate Dr. Lopez in 1594), the government stood to benefit from the

128  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents removal of an agent, then it was not unlikely that agent would find himself (or herself) either exiled or facing execution.134 The collection of anti-Elizabethan conspiracies from 1583 to 1585 understandably produced an increased sense of persecution and paranoia among English Protestants, particularly Walsingham, who was, after all, tasked with both protecting the English faith and ensuring the safety of its queen. In 1585, then, Parliament—at the exhortation of Walter Mildmay calling for the need to maintain Elizabeth’s safety in light of the 26 years of peace during which she had ruled—passed the Act for the Queen’s Surety, which explained the punishments due “if anything shall be compassed or imagined tending to the hurt of her Majesty’s royal person by any person or with the privity of any person that may pretend title to the crown of this realm.”135 Along with the Bond of Association, the Act for the Queen’s Surety sought legislatively to reinforce (because, of course, treason was already illegal) the importance of absolute loyalty to the crown. It was the duty and obligation, therefore, of subjects to participate actively in the processes of protecting their monarch from the machinations (presumably evil) of Catholics both at home and abroad. It became expected for subjects to take on the role of temporary informants, to provide information on their neighbors, and to expose any threats—credible or otherwise—they perceived amongst strangers or friends. In addition, Walsingham’s intelligencers increased their own vigilance, and agents were sent to Douai, Paris, and Rome, as well as implanted into the households of traditional Catholic noble families in England. Yet in spite of this increased vigilance, the plots against Elizabeth’s life continued, and Walsingham and Cecil began actively advocating with Elizabeth to eliminate the greatest threat to her life: Mary Queen of Scots.

Notes 1. Christopher Haigh, English Reformations: Religion, Politics, and Society under the Tudors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 261. 2. Victor Houliston, “Persons [Parsons], Robert (1546–1610), Jesuit,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004), https:// doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/21474 3. Houliston. 4. Austin K. Gray, “Some Observations on Christopher Marlowe, Government Agent,” PMLA: Publications of the Modern Language Association of ­A merica 43, no. 3 (1928): 686. 5. Gray, 686. 6. Gray, 687. 7. Houliston, “Persons.” 8. Raymond Francis Trudgian, “Mayne, Cuthbert [St Cuthbert Mayne] (Bap. 1544, d. 1577), Roman Catholic Priest and Martyr,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/ 10.1093/ref:odnb/18440 9. Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 67. 10. Trudgian, “Mayne.”

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 129 11. Trudgian. 12. Trudgian. 13. John Coffey, Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England 1558–1689, Studies in Modern History (Harlow: Longman, 2000), 88. 14. Trudgian, “Mayne.” 15. Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 90. 16. Coffey, 80. 17. Coffey, 92. 18. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 140; Hubert P.H. Nusteling, “The Population of England, 1539–1873: An Issue of Demographic Homeostasis,” Histoire & Mesure 8, no. 1/2 (1993): 64. 19. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 148. This was also the primary argument for trying those priests and Recusants who were arrested under the auspices of treason rather than heresy. 20. Cooper, 135. 21. Cooper, 139. 22. Cooper, 171. 23. Michael C. Questier, Catholicism and Community in Early Modern England: Politics, Aristocratic Patronage and Religion, c. 1550–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 294. 24. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 155. 25. Stephen Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I (New York: Bloomsbury, Inc., 2012), 42. 26. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 153. 27. Cooper, 152. 28. Mark Rankin, “Richard Topcliffe and the Book Culture of the Elizabethan Catholic Underground,” Renaissance Quarterly 72, no. 2 (2019): 497; “Against Seditious Words and Rumours,” Pub. L. No. 23 Eliz. Cap. II (1581). 29. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 286; Coffey, Persecution and Toleration, 86–7. 30. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 165. 31. Cooper, 190. 32. Haigh, English Reformations, 279. 33. Haigh, 280. 34. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 2:309. 35. G. Martin Murphy, “Hart, John (d. 1586), Roman Catholic Priest and Jesuit,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/12483 36. Alford, The Watchers, 80. 37. Murphy, “Hart.” 38. Murphy. 39. It is worth noting that, factually speaking, Philip II did not have the finances or the military power to actually commit to the kind of campaign that was feared in England. But, as Alford notes, “in the perception of Elizabeth’s government the danger was real and imminent. And perception in politics is a powerful thing” (Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I, 89). 40. Patrick Collinson, “Servants and Citizens: Robert Beale and Other Elizabethans,” Historical Research 79, no. 206 (November 2006): 498, https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1468-2281.2006.00396.x 41. David K. Anderson, Martyrs and Players in Early Modern England: Tragedy, Religion and Violence on Stage, Reprint (2014, Ashgate), Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016), 3.

130  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 42. Anderson, 3. 43. Thomas Norton to Francis Walsingham, “Thomas Norton to Walsyngham,” March 27, 1582, SP 12/152 f.124, The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304280483&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript 44. Interestingly, Poland—which had a Catholic monarch—made religious toleration one of its essential political tenets in the same period. John Hart would, in fact, leave France for Poland in 1586, where he died (Murphy, “Hart, John (d. 1586), Roman Catholic Priest and Jesuit”). 45. Alford, The Watchers, 245. 46. Anthony Munday, The English Romayne Lyfe Discouering: The Liues of the Englishmen at Roome: The Orders of the English Semiminarie [Sic]: The Dissention Betweene the Englishmen and the VVelshmen: The Banishing of the Englishmen out of Roome: The Popes Sending for Them Againe: A Reporte of Many of the Paltrie Reliques in Roome: Ther Vautes Vnder the Grounde: Their Holy Pilgrimages: And a Number Other Matters, Worthy to Be Read and Regarded of Euery One, Early English Books Online (­ London: Iohn Charlewoode, for Nicholas Ling: dwelling in Paules Church-yarde, at the signe of the Maremaide, 1582), https://www.proquest.com/eebo/ docview/2248544966/citation/B423ACED3C6F4627PQ/2, A1r. 47. Munday, A1r. 48. Munday, A2r. 49. While Walsingham is not named, he was a member of the Privy Council at the time. Cecil, of course, was still deeply involved in intelligence, even if not as directly as he had been a decade before, and Dudley had sponsored Sackville and Norton’s Gorboduc in 1561 (both Sackville and Norton were by this time involved with the government, as well). 50. Peter Lake and Michael Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest: Confessional Conflict, Toleration, and the Politics of Publicity in Post-Reformation England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 59. 51. Munday, English Romayne Lyfe, 1. 52. Anthony Munday, The Mirrour of Mutabilitie, or Principall Part of the Mirrour for Magistrates Describing the Fall of Diuers Famous Princes, and Other Memorable Personages, Early English Books Online (London: Iohn Allde and are to be solde by Richard Ballard, at Saint Magnus Corner, 1579), https://www.proquest.com/eebo/docview/2240934472/citation/ C79D0356FBA74746PQ/1, 2r 53. John Gallagher, “The Italian London of John North: Cultural Contact and Linguistic Encounter in Early Modern England,” Renaissance Quarterly 70, no. 1 (2017): 89. 54. Gallagher, 120–1. 55. Celeste Turner, Anthony Mundy: An Elizabethan Man of Letters, University of California Publications in English (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1928); Celeste Turner Wright, “Young Anthony Mundy Again,” Studies in Philology 56, no. 2 (1959): 150–68; Donna B. Hamilton, Anthony Munday and the Catholics, 1560–1633 (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, Ltd., 2005); Michael E. Williams, The Venerable English College, Rome: A History, 1579–1979 (London: Associated Catholic Publications, 1979), 12. 56. G.K. Hunter, “Religious Nationalism in Later History Plays,” in Literature and Nationalism, ed. Vincent Newey and Ann Thompson (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1991), 88–97, http://go.galegroup.com/ps/i.do?id= GALE%7CN2811693490&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=MLA&sw=w; Brian C.

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 131 Lockey, Early Modern Catholics, Royalists, and Cosmopolitans: English Transnationalism and the Christian Commonwealth, Transculturalisms, 1400–1700 (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2015); Adam Kitzes, “The Hazards of Professional Authorship: Polemic and Fiction in Anthony Munday’s English Roman Life,” Renaissance Studies 31, no. 3 (2017): 444–61. 57. Turner, Anthony Mundy, 13. 58. Munday, English Romayne Lyfe, 11. 59. Turner, Anthony Mundy. 60. Turner, 16; Anthony Kenny, “Anthony Munday in Rome,” Recusant History 6, no. 4 (1962): 158–62; Ethelred L. Taunton, The History of the Jesuits in England 1580–1773 (London: Methuen, 1901). 61. Arnold Pritchard, Catholic Loyalism in Elizabethan England (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1979), 102. 62. Taunton, The History of the Jesuits in England 1580–1773, 40. 63. William Caxton, The Fables of Esope in Englishe, Early English Books Online (London: Henry Wykes, 1570), F3r-F3v. 64. Taunton, The History of the Jesuits in England 1580–1773, 40. 65. Qtd. in Taunton, 41. 66. Munday, English Romayne Lyfe, 57. 67. Munday, 57. 68. Thomas Merriam, “The Misunderstanding of Munday as Author of Sir Thomas More,” The Review of English Studies 51, no. 204 (2000): 549. 69. Munday, English Romayne Lyfe, 65. 70. Munday, 67. 71. Munday, 67. 72. Kristin M.S. Bezio, “‘Munday I Sweare Shalbee a Hollidaye’: The Politics of Anthony Munday, from Anti-Catholic Spy to Civic Pageanteer (1579–1630),” Études Anglaises 71, no. 4 (2018): 475. 73. William Cobbett and David Jardine, Cobbett’s Complete Collection of State Trials and Proceedings for High Treason and Other Crimes and Misdemeanors from the Earliest Period [1163] to the Present Time [1820]., vol. 1 ­(London: R. Bagshaw, 1816), 1069. 74. Cobbett and Jardine, 1:1069. 75. Cobbett and Jardine, 1:1068. 76. Qtd. in Turner, Anthony Mundy, 61. 77. Munday, English Romayne Lyfe, 14–6. 78. Anthony Munday, A Discouerie of Edmund Campion, and His Confederates, Their Most Horrible and Traiterous Practises, against Her Maiesties Most Royall Person and the Realme Wherein May Be Seene, How Thorowe the Whole Course of Their Araignement: They Were Notably Conuicted of Euery Cause. VVhereto Is Added, the Execution of Edmund Campion, Raphe Sherwin, and Alexander Brian, Executed at Tiborne the 1. of December, Early English Books Online (London: [By John Charlewood] for Edwarde VVhite, dwelling at the little north doore of Paules, at the signe of the Gunne, 1582), https://www.proquest.com/eebo/docview/2240931302/ citation/41D969EAFA3B4157PQ/1, A1r 79. Edmund Campion, The Great Bragge and Challenge of M. Champion a Jesuite Co[m]Monlye Called Edmunde Campion, Latelye Arriued in Englande, Contayninge Nyne Articles Here Seuerallye Laide Downe, Directed by Him to the Lordes of the Counsail, Co[n]Futed & Aunswered by M ­ eredith ­Hanmer ..., Early English Books, 1475–1640, 1896:12 (Inprinted [sic] at L ­ ondon in Fletestreate nere vnto Sayncte Dunstons Church: By Thomas Marsh, 1581). 80. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 65.

132  Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 81. Plowden, 67. 82. Qtd. in Plowden, 67. 83. Plowden, 72. 84. Plowden, 72. 85. Plowden, 74. 86. Collinson, “Servants and Citizens.” 87. Michael A.R. Graves, “Campion, Edmund [St Edmund Campion] (1540– 1581), Jesuit and Martyr,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/4539 88. Graves. 89. Graves. 90. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 182. 91. John Michael Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence: Spying and Court Culture in the English Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 46–7. 92. James was far less important than his guardians. In our network, for instance, James and Esmé Stuart were both the targets of intelligence-gathering. From 1580 to 1584, James’s centrality is only 0.004, with Stuart’s marginally higher at 0.009. Mary Queen of Scots, who was more of a concern, was at 0.021. However, if we limit ourselves exclusively to the years of the Throckmorton and Babington Plots from 1582 to 1587 (the latter of which is included in the following chapter), Mary’s centrality rises to 0.183, while James’s comes up to 0.020 (Stuart, having died, disappears from the network). 93. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 77. 94. Plowden, 77. 95. Plowden, 81. 96. Plowden, 80. 97. Plowden, 83. 98. Plowden, 84. 99. John Bossy, Giordano Bruno and the Embassy Affair (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991). 100. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 84. Sir Nicholas had been Walsingham’s predecessor as Ambassador in Paris, and had died in 1571. His brother John was Francis’s father. 101. Plowden, 85. 102. John Bossy, Under the Molehill: An Elizabethan Spy Story (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2001). 103. Bossy, 91. 104. Bossy provides the original French, as well: “de tenir tout cy le plus secret qu’il sera possible, affin que Monsieur l’Ambassadeur ne s’en apercoive en aucune sorte” (Bossy, 106). 105. Bossy, 91. 106. Qtd. in William Wizeman, “Somerville, John (1560–1583), Convicted Conspirator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/26022 107. Wizeman. 108. Wizeman; Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 191. 109. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 191. 110. Qtd. in Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 85. 111. Alford, The Watchers, 155. 112. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 86. 113. Plowden, 86. 114. Alison Plowden, “Throckmorton [Throgmorton], Francis (1554–1584), Roman Catholic Conspirator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2015), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/27390

Jesuit Priests and Double Agents 133 115. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 158; Stephen Alford, Burghley: William Cecil at the Court of Elizabeth I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 254. 116. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 2:385. 117. Read, 2:297. 118. Alford, Burghley, 254. 119. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 149. 120. Alford, Burghley, 251. 121. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 87. 122. John Guy, Tudor England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), 286. 123. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 148. 124. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 88. 125. William Parry to William Cecil, “Mr. Win. Parry,” January 15, 1579, Lansdowne Vol/29 f.126, British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GA LE|MC4305082498&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Manuscript 126. William Parry to William Cecil, “Mr. Wm. Parry,” April 7, 1580, Landsdowne Vol/31 f.2, British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE| MC4305082604&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype= Manuscript 127. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 89. 128. Plowden, 89. 129. Plowden, 89. 130. Photini Danou, “Catholic Treason Trials in Elizabethan England. Complexities and Ambiguities in the Stage Management of a Public Show: The Case of William Parry,” Journal of Early Modern History 14, no. 5 (October 2010): 395, https://doi.org/10.1163/157006510X519046 131. Danou, 397. 132. Danou, 401–2. 133. William Parry to Elizabeth I, “Dr. Parry’s Extraordinary Letter of Confession to the Queen,” February 14, 1584, Lansdowne Vol/43 f.117, British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com. newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4305083589&v=2.1&u=vic_ uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript 134. Danou, “Catholic Treason Trials in Elizabethan England,” 401. 135. George Walter Prothero, ed., Select Statutes and Other Constitutional Documents Illustrative of the Reigns of Elizabeth and James I (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1894), 81.

5

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots, 1585–1587

The year 1585 marks yet another turn in the self-conception of English Protestant identity and in the significance of the intelligence networks in maintaining national security. In the aftermath of the dual threats of the Throckmorton Plot and the assassination of William of Orange, the intelligence service was on high alert. Walsingham dispatched agents domestically to households with connections to Recusants or exiled Catholics and sent others abroad to France, Spain, Rome, the Netherlands, Russia, and the Levant. As the second half of the 1580s unfolded, England faced one of the most significant threats of the Elizabethan reign: the Babington Plot, which culminated in the virtually unprecedented legal execution of an anointed queen. The fraught decision (or, more accurately, indecision) that characterized Elizabeth’s sanctioning of Mary’s execution left England in a precarious position; the English government had tacitly authorized the deposition and execution of a legal monarch, an action that provided a blueprint to foreign nations of the process of removing the head of another state from power and threatening the ideological framework of divinely endowed (or even divinely authorized) monarchy, whether couched in terms of divine right or providentialism. While the Babington Plot unfolded at home, Walsingham’s intelligence network was simultaneously being pressed into international and imperial service. In the quest to establish global Protestantism, Walsingham became deeply involved in the expansion of English merchant companies east to Russia and the Levant and west into the New World, using merchant trading as a cover for a global espionage campaign. Within England, the language and iconography of empire increased, and the push for expanded colonial power also extended the presence of Walsingham’s agents as far as Moscow in the east and Roanoke in the west. The growth of the intelligence service in both geographic reach and, necessarily, numbers paralleled the increasing imperial power of England and Elizabeth, particularly in the final years of the decade. Importantly, this expansion was not military, but mercantile, conducted by common men (and women) rather than the nobility. Although English imperialism was yet nascent in these years, the DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-6

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 135 early exploration both east and west set the proverbial stage for the later expansion of territory that would characterize the final decade of the sixteenth and most of the seventeenth centuries.

Recusants and Agents: Walsingham’s Spy Network and English Catholics By 1585, Elizabeth had survived a series of attempted assassinations and plots that had threatened her crown and placed increasing strain on the government’s ability to maintain security in the face of both domestic and international threat. Her greatest rival, Mary Queen of Scots, remained under house arrest within England. In addition, the Jesuit mission to convert Elizabeth’s subjects—and overthrow the queen herself—showed no sign of abatement despite the best efforts of Walsingham’s network of spies. Nevertheless, the work of the intelligence service continued, focusing on the constant threat from the Catholic countries of France and Spain, particularly in the aftermath of the capitulation of the new French king, Henri III, to the Guise faction in June.1 In Rome, a new Pope, Sixtus V, continued to support French and Spanish attempts at Counter-Reformation while actively promoting the harsher activities of the Inquisition in enforcing Catholicism.2 Under threat from a Papacy inclined to support the Catholic League and its bids to oust Elizabeth, the English government increased its vigilance out of fear of an invasion from Spain backed by both France and Rome. Concerns about the possibility of an internal Fifth Column of support from English Recusants spurred harsher controls over Recusancy, leading Walsingham to employ more routine infiltration operations using servants, erstwhile criminals, and other lower-class men and women as informants and pursuivants. The government kept priest catchers in most major port cities and had them stationed throughout local constabularies in heavily Recusant counties. Existing statutes were enforced (even over-enforced) strictly in an effort to contain the perceived threat against the queen. In addition to these harsher methods, the Privy Council also took advantage of the pressure felt by Recusants, and in September of 1585 encouraged the wealthier among the Recusant population to “make special contributions towards the expense of fitting out horsemen for the Earl of Leicester’s army in the Netherlands. It was intimated that if they gave liberally on this occasion, the Queen would deal more leniently with them in the future.”3 By the end of 1585, the Jesuit mission had sent over 300 priests to England; of those, some 60 or so had been either arrested or exiled, about 50 imprisoned, and 33 executed.4 The pressure on the English government by the continued arrival of Jesuits led to increased persecution of Catholics, which in turn led to acts of desperation in the attempt to preserve the Old Faith. The ability of the English government to catch the majority of these priests must be ascribed to the work of Walsingham’s intelligence

136  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots

Figure 5.1  Social network map from 1585 to 1587

network.5 By 1586, Elizabeth “was forced to admit that something so very much like war already existed that she could no longer afford to ignore the ordinary precautions or omit the ordinary provisions which a state of war involved.”6 Needless to say, this state of quasi-war led to a marked increase in the actions and missions undertaken by Walsingham’s spies. If we recall that Walsingham’s network (see Figure 4.1) from 1574 to 1584 contained 217 nodes (people) and 425 connections over the span of a decade, the above network (Figure 5.1)—which is, after all, only three years in duration—with 224 nodes (seven nodes larger) and 483 connections indicates the flurry of activity that characterized the years 1585– 1587 around the Babington Plot. The network’s GCC (Global Clustering Coefficient) of 0.376 is similar to the prior decade (at 0.353), although the diameter of eight helps to explain the slight increase (in comparison with ten from 1574 to 1584). The APL (Average Path Length) of 2.915 is smaller (than 3.275), suggesting that the interconnections between the individuals were more tightly knit, despite the increase in number of agents.

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 137 Walsingham, of course, remains at the center of the network, visually appearing as a literal hub with a substantial collection of spokes (and a centrality of 1). Cecil remains the second-most-central figure; however, the degree of difference has increased further to 0.619 (with Cecil at 0.381, down from 0.555 from 1574 to 1584). Mary herself is the third most central, at 0.207, and we begin to see the entrance into the network of several significant players for the Babington Plot: Nicholas Berden (0.178), Sir Amias Paulet (0.143), and Walsingham’s personal secretary and codebreaker, Thomas Phlippes (0.185). It is clear, however, that this network is unquestionably Walsingham’s. Walsingham’s outdegree continued to rise from 1584 through the 1585– 1587 network, from 91 to 122, far outstripping Cecil’s increase from 36 to 39. Although it is clear that Cecil continues to be a significant player in the intelligence game, Walsingham remains its lodestone and star. Elizabeth remains active, although much less so than her Councilors, with an outdegree of 19 (compared to 15 in the previous network), although Berden’s outdegree of 18 approaches Elizabeth’s, indicating his active role within the network in managing other spies and engaging with targets of espionage. As is obvious from the network, Walsingham employed dozens in the intelligence service, many, including Robert Barnard (alias P.H., with a centrality of 0.115), Walter Williams (0.159), Maliverny Catlyn (0.117), and Berden, specifically focused on the hunting of priests (particularly Jesuits).7 Several of these men specifically masqueraded as priests, potential novices, or as practicing Catholics in order to seduce others into confessing their own involvement in the Jesuit mission or with other Catholics or priests in England. Among Catholics, Walsingham and his agents were widely feared, and it was known that he used double agents, bribery, and threats in order to gain intelligence on the movements of English Catholics both domestically and abroad.8 The historian William Camden wrote that “the Papists found fault with him as cunning and subtile in close carrying on his Designs, and inticing and decoying men into Dangers, whilst he diligently studied to discover their secret Practices against Religion, his Prince and Countrey,” and Robert Beale similarly described Walsingham’s using money to entice Catholics, Jesuits, and other supposed traitors to give up their confederates and plans against Elizabeth.9 In short, neither Walsingham nor his agents felt that deception was unwarranted in the fight—for so he perceived it—to secure Protestant supremacy in England. As Cooper explains, Walsingham “felt himself vindicated” in his actions “in the sight of God.”10 In service of this network, Walsingham managed to convince Elizabeth to increase his budget, a necessary expenditure in order to keep agents employed across geographic and ideological boundaries. It was this money—spent on salaries, bribes, and traveling expenses—that enabled Walsingham’s network not only to expand in reach and numbers, but also to become institutionalized as one of the earliest organized and bureaucratized networks of

138  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots pursuivants, informants, messengers, and spies in Europe.11 Walsingham’s specific purpose was to vet the information passed to him for both veracity and actionability. He “noted passages of importance in these documents” sent to him or written by agents “by inking his private mark in the margin: a trefoil or cloverleaf device” before passing the information along to Elizabeth, Cecil, or other members of the Privy Council.12 Yet despite the considerable efforts—and the extensive network—put forth by Walsingham’s intelligencers, those primarily responsible for the apprehension of missionary priests were often local law enforcement, including sheriffs, judges, and local bishops, some of whom began to collect small spy networks of their own. But even these local priest catchers required information—and often support in the way of manpower, methodology, or money—carried by Walsingham’s agents, who themselves ran the gamut from radical Puritans and devout Protestants, to die-hard patriots, to mercenary informers, to private individuals with a desire for petty revenge against the target.13 The widespread success—in broad terms—of this ad hoc network of amateur intelligencers relied heavily on the dedication of local clergy and law enforcement to provide both information and support for non-local agents and pursuivants.14 In essence, Elizabethan England’s capacity to maintain its security rested largely in the government’s ability to produce and maintain a general atmosphere of proto-nationalism across multiple levels of society, from London to the Northern Marches. It relied, too, on tight-knit communities in which strangers were easily identifiable and upon a broad sense of perpetual surveillance: if one expected one’s neighbors to be both vigilant and inclined to report discrepancies or nonconformist behavior, one was more likely to be sure to attend Sunday church services. The inclusion of parochial intelligence gathering in the wider network of espionage led to increased success; although Walsingham was not personally involved in most of these exchanges, when local magistrates encountered something they found concerning, the information was relayed to the central nexus in London, where Walsingham had the opportunity to evaluate it. Local enforcement also enabled Walsingham and his agents to focus more on larger concerns, both domestic and international, while also relying on local networks to take care of more minor infractions. In spite of all his efforts—and the elaborate network he built— Walsingham nevertheless was often at odds with the queen whose interests he so carefully protected. He was perpetually complaining about a lack of funding, despite his increased budget in the later years of the 1580s, and frequently supplemented official moneys with his own personal income. His constant pressure on Elizabeth to take action against Catholics both within England and in other countries—including matters of international policy, particularly in the Netherlands—often led to conflict between the queen and her spymaster. For instance, she once threw her slipper at Walsingham when he minimized his report on the Spanish threat against England out of a desire to maintain English fiscal commitment to Dudley’s military campaign in the Low Countries.15 Yet despite their disagreements, Elizabeth

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 139 trusted her Secretary (most of the time), and more frequently than not at least partially capitulated to his requests. However, Elizabeth was at absolute odds with both her Secretary and her Lord Treasurer on one matter: both Cecil and Walsingham were firmly convinced that the single greatest threat to Elizabeth’s safety and England’s national security was contained within the person of Mary Queen of Scots.

One Mistress in England: Elizabeth I and Mary Queen of Scots With a history of involvement in plots against Elizabeth, it can hardly be surprising that Mary Queen of Scots was the primary villain in the English narrative constructed by Cecil and Walsingham in the mid-1580s. The fundamental problem with Mary—in addition to her Catholicism—was not her sketchy marital history (being suspected in a conspiracy to murder her own husband) or even that she had attempted to convince Parliament to declare her as Elizabeth’s heir, but that she had claimed to be the rightful heir to the English throne “not as a second person after the Quenes majesty, but afor hir.”16 By 1585, Cecil and Walsingham were determined to eliminate Mary as a potential threat to Elizabeth’s life and throne in an effort not only to maintain national security, but also to promote English Protestantism as an international ideal.17 In order to do so, they turned to Walsingham’s intelligence service, already embedded throughout France, England, and Spain, to keep a wary eye on the French, Spanish, and English Catholics with whom Mary might conspire in her next attempt to claim Elizabeth’s throne.18 In particular, Walsingham and Cecil were concerned with the embassies of the leading Catholic nations supporting Mary’s claims—especially France, as Mary was its former queen. Indeed, Michel de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England, appears to have been deeply involved in the Babington Plot, although this is somewhat controversial among historians. Conyers Read believes the principal foreign support for the plot came from Mendoza, and John Bossy instead suggests Castelnau. Bossy’s evidence for Castelnau’s involvement comes from the sheer number of agents who appear to have been circling his home and shadowing his steps: “a secretary who was an important political agent, particularly in connection with Mary and English Catholics, at least one priest, a clerk, a chef, a butler, a porter and his wife… valets in the kitchen, a gentleman in waiting, and a tutor.”19 Bossy goes on to explain that Mendoza’s English contacts—unlike Castelnau’s—were limited. Castelnau had connections to the Throckmortons, certainly, and to both John Florio and the mysterious Henry Fagot.20 Castelnau’s ties to Fagot persisted into 1586, during the Babington Plot, despite both men being in France, suggesting Castelnau’s continued involvement with Mary and the English Catholic faction. 21 In addition to Castelnau’s more personal involvement, both the Catholic governments of France and Spain provided support—in the form of agents, money, gifts, or promises of military or political backing—for Mary’s claims

140  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots to Elizabeth’s throne. Mary’s connections to France and Spain had grown stronger in the wake of the Throckmorton Plot, and, importantly, her own charisma meant that she was not simply a choice of necessity, but of preference. Many English Catholics saw Mary as the rightful heir to the throne, both because of her lineal claims—she and Elizabeth shared a grandfather— and because of their preference for her faith. 22 In fact, Protestants widely recognized that Mary was a threat principally because of the legitimacy of her lineal ties to the Tudor dynasty. In addition, Mary was charming and presented an air of the victimized lady unlawfully deposed, exiled from her rightful country, and imprisoned against her will. By 1568, she had become friendly with Elizabeth “Bess” Talbot, Countess of Shrewsbury and wife to Mary’s guardian, George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury. The friendship, which had gained Mary a number of liberties that Cecil and Walsingham found intolerable, dissolved in the early 1580s when Bess began to suspect Mary of having an affair with her husband. 23 Late in 1584, Mary was removed from Talbot’s custody, less because of his affair with her and more because of the consequent lack of security that Talbot’s fondness for Mary had produced. Walsingham’s discovery, during the Throckmorton Plot, of Mary’s established network of couriers led him to increase security around her, ostensibly for her own safety, but, in actuality, to maintain surveillance over her actions and correspondence. 24 Custody was transferred in April 1585 to Sir Amias Paulet, a friend of Walsingham’s who, while he was by all accounts polite enough to his new “guest,” appeared to be unimpressed by her charismatic personality, refusing to permit her any of the luxuries or leniencies to which she had become accustomed at the Talbots’. 25 Paulet unashamedly read Mary’s correspondence, and she was moved specifically to Chartley in Staffordshire at the end of the year to increase Paulet’s control over her communications. In 1585, a priest by the name of John Savage swore—in service to Mary—to assassinate the queen. 26 He did not actually make an attempt, however, whether because he became frightened by Elizabeth’s security, as Plowden suggests, or he simply lacked the opportunity, but he remained loyal to Mary’s cause. He had personal connections to a priest by the name of John Ballard, a secular priest named William Gifford (likely a cousin of Gilbert, one of Walsingham’s agents), and a young Recusant nobleman named Anthony Babington. 27 Savage’s oath formed part of the conspiracy that would take Babington’s name, as (perhaps obviously) Elizabeth’s death was a required step in replacing her with Mary. Ultimately, it was Paulet’s strict diligence that, in fact, brought about Mary’s downfall in conjunction the efforts of with a collection of Walsingham’s intelligencers. In addition to Walsingham himself and the ever-present Cecil, the counter-conspiracy involved Walsingham’s chief codebreaker and tactician, Thomas Phelippes, and a Catholic double agent named Gilbert Gifford. 28 Gifford was an English Catholic exile who had

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 141 met fellow English Catholic exiles Thomas Morgan, Charles Paget, and John Savage in France at the seminary at Rheims.29 Both Paget and Morgan had direct ties to Mary, and all three were deeply involved in the Babington Plot. Although there is no definitive evidence of Gifford’s employment by the intelligence service prior to 1585, it is generally believed that his secret meeting with Walsingham in 1585 upon his return to England could not have been a coincidence.30 Gifford was entrusted with the job of making sure that Phelippes—“a talented linguist and mathematician”—saw and copied every letter written by, addressed to, or concerning Mary.31 Gifford brought Phelippes the letters, Phelippes copied them, and then Gifford returned them to Paulet. An additional conspirator involved was an agent known simply as “the brewer,” who ostensibly smuggled the letters on behalf of Mary but, in truth, passed them to Paulet and Gifford before they were returned and packed away as originally intended.32 This convoluted process of letter smuggling began in January 1586 and continued until July, when Mary sent the letter that sealed her fate. During these six months, Mary corresponded with Morgan, James Boyd (Bishop of Glasgow), Paget, Sir Francis Englefield, Robert Parsons, Henri de Guise, Bernardino de Mendoza (in Paris, since his exile from England), and Alexander Farnese (Duke of Parma), all of whom collectively revealed Mary’s attempt to secure her freedom by any means necessary, including an international conspiracy to break her from prison and place her on the English throne, should it become vacant.33 Over the course of that halfyear, Walsingham learned a considerable amount concerning not only Mary’s involvement, but also the relative positions and authority held by each of the other participants, both those in England and abroad. It is worth a brief digression to acknowledge the significance of Mary’s direct involvement in cryptography and intelligence; unlike Elizabeth, who herself did not write (as far as we know) in code or directly employ agents, preferring to entrust that work to Cecil and Walsingham (or, more accurately, to Phelippes), Mary was deeply immersed in the praxis of intelligence, including ciphers, intelligence gathering, and subversion of “enemy” agents. In her letters, she discussed the use of invisible inks, such as “a secret white ink made out of alum which would magically appear when the paper was dipped in a basin of water so that the message could be read while the paper dried.”34 And not only was Mary personally involved, but also she was talented enough at the crafts of espionage that it took years and a coordinated effort for Walsingham and Cecil to break her network.35 One of the more unsettling aspects of the Babington Plot—at least to Cecil and Walsingham—was the involvement of Elizabeth’s ambassador in Paris, Edward Stafford. Stafford had been dispatched to Paris to negotiate— again—for the possible marital alliance between Elizabeth and Hercule Francois de Valois, former Duke of Alençon, now Anjou, in 1583.36 It is worth noting that Stafford and Walsingham were rivals from the beginning,

142  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots with Stafford spurning Walsingham’s offers of aid, garnering the spymaster’s suspicions. Stafford’s profligate habits in Paris—including gambling and other debts—and his refusal to pass intelligence to Walsingham led the spymaster to actively surveil Stafford and his employees; this surveillance led to the discovery that Stafford was indebted to Henri de Guise and friendly with Charles Arundel, a co-conspirator with Paget.37 Walsingham was prevented—unusually—from having Stafford removed from office, in spite of the evidence, because of Stafford’s personal connection to Cecil. Although Cecil did not approve of Stafford’s actions, and informed him of such, their connection most likely saved Stafford not only his post, but also his life in the aftermath of the Babington arrests in 1586.38 Stafford claimed, of course, to have been acting in the role of double agent, passing along incomplete or incorrect information to Arundel, Guise, and Mendoza so that they would trust him; but scholars—like Walsingham himself—are skeptical of these claims.39 For the duration of the Babington conspiracy, however, Walsingham made use of Stafford’s connection to Arundel and Morgan, feeding misleading or deliberately false misinformation through the Paris embassy and keeping Stafford under the watchful eye of his trusted agent Nicholas Berden, seeking to expose not only Mary, but Stafford himself. Berden was considered, it is worth noting, “the most reliable and efficient” of Walsingham’s intelligence agents, according to Plowden.40 Although it is difficult to confirm whether Berden was actually “the most reliable and efficient,” he was frequently employed in Walsingham’s schemes and was instrumental to the unfolding of the Babington conspiracy. Berden’s skills in deception were such that he was more than once arrested by Justice Young, one of Walsingham’s most prolific and dedicated pursuivants.41 Berden’s work in Paris produced evidence against both Paget and Ballard, placing them on Walsingham’s version of a “watch list.” Ballard had approached Mendoza in Paris asking for Spanish assistance in restoring Catholicism in England; Mendoza wrote to Philip, explaining that “they beg me to tell them whether your Majesty had determined to help them to take up arms when they decided to do so.”42 Berden warned Walsingham about Ballard’s involvement, pinpointing him as one of the central figures of the conspiracy among the English Catholic nobility.43 Using two agents—later accused by Edward Windsor, one of Babington’s co-conspirators, of being agents provocateurs—Bernard Maude and Captain Jacques, Walsingham tracked Ballard’s movements from Paris to London and Anthony Babington.44 To Babington, Walsingham assigned Robert Poley, an agent who had been working for him since at least 1585, and Poley assumed the identity of a Recusant Catholic in order to gain the conspirators’ confidence.45 Yet although Walsingham’s agents were keeping close to the conspirators, Walsingham needed definitive evidence that Mary herself was not only the target of the plot, but a party to it. Elizabeth’s hesitance to sanction

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 143 (much less directly imprison or execute) her cousin meant that the counter-­ conspiracy had to find direct and clear evidence that Mary not only knew about, but also agreed to the terms of the plot up to and including the death of Elizabeth. It was therefore not until Mary wrote to Babington in July of 1586 that her fate—noted by the sketch of a gallows on the copy Phelippes sent to Walsingham—was sealed. The letter, dated 17 July 1586 in the archive of State Papers (which also contains transcribed copies of the same) was carried by Gilbert Curle, who delivered it unwittingly into the hands of Phelippes by means of the complex system of exchange set up by Walsingham’s agents. Phelippes translated the letter and put the gallows mark on it, sending it to Walsingham by 19 July.46 After another ten days— during which time Walsingham and Phelippes undoubtedly planned how to execute their triumph—it was delivered, in London, to Babington by one of Phelippes’s messenger agents.47 In the letter, Mary went into great detail on how Babington and his cohorts might affect her escape and the assassination of her rival, including, “What forces on foot and horse may be raised amongst you all,” “What foreign forces on horse and afoot you require from the three said foreign Princes,” and “Also the manner of my getting from this hold.”48 She also cautioned against Walsingham’s intelligencers: “Take heed of spies and false brethren amongst you, especially of some priests already practised by our enemies for your discovery, and never in any way keep any paper about you that may in any sort do you harm.”49 Mary’s cognizance of the presence of intelligence agents was, of course, correct, although she (obviously) was unaware of the depth to which her followers had already been infiltrated. Upon reading this material, Walsingham recognized that, in effect, Mary had signed her own death warrant. Her sanction of the conspiracy was a tacit agreement to the assassination of Elizabeth, and—particularly since she had been impressed into signing the Bond of Association two years prior—a violation of Mary’s conditional protection in England. Yet he wanted more out of the exchange: names. Walsingham therefore had Phelippes forge one additional sentence into Mary’s letter, asking, in French, for descriptions and names of the “six gentlemen” before returning it to Gifford and having it passed on to Babington himself.50 When Babington was arrested on 3 August, he was “hiding” in the garden of his new “friend,” Poley, who had naturally been the reason for his apprehension.51 The remainder of the arrests began on 4 August 1586 and included Ballard, Savage, Chidiock Tichborne, Charles Tilney, Thomas Salisbury, Edward Abington, and John Charnock.52 By 15 August, these conspirators had been remanded to the Tower and interrogated, although the records indicate that they made their confessions without the explicit threat of torture.53 According to Stephen Alford, Babington had no idea that his conspiracy had been infiltrated, much less by the very man—Poley— who had offered him shelter in early August.54 It was important to maintain Poley’s cover in the event that there were additional c­ onspirators—and

144  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots because Walsingham might (and, indeed, would) be able to make use of a “known” Catholic conspirator to ferret out additional sympathizers to the Catholic cause in the future. From Babington’s interrogation, Walsingham learned that the conspiracy had been in operation since 1580, when Babington met Tichborne, Morgan, and James Boyd, Bishop of Glasgow, in Paris. 55 Together, they had gathered a cohort of English Catholics, secured the support of the Guises and Mendoza, and planned to engineer Mary’s escape from Talbot’s custody. Her transfer to the guardianship of Paulet in 1585 had complicated their plans and enabled Walsingham to target Mary’s communiques with Morgan, Paget, and Babington more specifically through his intelligencers (including Paulet). The evidence given by the conspirators—coupled with the letter signed by Mary herself—gave Cecil and Walsingham what they needed to formally charge Mary with treason against Elizabeth. She was arrested on 11 August along with her secretaries, Curle and Claude Nau. 56 Babington and the other conspirators were brought to trial in September. Former agent and occasional minor spymaster Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, acted as one of the crown’s commissioners and aided the prosecution against Babington, although he was absent for the trial of Mary.57 The conspirators—a group including Babington, Savage, Tichborne, Ballard, Charnock, Robert Barnwell, Henry Donne, Robert Gage, John Travers, Edward Jones, Jerome Bellamy, Abington, Tilney, and Salisbury— were executed at St. Giles-in-the-Fields on either 20 or 21 September 1586, and all their property was confiscated by the crown.58 But these fourteen men were not the primary target of the government, and their conspiracy, as has been noted by scholars, most likely could have been stopped long before it reached the summer of 1586; however, Walsingham “let it run on until he could be sure that he had the evidence against Mary,” the central target of his intelligence work throughout the middle 1580s.59 At first, Elizabeth resisted even the implication that Mary might be arrested or brought to trial. Cecil—with the support of Walsingham and other members of the Privy Council—argued that Mary had been deposed by Scotland and was thus no longer an anointed monarch. She had appealed to Elizabeth for protection and had therefore accepted the condition of being an English subject, making her answerable to English law. Under this line of argument, Cecil himself prepared the evidence against Mary.60 In October, weeks after the deaths of the conspirators, Mary was brought to trial at Fotheringhay Castle (where she was held under house arrest) to face the evidence collected against her by Walsingham’s agents and Cecil’s interrogators. Elizabeth resisted her advisors’ pressure to bring Mary to trial, and she certainly was not informed of Phelippes’s doctoring of Mary’s letter at Walsingham’s command.61 Near the end of October, the commissioners of the Star Chamber (missing Sackville who, although he had been one of those commissioned, was absent during the trial) pronounced that “the aforesaid Mary pretending title to the crown of this realm of England, hath compassed

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 145 and imagined within this realm of England, divers matters tending to the hurt, death and destruction of the royal person of our sovereign lady the Queen, contrary to the form of the statute in the Commission aforesaid specified.”62 The decision was unanimous and the conclusion all but forgone. The difficulty, of course, was that Mary refused to acknowledge the authority of the English Star Chamber to try her in the first place.63 As an anointed sovereign, Mary claimed, the court of another nation had no jurisdiction over her actions or person. The Star Chamber obviously disagreed, but Mary’s claim reveals the crux of the problem and the primary reason for Elizabeth’s reticence regarding the prosecution of her cousin. If Mary could be tried and executed for her actions, then the claim that monarchy was sacred became far more difficult to maintain. Ideologically, the trial and potential execution of a monarch—even a foreign one—shifted power away from a centralized monarchy and into the proto-bureaucracy of government and the institutions that comprised it. We might even suggest that the ability of the English government to legally condemn the (former) queen of Scotland indicates a moment of sea change in the English understanding of government; if the machinery of politics—Parliament, Star Chamber, the Privy Council—had the authority to overrule the monarch, then the monarch could no longer be considered the primary focus of governmental power. Thus the trial and execution of Mary Queen of Scots represented a significant shift in the political understanding of institutional authority as superior to that of even the sovereign. Elizabeth, of course, was loathe to allow such a thing to happen and resisted the judgment passed by her Star Chamber commissioners. A special meeting of Parliament was therefore called on 29 October 1586 to consider the matter of Mary’s conviction and sentencing.64 Parliament—at the exhortation of Cecil—petitioned Elizabeth twice, on both 12 and 24 November, to sign Mary’s death warrant.65 They reminded her that Mary “hath compassed the Destruction of your majesty’s sacred and most royal person,” desiring to “bring[] us and this noble crown back again into the thralldom of the Romish tyranny.”66 They concluded that “we cannot find that there is any possible means to provide for your majesty’s safety, but by the just and speedy execution of the said queen.”67 Elizabeth’s responses were carefully mitigated such that she could not be accused of advocating for her “sister’s” downfall. For instance, in her 12 November speech, she suggests that, if the matter were about her life only, Elizabeth would pardon her: And now, though my life hath been dangerously sought, yet nothing hath more grieved me than that one not different in sex, of like estate and my near kin, hath fallen into so great a crime. and so far have I been from bearing her ill-will that, upon the discovery of certain treasonable practices against me, I wrote to her secretly that if she would confess them to myself she never should be called into public question. Neither did I write thus to circumvent her, for I knew then as much as she could

146  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots confess. and even yet, though the matter be made apparent, if she would truly repent, and no man would take the matter upon them, “or that we were but as two milke maides, with pailes uppon our armes,” and if my life alone depended hereupon, and not the whole estate of your religion and well-doings, I would most willingly pardon her.68 Here, and throughout the rest of her speech—as well as in the later speech of 24 November—Elizabeth makes it clear that, were it up to her only or were the matter only about the death of herself and not the stability of a nation, Mary’s life would not be forfeit. Ultimately, Elizabeth had two main concerns. First, she objected ideologically to the sentencing and execution of an anointed monarch because of the implications for her own security. In essence, if she were able to justify Mary’s execution, then that act would lend legitimacy to other monarchs’ attempts on her own life and the papal dispensation in Regnans in Excelsis. Second, she needed to mitigate her own responsibility for the act in the eyes of other nations, such that the blame for both Mary’s conviction and sentence fell on Parliament rather than on Elizabeth herself. She argued that By this last act of parliament you have forced me to give direction for her death, which cannot but be grievous to me. I had gladly absented myself from this parliament, lest I should hear this cause spoken of; not out of fear of danger, though it is not long since I saw a written oath, wherein some bound themselves to kill me within a month.69 Yet from the perspective of a political theorist, Elizabeth’s attempt both to maintain the significance of anointed monarchy and to lay blame for Mary’s conviction upon Parliament create a paradox; the belief that an anointed monarch cannot be censured is belied by Elizabeth’s use of the phrase “you have forced me,” since it suggests—as was the case, of course—that the queen was actually answerable to her Parliament. If this were the case (as it was), then an anointed monarch may, indeed, be censured, deposed, and even executed by an act of Parliament—a legal possibility that Elizabeth had no desire to affirm, but which would manifest some sixty-three years later with the execution of Charles I. Yet even in 1586, Elizabeth seems to have been cognizant of the possibility that the argument Parliament used to advocate for Mary’s death could be turned against herself. She therefore continued to resist the pressure from Parliament generally and from Cecil and Walsingham in particular. Walsingham argued, in writing to Elizabeth, that The number Papists, Athists & Malcontents will marvelouslie encrease in respecte of the hope they will conceive that the said S. Queene shall com to the crowne as a thing fatall. …

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 147 Now touching the p[er]ills that are to ensue either by the K: of Scotts or the K: of Spayne by a particular consideration of them, it will appeare they are nothing equall with the p[er]ill that is likely to grow from her.70 This advocacy, which argued for both the safety of Elizabeth’s person and the overall security of the realm, was ultimately successful in gaining Elizabeth’s grudging assent to Parliament’s sentence of execution, although the queen continued to declare publicly her sorrow at and distaste for the execution of a fellow monarch. Yet, ultimately, Elizabeth recognized the necessity—or, at least, Parliament’s view of the necessity—for Mary’s death, issuing a proclamation to that effect on 4 December 1586: Whereupon, being not only moved, to her grief, but also overcome with the earnest requests, declarations and important reasons of all her said subjects, the nobles and Commons of the realm, whose judgment, knowledge and natural care for her and the whole realm far surmount all others not so interested therein, and so justly to be esteemed, and perceiving the said sentence to have been honourably, lawfully and justly given, agreeable to justice and to the laws of the realm, yielded, and according to the said statute by this proclamation, declares, notifies and publishes to all her loving subjects and other persons whatsoever that the said sentence and judgment is given in manner aforesaid, to the intent that they and every one of them by this proclamation may have full understanding and knowledge thereof.71 The statement acknowledges that Parliament passed and ratified the sentence that Mary was judged not by a common jury, but by a commissioned council of peers and nobles; and that Elizabeth had essentially recused herself from participating in the process. Its purpose, then, was to acknowledge the validity of the sentence as a means of reassuring the English of their safety, to testify to the effectiveness of the government’s intelligence service and justice system, and to provide plausible deniability in the international sphere for the queen herself, particularly with James VI of Scotland, Mary’s son.72 Elizabeth gave Sackville and Robert Beale the duty of informing Mary of the sentence passed by Parliament. Sackville may have been chosen, in part, because of his absence from the commission that condemned her or because his family connections to Recusancy may have made him a more sympathetic figure to deliver the news.73 Beale and Sackville were explicitly instructed (by Elizabeth) to make clear to Mary that her sentence was the decision of “the whole parliament of this our realm now assembled” based on “the particularities of those things wherewith they found her to stand charged, together with the testimonies and proofs produced against

148  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots her and her own answers to the same.”74 They were to provide information on how sundry deputies, selected out of both houses of the lords and commons, and addressed hither unto us in the name of the whole realm, have offered and presented their most humble and earnest petitions unto us, both by writing and mouth, tending to the moving and most instant persuading of us by many strong and invincible arguments to proceed to the finishing of the said sentence by the execution of her whom they find to be the seed-plot, chief motive and author of all these foreign and home conspiracies which these many years past have been hatched.75 In essence, it was the commissioners’ duty to inform Mary that her sentence was deserved, but also to tell her that Elizabeth had no role in the process aside from being the conspiracy’s intended victim. In part, the language of this commission was to assuage Elizabeth’s guilt over Mary’s sentence; but there was likely an element of diplomacy to it, as well, since Mary was still permitted to communicate with her connections in Scotland, who would undoubtedly also continue to maintain alliances in France and Spain. Elizabeth’s eschewal of responsibility both to Mary herself and by public proclamation was as much an international policy move as it was a backhanded apology to Mary. However, despite sending the news to Mary of her impending execution, Elizabeth continued to refuse to sign the execution warrant and was quickly angered when pressed by her Privy Council to do so. The contention now became not whether Mary’s death was needful, but how it was to be carried out. Elizabeth sought to reenact the precedence of Thomas á Becket, in the sense that she wished for someone to rid her of “this troublesome queen” by whatever extra-judicial means they thought appropriate. The instrument of this would, naturally, be most reasonably found among Walsingham’s bevy of agents. If Elizabeth recognized that Mary’s removal would provide national security, she also still (ironically) clung to the idea that assassination— rather than legal execution—could excuse her from being openly complicit in the act. Cecil, however, was convinced that Mary’s death had to be a legal execution rather than a clandestine murder; the Lord Treasurer was supported by other members of the Privy Council (including Sackville and Walsingham).76 A legal execution would communicate to England’s enemies, both foreign and domestic, that the government was capable of both revealing (through its intelligence agents) and prosecuting treason and international conspiracy in open court, rather than resorting—as they seemed to be willing to do—to assassination. But a legal execution would also demonstrate—and this was Elizabeth’s objection—the proto-bureaucratic power of the Council and Parliament

The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 149 as the primary bodies of governance, superior even to anointed monarchs. For Cecil, Walsingham, and Sackville (men who had been central to the proposal of a conciliar interregnum rejected by Elizabeth in both 1563 and 1584), this, too, was important to the shifting power schema in the English government. For Elizabeth, it was a dangerous precedent; for her professional Council, it was one that secured their place in power.77 It was 1 February 1587 before the Council finally convinced Elizabeth to sign Mary’s death warrant, which she did under protest and “with vague and contradictory instructions” when she handed it to William Davison, co-Principal Secretary with Walsingham, whose health and dedication to the intelligence service necessitated a colleague in the role.78 Davison’s account of the events following suggest that Elizabeth immediately regretted signing the warrant and blamed Davison for prevailing upon her to do so. Upon receiving the queen’s signature, Davison went directly to Thomas Bromley, Keeper of the Great Seal, to have the seal imprinted on the document. This was done before the end of the day on 1 February, and Davison informed Walsingham, Cecil, and Dudley of his actions immediately. On the morning of 2 February, Elizabeth attempted to stall once more and ordered Davison to delay taking the document to Bromley. Upon receiving these instructions, he sought advice from another member of the Privy Council, Sir Christopher Hatton, since the document had been both signed and sealed already. Hatton and Cecil decided to convene the Council, a meeting that took place on 3 February, to gain Council approval for their decision to forward the warrant—knowing Elizabeth’s objections— to Fotheringhay for fulfillment.79 All nine men in attendance (including Davison, Cecil, and Hatton) signed a letter to accompany it, and the letter stopped at Walsingham’s sickbed for his signature, as well.80 Later, Elizabeth claimed that she forbade Davison from discussing the warrant with the other members of the Privy Council, knowing that Cecil would do exactly as he did.81 Whether Davison’s account or the queen’s is the more accurate, we do not know. Yet Elizabeth clung to the idea that she could somehow escape legal culpability for Mary’s death, since, in addition to signing the warrant, she told Davison to get Walsingham to write to Paulet and his colleague Sir Dru Drury (1 February) asking them to assassinate Mary… Paulet had been willing to kill her to forestall a rescue attempt; but (as Davison predicted to the queen) they refused outright assassination.82 Paulet and Drury, like Cecil, understood the importance of Mary’s death being a legal execution rather than murder, but their refusal to obey an order from their queen—like Davison’s sharing of the warrant with the rest of the Council—demonstrates that proto-bureaucracy had spread beyond Cecil and Walsingham and was becoming part of the government more broadly. The will of the monarch alone was insufficient to override the rule

150  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots of Parliament, and when placed between Parliament and the queen, more and more officials were choosing the will of Parliament. The warrant arrived at Fotheringhay on 7 February, and Mary was informed of her impending execution, which took place the following morning. Elizabeth was told of Mary’s death on the evening of 9 February by Cecil and took the news so badly that the Council advised Davison— whom Elizabeth blamed for the delivery of the warrant—to “make himself scarce for a day or two.”83 He was sent to the Tower on 14 February, being remitted for a few days to recover from an illness. He was tried for disobedience, found guilty, and received “imprisonment at will” and a hefty fine as his sentence.84 Elizabeth released him from the Tower in less than two years (his imprisonment was fairly comfortable, as he took the opportunity to write a description of Ireland) and his fine was never paid.85 He was not formally removed from office and continued to retain the title of Secretary (as well as its salary) until his death in 1608, although he did not perform the duties associated therewith.86 It is perhaps a testament to the Council’s and queen’s understanding of the ultimate necessity of Davison’s actions that his punishment was so slight.87 In addition to the historical narrative of the Babington Plot and its aftermath, it is worth examining the specific intelligence sub-network surrounding the discovery of the conspiracy from 1585 to 1587 (see Figure 5.2), as it reveals several interesting aspects of both the plot and its unraveling that would have long-term implications for English intelligence. With 63 nodes (and 122 connections), the number of agents and individuals involved in the Babington Plot—despite its social and political significance—occupied a bit more than a quarter of the total network for the same years. The absence of particular agents from the sub-network has reduced its diameter by one (from eight to seven) relative to the larger 1585–1587 intelligence network, with the GCC increasing to 0.402 and the APL increasing to 3.143. This suggests that those involved in tracking and uncovering the Babington Plot were more removed from one another than was typical for Walsingham’s intelligencers. Walsingham likely kept individual agents more isolated in an attempt to ensure secrecy in general, but many agents were also working for different factions and sub-spymasters. This smaller network also helps us to visualize just how critical particular individuals were to the exposure of the Babington Plot. If we look closely, we can see a slightly higher centrality for particular agents focused specifically around the Babington conspiracy: Cecil (0.369), Gilbert Gifford (0.381), Sir Amias Paulet (0.405), “the brewer” (0.347), Nicholas Berden (0.441), and—of course—Mary Queen of Scots (0.683) all have significantly higher centrality than the average (0.182). None, however, approach Walsingham’s importance or significance (with a centrality of 1 and an outdegree of 21, unsurprisingly the highest in the network) except Mary herself (with a centrality of 0.683 and an outdegree of 7) and Walsingham’s

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Figure 5.2  Social network map relative to the Babington plot only from 1585 to 1587

personal secretary, Thomas Phelippes (with the third-highest centrality at 0.667 and outdegree at 8). Phelippes handled most of the correspondence between the agents and their principal spymaster. From this we can see that although Cecil was kept abreast of the situation, the complexities of the actual infiltration and intelligence gathering were conducted not by courtiers, but by spies: Gifford, Berden, Phelippes, and the anonymous “brewer” make up four of the eight most central nodes in the network (the others being Walsingham, Paulet, Cecil, and Mary herself). It is also worth noting that—during the midst of the Babington Plot— Phelippes married, and his wife, Mary Phelippes, also served in intelligence, helping her husband for the remainder of his career specifically with cryptography and intelligence gathering through letters.88 Mary Phelippes (who had, for what it is worth, a centrality of 0.161 during the Babington Plot) may well be the first documented female intelligencer in Walsingham’s network.89 Given the propensity of the historical record for leaving women— and wives especially—out of records, we therefore must assume that Mary

152  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots Phelippes had a hand (or two) in most of her husband’s work, particularly since we know she took over for him later when he was imprisoned, managing both domestic and international intelligence and codebreaking.90 The ideological significance of the rise of these men (and woman)— and the appearance of another intelligencer, Robert Poley (centrality of 0.161)—tells us that some of the most important figures in English politics largely went unrecognized by and were unknown to the public, even if their value was acknowledged (and often rewarded) by those with whom they worked closely. Phelippes, for instance, was commended widely for his work in Walsingham’s service, although he had never been a member of the court (he was the son of a customs official).91 He had been a part of Parry’s downfall and had served with Walsingham in France, but his role in the Babington Plot—as the statistics reveal—was vital. As William Richardson remarks, Phelippes was the linchpin in  Walsingham’s  extensive intelligence service: paying agents; drafting copious memoranda and dispatches; collecting examples of codes and alphabets; maintaining an extensive correspondence with agents in Scotland, France, and the Netherlands; deciphering and encrypting secret correspondence; and handling letters intercepted by the government.92 The work of both Phelippeses (since Mary’s efforts are not documented separately from Thomas’s) changed the intelligence service significantly, introducing Black Chamber methods of cryptography and codebreaking, and allowed Walsingham both to engage in clandestine forgery (as with Mary’s letter in the Babington Plot) and to open others’ letters without discovery. These tactics continued to serve the English intelligence service moving forward and formed the backbone of the system that would persist into the twenty-first century. Although Mary Queen of Scots served as a figurehead both for conspiracy and for hopeful Catholics who sought a restoration of the Old Faith, her death was by no means the end of danger as Elizabeth’s proclamation had promised.93 A direct conflict was brewing between the powers of Catholicism and the Church of England, and open violence became increasingly likely given the inability of the English government to “imprison all the usual suspects,” while also balancing international relations with Scotland, France, the Netherlands, and Spain.94 This tension, exacerbated by the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, was spurred on by the particularly Spanish mix of imperial expansion and Catholic fervor as Philip II sought both to avenge Mary’s death and to strike back at Elizabeth for the myriad insults he received through the English fleet of privateers harrying the Spanish Main across the Atlantic. It would all come to a head soon enough with the sailing of the Spanish Armada in 1588.

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Notes 1. Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 148. 2. Hutchinson, 148. 3. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 298. 4. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 143. 5. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 2:317. 6. Read, vol. 3, 178. 7. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 105–6. 8. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 183. 9. William Camden, The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess Elizabeth, Late Queen of England Containing All the Most Important and Remarkable Passages of State, Both at Home and Abroad (so Far as They Were Linked with English Affairs) During Her Long and Prosperous Reign, Fourth Edition (London: M. Flesher, 1688), 444, http://newman.richmond. edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/books/history-most-renownedvictorious-princess/docview/2240956365/se-2?accountid=14731; Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 183. 10. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 226. 11. John Michael Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence: Spying and Court Culture in the English Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 47. 12. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 86. 13. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 104. 14. Plowden, 104. 15. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 104. 16. William Cecil, “Memorial by Cecil” (British Library, May 1568), MC4308000683, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. Joseph Bain, vol. 2: 1563–1569 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1900, http://go.galegroup.com. newman.richmond.edu:2048/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308000683&v=2.1& u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 17. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 116. 18. To be completely fair to Mary, the plots which surrounded her were never— so far as we know—of her own making. She was, however, complicit in them insofar as she knew of their existence and was willing to reap the benefits promised to her for her part in them. 19. John Bossy, “Surprise, Surprise: An Elizabethan Mystery,” History Today 41, no. 9 (1991): 16. 20. Castelnau’s links to both the Throckmortons and Fagot are discussed in Chapter 4. 21. Bossy, “Surprise, Surprise,” 18. 22. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 149. 23. Elizabeth Goldring, “Talbot [Née Hardwick], Elizabeth [Bess] [Called Bess of Hardwick], Countess of Shrewsbury (1527?–1608), Noblewoman,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004), https:// doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/26925 24. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 91. 25. Plowden, 91. 26. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 213.

154  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 27. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 98; Penry Williams, “Babington, Anthony (1561–1586), Conspirator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2015), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/967 28. Stephen Alford, Burghley: William Cecil at the Court of Elizabeth I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 260. There is some evidence that Gifford was attempting to play multiple sides, reporting information on Walsingham’s agents back to Paget and Morgan, and so on (Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 102). However, given the overwhelming success of Walsingham’s gambit, it seems likely that either Walsingham knew of Gifford’s behavior or perhaps even sanctioned it as a signal to Morgan and Paget of Gifford’s loyalty, but we cannot know the full truth of the matter with the evidence at hand. 29. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 93. 30. Plowden, 93; Cooper, The Queen’s Agent; Stanley Wells, Shakespeare & Co.: Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Dekker, Ben Jonson, Thomas Middleton, John Fletcher and the Other Players in His Story (New York: Pantheon Books, 2006); Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 3 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925); Susan Ronald, Heretic Queen: Queen Elizabeth I and the Wars of Religion (New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, 2012); Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master. 31. Alford, Burghley, 260. 32. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 3:11. 33. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 95. 34. Elizabeth Mazzola, “The Renaissance Englishwoman in Code: ‘Blabbs’ and Cryptographers at Elizabeth I’s Court,” Critical Survey 22, no. 3 (2010): 7–8. 35. Mazzola, 5. 36. James McDermott, “Stafford, Sir Edward (1552–1605), Diplomat,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2012), https:// doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/26203 37. McDermott. 38. McDermott. It was at this point that Stafford began taking money from Mendoza to actively spy for the Spanish, turning English intelligence over to Mendoza. Walsingham’s suspicions meant, however, that although Stafford was not removed from his post, he was also not given the most sensitive—or most accurate—information. He may also, James McDermott remarks, simply have been “a poor intelligencer,” as well (McDermott). 39. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 109. 40. Plowden, 106. 41. Plowden, 107. 42. Bernardino de Mendoza, “Bernardino de Mendoza to the King [Extract],” in Calendar of Letters and State Papers Relating to English Affairs of the Reign of Elizabeth, ed. Martin A.S. Hume, vol. 3 (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1896), 576. 43. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 97. 44. Plowden, 97. 45. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 128–9; Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 3:20. 46. Alford, Burghley, 263. 47. Alford, 263. 48. Mary Stuart to Anthony Babington, “Mary to Anthony Babington,” July 17, 1586, SP 53/18 f.106, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. William K. Boyd, vol. 8: 1585–1586

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Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1914. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2022, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308600603&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 49. Stuart to Babington. 50. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 100; Stuart to Babington, “Mary to Anthony Babington,” July 17, 1586. 51. Alford, Burghley, 263. 52. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 101. 53. Alford, Burghley, 265; Williams, “Babington.” 54. Alford, Burghley, 266. 55. Alford, 265. 56. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 101. 57. Rivkah Zim, “Sackville, Thomas, First Baron Buckhurst and First Earl of Dorset (c. 1536–1608), Poet and Administrator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/24450 58. Williams, “Babington.” Penry Williams notes that, interestingly, unlike in cases involving Jesuits, “The Roman Catholic church seems to have kept relative silence about the plotters, none of whom has ever been included in its lists of martyrs for the faith.” 59. Williams. 60. Alford, Burghley, 271. 61. Julian Goodare, “Mary [Mary Stewart] (1542–1587), Queen of Scots,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2007), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/18248 62. Thomas Bayly Howell and Thomas Jones Howell, eds., Cobbett’s Complete Collection of State Trials and Proceedings for High Treason and Other Crimes and Misdemeanors from the Earliest Period to the Present Time, vol. 1 (London: T.C. Hansard for R. Bagshaw, 1809), 1189. 63. A similar (and similarly failed) claim would be made by Charles I in 1648 when he was brought before Parliament for trial. 64. Goodare, “Mary Queen of Scots.” 65. Goodare. 66. Howell and Howell, Cobbett’s Complete Collection, 1:1190. 67. Howell and Howell, 1:1192. 68. Elizabeth I, “Speech by Elizabeth I in Parliament” (London: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, November 12, 1586), Lansdowne Vol/94 f.84, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. William K. Boyd, vol. 9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308700150&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 69. Elizabeth I. 70. Francis Walsingham, “The Dangerowse Alteration Likely to Insue Both in England and Scotlande in Case the Execution of the Scot. Q. Be Stayed” (1586), 671r-672v, Cotton Caligula C. IX 279. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i. do?mCode=2TJI&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&pg=manuscripts&it=browse&p=SPO L&sqNum=1349&sw=w 71. Elizabeth I, “Proclamation Concerning the Sentence against Mary” (­London: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots,

156  The Problem of Mary Queen of Scots 1547–1603, December 4, 1586), SP 53/20, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. William K. Boyd, vol. 9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308700185&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 72. James VI was the primary concern, since France and Spain had already indicated their enmity by supporting Mary’s bid for the English throne. James, of course, was obligated to object to his mother’s sentence, but, as Goodare observes, although he huffed and puffed, his only effective move would have been to break the Anglo-Scottish league, imperilling his own succession claim…. His final appeal (26 January 1587) urged clemency on the feeble grounds that it would damage his reputation among his own subjects if Mary were executed and he took no action. (Goodare, “Mary Queen of Scots.”) 73. Sackville’s mother had been arrested for Recusancy some years earlier (in 1562), and his daughter-in-law Margaret Howard had ties to the Throckmorton Plot (Sackville had in fact passed information from her household to the government). 74. Elizabeth I, “Instructions to the Commissioners SENT to Mary” (Fotheringhay: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, November 16, 1586), SP 53/20 f.29, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. William K. Boyd, vol. 9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915, http://go.galegroup.com.newman.richmond.edu:2048/mss/retrieve.do? sgHitCountType=None&sort=DA-ASC-SORT&inPS=true&prodId=SPOL& userGroupName=vic_uor&tabID=T001&searchId=R2&resultListType= RESULT_LIST&contentSegment=&searchType=AdvancedSearchForm& currentPosition=20&contentSet=GALE%7CMC4308700150&&docId= GALE|MC4308780150&docType=GALE&viewtype=Calendar 75. Elizabeth I, “Instructions to the Commissioners SENT to Mary” (Fotheringhay: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, November 16, 1586), SP 53/20 f.29, Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, ed. William K. Boyd, vol. 9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915, http://go.galegroup.com.newman.richmond.edu:2048/mss/retrieve.do? sgHitCountType=None&sort=DA-ASC-SORT&inPS=true&prodId=SPOL& userGroupName=vic_uor&tabID=T001&searchId=R2&resultListType= RESULT_LIST&contentSegment=&searchType=AdvancedSearchForm& currentPosition=20&contentSet=GALE%7CMC4308700150&&docId= GALE|MC4308780150&docType=GALE&viewtype=Calendar 76. Alford, Burghley, 280. 77. It is worth stating explicitly that Elizabeth’s councilors had no intention of overthrowing her—that was not their motivation in shifting the monarch-­ Council power dynamic. Rather, they were imagining (perhaps unconsciously) a future in which their new monarch might need more explicit controlling than Elizabeth in order to avoid tyranny or civil war. 78. Simon Adams, “Davison, William (d. 1608), Diplomat and Administrator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/7306 79. Alford, Burghley, 287–8.

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80. Adams, “Davison.” 81. Adams. 82. Goodare, “Mary Queen of Scots.” 83. Adams, “Davison.” 84. Adams. 85. Adams. 86. Adams. 87. It is worth noting that Davison retained his salary for 5 years following Elizabeth’s death—from 1603 to 1608—during the reign of James I, and that James, too, held no ill will toward Davison for his role in Mary’s execution. 88. William Richardson, “Phelippes, Thomas (c. 1556–1625x7), Cryptographer and Intelligence Gatherer,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/71681 89. Women were obviously involved in intelligence, insofar as the purpose of the network was to protect a woman (Elizabeth) and frequently spied on other women, including Mary Queen of Scots and the wives, maids, and mistresses of other focal members of court, many of whom undoubtedly provided information. However, Mary Phelippes was specifically employed in cryptography, making her, in essence, the first-known “professional” female English spy. 90. Richardson, “Phelippes.” 91. Richardson. 92. Richardson. 93. Alford, Burghley, 305. 94. Michael C. Questier, Catholicism and Community in Early Modern England: Politics, Aristocratic Patronage and Religion, c. 1550–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 47.

6

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity, 1587–1590

The unprecedented (and somewhat unexpected) defeat of the Armada in the summer of 1588 coincided with—and likely contributed to—the reorientation of English identity as proto-nationalistic and vehemently Protestant. Along with the failed Babington Plot of 1586, these unsuccessful attempts at removing Elizabeth and returning England to Catholicism provided additional justification for actions—including the use of torture, entrapment, and surveillance—taken by the Privy Council and intelligence service in the name of national security and the safety of the queen. Furthermore, the success of the English government in stopping both the Babington Plot and the Armada invasion (although the latter must be attributed in large part to the weather) marked the actions of England— and Elizabeth—as divinely sanctioned, at least in propaganda. This new recognition of Providential Englishness and the divine sanction of Protestantism that accompanied it meant a change in both the internal and international perception of England; English success in naval combat and privateering and the seeming inability of France, Spain, or Roman forces (both spiritual, like the Jesuits, and martial, like the Armada) to staunch English Protestantism signaled to the rest of Europe (at least within the English narrative) the prominence and significance of England as both a Protestant and an imperial power. With the defeat of the Armada propagandized as divine intervention on behalf of the English Protestant empire, the government turned its attention to non-Catholic sources of social unrest, political dissent, and religious nonconformity. Victory over Spain initiated more than a decade of celebratory, proto-nationalistic discourse. Yet it also spurred an increase in radical reformers who believed that Elizabethan Protestantism was not reformed enough; within England, new branches of Puritanism and Presbyterianism surfaced (or re-surfaced). With the threat of the Armada neutralized, the government turned its attention to suppressing religious nonconformity at the other end of the religious spectrum, including a pamphlet war waged by paid government agents that would come to be known as the Marprelate Controversy. DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-7

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 159 At the end of the 1580s, then, English intelligence enlarged its purview to include not simply the suppression of conspiracies and the prosecution of Catholics, but also the expansion of English territories to both the east and west and the censure of radical Protestantism that called for the reformation of the Anglican ecclesia. The end of the 1580s saw the heyday of the Elizabethan intelligence service; from 1585 to the early months of 1590, the intelligence network was at its peak in terms of size and scope, with agents located in Russia to the east and the Virginia colony to the west. The principal consequence of this activity on a national level was the establishment of England as a Protestant empire, but it also led to a political and individual revolution in the understanding of the relationship between agent and government. As individual agents gained power and status through their work for the government, the government itself was bureaucratized, ironically decoupling power from the very crown it sought to protect as authority came to be re-centered on political bureaucrats rather than nobles and monarchs. It was a shift that—in the not-too-distant-future—would eventually change the shape of the monarchy itself.

Expansion and Empire: Imperialism and Espionage around the World Historiographical tradition places the beginnings of the British Empire in the eighteenth century, and while the concept of “Britain” as the unification of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales had not yet been fully envisaged under Elizabeth (for whom Scotland, at least, was a foreign nation), the notion of “empire” was a powerful, if nascent, force driving English foreign policy, trade, and colonialism. In this context, empire might be defined, as Zach Bates suggests, as “the power to command and exercise sovereignty; it could represent the territory over which authority was exercised; or it could denote the multiple territories ruled over by a single sovereign, sometimes referred to as a composite monarchy.”1 By either definition, Elizabethan England—as it struggled to expand into Ireland and the New World—met the criteria. 2 During the latter half of the 1580s, England sought to redefine itself as a global power, predicated on a new understanding of nation-as-empire not based on contiguous territory (like the Ottoman or Holy Roman Empires), but on colonial holdings and cross-Atlantic trade. While Spain had been in the business of trans-Atlantic trading since the fifteenth century, England did not become directly engaged in the New World until the sixteenth, as Elizabeth sought to fulfill her father’s desire that England should possess a Crown Imperial.3 While Henry VIII wanted to reclaim portions of France in his desire to create an English empire, Elizabeth recognized the futility of the Gallic wars and instead set her sights on the Levant, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, and the New World. English involvement in Russia

160  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity and the Levant took place primarily through the auspices of the Muscovy Company (patented 1555), under the partial control of Walsingham as an investor, and the Levant Company (patented 1581).4 Involvement throughout the Mediterranean and into Turkey was under the primary control of the Levant Company, which expanded trade routes into Greece and Northern Africa, while the Muscovy Company sought routes farther east into Russia and Persia. Because the intelligence networks were interwoven within the mercantile companies, economic expansion became tantamount to intelligence expansion, as well, as agents traveled in merchant caravans into eastern Europe and the Near East. When Ivan the Terrible died in 1584, observes Richard Wilson, “there was consternation in London, where the Muscovy Company had built its fortune on Ivan’s despotic word.”5 The Company at that point had been importing £25,000 a year (which Wilson translates to £75,000 “at market rates”).6 The Company was active “From Virginia to Persia,” but “the hub of its activity was its warehouse in Deptford, where up to £10,000-worth of cordage was stowed.”7 The primary agent running that Deptford depot (from 1576 until 1599) was a man by the name of Anthony Marlowe, a cousin to the playwright-spy Christopher Marlowe.8 Anthony Marlowe, the principal agent in charge of coordinating communications and exchange between London and Moscow, faced a significant crisis in the aftermath of Ivan’s death and the loss of the trade route between Moscow and Persia, thanks to conflict with the Ottomans.9 Concerned about the potential impact on English trade and intelligence, Walsingham encouraged Elizabeth to reach out diplomatically to the Ottoman Empire. Facing both financial and military threats, England entered into trade negotiations with the Ottoman Empire as a means not only of increasing mercantile trading and gaining a diplomatic foothold, but also as another means of curtailing Spanish global power. As Eric Griffin suggests, negotiations between Murad III of the Ottoman Empire and Elizabeth were “Anglo-Islamic triangulations intended to confront the involved parties’ anxieties regarding the expansionist aims of Spain.”10 Jonathan Burton agrees, explaining that “the complexities of the political world prove more powerful than dogmatic antagonism…infidels become allies and peace becomes an acceptable alternative to holy war.”11 This anti-Hapsburg alliance between Elizabeth and the Ottoman Sultan Murad III was ratified in 1586. The English-Ottoman alliance was instigated by Walsingham’s agent William Harborne, a member of the Poland Company mercantile organization, whose arrival in Constantinople was disguised as a trade stop rather than a diplomatic overture.12 Although his cloaked diplomacy did not long deceive the European Catholic powers, it nevertheless was successful, despite pressure from Venice, Spain, and France to curtail it. When Murad III ascended to the sultanship in 1574, all treaties—per Ottoman law—had to be renewed, but the Ottoman Empire was put off from renewing its alliance with France by the St. Bartholomew’s Day

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 161 Massacre and the associated Catholic League.13 When examined with relation to Catholic nations like France and Spain, the Ottoman Empire considered England “as an ‘enemy of “idolatry,[”]’ and thus of the Roman Catholics.”14 As Allison Machlis Meyer observes, the English relationship with the Ottoman Empire and the Barbary states was designed “to influence the many religious and international conflicts in which England was embroiled in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”15 As Meyer suggests, although Protestant England’s relationship with the Islamic East was imperfect—as the Ottoman Empire posed both a military and imperial threat to the English foothold in the Levant and elsewhere—the shared concern about the rising power of Catholic Spain eclipsed more historical fears. It also helped that Murad had been insulted by Henri III’s refusal to send him an accession gift.16 Unlike her French counterpart, Elizabeth was willing to engage openly with the new sultan: Elizabeth’s diplomatic dispatches to Murad III “acknowledge Turkish subjectivity” and “treat the Turks as respected equals whose acceptance and approval of the English are paramount.”17 Walsingham encouraged Elizabeth to pursue trade with the Ottoman Empire (in his 1580 “A consideration of the trade into Turkie”) in order to accomplish two principal goals. First, he argued that it was necessary to increase the size of the navy with an eye to keeping its merchant ships protected and also in order to counteract the increasing naval power of the Spanish fleets.18 Second, Walsingham advised the queen “to make choice of some apt man to be sent with hir mag. letters unto the Turks to procure an ample safecon-duct who is alwayes to remayne there at the charge of the merchante as Agent to impeache the undirect practices of the ambassadors.”19 The goal of the second point was clearly designed to facilitate mercantile profit, yes, but also to deliberately sabotage the actions of other ambassadors. Needless to say, this embassy—predicated, Burton observes, “upon saying one thing and doing another”—had to be a part of not only England’s expanding trade empire, but also its intelligence service.20 Burton is somewhat skeptical of the idea of an English empire, however, noting that England’s position in 1579, the year in which it began diplomatic overtures to the Ottomans, was far from that of an empire: “England possessed no territory outside of the British Isles and was a bit player on the world stage, a latecomer seeking a niche in a mercantile economy that had left her behind.”21 However, he disregards the surge—in the 1580s and into the 1590s—in exploration and the characterization throughout the Tudor period of England as an imperial nation; certainly, in the reign of Henry VIII, this was a more aspirational than factual title; by the late 1580s, this imperial identity was on its way to being realized, with colonial territory in the New World and mercantile outposts throughout the Mediterranean, North Africa, the Levant, and into Russia and Asia. Meyer agrees, explaining that the Ottoman Empire’s superior numbers and military strength—including holdings in Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco—­created the impression of the Islamic empire as both a threat and an ally; Islam threatened the

162  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity dominance of England’s vision of a Protestant empire, but the Ottoman Empire also presented an opportunity for an alliance that could aid England in resisting the Holy Roman Empire and Spain.22 Certainly, England in the 1580s was not a political or military rival for the Ottoman Empire, as Burton rightly remarks; it could, however, envisage a future in which it might rival that power, thanks to the spread of Protestantism and the support—or so it was believed—of a Protestant God.23 The desire to fulfill this Protestant aspiration to empire led England to cross the Atlantic, both as a means of extending English reach and as a way to counteract Spanish expansion into the New World. The impetus for English expansionism came as much from the court and Privy Council as it did from the queen herself, with Walsingham and Sir Walter Raleigh both heavily invested in the trading companies making bids for colonial territory and rights in the New World. 24 In particular, Walsingham redirected the English colonial project from Ireland—specifically, Ulster and Munster—toward the territory called Virginia.25 Elizabeth supported the project, encouraged in part by the alchemist (and occasional codebreaker) John Dee, whose prophetic visions informed him that Elizabeth, as the inheritrix of King Arthur, was entitled to claim the New World lands in North America—he explained that Arthur had discovered it and named it Atlantis, predating Spanish claims by centuries. 26 Dee’s vision was of a New World populated by the English, “composed of territories in North America and Europe, and peopled by the English and Welsh,” a colonial as well as imperial project. 27 A foothold in the New World presented an opportunity for expansion of English wealth and territory and made it possible for Elizabeth to fulfill her father’s dreams of empire. It was also an opportunity for Walsingham to engage more directly in gathering intelligence on Spanish movements in the New World. Furthermore, he saw colonial expansion as a chance to remove the Catholic threat from England by transplanting Catholics—loyal Catholics, at least— in the Virginia territories. Sir George Peckham, for instance, had served as the sheriff of Buckinghamshire until his imprisonment for Recusancy in 1580. 28 In 1581, Peckham was released and began preparations for emigration to the New World with the goal of establishing a Catholic colony with Sir Humphrey Gilbert and the support of Walsingham, Dee, and Richard Hakluyt. 29 The plan quickly fell apart, and by 1584 Peckham was back in prison, in large part because Elizabeth—although interested in expansion—did not approve of a Catholic English colony. Although a Catholic penal colony was not to be, Walsingham nevertheless remained invested in the colonial project and had Elizabeth’s support, provided that it could be executed in such a way as to avoid violating Spanish claims on New World territory and sparking a new Anglo-Spanish war. By 1586, Walsingham had put considerable funds toward an expedition headed by his stepson, Captain Christopher Carleill of the Tiger, setting out for Roanoke Island in the Outer Banks of modern North Carolina.30

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 163 The ill-fated Roanoke expedition included not only Carleill (who may or may not have been acting as an intelligencer for his stepfather), but also two confirmed intelligence agents (Gregory or Rowland Russell and Clinton Atkinson) whose purpose was to relay information back to Walsingham on the activities of the Spanish Main moving up the coast.31 Another possible agent among the crew was the Dane Martin Laurentson, who traveled with the expedition with Walsingham’s patronage. It is likely that both Atkinson and Russell would have been expected to report, as well, to Roanoke’s governor, John White.32 Although Roanoke did not long survive, Walsingham’s interest in the Virginia Company and its attempts to establish colonies was intrinsically tied to the work of the intelligence service and attempts to counteract and provide information on Spanish imperial power in the New World.33 Although Walsingham would not live to see England’s colonial project thrive—the Jamestown colony, for instance, was not established until 1607, with the more northern colonies appearing even later in the seventeenth century—his early support of English expansionism sprang from both his religious belief in the supremacy of Protestantism and his keen focus on the global reach of his intelligence network as a means to combat Catholicism in general and Spain in specific. Even more importantly, the expansionist project that began, in part, as an intelligence mission (and an attempt to remove Catholic influence from the English homeland) sparked national interest in imperialism, global trade, and mobility and began the process of redefining England in imperial terms.

The Drowned Armada: The Failed Spanish Invasion and English Protestant Proto-Nationalism The 1588 planned Spanish invasion of England was a continuation of the plot involving Mary Queen of Scots that had ended with Mary’s death in 1587. Although some modern historians suggest that “It is not at all certain that the danger of invasion from Spain was nearly so great as Walsingham made it out to be. Philip II appears to have been always reluctant to attack England,” the catalyst of Mary Queen of Scots’s execution made it clear to the Catholic League that more clandestine methods of returning England to the Old Faith were unlikely to work.34 It is also likely that the nearly constant harassment of English privateers in the West Indies and the Mediterranean did a great deal to push Philip II toward war, particularly when combined with Dudley’s militaristic voyage to the Netherlands; Mary’s death simply served as the final nail in the proverbial coffin.35 Philip’s reluctance to engage England directly rapidly melted away as plot after plot failed, and during the Babington Conspiracy it became evident to the Catholic factions in both France and Spain that invasion had become necessary. Although the chosen Catholic heir to Elizabeth’s throne was now dead, Philip and the Guises continued with their intentions of invading England. Philip’s advisors—including the Jesuit Robert Parsons—were under the

164  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity (probably mistaken) belief that nearly two-thirds of the English population remained secretly Catholic and that the English military was woefully unprepared after many years of peace.36 Although their initial plan had failed, England (they believed) would nevertheless fall easily to their ships and swords. Many of the plans laid by plotters like Henri de Guise and Bernardino de Mendoza during the Throckmorton and Babington Plots remained, and Walsingham’s intelligence service continued to be dedicated to the ferreting out of secret Catholics, Jesuit missionaries, and foreign agents on English shores. Walsingham and Cecil had always believed—and continued to do so—that the true intent behind the Catholic conspiracies of the 1580s was invasion, either from France or Spain, and remained vigilant despite the death of the leading Catholic contender for the throne. After all, Philip himself could claim descent from Edward III of England and thus had a (weak) claim on the throne. Furthermore, Walsingham and Cecil were concerned about the invisible Fifth Column of Catholics in England that would—according to both Protestant and Catholic propaganda—arise from within to aid a foreign Catholic invasion: The fear that they would rally to the support of Philip II in case he should invade England was no mere phantom. The Ridolfi Plot, the Throgmorton Plot, and the Babington Plot had all revealed a marked disposition on the part of the leading English Catholics to rise in support of any invader who came against Elizabeth in the name of their faith. In that fact lay one of the gravest dangers of the Spanish war. It was a danger which Walsingham above all others in England was expected to guard against.37 As evidence, Walsingham and Cecil could cite any number of failed assassinations and conspiracies, including—of course—the Ridolfi, Throckmorton, and Babington Plots, as well as the earlier Northern Rising. Although the financial backing for many of these plots came from France, Spain, and Rome, there nevertheless seemed to be a ready supply of English conspirators, nobility, gentry, and common alike, who were willing to risk their lives and fortunes in the attempt to bring down Elizabeth’s government.38 The primary mission of Walsingham’s agents therefore became the surveillance and imprisonment of Catholics in England, particularly those willing to harbor Jesuit missionaries and conduct illicit religious services. The prevalence of plots against Elizabeth that sought to supplant her with Mary had demonstrated to the Privy Council the extent of Catholic interest in reclaiming England and reinforced the Council’s concerns about permitting Catholics to continue to worship openly. Since the mid-1570s, Walsingham had been monitoring shipping and trade conducted by the English abroad, as a considerable number of (non-spy)

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 165 English merchants were less than scrupulous concerning the nationalities of those with whom they traded. In 1574, Ralph Hogge, the queen’s ordnance maker, complained to Walsingham (then recently returned from France) that “there is often complaints com̄ g be fore yor honours abt the shipping and selling of ordnance & cast iron to Strangers, to cary over the seas, as they say such nombers that yor enimie is better fourneshed with them, than oᵌ arone countries ships ar.”39 Despite the best efforts of the Privy Council to regulate this trade, by the mid-1580s much of the Spanish navy was outfitted with English guns. For about 18 months after Mary’s execution, Walsingham’s intelligencers remained on high alert at home, and the spymaster embedded further agents abroad to keep an even closer eye on the movements of French, Italian, and Spanish troops and vessels abroad. Throughout the decade, Walsingham was forced to rely on the extralegal behavior of merchant companies breaking the Spanish embargo on English goods: necessity compelled Walsingham to “depend[] in the main for his information out of Spain upon the chance observations of such English merchants as still ventured there in spite of the Spanish embargo upon English shipping.”40 Such actions placed these agents at considerable risk for apprehension (both for violating the embargo and because Philip’s government recognized that the merchants who did so had a higher likelihood than normal of being embedded intelligence agents). These agents included Edward Burnham— an experienced agent and veteran soldier who had served in Portugal and been placed in the camp of Alexander Farnese, the Duke of Parma—and Nicholas Ousley—who had been sent to Malaga, Spain, sometime before July of 1587.41 Farnese’s army, composed of career soldiers and mercenaries and nearly 30,000 strong, was meant to land in England to reinforce Spanish naval forces.42 One of Walsingham’s most valued agents, Anthony Standen, had ingratiated himself with the Italian ambassador to Madrid, Giovanni Figliazzi, for the purposes of intelligence gathering. Using the name Pompeo Pellegrini, Standen provided Walsingham information, both reliable and gossip-based, from the Spanish court. In addition, Standen served as a periodic letter carrier for other agents and diplomats moving information through Madrid.43 It was during these same months that Christopher Marlowe was first sent to France, most likely to observe the comings and goings from the Jesuit seminary at Rheims, although no specific records of his work there exist.44 The efforts of these intelligence agents embedded in Italy, Spain, and France—in addition to those of whom we have no record, but who undoubtedly existed—were a direct consequence not only of Walsingham’s concern with the machinations of the Catholic League, but also of the increasing prominence of spycraft as a part of the praxis of statecraft, what Daniel Jütte terms arcana imperii, or the “secrets of empire.”45 As European (and, specifically, English) politics became increasingly global in the early modern age of imperialism, the art of intelligencing likewise reflected an

166  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity expansionist ethos. It also increasingly took advantage of the spread of literacy and printed propaganda on a global scale. During 1587 and 1588, Walsingham—borrowing a leaf from Cecil’s practice of employing printers and authors as distributors of ideological propaganda—began a program of distributing pamphlets that prognosticated “disasters and great storms for the summer of 1588” in France (particularly Paris) and the Netherlands.46 In turn, he also encouraged the importation of anti-Spanish materials from both France (presumably the surviving Huguenot faction) and the Netherlands.47 The purpose of such leaflets was to dissuade common sailors from signing on for the impending invasion by causing them to be fearful of putting to sea. The campaign seemed to bear fruit, as attempts to recruit sailors flagged and, in Lisbon, “an astrologer was arrested for making ‘false and discouraging predictions.’”48 As historical irony would have it, of course, Walsingham’s predictions turned out to be quite true. English naval power had been consolidated first under Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII, as a part of his bid to make England into an imperial power.49 Elizabeth, following in her father’s proto-nationalistic (if not marital) footsteps, took up the mantle, encouraging continued support of exploration, naval innovation, and colonial expansion, in addition to adopting the “imperial” term.50 Throughout the 1580s, Elizabeth’s ships—and Sir Francis Drake’s fleets, in particular—sailed the Mediterranean and Atlantic, establishing shipping routes and engaging in privateering, usually targeting Spanish ships and ports. Although Elizabeth publicly chided Drake and the other privateers for their actions, privately she encouraged such behavior, as it reduced Spanish income and created the illusion of a credible English naval threat. In 1584, Spain impounded an English merchant fleet, seeking to make use of the vessels and their weaponry to shore up the Armada, keeping the merchants and sailors as prisoners.51 Spain’s actions functionally cut off trade with English merchants who had—until that point—continued trade with Spain and Portugal and spurred Elizabeth to give her full support to Drake. The privateer gathered a fleet of “twenty-one ships, eight smart pinnaces, and twenty-three hundred men of every rank and rating” and headed for Spain and the “Indes.”52 The plan, recorded by Cecil, was for Drake to attack San Domingo first, then Margarita, La Hacha, Santa Marta, Nombre de Dios, and Cartagena. Christopher Carleill, Walsingham’s stepson, would then attack Panama as Drake moved on to Honduras. Following that, they would then take and garrison Havana together.53 However, the plan was not followed. Drake and Carleill captured Santiago (which did not contain the riches for which they had hoped) and then burned it, San Domingo, and Porto Praya when those ports, too, failed to yield the anticipated treasure. Even Cartagena, when they arrived and took the garrison, had been stripped of its wealth, leaving Drake and Carleill with unpaid sailors who were disinclined to continue the campaign. The only truly positive outcome

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 167 (for the English) of the campaign came when the fleet turned toward home, stopping at the foundering colony of Roanoke, where the occupants of the poorly outfitted colony were more than willing to accept Drake’s offer of a return trip to England.54 Drake’s fleet arrived in London in 1586, in the midst of the Babington Plot. Despite Philip’s initial reluctance to launch an invasion of England, concrete plans to do so had been under way since the start of the AngloSpanish War in 1585.55 Elizabeth’s fleet of privateers had been harassing Philip’s ships (both military and mercantile) and impounding their cargo; the conflict in the Spanish Netherlands—more official than the war itself— had the support and leadership of Dudley; and, in 1587, Drake led the English navy in an attack on Cádiz that became known as “Singeing the King of Spain’s Beard.”56 Having recently returned from the West Indies, Drake—known to the Spanish as “El Draque”—had developed a fearsome reputation and begged Elizabeth to be allowed to continue his campaign.57 However, both Elizabeth and Cecil (the latter of whom disliked Drake’s arrogance) refused, the queen preferring to maintain the pseudo-fiction of peace with Spain rather than permitting Drake’s open hostilities to result in war.58 Although it had not produced the desired treasure, Drake’s successful raids on Spanish ports in the New World (and his rescue of the Roanoke colonists) meant a boost in Drake’s reputation and caused open celebration of the humiliation of the Spanish. With reports coming in from Walsingham’s agents about the massing of men and ships to form the Great Armada, Elizabeth commissioned Drake to do his best to counteract its size and force, although the mission was stalled by Mary’s execution in February of 1587. Instead, Drake was sent to Cádiz, where he wrote back to England to report the amassing of sixty vessels (presumably) preparing for an invasion of England.59 The prospect of engaging these ships once fully outfitted—many were missing sails and guns—was apparently too much for Drake to tolerate, and without so much as a declaration or council of war, he “crossed their T in line-ahead with the shattering broadsides of four queen’s ships which soon sent them flying,” and “smashed the galleys up with broadside fire.”60 The tactic was effective; when Drake left Cadiz, the Spanish ships had been crippled and removed from the possibility of direct action for the immediate future, buying England months of preparation time.61 Drake’s forces moved on to Cape St. Vincent, which surrendered to him following the death of the garrison’s commanding officer. Other nearby ports soon followed, and the result of the campaign was that the fleet—which had been fishing the area in order to supply victuals for the Armada—was completely cleared out.62 On the way home—for although Lisbon was his next objective, Drake’s men were too ill and short-handed to take such a well-fortified target— Drake’s fleet encountered an East India treasure ship, and Drake could

168  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity not resist the opportunity to strike one more blow at Spanish pride (and coffers). The ship, which “was worth nearly five million dollars of actual cash,” brought in considerable wealth; it also contained “secret documents which revealed the dazzling profits of the new East-India trade by sea.”63 The documents—which formed the core of English interest in rapid expansion into the New World—essentially changed the course of imperial history, while simultaneously providing both a boost to English pride and the impetus for Philip’s Armada strike against England. By May of 1587, Standen reported back to Walsingham that Philip was gaining naval support from Genoa and had dispatched an agent to Lisbon to keep a further eye on preparations for invasion there.64 A year later, Walsingham sent Standen to Madrid to provide more detailed firsthand information. Elizabeth continued to attempt a diplomatic resolution to the impending invasion, but her approval of privateering behind the outward face of negotiation undermined any such attempts. In March of 1588, Drake argued for the determining tactic to use against the Armada, a methodology that William Wood argues formed “the true doctrine of modern naval warfare, especially the cardinal principle that the best of all defence is to attack your enemy’s main fleet as it issues from its ports.”65 All Drake needed was Elizabeth’s approval. In Spain, Philip was operating under the impression that he could use the Armada to launch an invasion without having to engage fully with the English Navy and privateers—an assumption that proved rather fatal. Philip believed that as long as the Armada could reach land, he could avoid full-scale naval warfare, and, consequently, decided to load the Armada’s ships with land-based soldiers (rather than with sailors trained for naval combat).66 In short, the Armada was mostly made up of vessels used to transport ground forces, ships that had tactical value for an invasion or for boarding enemy ships, but “which were perfectly useless in fighting of any other kind—and the English men-of-war were much too handy to be laid aboard by the lubberly Spanish troopships.”67 This problem was compounded when Álvaro de Bazán, the Marquis of Santa Cruz, died mid-preparations, and Philip appointed Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, Duke of Medina Sidonia, in his place. Guzmán knew next to nothing about naval warfare and therefore attempted to turn down the appointment, but to no avail. Morale among the sailors plummeted as they realized their commanding officers were completely ignorant about sea-based combat, and the combination of poor morale and sickness dramatically reduced their numbers.68 Yet Philip, incensed by Drake’s “singeing,” demanded that the invasion continue. Among those aiding Spanish plans was Elizabeth’s ambassador to France, Edward Stafford, who had also been caught up in the periphery of the Babington Plot in 1585. Two years later, in 1587, Stafford—still in Paris acting as Elizabeth’s ambassador despite Walsingham’s suspicions of his true loyalties—began accepting bribes from Mendoza in exchange for

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 169 passing on English intelligence in order to help pay off his debts.69 Thanks to Walsingham’s concerns (and the surveillance conducted by Nicholas Berden), the information to which Stafford had access was misleading at best. Although—as noted in the previous section—Stafford claimed his actions had Elizabeth’s best interests at heart, it seems more likely that the ambassador was attempting to play a double game, hoping to maintain his post and also profit from passing intelligence to Mendoza. In the months leading up to the planned Armada invasion, in particular, the information Stafford passed on was largely inaccurate, although “some of the information he is suspected to have supplied to his Spanish paymaster was undoubtedly damaging to English interests,” since Walsingham could not keep his ambassador completely in the dark.70 It is particularly suspicious that his payments from Spain ceased following the Armada’s defeat, although Stafford continued in his ambassadorial post until 1590. Yet despite Stafford’s questionable behavior, Walsingham was able to capitalize on the information from both Stafford and Standen, relaying the intelligence to Drake, who received Elizabeth’s authorization to sail on 7 July 1588 for Corunna, where the Armada had found port following inclement weather.71 When Drake arrived, the wind changed and blew him back, while also enabling the Armada ships to leave the city, giving the Spanish an “advantage which would have been fatal,” argues Wood, “had the fleets been really equal.”72 Yet the English ships, “rigged with Russian tackle and cable” from the Muscovy Company, were faster and more agile than their Spanish counterparts, and Drake was a far better naval commander than Guzmán.73 Fearing invasion from Farnese’s troops—which were, after all, a crucial part of the Spanish plans—England called upon her people to defend her. Men were gathered and mustered across England, but they were hardly the trained soldiers being amassed by the Spanish and loaded onto the Armada ships. The English volunteers brought what weapons they had on hand, no matter how old or worn; Graham describes them as “a motley lot, some armed with pikes and pitchforks, others with ancient swords or bows and arrows.”74 Preparations were made across England and in every port, and a barrier of boats and chain was strung between Gravesend and Tilbury fort in order to block the Spanish fleet from being able to move up the Thames toward London.75 Beacons were prepared, forts and castles shored up, and defensive trenches dug in fields and along roads; yet the feared Catholic Fifth Column did not appear. In fact, the opposite seemed to be the case, with men of all occupations and degrees taking up arms up and down the English coast to defend their homes from potential foreign invasion.76 Although the English navy may have been well outfitted and seasoned, the English army, such as it was, was no match for Farnese’s professional troops. It was fortunate for the English that Farnese’s army, which would have been nigh unstoppable had it managed to land in England, remained trapped on the other side of the Channel and useless to the Spanish.

170  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity The actual battle between the English navy and the Spanish Armada took place in the Channel from the end of July to 2 August, just offshore from Zeeland to the port of Gravelines. The Armada that reached the English Channel contained 137 vessels, most of which (109) were naval combat ships, with the remaining 26 being supply ships.77 Although the Spanish vessels were larger, the Spanish fleet began with greater numbers, and there were twice as many Spanish as English on board each of them, “In armament and seamen-gunners the English were perhaps five times as strong.”78 The English ships, although lacking in sailors, supplies, and munitions, were “ahead of any others in the world” in terms of ship design.79 Ultimately, the battle came down to clever tactics by the English, mistakes by the Spanish, superior English ship design, and fortuitous weather that swept the Armada far off course and kept Farnese from ever crossing the English Channel. By the end, Spanish Admiral Don Pedro de Valdes surrendered to Drake, and the Armada was scattered up and down the Flemish coast. In the ten days from the battle’s start to its finish, any realistic possibility of a Spanish invasion of England was lost.80 Over the course of the battle, “Drake had destroyed or crippled about 10,000 tons of Spanish shipping, ruined much of the Armada’s stock of provisions and, as an added benefit, captured a cargo that paid for the adventure many times over.”81 Thus the defeat of the Spanish Armada was as much enabled by the vagaries of weather and the foolishness of Spanish tactics as it was the brilliance of Drake’s naval strategy or the preparedness of the English navy.82 The rag-tag English defenders, as patriotic as their willingness to defend their land may have been, proved ultimately unnecessary, although their presence—and the absence of the rumored Fifth Column—provided a much greater sense of security to the government and the queen than had been felt since the Northern Rising of 1569. The ideological outcome of the destruction of the Armada spurred years, if not decades, of English proto-nationalism that invoked the Providential intervention of God in support of England, specifically, and Protestantism, more generally. The defeat of the Armada both elevated the navy—and Drake in particular—and also “infused a new spirit into the English or rather diffused through England at large the spirit and confidence of Drake and his sea dogs. England could fight—she had fought. The Spaniard could be thrashed—he had been thrashed.”83 The defeat of the Armada helped to birth a new kind of English proto-nationalist spirit, predicated on the notion that England—with the help of God—had the capacity to defeat the Spanish and, by extension, Catholicism. In addition, the failure of the Armada so closely on the heels of the collapse of the Babington Plot seemed to suggest that the rumored Fifth Column of English Catholics was either much smaller than previously believed or was “not prepared to take a lead in efforts to overthrow the government.”84 On the heels of the English victory over the Armada came a significant personal and political loss to the English queen. Barely a month after the

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 171 Spanish ships began their retreat, Robert Dudley, Privy Councilor and Earl of Leicester, died of what was probably a malarial infection at Cornbury House in Oxfordshire on 4 September 1588.85 The note he had written to Elizabeth on 29 August she later inscribed with the phrase “his last letter,” a small testament to his memory.86 The years he had spent in the Netherlands had taken their toll, both physically and financially, and Dudley died deeply in debt as a consequence. He was the first of the Privy Council triumvirate—­ Dudley, Cecil, Walsingham—to die, and Elizabeth made no attempt to replace him, although others—including Devereux, Raleigh, and Robert Cecil—were more than willing to make bids to do so. With Dudley gone, even more labor fell to William Cecil and Walsingham, both also aging and in poor health. It was the beginning of the end of an era. Although the English government did not know it at the time, August 1588 thus marked the functional end to a period rife with plots, attempted assassinations, and Catholic invasions. There would be no more serious attempts upon Elizabeth’s life for more than a decade, and when they came, they were not from a Catholic source. Certainly the triumph of Drake’s fleet provided the English with what many viewed as confirmation of the Protestant assertion of divine authorization, but it also demonstrated national—as well as religious—superiority that spurred the development of English nationalism. Yet even as English identity began to coalesce around Protestant proto-nationalism, 1588 also marked (although it could not have been known at the time) the start of the last half-decade of Elizabeth’s reign, a time during which the power dynamics that had so long characterized her rule would change dramatically as all three of her leading Councilors—first Dudley, then Walsingham, and finally Cecil—left her behind.

Puritans, Presbyterians, and Printers The national narrative that emerged following the defeat of the Armada corresponded to the tradition of Protestant persecution that began with John Foxe’s Actes and Monuments (1563–1583) in the aftermath of the Marian regime. The Elizabethan church was, in many ways, designed as a compromise between traditional Catholic praxis and the more Reform-driven iconoclasm of Continental Protestant denominations. It was Protestant enough to satisfy—although often not enough to please—the more radical members of Elizabeth’s council who had spent Mary’s reign in exile, but it also remained traditional enough to satisfy the more religiously conservative majority of the population.87 At the start of Elizabeth’s reign, this ecclesiastical and doctrinal compromise was necessary in a nation divided between Catholic and Protestant. Thirty years later, reform had penetrated the fabric of the nation more deeply, although the English church had not noticeably shifted to follow suit. The increasing number of English Puritans thus found themselves dissatisfied with the ecclesiastical practices and laws of the English church, and

172  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity in their narratives of religious identity, they therefore drew on Protestant history of religious persecution at the hands of Catholics when describing their relationship to the government-sanctioned church. The Puritans, like the Recusant Catholics (although they never would have made the comparison themselves), were often accused of heresy and nonconformity, compounding their identification with persecution.88 The Puritans in England opposed the formalism of the established ecclesiastical hierarchy and the conformity enforced by the state-mandated Book of Common Prayer. Paradoxically, the primary complaints of the Puritans were at once the strictures of the English Church and its openness; the services and sermons were overly controlled, while all manner of behavior and persons were permitted membership, including, for instance, conformist Catholics. Throughout the same period, these Catholics were placed in a difficult position by the English government over what was termed the question of “freedom of conscience.” As David Martin Jones explains, “conscience” was understood as “a certain pronouncement of mind” based upon “intuitive and acquired knowledge of fundamental moral principles.”89 Based on Thomas Aquinas’s definition of “conscience,” this denotation included the idea that “the free decision of the mode of existence of one’s household” relied upon the “distinction in the order of society between what was the Queen’s and what was one’s own.”90 In short, for the early modern English, “freedom of conscience” was the claim that so long as the believer remained loyal to the crown—“what was the Queen’s”—the beliefs (and private practices) of the believer ought to remain his or her own.91 The argument was particularly prominent among “Old Guard” Catholics, including those who had been priests during the Marian regime, many of whom “refused to participate in the Jesuit plan of conversion and invasion.”92 The difficulty, of course, was compounded by anti-Catholic legislation passed throughout the 1580s and, for the Recusants, by the nearly constant threat of Catholic invasion and plot. Until the failed Armada invasion, the government was principally concerned with Recusancy, but, after the invasion’s conclusion, official attention was increasingly drawn to the actions and arguments of Protestant nonconformists, particularly when they publicly attacked the practices, doctrines, and ecclesia of the English church. Puritanism was a theology not only of preaching and Biblical exegesis, but also of lifestyle, concerned with the everyday practices of its adherents to a degree largely ignored by the English church. As Peter Lake explains, From the Puritan perspective, what the church should have been doing was subjecting a still largely unconverted population to a fine-grained form of spiritual discipline, so that only those in possession of a proper understanding of the saving truths of right religion and of a properly godly conversation could be admitted into full, communicating membership of the national church.93

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 173 Concerns with the inadequacies of the English church (and the government, by extension) led to increasing numbers of Puritan appeals to the government. As early as 1572, the government had received formal appeals from its more radically minded Puritans concerning the ecclesiastical practices of the English church, including the use of elaborate vestments and the continued practice of holding communion with wafer bread.94 In May of that year, several Protestant reformers drew up an Admonition to Parliament, presenting it to the House of Commons with the intention of further reforming the Church of England away from some of its more “Catholic” traditions and practices (such as elaborate vestments, the veneration of communion and the cross, the inadequate education of ministers, etc.).95 By 1573, when their initial appeal was refused, Puritans grew increasingly hostile toward the established English church and began to lobby “for the setting up of another in its place.”96 It was this active attempt to create a new ecclesia that spurred Elizabeth to consider Puritans alongside Catholics as nonconformists: “She did not mind her subjects holding Calvinist opinions, as many at the Universities and very many of the younger clergy at that time did. What she resented was any departure from Church order.”97 Yet the Puritans persisted, believing that the English Church was not the “‘true’ church. This being so, they felt impelled to separate themselves both physically and spiritually from what was for them a ‘Church of confusions, where the Lord’s people may not tarry.’”98 Yet despite this, for the most part, the Elizabethan government remained more concerned with Recusants than nonconformist Protestants—at least until the threat of Catholic invasion had passed. Yet the ecclesiastical hierarchy remained troubled by the increasing num­ bers and visibility of nonconformist Protestants, such as Puritans and Presbyterians. Upon becoming Archbishop of Canterbury in 1583, John Whitgift set out immediately to create nationwide uniformity of religion through the implementation of strict requirements about the publication of the Book of Common Prayer and English Bibles, as well as restrictions on preaching and attendance at mass.99 William Pierce notes that the legislation, while being mostly acceptable, had one problematic article that stipulated that “The minister was required to declare that the Book of Common Prayer, and the ‘Pontifical,’ that prescribing the ordering of Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, ‘contained nothing contrary to the word of God.’”100 Whitgift appealed to the queen to grant him the political authority to create a new Commission for Causes Ecclesiastical so that he might more actively oppose radical Puritanism. However, until after the Armada, neither Elizabeth nor the rest of the Privy Council were willing to concern themselves with Puritans when the Catholics seemed so much more of an immediate threat. Yet in the aftermath of a seemingly providential victory over the Spanish—and Catholicism—the government became more willing to entertain Whitgift’s concerns.

174  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity In the midst of Whitgift’s conformity campaign, London, in particular, also saw a surge in the production and dissemination of religious pamphlets, both pro- and anti-establishment, reacting to the increase in religious nonconformity. Cecil’s deputy, William Lambarde, commented to Cecil that the surge in (particularly salacious) pamphlet production was a sign of corruption among Londoners and advocated for increasing government oversight of publication.101 Such oversight—read censorship—­ naturally “led to a functional black market for low-cost publications such as pamphlets, chapbooks, and ballads.”102 The publication in October 1588 of the first of a series of tracts now known as the Marprelate tracts (after their pseudonymous author, “Martin Mar-prelate”) provided the catalyst that spurred immediate and swift reaction, in large part because of the sardonic tenor of the texts themselves. The Marprelate tracts were reformist, but also novel in a literary sense; the author was “a satirist, dexterous in word-fence, well furnished with wit, and with a notable gift of humorous irony” largely new to English print.103 The derision with which the bishops—and Whitgift in particular—were treated within the pages of the tracts was unconventional: “Never, since priests had inspired awe in the minds of men by claiming the possession of supernatural powers had Bishops been so treated,” remarks Pierce, who, although perhaps overdramatizing things, nevertheless recognizes that the Marprelate tracts issued their criticism with a shocking lack of traditional respect for their adversaries.104 The contents of this first pamphlet, commonly termed The Epistle, “attacked the Bishops and the established form of church government; they are accused of sedition and blasphemy.”105 It critiqued the ecclesiastical practices, services, education of the clergy, style and regulations on preaching, and vestments of the English Church, arguing for a Presbyterian Puritan model in which preaching was available to any who read the Bible and in which services and practices were to be pared down and made ascetic and straightforwardly accessible to the common people. In specific, it blamed “John a Canterbury” (Whitgift) for the corruption and “Popish” practices of the English ecclesia. The Epistle was shortly followed, in November 1588, by a second document now referred to as The Epitome.106 By this point, Whitgift had quite enough of the Presbyterian Puritans’ pseudonymous attacks and commissioned three Privy Councilors—including Thomas Sackville, who served for the purposes of the Marprelate Controversy as an occasional spymaster—­“to identify, find and arrest that satirical scourge of ecclesiastical authority—‘Martin Marprelate.’”107 Whitgift also encouraged the publication of a counter-argument, written by Thomas Cooper and known as the Admonition, in January of 1589.108 As a result, Martin counter-­ published Hay any Worke for Cooper, in imitation of “the London street cry,” along with the Theses Martinianae (called Martin Junior) and The Just Censure and Reproofe (Martin Senior), all in 1589.109

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 175 It was at this point that Whitgift and Sackville turned to the intelligence service for assistance in their anti-Martinist campaign. Pierce notes that, in response to the tracts, “Spies and pursuivants were multiplied; they mingled in every crowd; insinuated themselves into surreptitious prophesyings; loitered about suspected booksellers in Fleet Street and St. Paul’s Churchyard.”110 Nevertheless, the treatises were widely circulated in London and at the universities, most likely because of their audacity rather than their theology. This, of course, was the opposite of what Whitgift desired; the more popular the Marprelate tracts became, the more Whitgift and Sackville wanted their underground press found and destroyed. They therefore turned to experienced pursuivant and infiltrator Anthony Munday to accomplish their objective. In the summer and fall of 1589, Whitgift’s employment of Munday bore fruit: Munday discovered and arrested the printer Giles Wigginton, who, under interrogation, gave information that led to further arrests. Although Wigginton’s successor, Robert Waldegrave, fled north to Scotland (where he would go on to become the royal printer to James VI), his apprentices, John Hodgskin, Valentine Symmes, and Arthur Thomlin, were “caught in the act of printing More Worke for Cooper in a house in Manchester.”111 Under torture, the three revealed the involvement of several more Martinists, including Roger Wigston and his wife, Sir Richard Knightley, John Hales and Elizabeth Crane, members of the gentry who had harboured the press, [who] were fined and imprisoned, while John Udall, condemned to death and then reprieved, died in prison and John Penry, after a sojourn in Scotland where he continued to produce books arguing for a Presbyterian form of Church discipline, was finally captured, tried and executed in 1593.112 With the Marprelate presses silenced, the intelligence network (including Sackville) turned away from its specific concerns with Protestant nonconformity for the time being and began to focus on the more pressing question of England’s future succession.113

Recusants and Intelligencers: The Final Years of Walsingham’s Anti-Catholic Spy Network For the years encompassing the Armada crisis and the Marprelate Con­ troversy, then, we might expect a largely centralized intelligence network, and we would be correct as is evident in Figure 6.1. For the three years from 1587 to 1589, the network has 196 nodes and 387 edges, smaller than the network from 1585 to 1587 (which had 224 nodes and 483), in part because of the limitations placed on international agents due to open hostilities with Spain and the lack of any definitive conspiracies

176  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity

Figure 6.1  Social network map from 1587 to 1589

requiring extensive infiltration, such as during the Throckmorton and Babington Plots. Yet despite its somewhat smaller size, the 1587–1589 network has a nearly-­ identical Global Clustering Coefficient of 0.379 as the previous three years (0.376 for 1585–1587), despite a small diameter of six (compared to eight). This suggests that the network maintained its structure and methods across both sets of years. The Average Path Length dropped very slightly (most likely due to the decrease in the number of agents) to 2.854 (from 2.915), as did the Average Degree, to 1.974 (from 2.156). The network—unsurprisingly—continues being highly centralized around Walsingham, with a very clear hub-and-spoke visual model. Walsingham remains, of course, the most central figure of the network (1), with Cecil still in the second position (0.428). This is also evident in their outdegrees, with Walsingham at 110 and Cecil at 40—Cecil’s increased by one, Walsingham’s dropped by 12, most likely due to his increasingly ill health. Cecil’s centrality has relatedly increased from the 1585–1587 network by

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 177 0.047 (from 0.381). This can be ascribed in part to Walsingham’s failing health, but also to the need for both Councilors to be heavily involved in Armada preparations. Interestingly, neither Cecil nor Walsingham was particularly concerned with the Marprelate Controversy (in fact, Cecil thought pursuing it was a waste of time). The centrality of others—Sackville (0.131, with an outdegree of 8) and Munday (0.136 and 3), in particular—reflects their temporary increase in power during the Controversy when considered relative to the average centrality (0.075) and outdegree (1.974).114 Overall, from 1585 to 1590, the English intelligence service was at what is arguably its richest, most complex form under Walsingham’s careful stewardship. As the decade drew to a close, the queen’s Secretary had developed connections that spanned the known world, providing information from the Levant and Ottoman Empires to Northern Africa to the Eastern Seaboard of the future United States. Specifically, if we examine Walsingham’s spy network during the last five years of his life—from 1585 to 1590—we see one of the most extensive and interconnected networks of the century from Elizabeth’s accession to the Restoration of Charles II.

Figure 6.2  Social network map from 1585 to 1590

178  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity

Figure 6.3  Social network map from 1580 to 584

If we compare the network from 1585 to 1590 with the previous five years (1580–1584), we find a much larger network. From 1580 to 1584, it contained 200 nodes and 388 edges, while from 1585 to 1590 it has expanded to 248 nodes (an increase of 48) and 570 edges (an additional 182), while dropping in diameter from ten to seven, suggesting that although it contains more agents, the network has in fact become more tightly knit. The shorter Average Path Length of 2.918 (in comparison with 3.199) confirms this hypothesis, as does the nearly identical Global Clustering Coefficient of 0.390 (in comparison with 0.389, a difference of 0.001). Clearly, the longer Walsingham was in office, the larger he grew his network, retaining agents (such as Phileppes, Berden, Poley, Marlowe, and Munday); replacing those he lost to domesticity, death, and defection; and recruiting new agents to expand his reach both within England and around the globe. This network continues to highlight the centrality and authority (outdegree) of Walsingham, although Cecil increased in centrality as Walsingham’s

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 179 fatal illness pulled him more and more away from intelligence work (Cecil began to resume some of Walsingham’s Secretarial duties, albeit reluctantly). Walsingham remains obviously—both statistically and visually— the most central, although Cecil’s centrality increases to 0.563 (up from 0.433). Walsingham’s outdegree of 128 is significantly higher than his earlier outdegree of 89; Cecil’s outdegree also increased (although by less than Walsingham’s) from 33 in the earlier network to 62 in the 1585–1590 network. Although Elizabeth’s centrality falls (from 0.169 to 0.156), her outdegree also increases, from 14 to 20. This confirms the increasing value (and size) of the network during these years and reflects the increasing participation of members of the intelligence network (like Munday, who by this point was also serving as a Queen’s Messenger with access to Elizabeth herself) across multiple layers of intelligence work. We also see the continued importance of Thomas Phelippes, at a centrality of 0.219 and an outdegree of 11, and Robert Poley (0.151 and 11), while Gilbert Gifford’s importance (0.168 and 12) to the Babington Plot keeps him prominently central even up to 1590. The network of agents working on the Armada and its aftermath was used across multiple plots and occasions, rather than a specific tight cluster like that we saw in the Babington Plot, and the historical documents bear this out. Many agents disappeared from the record following 1586 and 1587, and others appear and disappear in the few years from 1588 to 1590, yet the cohesion of the network shows Walsingham’s skill at maintaining a tidy network.115 The network is similar in shape to the Babington-era network, but we can also see some relative outliers—the beginnings of a working relationship between Philip III and Philip Zuñiga (near the top center of the map), and the start of a conspiracy involving Father Oswald Tesimond and Eleanor Brooksby, connected by Father Henry Garnet and spied on by intelligencer George Snape (Tesimond, Brooksby, and Snape all appear up and to the left of Walsingham). Snape’s work was directly connected to concerns about the unmanifested (and unproven) Fifth Column during the lead-up to the Armada disaster. It is also connected to the link between Tesimond and Brooksby, who both had distant ties to the Gunpowder Plotters; their presence in a network some 15 years before the Gunpowder Plot manifested helps us to understand the degree of complexity behind both the ­anti-government conspiracies of the period as well as the commitment of the intelligence service (and its agents, such as Snape, who spied on both Tesimond and Brooksby). By the close of the 1580s, the intelligence network founded by William Cecil had been expanded, centralized, and bureaucratized by Francis Walsingham into a fundamental part of the Elizabethan government. It employed hundreds of agents, some—like Phelippes or Munday—connected to the government for decades and others—like the nameless “brewer”— employed only for the occasion of a particular plot. While, as multiple scholars have noted, “Most of Walsingham’s agents were motivated by

180  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity money,” those who worked long-term within the networks were also loyal to their spymaster and their queen.116 By 1590, informants and embedded agents were ubiquitous in gentry households, and Walsingham essentially needed only to ask (and, of course, offer payment) in order to receive information about the goings-on in any of the noble families. He had also cultivated diplomatic connections and clandestine agents across many of England’s foreign allies, including the Netherlands, France, and Germany, particularly within Protestant communities.117 In addition to these more official connections, of course, was perhaps the most important legacy of Walsingham’s intelligence career: the vast, spidery network of merchants and couriers at varying levels of importance, from simple traders to established export agents to commercial representatives for the major adventuring companies of England: family merchants using well-established trade routes in allied nations on the Continent, as well as the Levant Company, the Muscovy Company, and the as-yet-­ unaffiliated explorers and privateers sailing to the New World.118 In other words, Walsingham’s network of agents spanned the early modern globe, providing information and acting in mercantile and diplomatic capacities throughout Europe, Russia, the Levant, Northern Africa, the Ottoman Empire, and the New World. These agents provided information and services to the monarchs of easily a dozen nations, and they themselves came from countries as varied as those in which they worked. But, as we shall soon see, the network’s greatest test came in 1590, not at the hands of a conspirator or as a result of war, nor even as a consequence of the much-anticipated and much-feared death of the monarch, but with the demise of Walsingham himself. Although Cecil laid its initial foundations, Walsingham ought to be considered the true architect of the English intelligence service, increasing its power, influence, and reach over the two decades during which he was its spymaster. While the 1590s are often considered the pinnacle of the Elizabethan Golden Age, Walsingham did not live to see them, and his death left a power vacuum not only in court, but also in espionage that put his network to the ultimate test.

Notes 1. Zach Bates, “The Idea of Royal Empire and the Imperial Crown of England, 1542–1698,” Journal of the History of Ideas 80, no. 1 (2019): 28–9. 2. Bates notes that “the first claim to imperial jurisdiction was exercised in fourteenth-­century England on behalf of Richard II” with his incursions into Ireland, so the monarchical claim of imperial sovereignty predates even the Wars of the Roses (Bates, 29). 3. David Starkey, Crown and Country: The Kings & Queens of England: A History (London: HarperPress, 2006), 274; Kristin M.S. Bezio, Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays: History, Political Thought, and the Redefinition of Sovereignty (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2015), 23. 4. Emily Carroll Bartels, “The Double Vision of the East: Imperialist Self-­ Construction in Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, ‘Part One,’” Renaissance Drama 23 (1992): 4.

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 181 5. Richard Wilson, “Visible Bullets: Tamburlaine the Great and Ivan the Terrible,” English Literary History 62, no. 1 (1995): 47. 6. Wilson, 48. 7. Wilson, 48. For those aware of the site of Christopher Marlowe’s death, the Inn where he met his end was a part of the Muscovy Company complex at the docks in Deptford, a fact which Wilson believes cannot be coincidental. 8. Wilson, 48. 9. Wilson, 49. 10. Eric J. Griffin, English Renaissance Drama and the Specter of Spain: Ethnopoetics and Empire (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 9. 11. Jonathan Burton, Traffic and Turning: Islam and English Drama, 1579–1624 (University of Delaware Press, 2005), 55. 12. Burton, 60. 13. Burton, 58. 14. Burton, 59. 15. Allison Machlis Meyer, “Constructing Islam in an Early Modern Anthology: Intertextuality, Politics, and Religion in Seventeenth-Century Europe,” Renaissance Quarterly 71, no. 3 (2018): 971. 16. Burton, Traffic and Turning, 59. 17. Burton, 58. 18. Albert Lindsay Rowland and George Born Manhart, Studies in English Commerce and Exploration in the Reign of Elizabeth: I. England and Turkey, the Rise of the Diplomatic and Commercial Relations, by Albert Lindsay Rowland. II. The English Search for the Northwest Passage in the Time of Queen Elizabeth, by George Born Manhart ... (Press of the University of Pennsylvania, 1925), 14. 19. Francis Walsingham, “A Consideration of the Trade into Turkie” (1580), SP 12/144 f.143, Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reigns of Edward VI, Mary, Elizabeth, 1547–1580. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GA LE|MC4304109491&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Calendar 20. Burton, Traffic and Turning, 59. 21. Burton, 57. 22. Meyer, “Constructing Islam in an Early Modern Anthology,” 971. 23. Burton, Traffic and Turning, 57. 24. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 3 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 410. 25. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 238. 26. Cooper, 261. 27. Bates, “The Idea of Royal Empire,” 30–1. 28. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 264–5. 29. In part, the idea of an English Catholic colony was one that would take Recusants and others imprisoned for nonconformity and remove them from England, serving the dual purpose of reducing the Catholic threat in England and establishing an English foothold in the New World. 30. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 257. 31. Cooper, 276. 32. Cooper, 276, 257. 33. For instance, the location of the Roanoke colony on Roanoke Island (now Fort Raleigh in Manteo) in what is now the North Carolina Outer Banks was chosen in part because the colonists could observe (and report on) the Spanish fleet traveling up the Outer Banks coming from the territory of the Spanish Main (specifically, what is now Florida).

182  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 34. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 3:216. 35. Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 203. 36. Winston Graham, The Spanish Armadas (London: George Rainbird Limited, 1972), 61. 37. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 3:179. 38. Read, 3:179. 39. Ralph Hogge to Elizabeth I, “Petition of Ralph Hogge,” January 1574, SP 12/95 f.40, The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GA LE|MC4304186593&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Manuscript 40. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 3:218. 41. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 110. 42. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 62–3. 43. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 111. 44. Plowden, 112. 45. Daniel Jütte, The Age of Secrecy: Jews, Christians, and the Economy of Secrets, 1400–1800 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015). 46. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 224. 47. Griffin, English Renaissance Drama and the Specter of Spain, 50. 48. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 224. 49. William Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs: Sir Francis Drake and His Companions (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1920), 21. 50. Both Henry and Elizabeth tacitly—and overtly—condoned English privateering, known to the other nations involved as “piracy.” It formed a significant part of English naval praxis under both Tudors, and was both an offensive and defensive strategy, having successfully defended England against a Flemish attack in 1539 under Henry and increased Elizabeth’s treasury repeatedly throughout the 1580s and 1590s (Wood, 26). 51. Wood, 152–3. 52. Wood, 154. 53. Wood, 156. 54. Wood, 157–62. 55. It is worth noting that although there clearly was a war, it was never formally declared by either nation, despite the fact that both Spain and England, for all intents and purposes, behaved as though it had. 56. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 171. 57. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 69. 58. Graham, 74. 59. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 165. 60. Wood, 166. 61. Wood, 166. 62. Wood, 168. 63. Wood, 171. 64. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 111. 65. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 177. 66. Wood, 174. 67. Wood, 174. 68. Wood, 175. 69. James McDermott, “Stafford, Sir Edward (1552–1605), Diplomat,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2012), https:// doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/26203

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 183









70. McDermott. 71. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 178. 72. Wood, 179. 73. Wilson, “Visible Bullets,” 48. 74. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 83. 75. Graham, 83. 76. Graham, 83. 77. Graham, 88. 78. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 181. 79. Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 95. 80. Wood, Elizabethan Sea-Dogs, 190. Despite this, the Spanish would launch two additional attempted invasions, neither of which would be successful. 81. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 212. 82. Graham notes that the pervasive story that the Armada was lost almost entirely to storms is a myth, explaining that although weather was a factor, Spain preferred to blame their defeat on the severity of storms rather than concede open defeat. For the English, the narrative of the storms helped to reinforce claims of Providential intervention (Graham, The Spanish Armadas, 143). 83. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 3:333. 84. Alan G.R. Smith, The Emergence of a Nation State: The Commonwealth of England 1529–1660, Second (1984) (New York: Longman, 1997), 242. 85. Simon Adams, “Dudley, Robert, Earl of Leicester (1532/3–1588), Courtier and Magnate,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/8160 86. Adams. 87. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 41. 88. Luc Borot, “Richard Overton and Radicalism: The New Intertext of the Civic Ethos in Mid Seventeenth-Century England,” in English Radicalism 1550–1850, ed. Glenn Burgess and Matthew Festenstein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 54. 89. David Martin Jones, Conscience and Allegiance in Seventeenth Century England: The Political Significance of Oaths and Engagements (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 1999), 77. 90. John Bossy, “The Character of Elizabethan Catholicism,” Past & Present, no. 21 (1962): 41. 91. The debate about freedom of conscience would continue, coming to a head in the Archpriest or Appellant Controversy at the end of the 1590s and up to Elizabeth’s death (Sandra Jusdado, “The Appellant Priests and the Succession Issue,” in The Struggle for the Succession in Late Elizabethan England: Politics, Polemics and Cultural Representations, ed. Jean-Christophe Mayer, Astraea Collection 11 (Montpellier: Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier, 2004), 199–216). 92. Kristin M.S. Bezio, “‘Munday I Sweare Shalbee a Hollidaye’: The Politics of Anthony Munday, from Anti-Catholic Spy to Civic Pageanteer (1579–1630),” Études Anglaises 71, no. 4 (2018): 479. 93. Peter Lake, “Puritanism, Familism, and Heresy in Early Stuart England: The Case of John Etherington Revisited,” in Heresy, Literature, and Politics in Early Modern English Culture, ed. David Loewenstein and John Marshall (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 86. 94. S.C. Carpenter, The Church in England 1597–1688 (London: John Murray, 1954), 322. 95. William Pierce, An Historical Introduction to the Marprelate Tracts: A Chapter in the Evolution of Religious and Civil Liberty in England, Burt

184  Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity Franklin Research & Source Works Series 58 (New York: Burt Franklin, 1908), 36–40. 96. Carpenter, The Church in England 1597–1688, 322. 97. Carpenter, 322. 98. R.J. Acheson, Radical Puritans in England 1550–1660, Seminar Studies in History (London: Longman, 1990), 1. 99. Pierce, An Historical Introduction to the Marprelate Tracts, 70–1. 100. Pierce, 72. 101. Kristin M.S. Bezio, “Markets, Machinations, and Martin Marprelate: The Marketplace of Publication and Espionage Surrounding the Marprelate Controversy,” in Religion and the Early Modern British Marketplace, ed. Kristin M.S. Bezio and Scott Oldenburg, Routledge Research in Early Modern History (New York: Routledge, 2021), 152. 102. Bezio, 152. 103. Pierce, An Historical Introduction to the Marprelate Tracts, 148. 104. Pierce, 149. 105. Pierce, 1. The full title of The Epistle is as follows: Oh read ouer D. Iohn Bridges, for it is a worthy worke: or an epitome of the fyrste booke, of that right worshipfull volume, written against the puritanes, in the defence of the noble cleargie, by as worshipfull a prieste, Iohn Bridges, presbyter, priest or elder, doctor of diuillitie, and Deane of Sarum Wherein the arguments of the puritans are wisely prevented, that when they come to answere M. Doctor, they must needes say something that hath bene spoken. Compiled for the behoofe and overthrow of the parsous, fyckers, and currats, that have lernt their catechismes and are past grace: by the reverend and worthie Martin Marprelate gentleman, and dedicated to the confocationhouse. (Martin Marprelate, “The Epistle,” in The Marprelate Tracts [1588–1589], Facsimile, A Scholar Press Facsimile (Menston, UK: The Scholar Press Limited, 1967), 1–54.) 106. Martin Marprelate pseud, Oh Read Ouer D. Iohn Bridges, for It Is a Worthy Worke: Or an Epitome of the Fyrste Booke, of That Right Worshipfull Volume, Written against the Puritanes, in the Defence of the Noble Cleargie, by as Worshipfull a Prieste, Iohn Bridges, Presbyter, Priest or Elder, Doctor of Diuillitie, and Deane of Sarum Wherein the Arguments of the Puritans Are Wisely Prevented, That When They Come to Answere M. Doctor, They Must Needes Say Something That Hath Bene Spoken. Compiled for the Behoofe and Overthrow of the Parsous [Sic], Fyckers, and Currats, That Have Lernt Their Catechismes and Are Past Grace: By the Reverend and Worthie Martin Marprelate Gentleman, and Dedicated to the Confocation House, ed. John Penry, Early English Books Online (Printed oversea, in Europe [i.e. East Molesey, Surrey : By Robert Waldegrave], within two furlongs of a bounsing priest, at the cost and charges of M Marprelate, gentleman, 1588), http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/ books/oh-read-ouer-d-iohn-bridges-is-worthy-worke/docview/2248516531/ se-2?accountid=14731 107. Rivkah Zim, “Religion and the Politic Counsellor: Thomas Sackville, 1536– 1608,” The English Historical Review 122, no. 498 (2007): 904. 108. Thomas Cooper, An Admonition to the People of England Vvherein Are Ansvvered, Not Onely the Slaunderous Vntruethes, Reprochfully Vttered by Martin the Libeller, but Also Many Other Crimes by Some of His Broode, Obiected Generally against All Bishops, and the Chiefe of the Cleargie, Purposely to Deface and Discredite the Present State of the Church. Seene and Allowed by Authoritie., Early English Books, 1475–1640 / 205:06 (Imprinted

Empire, Armada, and Nonconformity 185 at London: By the deputies of Christopher Barker, printer to the Queenes most excellent Maiestie, 1589). 109. Pierce, An Historical Introduction to the Marprelate Tracts, 149–50. For more on the controversy and pamphlet war, see Bezio, “Markets, Machinations, and Martin Marprelate.” 110. Pierce, An Historical Introduction to the Marprelate Tracts, 150. 111. Jesse M. Lander, “Martin Marprelate and the Fugitive Text,” Reformation 7, no. 1 (January 2002): 136, https://doi.org/10.1179/ref_2002_7_1_006 112. Lander, 136–7. 113. The Marprelate network was both very small and largely uninteresting from a statistical standpoint. Although we know there were more pursuivants involved, their names are largely absent from the records, so we have only a handful of agents, and those were all primarily anti-Martinist authors (Munday, who apprehended Wigginton, is an obvious exception here). The Martinist agents can be found on the lower right edge of the main hub-and-spoke section of the 1585–1590 and 1587–1589 network maps. 114. Elizabeth’s centrality (0.168) remains quite low for these years, and her outdegree (15) is also identical across both networks. It is worth noting, perhaps, that the overlap of 1587 across both networks does somewhat skew some of the results, since the Babington Plot ended early in the same year in which the Marprelate Controversy later began, and the data does not differentiate by month (February/October), only by year. 115. Such as George Snape, who is discussed below. 116. Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master, 90. 117. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 54. 118. Plowden, 54.

7

Master Secretaries, 1590–1598

The decade from 1590 to 1599 began and ended with the deaths of the two most influential men in the Elizabethan government. Francis Walsingham died on 6 April 1590 in his home on Seething Lane of a long-standing illness. He had been intermittently absent from Council meetings since February 1589, leading William Cecil to assume many of his official— and some of his unofficial—duties.1 When Walsingham died, Elizabeth refused (as she had also done with Dudley) to replace him, and Cecil was forced once again to shoulder the work of the Principal Secretary. The increased workload compounded by his own age—Cecil was in his late sixties—taxed him beyond his capacity, and he died at home on 4 August 1598. 2 The period from 1590 to 1598 tested the fortitude of the remaining members of Elizabeth’s Council, saw rising infighting in the court between the Cecil and Essex factions, and tried the strength of the intelligence network in the sudden absence of its most central and influential spymaster. As Cecil sought to replace both himself and Walsingham at court—and on the Privy Council—with his own son, Robert, others, particularly Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex (husband of Frances Walsingham, daughter of Francis), and Francis Bacon, sought to assume power in the vacuum left by Walsingham’s departure. The network fractured, with agents realigning their loyalties to Devereux or to the Cecils or striking out on their own in an attempt to secure power or wealth in England or among England’s allies and enemies. In the aftermath of Walsingham’s death, the intelligence network experienced its greatest test—one that it successfully weathered, although not without leaving potentially innocent victims in its wake. Those agents who remained at the end of the sixteenth century found themselves in a position of considerable uncertainty as Elizabeth’s reign drew to a close with neither any definitive answers about the identity of her successor nor a clear sense of the shifting power dynamics within courtly intelligence circles, as Robert Cecil and Robert Devereux jockeyed for the role of principal spymaster to the aging queen. DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-8

Master Secretaries 187

Walsingham’s Legacy In order to best understand the impact of Walsingham’s death on English intelligence, we must consider not only the network—as discussed at the conclusion of the previous chapter—but also the spycraft methods and impressions in place at the start of 1590. By this point, Elizabeth had (finally) endowed Walsingham with a modest budget for the maintenance of the intelligence network, yet it was—as it had always been—woefully inadequate for the task for which it was intended. Walsingham himself provided the majority of the funds that went toward intelligence work, constantly complaining—to Cecil, to Elizabeth, and to other members of the Privy Council—that the fiscal burden of intelligence would beggar him. Although Elizabeth had increased his budget in 1585, Walsingham’s expenditures had also risen as a result of curtailing the Throckmorton and Babington Plots, dealing with the Armada, and pushing for westward expansion into the New World in order (in part) to keep an eye on the Spanish colonies. From March of 1587 to June of 1588, for instance, he was forced to secure an additional £3,300 in order to keep track of the maneuverings of the Armada and the feared Fifth Column of Catholics within England’s borders.3 Yet, as Conyers Read has noted, “It is not easy to trace the fiscal side of the secret service.”4 Monies spent in paying agents and purchasing materials sometimes came directly from Elizabeth, sometimes from “warrants of the Privy Seal ‘for such purposes as the Queen shall appoint’” (a general description used for other expenses, as well), sometimes from Cecil as Lord Treasurer, and quite a bit from the pockets of subordinate spymasters and handlers, much of it from Walsingham’s personal funds; the rest came from Walsingham’s primary wranglers, including Sackville, Paulet, and even— to a lesser extent—Dudley, Nicholas Bacon, and Christopher Hatton.5 All this goes to show that the massive outlay of running an intelligence service cannot be encapsulated by the official budget lines alone, and it is worth noting that expense was one reason (among many) for the diminishment of the network following Walsingham’s death. The network’s spies served in many capacities and included cryptographers, messengers, polyglots, informants, and double agents. Some agents were employed for a single purpose—like the “brewer” who aided in dismantling the Babington Plot—while others—like Anthony Munday—­ performed long-term service. Figures in the intelligence network also ran the gamut of social class; Walsingham trained and employed men who themselves were members of the Privy Council—such as Sir Thomas Sackville, who had served as a spy in Rome and later became a minor spymaster in his own right; ambassadors to foreign countries, like Henry Brooke, Lord Cobham; artisans like the “brewer”; common criminals, including Ingram Frizer; and playwrights, like Anthony Munday and Christopher Marlowe.

188  Master Secretaries The heterogeneous mélange of people—and Walsingham’s ranks of agents encompassed a few women, as well, including Mary Phelippes—was, in many ways, a microcosm of English citizenry and represented cross-class active participation in governmental proto-bureaucracy.6 What is noteworthy about this hodgepodge collection of men (and women) is their relative diversity; they possessed a variety of occupations, religions, nations of origin, classes, and political leanings. Some had come to Walsingham of their own volition, while others were recruited as a result of proximity or even imprisonment. Yet all of them played a significant role, though one that was often invisible, in the operation of the English government. Thus the creation (by Cecil) and expansion (by Walsingham) of formalized English intelligence aided in the bureaucratization of the English polis, expanding the ranks of government employees to include persons from all classes and walks of life. Although it was far from truly democratic, one cannot help but imagine that the participation of a variety of people in the inner workings of the Elizabethan proto-bureaucracy ultimately contributed to a burgeoning sense of accomplishment and ownership over both the government and the nation it served. In more practical terms, the mechanics of intelligence served the government and the nation, which in turn served them, providing fiscal or social compensation for their service. All of Walsingham’s agents, regardless of rank, had to be paid, whether in cash or with more prestigious government or courtly positions. Payments—and bribes—were also a frequent means of inducing others into providing information: servants, other nations’ agents, cellmates, and confidants of targets frequently could be paid to supply information. Frequent correspondence between Robert Beale, a clerk of the Privy Council, and Walsingham in the years leading up to 1590 reveals the frequent expenditures undertaken by Walsingham, Beale himself, and other agents in England, Scotland, and the Low Countries in order to secure information and agents’ loyalty, as well as turn potential Jesuits and double agents.7 In addition, Walsingham ran an extensive postal service—with the accompanying Black Chamber for the surreptitious opening, reading, and deciphering of messages—likely out of a house at Barn Elms, where he kept 68 horses.8 However, financial incentives were not Walsingham’s only means of recruitment. In addition to direct payments for services rendered, Walsingham also regularly paid bribes, issued threats, and even made use of persuasion to convince agents to support queen, country, and Protestant cause.9 These agents posed as merchants, servants, messengers, and Catholics in their efforts to infiltrate Catholic households and social gatherings. Walsingham himself was motivated primarily by nationalist sensibilities, a desire for security and stability, and devotion to the idea that England was at the forefront of creating a Protestant Christendom. As such, he was willing to commit himself—and his finances—wholly to achieving that outcome. The early modern historian William Camden

Master Secretaries 189 noted that Walsingham’s reputation among English Catholics suggested that he was essentially willing to lie, steal, and cheat in order to ensure English Protestant supremacy: “the Papists found fault with him as cunning and subtile in close carrying on his Designs, and inticing and decoying men into Dangers, whilst he diligently studied to discover their secret Practices against Religion, his Prince and Countrey.”10 Prior to Walsingham’s assumption of the network, however, England was far behind its Continental rivals, including France and Italy, in terms of ciphers and communication networks.11 Once Walsingham became Principal Secretary, he deliberately employed cryptographers—including John Dee and Thomas Phelippes (and his wife, Mary)—to counteract the work of both foreign agents and individual conspirators, such as Jesuits and Catholic plotters like Babington, who also made use of locks, ciphers, and other methods of illicit communication.12 One agent, named Arthur Gregory, for instance, was particularly talented in the Black Chamber at unsealing and resealing communiques so that the intended recipient would never know they’d been tampered with.13 Yet in addition to more dedicated intelligencers—such as the Phellipeses— Walsingham’s network included parochial agents and magistrates spread across England. He employed, notes Read, “spies who sought information from Catholics about priests, and the searchers, pursuivants, constables, sheriff’s officers and such like who apprehended the priests after their whereabouts had been discovered.”14 This wide-ranging network of agents (most of whom were unlisted or mentioned only by alias or occupation in scanty intelligence documents) was most frequently employed in the discovery of pro-Catholic insurgency: direct plots as well as the more benign spread of Catholic religious praxis. Central to these operations were embedded double agents, such as Nicholas Berden, who played a significant role in the Babington Plot and adopted a series of different identities in order to gain the trust of Catholics so that he might provide Walsingham with information. Berden, in particular, was a long-term and successful agent; a letter from 23 November 1586 between Berden and Walsingham provides an example of the means used to infiltrate potentially threatening households: I humbly thanke your honor for yt plesed you to spare x̄ p ̄ for Drylandes lyfe at the last sessions at my request, assuring you that yt hasse moche encrosed my creditt emongest the Papists that by my endeuer his lyfe was saued, for they suppose that some frend at my request moued your honor therin, i protest i abhore the man in regard of his profession, and the only thinge that moued me therunto was for that the man is singulerly well perswaded of me, supposinge me to be a most apte man to serue the papists turnes, and furder a man of great credyt emongest them all of what faction soeuer and therfore a meete man to be sent ouer therby to auow and mayntayne my creditt to all the practisers.15

190  Master Secretaries Berden, in this situation, asked Walsingham to have Dryland’s sentence commuted in order to gain the trust of a group of Catholics. Once this was done, Berden was able to infiltrate the Catholic community surrounding Dryland in order to provide Walsingham with more specific information, in this case, tied to the Babington Plot. By the end of his tenure, Walsingham had amassed considerable information about Recusant Catholics living in England, as well as English Catholics abroad. We know he kept both a “box of religion & matters ecclesiastical” with lists of names and households of known Recusants, as well as a “‘box of examinations’ of papists and priests.”16 These lists included Catholics living across England as well as those expatriates who had fled, either to join a seminary or nunnery or simply to live abroad where they could practice their religion unrestricted. The intelligence network’s presence abroad was as much diplomatic and mercantile as it was a support system for the government’s anti-Catholic agenda. Having served as Elizabeth’s ambassador to France, Walsingham was familiar with the demands and necessities of foreign diplomacy and was deeply involved in Elizabethan foreign affairs. As Conyers Read observes, “The merest glance at the Foreign State Papers during [Walsingham’s] term of office shows that he was very intimately concerned with foreign affairs. There is scarcely a paper among them which does not bear his endorsement or some other sign of his handling.”17 He counted numerous diplomats as correspondents and agents, including Henry Brooke, William Lyly, Christopher Perkins, Stephen Powle, Valentine Dale, John Florio, and Daniel Rogers, all of whom worked with the English intelligence network and in a diplomatic capacity. Diplomats provided information on the courts, policies, and even military preparedness of foreign allies and enemies, and several—including Brooke, who employed the more clandestine agents Robert Best and Charles Sledd—often were tasked with small networks of agents, both local and English, in their respective regions of embassy. Using both diplomats and other more clandestine agents, Walsingham established an extensive international information highway, drawing from formal embassies and informal trade partners—including the Levant Company, in which he was an investor—across 46 separate locales in Europe, Africa, and Asia, including a dozen French outposts, nine locations in Germany, four each in Italy and Spain, three in the Netherlands, and at least one each in Constantinople, Algiers, and Tripoli.18 While many of these sites were occupied principally with transmitting news (rather than secrets), news was vital to foreign policy, diplomacy, and national security, and—besides—some of it was not “news,” but secret information on the movements or machinations of foreign courts.19 In addition, Walsingham was a proponent of the English imperial project, helping to finance the Virginia Company and expeditions to the New World. Alongside Cecil, who shared his interest in trade and expansion,

Master Secretaries 191 Walsingham was quite possibly the Privy Councilor most invested in international trade and exploration of new colonial territories.20 Walsingham not only sought to plant agents on the ships sailing to the New World coast and the Roanoke Colony—specifically, Gregory Russell and Clinton Atkinson—but also supported projects to create colonies for religious dissenters. 21 Taking all of this into consideration, we cannot be surprised at the vast size and significance of the English intelligence network (Figure 7.1) when viewed over the period of Walsingham’s tenure as primary spymaster from 1574 until 1589 (given that his illness largely kept him from active work in the early months of 1590 before his death in April). As is visually quite obvious, Walsingham is critically central to the network, the hub at the center of a cluster of spokes. His centrality (1) is significantly higher than any other node for this period, by a degree of 0.605 (Cecil comes second, at 0.395). His outdegree is a sizeable 139, with Cecil at only 49 (and Elizabeth lagging far behind at 21). These statistics form

Figure 7.1  Social network map from 1574 to 1589

192  Master Secretaries the basis for the visualization’s clear hub-and-spoke appearance, with Walsingham’s influence clearly fanning out to an impressive 139 nodes, only some of which have additional spokes of their own. In addition to this obvious centralized focus, outliers in the visualization represent emerging or peripheral factions with far less influence over the main network. 22 The network itself—as is probably evident from previous chapters— retains a similar structure to the subsets we have examined already, both visually and statistically. Although there are (obviously) more individual nodes (305) across the full 15 years of Walsingham’s term as spymaster, the diameter remains low, at seven (out of a range of seven to ten), with an Average Degree of 2.200, only marginally higher than the numbers we have seen in the smaller networks (from 1.556 to 2.156). This is to be expected, of course, since people participating in the network at its start in 1574 were not entirely the same as those involved at the close of 1589. The Average Path Length is also fairly consistent, at 3.040 (2.915–3.199), and the Global Clustering Coefficient is similarly steady at 0.360 (0.360–0.404). 23 It is evident from both a statistical and historical vantage point that Francis Walsingham was critical to the functioning and success of the Elizabethan intelligence service. However questionable his methods sometimes were, what is clear to us with the hindsight of history was just as clear to his contemporaries: this reflection upon our Ambassador, which will fall under the careful observers eye, how vigilant he was to gather true Intelligence; what Means and Persons beused for it; how punctual he was in keeping to his Instructions, where he was limitted; and how wary and judicious where he was left free; still advancing, upon all occasions, the Reputation and Interest of his Great Mistris, with a most lively and indefatigable Devotion. 24 There is no doubt that Walsingham’s most lasting accomplishment was the entrenchment of the intelligence service into the English government such that—even with the chaos and civil war that threatened its stability in the next hundred years—it managed to survive not only the end of the Tudor dynasty, but also the rise and fall of the Stuarts before assuming its present form as MI5 and MI6. Yet that is not to say that it did not falter with the death of its paterfamilias at the beginning of 1590. For months, Walsingham’s chronic illness had kept him from attending court or the meetings of the Privy Council. 25 In his absence, the network began to fragment as agents began to compete for the patronage of rival aspiring spymasters Robert Cecil, Robert Devereux, and Anthony Bacon, and the quality of agents’ information—in their urgency to establish their worth to new potential employers—declined, infighting that characterized Elizabethan spycraft in the early 1590s. 26

Master Secretaries 193

“There Is Much Sorrow”: The Aftermath of Walsingham’s Death Francis Walsingham died on 6 April 1590 at his house in Seething Lane, still owing the crown £42,000, “largely from expenditure on the crown’s business without obtaining privy seal warrants, or so Beale later claimed.”27 William Camden remarks that thanks “to his great Charges, insomuch as he weakned his Private Estate thereby, and brought himself so far in Debt, that he was privately buried in the Evening at Paul’s Church at London without any Funeral Solemnity.”28 Contemporary accounts of Walsingham’s death include one from a Spanish agent in London, writing to Philip II some days later in April: ‘Secretary Walsingham has just expired, at which there is much sorrow.’ When the letter came under the King’s eye, he scribbled on the margin, ‘There, yes! But it is good news here.’ In such wise, among the grievings of his colleagues and the rejoicings of his enemies, the great secretary left the scene. 29 Certainly, Philip did not mourn the passing of one of his most effective adversaries, although—as the agent suggested—London (and Elizabeth) certainly seemed to grieve Walsingham’s death. For example, in 1590, Thomas Watson composed Meliboeus as an elegy to the deceased Secretary, with the name “Meliboe” having also been used by Edmund Spenser in the Faerie Queene for an elderly shepherd jaded about court life, widely believed to allegorically represent Walsingham.30 More importantly, however, Walsingham left behind his own mentor and constant working companion, William Cecil. Because Elizabeth refused to appoint a new Principal Secretary, the work fell once more to Cecil, what must have been exhausting for a 69-year-old courtier suffering from a chronic illness that may have been gout.31 Cecil inherited—along with the burden of labor—Walsingham’s “secure cabinets” as well as all surviving documents pertaining to intelligence.32 Although we know that Walsingham left behind some records, sadly, they have mostly been lost, and we are forced to hypothesize on the difficulties faced by his long-time agents, such as Phelippes, Berden, and Poley, as well as William Cecil, who were left to attempt to piece together the network. Among Walsingham’s papers was a book of “secret intelligences,” which contained—we surmise from extant records, although the book itself no longer exists—“names of agents, the aliases and the alphabets (or keys) to the codes and ciphers they used, and the money they were paid.”33 Among the papers of the Privy Council, is an extant document from 7 May 1590 containing “The names of sondrie forren places from Whence Mr Secretary Walsingham was wont to receaue his aduertisments.”34 On the second page of this document is a list of locations and numbers of agents; for instance,

194  Master Secretaries “Upon the Borders and in Scotland at the least x” and “Many among the Papists to discouer their Treasons Priests and massing.”35 And although this and Walsingham’s other surviving documents must have been useful, Cecil and Phelippes more often than not found themselves struggling to maintain ties with Walsingham’s agents. Cecil began the laborious process of attempting to reconstruct Walsing­ ham’s international network with five known agents in Europe: Henri Chasteau-Martin, Stephen de Rorque, Edmund Palmer, Figliazzi, and Alexander de la Torre.36 Others, however, fell by the proverbial wayside, as Cecil was either unable or unwilling—given his other duties as Lord Treasurer and his own declining health—to pour the same levels of expenditure and time into the network as Walsingham. With a reduction in funds came a parallel reduction in numbers, as some of Walsingham’s agents were unwilling to accept the reduction in payments that came with Cecil’s new offers of continued employment.37 The shape and size of the network from 1591 to 1598 (when Cecil himself died) bears this out.

Figure 7.2  Social network map from 1591 to 1598

Master Secretaries 195 The network here is far less dense and more spidery in appearance than any of Walsingham’s networks for the same (or less, in some cases) duration (for instance, the network from 1574 to 1584, or even the five-year span from 1580 to 1585). Cecil, of course, shifts back into the position of primary centrality (1), while his younger son, Robert, whom Cecil was grooming for a position of significance in the government, appears as a secondary hub with a centrality of 0.869, noticeably higher than the other nodes, including that of Elizabeth, who also once more rises in relative prominence with a centrality of 0.413. However, her rise in centrality comes as a consequence of the network’s smaller size, as her outdegree remains fairly steady at 24 (only three higher than in the 1574–1589 network). Cecil’s outdegree increases by seven to 56 (compared to 49), suggesting that, rather than taking on most of Walsingham’s contacts, Cecil mostly maintained a consistent level of intelligencers. Robert Cecil’s outdegree of 45 suggests that he took on many of Walsingham’s agents, but nowhere near the level (87 at the start of 1590) that the now-deceased Secretary Walsingham had managed. The shape of the network itself appears more like a dual (rather than single centralized) hub-and-spoke, although it still has the same diameter as Walsingham’s (seven); it is noteworthy, however, that there are far fewer agents (only 166, a drop from the 207 Walsingham managed from 1587 to 1590).38 The other measurements are commensurate: the Global Clustering Coefficient is 0.342 and the Average Path Length is 3.129. Yet one might expect that these numbers would be more likely to fall with fewer agents, assuming a similar level of interconnectivity. This suggests that the Cecils’ network was, in fact, less interconnected than Walsingham’s, a statistical measure that bears out in the historical record, as well. This leaves us with some question of how, precisely, this shift took place. Obviously, from an historical perspective, Cecil (the elder) was, quite simply, overworked. He remained the Lord Treasurer, a full-time occupation on its own, the de facto head of the Privy Council, while again having assumed the duties of the Principal Secretary and primary spymaster.39 He was aging, attempting to convince his recalcitrant (and also aging) queen to give his son an official position in government, trying to control Elizabeth’s obsessive behaviors regarding favorites (more on this to come), working to hold together a rapidly shrinking Privy Council, and serving as both Lord Treasurer and Principal Secretary. It is no wonder he did not have the capacity to also manage a highly complex spy network! If we look only at the transitional year—1590, in Figure 7.3—we can see the shift in power from 1590 to 1591 in the shape of the network itself, as well as in the numbers. The primary hub in 1590 is still Walsingham, despite his illness for the first three months of the year, followed by his death on 6 April. But if we visually compare this graph to the model from 1591 to 1598, we can see the transfer of multiple spokes from Walsingham as the central hub to both

196  Master Secretaries

Figure 7.3  Social network map from 1590

Cecils—William primarily, but also Robert. Yet in 1590, Robert is all but missing, with a centrality of only 0.049 and an outdegree of 6. By comparison, Walsingham’s outdegree was still higher (over three months) than William Cecil’s had ever been, at 87, while Cecil (with a centrality of 0.667) has a slightly increased outdegree of 51. The network for this year alone has 157 nodes, higher than the number in the subsequent four years from 1591 to 1595 (by eight), with 290 edges. The relative ratio of edges to nodes tells us the interconnectivity of the network, as it lost eight agents, but gained eighteen edges, meaning that even as it shrank in size, it also grew more disparate. Its diameter of eight parallels this (although the Cecils worked to remedy this splintering for the rest of the 1590s, with some success). Further demonstrating this trend, the Global Clustering Coefficient drops from 0.450 in 1590 to an average of 0.343, with the Average Path Length rising from 2.941 in 1590 to 3.195. In other words, Walsingham’s death scattered his network, leaving only pieces of it behind to be picked up by anyone who was willing (and able) to do so.

Master Secretaries 197 As it turns out, although Cecil was one of those people and encouraged his son to be another, there were other factions in Elizabeth’s court who were interested in the kind of power and influence Walsingham had wielded, and saw, with his death, the appearance of a power vacuum that William Cecil—aging and overworked—was not entirely able to fill. One such man was Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex and a newly arrived favorite of the queen. In 1590, he—like Robert Cecil—had barely arrived in the network, with an outdegree of 3 and a centrality of only 0.023. That, however, was about to change. By the end of the 1590s, Devereux’s centrality would rise (to 0.338), as would his outdegree (to 14), as he and Robert Cecil engaged in a sometimes overt and often clandestine battle for control of English intelligence.

William and the Two Roberts: Essex and the Cecils Although William Cecil was a long-established member of Elizabeth’s court, Privy Council, and inner circle, and the queen considered him her confidant and dear friend, she was less inclined to so rapidly welcome his son Robert into her royal bosom.40 William was the last remaining councilor and friend who had stood by Elizabeth’s side at Hatfield in 1558 when she became queen; none of the other courtiers and Privy Councilors went back so far—the others who had been with her from the beginning had all died, and Elizabeth was loathe to replace them. In fact, from 1590 to 1596 she added only two new Privy Councilors: Robert Cecil and Robert Devereux. As Angela Andreani notes, “the friction between them as putative heirs of the Leicester-Burghley rivalry…marks the political context against which the interim of the secretaryship of state can be set.”41 1590 thus became a generational marker as much as it was a turning point in intelligence and courtly circles; it was a delineation between the era of plots and conspiracies in the 1570s and 1580s and the proverbial Golden Age in which Elizabeth became Gloriana, the English empire continued to expand, and English culture (poetry and drama) flourished. It was also miserable. The 1590s saw England suffer from waves of plague and famine, with “four consecutive failed summer harvests; rising food prices, hunger and suspicions of grain-hoarding for profit” from 1594 to 1597 and two waves of plague from 1592 to 1593, killing nearly 14 percent of the population of London.42 At the same time, English Catholics began to entreat the government for renewed toleration on the grounds that they placed loyalty to Elizabeth above their duty to the Papacy; these Catholics—known as Appellants—complicated the Catholic question by demanding freedom of conscience even as they rejected the increasingly militant rhetoric of Robert Parsons and the Jesuits. In the midst of it all, the Cecils and Devereux were engaged in a political battle for Elizabeth’s ear and the Secretariat, a position that—thanks in no small part to William and Walsingham—had come to be seen as

198  Master Secretaries almost more powerful than the throne itself. It was a war recognized by other members of the court, as, in 1592, Richard Verstegan (aka Richard Rowlands)—himself an intelligencer—wrote (and published) a pamphlet now known as Burghley’s Commonwealth that excoriates William Cecil as the central cause of the nation’s downfall.43 The treatise finds fault with William’s origins, saying that his father “was neuer called maister in all his life vnles it were in iest,” accuses him of being intolerant toward “the auncient nobilitie of the Realme,” and concludes that by betrayal and deception “doeth M. Cecil profit by his new diuises.”44 In short, the pamphlet ascribes to the position of Principal Secretary and Lord Treasurer the vast majority of the power in the realm, having—suggests Stephen Alford—“all but held Elizabeth I captive” in order to govern (and profit) in her stead.45 It was the kind of power Devereux wanted to wield. He had made his entrée into politics in 1586 after serving in the Netherlands. Devereux had “missed” most of the drama surrounding the Throckmorton and Babington Plots, having come to court in 1584 and served in the Netherlands from 1585 until late in 1586 (in time to witness the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, but having been absent for the discovery and arrests of the Babington Plot).46 Devereux’s physical attractiveness was particularly important, not simply because it made him appealing as a favorite to the queen—who had always had an eye for attractive young men—but also because it placed him in significant contrast to Robert Cecil, whose hunchback and surly disposition made the two Roberts clear foils for one another. Devereux was charming, handsome, and more than willing to flatter his queen in order to advance his status at court. This put him into direct competition with the slight, scoliotic, and pale Robert Cecil. Yet Devereux had also recently incurred royal displeasure by joining a voyage to Portugal in 1589, just in time for William to push his son Robert’s position at court upon Walsingham’s death. Although Elizabeth had agreed to knight Robert Cecil and admit him to the Privy Council, she continued to stall on appointing him—as his father repeatedly petitioned her to do—as her new Secretary, leaving William to continue fulfilling its duties.47 Elizabeth argued that Robert was too young—he was only in his twenties— to assume the title of Principal Secretary and made it clear she would not appoint any other man to the office “during the life of his father.”48 From 1590 until 1596, the Privy Council and court were mired in debate over the identity of the future Principal Secretary, as William Davison had been in disgrace since the Babington Plot and Elizabeth believed the younger Cecil to be too young, yet the queen was not foolish enough to appoint the rash Devereux. While there were rumors that Edward Wotton and Edward Stafford might be viable candidates—Wotton had served as a diplomat and was a gentleman of the privy chamber and Stafford had experience running a small-scale intelligence network that had served in conjunction with Walsingham’s—neither was granted the position.49

Master Secretaries 199 Yet despite Elizabeth’s refusal to grant the office in name, the work was simply too much for William to handle; although, as Andreani explains, the continued production of communiques “at a time when no principal secretary was in place shows that a de facto secretariat was in existence.”50 The undersecretary, Sir John Wolley (who had substituted in daily business for Walsingham in times of illness), remained central to the administration of the ordinary parts of the secretariat, yet Wolley does not seem to have been deeply tied to intelligence.51 The work of spymaster remained in the hands of the Cecils, and, indeed, Plowden notes that before the end of 1590, William was already offloading the work of the secretariat—but most especially that pertaining to intelligence—to his son. 52 Andreani’s study of the secretariat’s papers confirms this through the repeated presence of Robert Cecil’s hand in the letters of the office.53 The routine business of the secretariat included learning the methods and networks of intelligencing from his father, who—after all—had been Walsingham’s teacher, as well. Once he was named a member of the Privy Council, Robert had the political clout as well as the training to enter into spycraft. In mid-1591, William and Robert together employed the services of two English spies: John Fixer and another (distantly related) Cecil named John who went by the alias Snowden.54 Fixer and Snowden provided information on Cardinal William Allen and the Jesuit Robert Parsons; Snowden (who was a priest) had served as Allen’s secretary in Rome and had been sent to England by Parsons when he was captured and interrogated by William Cecil. Snowden provided information that “Persons actually wanted him to arouse English Catholics to support a Spanish invasion and to tell Philip II that large numbers of Catholics in his homeland were ready to do so. [Snowden] knew that was not the case, and he admitted it to Burghley.”55 Snowden was an early Appellant; he believed—and said so to William Cecil—that it was possible for him to be both a loyal Englishman and a Catholic.56 He suggested that by serving as a spy, he would be able to prove his loyalty, and the Cecils agreed, “on the condition that he would not be required to expose anyone who, even if a Catholic or a priest, was not engaged in subversion.”57 Snowden’s appeal for tolerance is interesting from an ideological viewpoint, in that he successfully negotiated to maintain his Catholicism so long as he served England (and Elizabeth) and placed his loyalty to queen and country before his faith in Catholicism and the Pope. Furthermore, he proved to be a reliable long-term agent for Robert Cecil, spending more than a decade in the intelligence service in Scotland “as an adviser to and an agent of certain Roman Catholic noblemen.”58 It was Snowden—with the aid of Fixer—who provided information over the next ten-plus years on James VI’s attempts to gain the support (or at least avoid the enmity) of Philip II in his bid to secure the English throne upon Elizabeth’s death. Unlike his mother, Mary Queen of Scots, James was content to wait for Elizabeth to die of natural causes and simply played on Philip’s hopes that he would convert as a means to keep Scotland secure;

200  Master Secretaries Snowden, working with one of James’s agents, John Ogilvy, not only managed to expose Jesuits in Scotland and Flanders (including the militant Jesuit William Crighton), but also to recruit Ogilvy to work for Robert Cecil by the end of the decade.59 In short, this evidence tells us that Robert was rapidly learning to recruit and maintain intelligence agents, not only in Scotland, but also—as the decade continued—throughout Europe. By the mid-1590s, it was clear that the Cecils’ power—and Robert’s in particular—was inextricably tied to their ability to maintain and recruit intelligence agents, both at home and abroad. This was evident not simply to the Cecils themselves, but also to Devereux, who came to believe that only his own involvement in intelligence would enable him to lay claim to the kind of power that William and Robert Cecil wielded and would, hopefully, secure his own position in Elizabeth’s court. Devereux had failed to accomplish yet another mission by 1592 and was forced to return to England from France—where he had sought to aid Henri IV in the French Wars of Religion—yet again with his proverbial tail between his legs. He took the opportunity to size up Robert Cecil as a rival—specifically, to study his rival’s position at court and do his best to undermine it by cultivating connections of his own.60 Up until this point, although both young men held political aspirations, their rivalry had been largely circuitous; Devereux was determined to achieve military prowess, while Robert, due to his physical disabilities, had contented himself with politics and intelligence. Repeated martial failures led a sulking Devereux to believe that perhaps he must attempt the supposedly “easier” route to fame via political success, and political success—like that achieved by William Cecil and Walsingham—required access to intelligence. Shortly after the decease of Walsingham, Devereux put the first step toward political greatness into place by marrying the late Secretary’s daughter and widow of Philip Sidney, Frances. Whether Devereux thought he might gain connections to Walsingham’s agents through the marriage is unclear, but he certainly saw Frances’s family ties—to Christopher Carleill, Walsingham’s stepson and an explorer in the New World; to the Sidney family through Frances’s first marriage; to merchant and former Lord Mayor George Barne (brother to Walsingham’s first wife)—as a valuable asset to a political career. However, Devereux, as usual, had made a political blunder by not securing the queen’s permission to marry. When Elizabeth learned of the secret marriage, she was incensed, and it “cost him the Queen’s favour” in the midst of his rivalry with the Cecils, a circumstance he had hoped to use to his advantage, but one that he mismanaged through his hasty marriage.61 As would often be the case, Devereux’s advantages were also often the very same characteristics that held him back because of ill timing or poor diplomacy. Devereux also had the benefit of being friends with William Cecil’s nephews Anthony and Francis Bacon, the former of whom was a long-term agent of Walsingham’s. One might assume that the familial relationship between

Master Secretaries 201 the Cecils and the Bacons would dissuade the brothers from supporting Devereux, but Anthony and Francis Bacon had no problem whatsoever in laying the blame for their failure to advance in court at William Cecil’s feet—specifically, on his attempts “to reserve all the sweets of office for his son.”62 Whatever his reasons—and there is some suggestion of William Cecil’s distaste for the brothers’ sexual proclivities—the elder Cecil did not trust Anthony and Francis Bacon. Consequently, when Devereux came to court in 1592 determined to make a name—and a place at court—for himself, the Bacons saw an opportunity for advancement and took it. Anthony Bacon’s experience in espionage also gave Devereux an avenue to undermine Robert’s burgeoning intelligence networks, something he was more than willing to engage as one of many routes to the queen’s favor, fame, and (he assumed) fortune. In order to do so, Devereux needed to display the inadequacy of Robert Cecil’s intelligence network by revealing information that his rival failed to find.63 The plan, insofar as there was a plan, was for Francis Bacon to become Attorney General and for Anthony Bacon to manage diplomatic and foreign correspondence, while Devereux took the place of Walsingham in the queen’s court and Privy Council. The trio began by recruiting spies, beginning with Anthony Standen (posted in Spain) and Antonio Perez (a former Spanish agent).64 Standen, in particular, is a noteworthy recruit, as he had been put off as an agent by Robert Cecil, and his employment by the Essex faction became a political move for both Devereux and Standen himself.65 Anthony Bacon, while no Francis Walsingham, certainly had the potential, the cleverness, and the connections to supply Devereux with the intelligence he desired. With contacts in “Scotland, France, Holland, Italy, Spain, Bohemia, with elaborate daily reports of the sayings of princes, the movements of armies, and the whole complex development of international intrigue,” Anthony Bacon was able to position Devereux as a feasible diplomatic and political rival to the Cecils.66 In fact, he brought in so much intelligence that Devereux was forced to hire four secretaries, including Henry Wotton and Henry Cuffe.67 Anthony Bacon made diplomatic connections with official ambassadors, including Thomas Bodley, who was also providing military intelligence to William Cecil on the Low Countries (and had been in the elder Cecil’s employ since the 1580s).68 More importantly, however, was that Anthony Bacon’s information enabled Devereux to speak with actionable knowledge on foreign affairs, which forced both Elizabeth and the Cecils to take him seriously. Devereux’s target—in addition, of course, to the goal of achieving power and wealth—was Robert Cecil. The assumption, one which was only partly justified, was that Robert was largely undeserving of his father’s (and, by proxy, the queen’s) favor. Certainly, Robert was young for the mantles of power he was assuming, but he was by no means incompetent. Nevertheless, Devereux and the Bacons set out not only to demonstrate their own worth, but, specifically, to discredit Robert Cecil. At the start of

202  Master Secretaries 1593, William fell ill, and Devereux and the Bacons saw an opportunity to press their advantage both in intelligence and at court. Devereux was sworn to the Privy Council and made his move to seize power in the heart of the English government.69 The results were mixed for the Essex and Cecilian factions, but tragic for a number of unwitting participants. Those embroiled in the battle for dominance in Elizabeth’s court had to choose sides, which often resulted in fatalities for those intelligencers unfortunate enough to be in the wrong places at the wrong times. Certainly, risk was a part and parcel of serving in intelligence, yet one might expect that most spies would feel safer in England than abroad, more at ease in an inn amongst their fellows than when sent under an alias to a foreign shore or a Catholic household. If anything, however, four significant incidents in the 1590s show us that London was just as lethal for some of the intelligencers in the Cecilian and Essex factions as Rome or the Netherlands or Spain. William Sterrell and the Failure of Thomas Phelippes Phelippes’s decision to cast his lot with Devereux at the urging of the Bacons should have provided the Essex faction with a considerable espionage advantage. By the spring of 1592, Cecil lost the loyalty of Walsingham’s most valuable agent, Thomas Phelippes.70 Phelippes had the respect of Anthony Bacon, who—moreso than Devereux—would have recognized Phelippes’s value as an intelligencer and cryptographer; Francis Bacon wrote to Phelippes in his recruitment letter that “I know you are very able to make good.”71 Phelippes brought with him William Sterrell, a spy who often went by the alias “Anthony Rivers.” Sterrell was planted as a double agent, working with two couriers, Reinold Bisley and Thomas Cloudesley, in nearly constant contact with the Jesuit Robert Parsons and his faction. The three—Bisley, Cloudesley, and Sterrell—were sent, masquerading as Catholics, to Brussels and Antwerp to provide inside information on the Catholic factions in the Low Countries.72 Devereux was absolutely convinced of the success of the mission and bragged of its outcome before the plan was even put fully into action. The mission’s targets were William Stanley, Hugh Owen, and Henry Walpole—a turncoat commander, a Catholic spy, and a Jesuit. Yet Devereux drastically underestimated the necessary financial outlay required by high-level intelligence and seemed under the impression that he was going to be reimbursed quickly for any expense.73 But such—as Walsingham could have told him— was not the way of the intelligence game, and Sterrell complained frequently to Phelippes about insufficient funding, as well as an unreliable postal service. Phelippes began to suspect Bisley of double-dealing, failing to deliver his messages to Sterrell. As it turns out, Bisley’s loyalties were divided, not between England and her enemies, but between Phelippes and Thomas Sackville, himself a long-standing minor spymaster who had worked for

Master Secretaries 203 and under Walsingham and now held the office of Lord Buckhurst.74 By the summer of 1592, Sterrell was losing control over his own mission, and he fled Flanders, returning to England by September.75 Despite Sterrell’s failure, Bisley and Cloudesley continued to pursue leads abroad, but with little success, leading to the public embarrassment of Devereux, whose promises of results turned Elizabeth’s ire likewise against Sterrell, Phelippes, and Bisley, despite their years of service on her behalf. By 1593 the mission had all but fallen apart, and the spies were being held in disgrace. The problem, of course, was that Devereux had utterly failed to understand the complex and longitudinal nature of intelligence; he expected an instant turn-around on his financial outlay and results he could report immediately to Elizabeth in order to gain her favor. In the queen’s defense, the customary rapid timeline between hearing of a mission and being informed of its outcome were the consequence of careful planning—and timing—by Cecil and Walsingham. Unlike Devereux, both seasoned spymasters had understood that intelligence was a long game; they knew better than to expect results in a few months and had trained Phelippes to invest years before expecting concrete and actionable information. The problem, in this case, was less the fault of the spies than Devereux’s impatience, but it led to Phelippes’s loss of royal favor, and—after the accrual of significant debts—to several stints in prison in 1596 and 1597 and a significant reduction in his involvement in matters of government intelligence, at least for the rest of Elizabeth’s reign.76 The Curious Case of Christopher Marlowe It is difficult to discuss the doings of spies in the 1590s without touching— even if only briefly—on the somewhat suspicious death of the playwright-spy Christopher Marlowe. Likely recruited around 1583 while at Cambridge University, Marlowe had been employed repeatedly by Walsingham in infiltrating the Catholic seminary at Rheims. The travel necessitated by these missions led Cambridge to attempt to expel him, although the Privy Council came to his defense and he was subsequently restored to his place at the university. Later, Marlowe undertook an assignment in Flushing with one Richard Baines that went horribly awry and resulted in both men (along with Gifford Gilbert and Evan Flud) being arrested for coining in 1592.77 Marlowe had also been employed as a messenger-agent to the court of James VI in Scotland, participating in early overtures to the Scottish king as a potential heir to Elizabeth’s throne, a position supported by the Cecils.78 The working hypothesis of several scholars is that Marlowe was one of the intelligencers who—because of his personal connections to William Cecil via Cambridge—fell into the Cecilian network in the early 1590s. Such a link would be unsurprising, too, because Marlowe’s cousin Anthony Marlowe had been closely involved in the New World voyages from his

204  Master Secretaries warehouse in Deptford, a venture to which the Cecils (and Walsingham) were closely tied. Why, exactly, Christopher Marlowe was in Deptford at the end of May 1593 we do not know, although speculations are rife. What we do know to be true is that Marlowe entered a room in a Deptford inn with Ingram Frizer, Robert Poley, and Nicholas Skeres, but did not walk out again. Charles Nicholl suggests that, although Skeres and Poley had been Walsingham’s men prior to 1590, following Walsingham’s death, both agents ended up in the employ of Robert Devereux.79 Skeres, in particular, had served under Devereux in military campaigns in the Netherlands, during which time Poley was also a diplomatic messenger to the same locale. Nicholl hypothesizes that the courtly infighting between the Cecils and Devereux led to a Romeo-and-Juliet-esque brawl between their “servants” (intelligencers) in which Marlowe took on the unfortunate role of Mercutio.80 At the time of Marlowe’s death, Poley was in the immediate employ of the government, having been paid “for carrying of letters in post for Her Majesty’s special and secret affairs of great importance, from the Court at Croydon the viijth of May 1593” to the Netherlands and back; he reported in on the 8th of June, “being in Her Majesty’s service all the aforesaid time,” according to a warrant signed by Sir Thomas Heneage, Treasurer of the Chamber.81 Nicholl further argues that Devereux was behind Marlowe’s assassination since several slanderous works—although whether they were libelous remains an open question—about Marlowe, such as William Vaughan’s The Golden Grove (1600), were published by authors in Devereux’s pocket.82 Whether Marlowe’s death truly was the result of a fight over a bill—as the coroner’s inquest officially claimed—or whether he was assassinated, the facts as they were presented by the government make little sense. While we cannot definitively say whether Marlowe was murdered as a part of an anti-Cecilian ploy or simply because his co-workers were irritated by his bravado and inability to keep his mouth shut and his sword in its sheath, Christopher Marlowe’s death does suggest that the high-level machinations of the Cecils and Devereux had larger ramifications for the rest of the intelligence network and contributed to its fracturing following Walsingham’s demise. The Earl of Essex and the Jewish Doctor After his appointment to the Privy Council, Devereux became the principal advocate for the continuation of war with Spain, opposed—­unsurprisingly— by the Cecils, who sought a peaceful resolution to the longstanding conflict, particularly in the wake of the English victory over the Armada. In part, we must conclude that Devereux’s drive toward militarism sprang from his desire to take a position contrary to the Cecilian faction; but it was also driven, as his history of (failed) military exploits might suggest, by

Master Secretaries 205 a genuinely romanticized view of war. And what better way to encourage continued war against Spain than to demonstrate continued direct Spanish hostilities against England and Elizabeth? Roderigo Lopez, a Jewish physician who had converted to Protestantism and emigrated to England from Portugal in order to escape persecution at the hands of the Inquisition, had been living in London since the start of Elizabeth’s reign and had come to be a trusted member of court and the queen’s royal physician. However, he had earned the enmity of both Anthony Standen and Antonio Perez, new recruits to Devereux’s faction of intelligencers. Both Standen and Perez had ties to Spain and had (or claimed to have) seen Lopez interacting with Antonio de Vega, a Spanish agent in contact with the Spanish ambassador in Paris, Bernardino de Mendoza.83 Lopez was a Cecilian through and through, having many times acted as an intelligencer himself on behalf of both Walsingham and William Cecil. In fact, when Devereux first raised suspicions about Lopez, he was contradicted: “the Cecils knew there was nothing, and Robert reported as much to the Queen,” which led to a firm rebuke of Devereux.84 Whether the Cecils or Devereux were correct remains a point of some speculation, as the evidence—while circumstantial—was suspicious. However, if there is one thing we know about Robert Devereux, it is that he did not take blows to his pride well, and his reaction to being chastised about the Lopez affair was to double down rather than bow out gracefully. He sought to exploit fear—specifically, fear of torture and the rack—as a means to convince some of Lopez’s servants to give supposed evidence against their unfortunate employer.85 One of these servants was Esteban Ferreira, “a Portuguese gentleman, who had been ruined by his adherence to the cause of Don Antonio,” claimant to the Portuguese throne.86 Ferreira, identified by Anthony Bacon, was arrested by Devereux’s men. Two weeks later another of Lopez’s contacts, “Gomez d’Avila, a Portuguese of low birth…was arrested at Sandwich” in possession of a suspicious letter.87 Their testimony unnerved Elizabeth, whose paranoia had been well stoked for decades by both Walsingham and William Cecil himself. Lopez, naturally enough, pled with Elizabeth to free his countrymen. Unfortunately for him, the threat of torture had led d’Avila to confess that he had been “employed to carry letters backwards and forwards between Ferreira in England and another Portuguese, Tinoco, in Brussels, who was in the pay of the Spanish government.”88 Manuel Luis Tinoco, too, was arrested, and letters were found on his person. Although all three prisoners (as well as Lopez) appealed to William Cecil for clemency, the growing evidence of conspiracy meant that Cecil was unwilling to risk his own reputation—and his son’s career prospects—in order to save them. It appears, from the vantage point of hindsight, that Lopez’s involvement in the whole affair was as a double agent, a risky business that, unfortunately for Lopez, resulted in his being executed by the side he seems to have chosen rather than the one he probably intended to betray. Like William

206  Master Secretaries Parry before him, Lopez took risks that left him in a position that posed too great a threat for the Cecils to continue defending him. From Devereux’s interrogations, we know that, at some point, Lopez had promised an agent by the alias of “David” (Manuel de Andrada) that he was prepared to poison the queen.89 It is likely that it was Andrada (and, by proxy, Mendoza) to whom Lopez was lying, but the confessions of his fellow Portuguese and his Spanish contacts were too damning. There was clear evidence that Lopez had been in contact with Spain and Spanish agents, and the extent of these dealings—however Lopez intended them—was too significant for the Cecils to ignore. Lopez, along with Tinoco and Ferreira, was convicted of treason and sentenced to death.90 In the face of both circumstantial evidence and popular opinion, neither Robert nor William Cecil were willing to risk their positions at court for poor Lopez, and, rather than continue to fight Devereux’s ostensible evidence, the doctor was left (literally) to hang, with the Cecilian faction joining their condemnation to Devereux’s, “stealing,” Alford suggests, “the clear and acknowledged glory of his kill.”91 Despite the fact that historical evidence in both the English and Spanish archives has no direct evidence of any such plot, it appears, David Loades observes, “that Lopez was as much a victim of the paranoia of the time as he was of the Earl of Essex,” something the Cecil faction sought to turn to their advantage with more political dexterity than Devereux seemed capable of managing.92 In addition, Peter Lake notes that popular opinion—including accounts of the trials and the production of Christopher Marlowe’s The Jew of Malta—was also weighted heavily against Lopez, essentially forcing the Cecils’ hands.93 Instead of Devereux appearing as the great hero and gaining himself the ability to install his favorites—Anthony and Francis Bacon—in positions of power, the Cecils continued to maintain control, with William brokering the appointment of Edward Coke to the attorney general position Francis Bacon so coveted.94 Nevertheless, the trial and execution of Lopez was not a loss for Devereux and the Bacons. Their supposed discovery of Lopez’s plot (fictional or mistaken as it may have been) meant that they took the perceived lead in the race for superior intelligence in the Elizabethan court, both foreign and domestic. It was a warning to the Cecils that Devereux, for all his childish temper and impulsivity, was to be considered a genuine political adversary. It also meant that they, too, had to turn to a network of intelligencers and agents in an attempt to demonstrate their own worth—or, more specifically, Robert’s worth—to the queen’s government and person. Charles Paget and the Assassination Attempt It was little more than a month after Lopez’s execution, in February of 1594, that the Cecilian intelligence network discovered an assassination plot reminiscent of the plots of the 1570s and 1580s. It, too, involved Spain.

Master Secretaries 207 Late in 1593, Snowden and Charles Paget, one of Cecil’s Catholic agents on the Continent, uncovered a conspiracy to kill the queen. Like Snowden, Paget was an Appellant Catholic, although he was less successful in convincing Elizabeth of his loyalties. He spent the 1590s in France and the Netherlands, providing information to William Cecil and the English government by way of English ambassadors and diplomats.95 This particular assassination attempt involved Sir William Stanley, an English soldier and commander who had turned against England and pledged his loyalty to Spain; an Irish soldier named Patrick O’Collun; another soldier, William Polewheele; agent Giacomo Franceschia (alias “Captain Jacques”); and a Jesuit priest, William Holt.96 O’Collun had been sent as the assassin and was apprehended early in 1594; under interrogation in the Tower, O’Collun gave up Polewheele. Simultaneous to O’Collun’s arrest, his interrogator, Richard Young, was approached by two more members of Stanley’s regiment, John Danyell and Hugh Cahill. Danyell and Cahill confessed a plan to “blow up the Tower of London with its own supplies of gunpowder and brimstone,” in addition to setting fire to homes, ships, inns, and wood stockpiles throughout London.97 Young took his information directly to Cecil. But Devereux was not to be outdone. Standen, still reporting to Anthony Bacon, also provided information on Stanley’s political scheming. Stanley, as it turns out, was a busy man and lived by the maxim of not putting all of his eggs—or assassins—in one basket. He had also offered £40,000 to one Captain Edmund Yorke to kill Elizabeth.98 Yorke subsequently suffered from pangs of conscience (or perhaps the hope that the government would pay him better not to kill the queen) and turned himself in to the Privy Council. Devereux personally undertook Yorke’s interrogation alongside Francis Bacon, revealing a further conspiracy between Stanley, Holt, another soldier named Richard Williams, and Yorke. Yet the fifth in their coterie was none other than Charles Paget, who— alongside Snowden—had already passed information involving Stanley’s machinations to the Cecils. Certainly, Devereux and the Bacons were not inept at the intelligence game, given the fact that they had independently revealed the conspiracy. However, most of Anthony Bacon’s contacts had also been Walsingham’s, and Walsingham’s close relationship to the Cecils meant that many of Walsingham’s contacts had transferred their loyalties to the Cecils; this ultimately seems to have worked against the DevereuxBacon faction.

The War of the Roberts: Devereux versus Cecil Paget, as an example, served as an agent for the Cecils and had access not only to the Yorke conspiracy, but also to Stanley’s other would-be assassin, O’Collun, and the creators of mayhem, Danyell and Cahill. What is more telling than the numbers of foiled conspiracies on the part of either the

208  Master Secretaries Essex or Cecilian factions (at approximately two per), however, is the methodology employed by each. Devereux’s tactics were interrogation, threat, and accusation. He had little in the way of solid evidence for either the Lopez or Yorke conspiracies (although the Yorke conspiracy is historically accepted as credible) and relied upon coercion and force. The Cecils, by contrast, used the more complex—and generally more reliable, if somewhat more time-consuming—methods of the experienced intelligencer: double agents, letters, and confessions exacted not by pain, but by deception and political leverage. A prime example of Robert Cecil’s meticulousness as a government actor was the case of missing cargo on the Madre de Dios in 1594. The ship, a Portuguese carrack, had been captured by Elizabeth’s somewhat hodgepodge navy, “some royal, some privateers,” and the queen placed Robert Cecil in charge of distributing the bounty.99 However, sailors, particularly privateers, were not well known for their willingness to part with plunder, and much of the wealth on the Madre de Dios mysteriously went missing. Robert Cecil recognized that the commission was as much a test as it was a reward and also understood that he—a diminutive scoliotic politician—was unlikely to prevail with treasure-hungry sailors. As P.M. Handover observes, Cecil’s small stature meant that he was unable to physically intimidate or threaten others into compliance, so “he had learnt how to exert the force of his personality.”100 He therefore recruited Sir Walter Raleigh, by convincing Elizabeth to have him released from imprisonment in the Tower of London (for having wed without Elizabeth’s permission), to aid him in recovering the “missing” cargo.101 Between Raleigh’s maritime reputation and Robert Cecil’s forceful persona, he had reacquired most of the cargo before the end of the week, and Robert Cecil personally cross-­ referenced the manifests of more than nine hundred tons of cargo with the materials returned to the crown.102 The episode confirmed Robert Cecil’s dedication, determination, and loyalty, particularly since the level of transparency maintained in the operation made it clear that Cecil himself had not benefitted fiscally from the escapade.103 In short, Robert Cecil was able to demonstrate how his methods were not only more effective, but more profitable to the queen, something that ensured his continued position in Elizabeth’s government and earned him the right to open Parliament the next February as the Minister of the Crown; this success most likely contributed to his elevation to the role of Principal Secretary.104 While one hardly wishes to engage in a debate on the relative ethical merits of coercion and deception versus threat and torture, the significance of the methodological distinctions between the Essex and Cecilian factions is nevertheless worth a brief discussion. For Devereux, intelligence was a means to an end; he employed Anthony Bacon’s skills and expertise as a means of achieving political power. For the Cecils, the use of intelligence was one of many avenues by which they exercised political power in order

Master Secretaries 209 to maintain the stability of the state. Certainly, the Cecils were concerned with ensuring that Robert’s political position be elevated (and permanent), but, nevertheless, their primary focus in making use of intelligence was the intelligence itself, rather than its instrumental value as a means to political advancement. Consequently, the Cecils were more interested in maintaining the status quo of intelligence praxis rather than rushing into situations like the proverbial bull in the china shop, the approach that seems to have been more commonplace among the Essex faction. In essence, William and Robert Cecil understood and sought to maintain the intrinsic value of the intelligence service and its practices to the maintenance of national security and stability. It is, I suggest, this difference in intentionality that ultimately determined the supremacy of the Cecilian faction; while Devereux (and Anthony Bacon) had some success, Devereux’s narrow focus on his own ambitions and his specific desire to be seen in a beneficial light led him to prioritize his own advancement over the information revealed (or not revealed) by the intelligence itself. Certainly, Devereux had short-term success; however, the long-term security of England was ultimately better served by the Cecils’ continuation of Walsingham’s established system. If we compare the sub-networks surrounding the Cecils to those surrounding Devereux and Anthony Bacon, it is immediately apparent which network was the more wide-reaching. This, of course, comes with a considerable caveat: Anthony Bacon’s contacts are by and large not recorded, and so his network would have been much wider than that captured by the documented historical record. While we know he had contacts in particular locations, we don’t have names or dates for those contacts, and they are therefore absent from this social network map for the most part. Of course, the same thing would have been true for the Cecilian network, so we can only hope that the resulting map shows a proportional absence of agents and therefore remains useful. The Essex faction’s network is quite small, albeit implanted in the midst of the larger intelligence service, as we see in Figure 7.4. In the background of this image, we can see the shadow of the rest of the map, but the darker nodes and edges provide the specific direct, known and documented, connections to either Devereux or the Bacons. The known links are few and include (ironically) William Cecil, who was both a familial and professional connection to both Bacons (as well as a Privy Council colleague of Devereux after 1593, although that specific connection is not accounted for in this network). Within the overall network, Devereux has a centrality of 0.338, with an outdegree of 14. Anthony Bacon’s centrality is similar at 0.207, with an outdegree of 6. By comparison, Robert Cecil’s centrality is 0.869 (and William Cecil is at 1), and Snowden’s is at 0.315. The Cecilian image bears this out, as well, in Figure 7.5.

210  Master Secretaries

Figure 7.4  Social network map from 1591 to 1598 with Devereux faction highlighted

It is visually apparent that the two Cecils have more reach—some of it overlapping—than the Essex faction. Certainly, Devereux had considerable influence at court (which is not contained in these images), but his access to the intelligence network relied principally on Anthony Bacon, who, although a skilled intelligencer, was not an established and experienced spymaster. Bacon lacked the connections and the authority of the Cecils—particularly William—and therefore could not provide the depth or breadth of intelligence to Devereux that was being given to the Cecils. When we add to this Devereux’s temper and impetuousness—for all that his beauty allowed him to become one of Elizabeth’s favorites—it is unsurprising that the Essex faction did not ultimately prevail. By the end of 1594, the intelligence network had become violent and fractious, with spies attacking (as in the case of Marlowe) one another and agents (like Lopez) being sacrificed on the altar of politics. The network had been, Alford notes, damaged by the Cecil-Essex conflict, which had “corrupted any pretence at measuring foreign intelligence accurately and intelligently.”105

Master Secretaries 211

Figure 7.5  Social network map from 1591 to 1598 with Cecilian faction highlighted

“Serve God by Serving of the Queen”: The Principal Secretaries Cecil William Cecil’s health continued to flag, and he was absent more frequently from court than he was present in the final years of his life. However, his influence persisted, as he dictated orders and advice across the Privy Council and, especially, to and through Robert. By the end of the Lopez affair, William suffered increasingly with pain, tremors, and other infirmities of old age. In 1595, after Robert shared one of his father’s letters with Elizabeth, the queen “saith that she will have a battle with my fingers,” William wrote to his son.106 Through his letters, William taught Robert the nuances of courtly navigation, the balance of intelligencing, and—most importantly—the careful management of their often-volatile monarch. Although the Cecils had maintained control over more agents, Devereux and Anthony Bacon had a stronger foothold in foreign territories, so much so that Devereux employed four secretaries capable of translation as well as transcription.107 Through Anthony Bacon’s Spanish contacts, specifically a man named Anthony Rolston, Devereux had obtained intelligence that led

212  Master Secretaries him, in a move that was significantly more to his detriment than his benefit, to wheedle a promise of joint command (with Lord Admiral Charles Howard) of an expedition to surveil the coast of Spain in 1595, departing in June of 1596.108 Despite their joint command, “the preparations were marred and delayed by their constant bickering,” a display of immaturity that did little to endear Devereux to his mistress.109 On the same day that Devereux set sail from London, Elizabeth named Robert Cecil to the position of Principal Secretary, clearly indicating which of the two Roberts was destined for political authority. There was yet another blow to Devereux’s bid to gain power. Although he had permission to depart, he had concealed from the queen his intention to take Cadiz and assault Faro.110 Furthermore, his ostensibly triumphant return was met with scorn; Elizabeth immediately demanded financial restitution for the £50,000 invested in the venture and expected that Devereux would compensate her for this investment—yet when he returned, he brought no plunder with him, instead demanding additional funding to cover expenses and the wages of the sailors.111 Devereux proved himself an additional burden when Cecilian agents searched one of the returning vessels and discovered “plunder from Cadiz, clearly intended for Essex’s private profit,” a marked contrast to Robert Cecil’s behavior concerning the Madre de Dios.112 In addition, Devereux had conferred multiple knighthoods while on the expedition, which Elizabeth perceived as a direct threat, since these men had sworn their fealty to Devereux rather than to herself.113 Devereux thus found himself something of an impoverished pariah, owing his monarch a total sum of £52,000, being scorned for his actions, and facing an even more powerful Robert Cecil, now Principal Secretary. With Devereux effectively (for the time being) silenced and Robert in the position of Secretary, all seemed to be going according to the Cecilian plan… until it became clear that Spain intended to launch another Armada, information confirmed by Rolston (Anthony Bacon’s contact). Without Devereux’s (and Bacon’s) Spanish connections, Robert Cecil’s network failed him; although he received a report of the Armada’s launch in October of 1596, his Spanish agent became trapped in Bayonne, unable to return to England to inform Robert Cecil that the Armada had encountered—again—disastrous weather off Cape Finisterre and returned home broken.114 Several (very stressful) weeks passed before the agent was able to pass on his news. With the secretariat came full authorized control over the intelligence service, yet the network had been fractured and turned against itself by the Elizabethan court’s characteristic political infighting—particularly that between the Cecils and Devereux—in the years leading up to 1596. Robert relied on the aid of William Waad (future lieutenant of the Tower of London); Thomas Phelippes (Walsingham’s codebreaker); and one of his family’s merchant connections, Sir Horatio Palavicino, to rebuild the foreign network, although Phelippes was treated with considerable caution, given

Master Secretaries 213 his temporary alliance with the Essex faction.115 In the process, they purged disloyal double agents—such as Henri Chasteau-Martin, who was found to be in the employ of Spain—and reestablished lost connections through merchant lines. Among those who helped to rebuild the networks was the agent in Spain, Philip Honiman, brother to yet another merchant-agent, Thomas Honiman.116 The Cecils managed to reconnect at least some of the lost intelligence pathways, although they were unable to recreate the depth or extent of intelligence managed by Walsingham. A comparison between the statistical shapes of the Cecilian networks from 1591 to 1595 and from 1595 to 1598 demonstrates ample evidence of the post-Devereux purge. From 1591 to 1595, there were 149 nodes (308 edges) in the network, as shown in Figure 7.6. In the first half of the 1590s, the network demonstrates William Cecil’s continued dominance over intelligence. Robert Cecil’s centrality of 0.383 is the second highest, although only marginally above Devereux’s 0.212 (Phelippes and Elizabeth hover in between at 0.312 and 0.361, respectively). In terms of outdegree, William Cecil is also the highest, at 56, with

Figure 7.6  Social network map from 1591 to 1595

214  Master Secretaries

Figure 7.7  Social network map from 1595 to 1598

Robert the second highest at 22 (Elizabeth is tied for second highest, also at 22, while Devereux is at 10). The network clearly centers around William Cecil, although there is nevertheless considerable activity around Robert Cecil and Devereux. From 1595 to 1598 (Figure 7.7), however, it is clear that while Devereux continues to more or less hold steady in terms of outdegree (at 13), the network itself is shifting into Robert Cecil’s control, as his outdegree rises to 40. That said, both men rise in centrality, thanks to the purgation of a considerable number of agents, as the map shows. The total number of nodes in the map drops to 125 (250 edges), meaning that the centrality of the remaining spymasters (William and Robert Cecil and Devereux) increases. William Cecil remains the most central, but Robert’s centrality rises sharply to 0.969, while Devereux’s increases less significantly to 0.360. Visually, however, it is clear that Robert Cecil is assuming more prominence among the remaining agents following his official appointment to the secretariat.117

Master Secretaries 215 By the end of his tenure as spymaster and Secretary, Robert would have agents in Bayonne, the Bay of Biscay, Lisbon, Spain, Rome, Scotland, the Netherlands, Zeeland, Germany, Denmark, and Sweden.118 Although it would be a few years yet before Devereux’s final fall from royal favor, Robert Cecil’s promotion to the position of Principal Secretary effectively dashed the Essex faction’s hopes of assuming control over the Privy Council, at least for the time being. Yet the final years of the 1590s brought another sea change to the Elizabethan regime: the loss of the man who had been at its very center since before the queen even took the throne. William Cecil revised his will on 1 March 1598, distributing his properties to his sons (Burghley House to his elder son, Thomas, who would become Lord Burghley, and his other properties to Robert, along with his vast collection of state papers) and relatives.119 In July, he wrote to Robert, telling him to “Serve God by serving of the Queen, for all other service is indeed bondage to the Devil.”120 It was advice that Robert took to heart. William Cecil died at Cecil House on 4 August 1598 at approximately seven in the morning, surrounded—according to his biographer—by his children and at peace with his maker.121 In the weeks following, Robert Cecil, now arguably the most powerful man in England, received letters of condolence from most of the magnates of the English court. Robert, being his father’s son, kept meticulous records of them all. For Elizabeth, William’s decease marked the death of her oldest and most trusted confidant. For the intelligence network, it was the loss of the man who had been responsible for its inception and who had remained present—if not most prominent—throughout its entirety. The death of William Cecil was the end of an era, both figuratively and literally, as it was, in essence, the beginning of the end of the Elizabethan regime. Although Robert Cecil assumed his father’s mantle, he remained—at least for the time being and in the mind of his queen—in William’s much larger and more impressive shadow. Yet Robert Cecil would be responsible for perhaps a far greater singular feat than his father had ever been: it would be Robert who would preside over the final fall of his rival, Robert Devereux, and the transition of power to a new monarch at the end of the Tudor period. Although his network of agents may never have been as vast as that managed by Francis Walsingham, the stakes of the intelligence game in the final years of Elizabethan rule were incredibly high, as everyone— both at home and abroad—sought the answer to the question of who would succeed the Virgin Queen.

Notes 1. Simon Adams, Alan Bryson, and Mitchell Leimon, “Walsingham, Sir Francis (c. 1532–1590), Principal Secretary,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, (Oxford University Press, 2009), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/ 10.1093/ref:odnb/9780198614128.001.0001/odnb-9780198614128-e-28624

216  Master Secretaries 2. Wallace T. MacCaffrey, “Cecil, William, First Baron Burghley (1520/21– 1598), Royal Minister,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/4983 3. Adams, Bryson, and Leimon, “Walsingham.” 4. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 730. 5. Read, 2:703; Stephen Alford, Burghley: William Cecil at the Court of Elizabeth I (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 316. 6. We know both Walsingham and Cecil employed several women as agents, although they frequently go unnamed—“Mistress Roures,” the wife of one David Roures, being a notable exception. She was employed in May of 1590 with a sensitive financial matter and may already have been on Walsingham’s books as an agent (Stephen Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I (New York: Bloomsbury, Inc., 2012), 265). One might also feel justified in speculating that Frances Walsingham (Francis Walsingham’s daughter) might have been familiar with her father’s work, given her marriage to several other men tied to diplomacy and espionage (first to Philip Sidney, in Paris with Walsingham at the time of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre; then to Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, who himself would attempt to become a somewhat successful spymaster after her father’s death). 7. John Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England (New York: Pegasus Books, 2012), 183. 8. Cooper, 47. 9. Cooper, 183. 10. William Camden, The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess Elizabeth, Late Queen of England Containing All the Most Important and Remarkable Passages of State, Both at Home and Abroad (so Far as They Were Linked with English Affairs) During Her Long and Prosperous Reign, Fourth Edition (London: M. Flesher, 1688), 444, http://newman.richmond. edu:2048/ login?url=https://www.proquest.com / books/ history-mostrenowned-victorious-princess/docview/2240956365/se-2?accountid=14731 11. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 202. 12. Cooper, 202. 13. Robert Hutchinson, Elizabeth’s Spy Master (London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006), 17. 14. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 2:238. 15. Nicholas Berden to Francis Walsingham, “[B.] to Sir Fr. Walsyngham,” November 23, 1586, SP 12/195 f.28, Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1581–1590. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GA LE|MC4304203597&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Calendar 16. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 167. 17. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 270. 18. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 2:370. 19. Cooper, The Queen’s Agent, 175. 20. Conyers Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham and the Policy of Queen Elizabeth, vol. 3 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1925), 370. 21. Russell’s name is recorded differently in different locations: either Gregory Russell or Roland Russell (Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England, 276). Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 3:410.

Master Secretaries 217 22. The use of a Force Atlas model filter (in Gephi) places the less important nodes at a more significant distance from those that are more central. 23. For full statistical comparisons, see the Appendix. 24. A. H., “To the Reader,” in The Compleat Ambassador: Or Two Treaties of the Intended Marriage of Qu: Elizabeth of Glorious Memory Comprised in Letters of Negotiation of Sir Francis Walsingham, Her Resident in France, ed. Dudly Digges (London: Thomas Newcomb for Gabriel Bedell and Thomas Collins, 1655), 4, http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/login? url=https://www.proquest.com/books/compleat-ambassador-two-treatiesintended/docview/2240916884/se-2?accountid=14731 25. Speculation suggests that he had diabetes, based on symptoms such as poor vision, difficulty urinating, and frequent general malaise (Cooper, The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England, 71). 26. Cooper, 92–3. 27. Adams, Bryson, and Leimon, “Walsingham.” 28. Camden, History of Elizabeth, 444. 29. Read, Mr Secretary Walsingham, 1925, 3:448. 30. John Michael Archer, Sovereignty and Intelligence: Spying and Court Culture in the English Renaissance (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 45. 31. Alford, The Watchers, 264. 32. Alford, 264. 33. Alford, 18. 34. “The Names of Foreign Places from Whence Mr. Secretary Walsyngham Was Accustomed to Receive His Advertisements of the State of Public Affairs” (Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1581–1590, ed. R. Lemon. London, England: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, & Roberts, 1865, May 7, 1590), SP 12/232 f.20, Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1581–1590. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2020, http://go.gale.com.newman. richmond.edu:2048/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304206391&v=2.1&u=vic_ uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar. 35. “The Names of Foreign Places from Whence Mr. Secretary Walsyngham Was Accustomed to Receive His Advertisements of the State of Public Affairs.” 36. Alford, The Watchers, 264. 37. Alford, 265. 38. For specific node counts, see the table in the Appendix. 39. Alford, Burghley, 315. 40. For the sake of clarity, I will henceforth refer to the two Cecils by their first names for the rest of this chapter. 41. Angela Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office: The Production of State Papers, 1590–1596, Routledge Studies in Renaissance and Early Modern Worlds of Knowledge 1 (London: Routledge, 2017), 1. 42. Stephen Alford, London’s Triumph: Merchant Adventurers and the Tudor City (London: Penguin Random House UK, 2017), 193. 43. There is some contention over the authorship of the pamphlet, which claims to be by “an Inglishe Intelligencer as he passed throughe Germanie towards Italie” and appears in the EEBO catalog as authored by “Robert Parsons,” but which Alford and Rudolph Fiehler both reasonably attribute to Verstegan (Richard Verstegan, An Aduertisement Written to a Secretarie of My L. Treasurers of Ingland, by an Inglishe Intelligencer as He Passed Throughe Germanie Towardes Italie Concerninge an Other Booke Newly Written in

218  Master Secretaries Latin, and Published in Diuerse Languages and Countreyes, against Her Maiesties Late Proclamation, for Searche and Apprehension of Seminary Priestes, and Their Receauers, Also of a Letter Vvritten by the L. Treasurer in Defence of His Gentrie, and Nobility, Intercepted, Published, and Answered by the Papistes (Antwerp, Belgium, 1592), http://search.proquest.com/eebo/ docview/2240870523/citation/9679657BE6774FC3PQ/1; Rudolph Fiehler, “Burghley’s Commonwealth,” The Mississippi Quarterly 14, no. 1 (1960): 20–32). 44. Verstegan, Burghley’s Commonwealth, 15, 17, 42. 45. Alford, Burghley, 316. 46. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 113. 47. Plowden, 112. 48. Qtd. in David Loades, The Cecils: Privilege and Power behind the Throne (Kew: The National Archives, 2007), 198. 49. Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office, 39. 50. Andreani, 8. 51. Andreani, 40. 52. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 112. 53. Andreani, The Elizabethan Secretariat and the Signet Office, 88. 54. For the ease of readers’ sanity, I will call him Snowden (because two Cecils is already too many). 55. James Edward McGoldrick, “Cecil [Alias Snowden], John (1558–1626), Roman Catholic Priest and Spy,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/ 4978. 56. The Appellants and the Archpriest Controversy will be discussed at greater length in Chapter Eight. 57. McGoldrick, “Cecil [Alias Snowden].” 58. McGoldrick. 59. McGoldrick. 60. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 114. 61. P.M. Handover, The Second Cecil: The Rise to Power 1563–1604 of Sir ­Robert Cecil, Later First Earl of Salisbury (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1959), 74. 62. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 115. 63. Loades, The Cecils, 199. 64. The Essex faction was unofficial and largely underground, and thus very few records of its networks survive. We know some of the history of Anthony Bacon’s contacts, but it is impossible to tell which of them chose to follow him into Devereux’s service and which maintained their ties to Cecil… and which abandoned the intelligence venture altogether. 65. Loades, The Cecils, 200. 66. Lytton Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex: A Tragic History (London: Chatto & Windus, 1928), 48. 67. Strachey, 48. 68. Strachey, 49; Robyn Adams, “Sixteenth-Century Intelligencers and Their Maps,” Imago Mundi 63, no. 2 (2011): 206. 69. Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex, 46. 70. Presumably, this also meant that he lost the services of Mary Phelippes as well, although we do not have evidence of her defection. 71. Francis Bacon to Thomas Phelippes, “Francis Bacon to Thos. Phelippes,” April 1591, SP 12/238 f.206, The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online,

Master Secretaries 219 Gale, Cengage Learning, 2022, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/ mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304380163&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL& sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript. 72. Alford, The Watchers, 286. 73. Alford, 287. 74. Sackville would assume the title of Lord Treasurer upon William Cecil’s death and was already a powerful member of the Privy Council. 75. Alford, The Watchers, 290. 76. Phelippes would eventually return to favor during James’s reign, coming to an understanding with Robert Cecil during which time he confessed to working intensively with Sterrell and the Catholics on behalf of England. 77. Matthew N. Proser, “Christopher Marlowe,” in Christopher Marlowe, ed. Robert A. Logan, The University Wits (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2011), 28. 78. Some have suggested that although Marlowe may have been engaged to woo, as it were, James, he himself held a different opinion of the Scottish king. Marlowe’s Edward II, in particular, has been read as a critique of James and a potential warning about his propensity toward favorites. 79. Charles Nicholl, The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe (New York: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1992), 29. 80. Perhaps, indeed, Marlowe served as a model for Shakespeare’s later flamboyant character, stabbed in a brawl and exiting the stage with a spectacular curse “on both your houses.” 81. Nicholl, The Reckoning, 32. 82. Nicholl, 79. 83. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 116–7. 84. Alan Gordon Smith, William Cecil: The Power Behind Elizabeth, Reprint (2004) (Honolulu: University Press of the Pacific, 1934), 249. 85. Smith, 249. 86. Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex, 69. 87. Strachey, 70. 88. Strachey, 72. 89. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 117. 90. One of the more amusing historical anecdotes that accompanied the execution of Lopez, Ferreira, and Tinoco is that after his compatriots were executed, Tinoco (after being cut down from hanging) revived enough to attack his executioner in an attempt to be killed quickly rather than being drawn and quartered. Sadly, despite his valiant effort, he was unsuccessful. 91. Alford, Burghley, 319. 92. Loades, The Cecils, 199. 93. Peter Lake, Bad Queen Bess? Libels, Secret Histories, and the Politics of Publicity in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth I (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 467. 94. Smith, William Cecil, 250. 95. Peter Holmes, “Paget, Charles (c. 1546–1612), Roman Catholic Conspirator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/21103. We will discuss the Appellant Controversy in Chapter Eight. 96. Alford, The Watchers, 301. 97. Alford, 301. 98. Alford, 302. 99. Loades, The Cecils, 200–1. 100. Handover, The Second Cecil, 87.

220  Master Secretaries 101. Loades, The Cecils, 201. 102. Loades, 201. Loades estimates that Robert Cecil and Raleigh had probably recovered “at least £10,000” (Loades, 201). Handover explains that among the objects restored were “150 diamonds, one truck contained a chain of orient pearls, two chains of gold, four ‘very great pearls,’ and crystal spoons and forks set with gold and precious stones” (Handover, The Second Cecil: The Rise to Power 1563–1604 of Sir Robert Cecil, Later First Earl of Salisbury, 87). 103. Loades, The Cecils, 201. 104. Handover, The Second Cecil, 94. 105. Alford, The Watchers, 309. 106. Qtd. in Alford, Burghley, 323. 107. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 121. 108. Alford, The Watchers, 309. It is worth noting that Howard was a good deal less pleased than the queen with Devereux’s participation. As Lytton Strachey notes, Howard and Devereux fought nearly constantly, about “everything, from the rival claims of the army and the navy to their own places in the table of precedence” (Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex: A Tragic History, 101). 109. Loades, The Cecils, 204. 110. It took only fourteen hours for Howard and Devereux to take Cadiz (Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex: A Tragic History, 102). 111. Strachey, 109. 112. Loades, The Cecils, 205. 113. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 123. 114. Alford, The Watchers, 310. 115. It is likely that if Thomas Phelippes was employed by the Cecils, so, too, was his wife, Mary. 116. Alford, The Watchers, 310–1. 117. For full metrics on both maps, see the Appendix. 118. Alford, The Watchers, 312. 119. Alford, Burghley, 328. 120. Qtd. in Alford, The Watchers, 270. 121. Alford, Burghley, 331.

8

Kingmaker and Spymaster, 1599–1603

The close of the sixteenth century brought with it significant social, political, and spiritual anxieties. Millenarian movements proclaimed that 1600 would mark the beginning of the End Times, while England sought to determine a solution to the very real possibility of a succession crisis and interregnum upon the death of its aging queen. Plague once again struck in 1601 and remained a nearly constant source of fear and mortality in London for the better part of the next decade.1 With the decease of William Cecil, arguably the most powerful man in England, in 1598, the Privy Council found itself a bit adrift, despite the efforts of Robert Cecil, Principal Secretary since 1596. The younger Cecil had assumed his father’s role in government and intelligence, cultivating the foreign and domestic networks while also attempting to keep only agents loyal to himself—in opposition to the court faction headed by Robert Devereux and Anthony Bacon. Yet the younger Cecil was incapable of matching his father’s expertise and certainly wasn’t able to cultivate the kind of complex network that had been in place for most of Elizabeth’s reign under Walsingham. By the end of the 1590s, therefore, the intelligence network looked very different than it had at the decade’s beginning, having shrunk in size and efficacy in the wake of the deaths of both Walsingham and Cecil and been divided between the competing claims of the rising younger members of the court. With Elizabeth aging into her sixties, intelligence became increasingly focused on the future of England and who would—and who would not—inherit the throne. It became vital to individual intelligencers to choose the correct factions, both within Elizabeth’s court and, even more importantly, in terms of her yet-unknown successor. In addition, the question of the nation’s religious future remained uncertain; more than one of the potential heirs to the English throne either professed or had flirted with Catholicism, and the Jesuit faction on the Continent continued to press for a Catholic successor. At the same time, within England, the question of religious toleration was becoming increasingly prominent as English Catholics sought to be allowed freedom of conscience. When William Cecil died in August of 1598, the Archpriest Controversy DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-9

222  Kingmaker and Spymaster was already underway, and the continued pleas of the Appellants—some of whom were active agents in Cecil’s intelligence network—­led to something of a national crisis of conscience. It therefore fell to Robert Cecil to bring England into a new century, to negotiate the religious peace, to manage the continuing fractiousness of the Privy Council—specifically, the Devereux faction—and, most importantly, to put into place a plan for the inevitable transition of power upon Elizabeth’s death. The five years from 1599 to 1604 were thus characterized by considerable anxiety throughout the realm, but particularly at court, as courtiers desperately sought to align themselves with the faction or factions that would most likely back the “winning” royal candidate. Yet it was also a time when the rising middle classes—specifically, the merchant classes from which Cecil drew many of his agents—were becoming increasingly powerful within the city of London, despite the strains of the times. 2 Ultimately, Cecil would be singularly responsible for making the “right” choice, orchestrating a surprisingly smooth succession in spite of the myriad stumbling blocks that stood between the new king—James I— and the throne. And he did so, at least in part, through the mastery of intelligence.

Intelligence in the Last Year of the Sixteenth Century The intelligence network of 1599, although much smaller than its precursors under William Cecil and Francis Walsingham, was nevertheless organized and structured in much the same way it had been for the forty years previous. With its primary spymaster—now Robert Cecil—at its center, most agents reported directly to Cecil, with only a few subsidiary agents running minor networks of their own, such as that managed by Snowden during the Archpriest Controversy. Cecil, like his father and Walsingham, was meticulous about record-keeping and just as deliberate about destroying documents that might put the kingdom and queen at risk, leaving us, as historians, without significant evidence of intelligence work. Nevertheless, what documentation we do have points to a centralized network with close ties to the crown. It is also worth noting that despite the close familial ties between Robert and his father, the intelligence network shifted abruptly between those agents active in 1598 and those active in 1599, as is seen in Figures 8.1 and 8.2. The network in 1598 is visually bifurcated between Robert and William Cecil, with each at the center of a series of spokes. Even before his father’s death—and given that William was ill in the final year of his life—Robert was the most central to the network (with a centrality of 1.0), although William was not far behind him at 0.886. Elizabeth, likely in part as the result of increasing tensions in her court, falls third at 0.499, with Devereux at a much lower level of 0.249 (although still well above the average of 0.125).

Kingmaker and Spymaster 223

Figure 8.1  Social network map from 1598

The shift in 1599 with William’s death shows a drop in active agents from 104 to 85. The younger Cecil obviously retained his centrality to the network, although the numbers don’t much change other than the removal of William, with Elizabeth’s centrality at 0.489 and Devereux’s at 0.199 (slightly lower because of the removal of his familial connections to William). The networks themselves are similar in structure, both with a diameter of 7 and a similar average degree (1.721 in 1598, 1.635 in 1599), as well as similar APLs (3.101 in 1598, and 3.042 in 1599). Robert Cecil’s network has a higher clustering coefficient, at 0.355, in comparison with 0.230 in 1598, which can be attributed to a cluster of 19 agents who disappeared from the network with William’s death. In both networks, the major players, Robert Cecil, Elizabeth, Phelippes (with a centrality of 0.469 in 1598 and 0.387 in 1599—important to note because at the time Phelippes was working for Devereux), William Sterrell

224  Kingmaker and Spymaster

Figure 8.2  Social network map from 1599

(also working for Devereux, at 0.249 in 1598 and 0.305 in 1599), William Waad (0.418 in 1598 and 0.318 in 1599), and Snowden (0.244 in 1598, right below Devereux, and 0.146 in 1599), remain consistent, even if their centrality drops with the loss of William Cecil. What this tells us is that while William Cecil had a set of about twenty agents who either chose not to continue under Robert or whose contact information was lost, most of the prominent figures in English intelligence remained in play in the transition of power from the elder to the younger Cecil. We also see, however, that although Devereux claimed to have an intelligence network of his own, it was run, properly speaking, by William Sterrell and Thomas Phelippes, despite scholarly and historical claims that it was centralized around Devereux and the Bacons (Anthony and Francis). While Anthony Bacon may have been responsible for managing Sterrell, at least to some extent, the network itself demonstrates that Sterrell and Phelippes were behind only the Cecils and Elizabeth in terms

Kingmaker and Spymaster 225 of centrality to the network and were, therefore, more important in intelligence terms than either Bacon brother. The network also reveals Devereux’s waning power, even before Devereux himself was aware of it. In 1599, Devereux headed north to Ireland, removing himself physically from being able to manage intelligence, although he had long left that to his agents, like Phelippes and Anthony Bacon. Bacon was falling out of favor, and we find his centrality in 1599 down near the bottom at 0.065, as Devereux increasingly relied on Phelippes and Sterrell. Phelippes presents a unique case; despite his involvement with Devereux, his skills as an intelligencer likely kept him alive and enough in the government’s favor that even when Devereux fell in 1601, Phelippes survived and managed to hang on to his position in the government (at least after a stint in the Tower subject to Robert Cecil’s interrogations). This being said, we must also remember that Cecil, despite the fact that he was virtually raised at the teat of government, was still a young man in a regime designed by and for ministers and a monarch a generation older. He was not—much as Elizabeth may have wished he were so—Francis Walsingham and did not have Walsingham’s extensive influence or reach. Cecil may have been a skilled politician, but he lacked the international and mercantile connections of Walsingham, and most of his agents had been— and would continue to be—cultivated in England rather than poached from abroad. This is not to say, of course, that Cecil’s intelligence network was ineffective or entirely domestic; the opposite is in fact the case. Cecil’s network managed not only to protect Elizabeth from attempts on her life, such as the attempted assassination by Stanley et al in 1594/5, but also to successfully conduct the transition of the English throne from one dynasty to the next, no mean feat to have accomplished. As Peter Lake and Michael Questier have noted, it has been tempting not to take too seriously the feverish positioning exercises that the prospect of the queen’s death elicited from contemporaries and thus to underestimate the destabilizing effects on the early years of James’s reign of the manoeuvres and expedients that immediately preceded his accession.3 The reality of the years leading up to Elizabeth’s death and James’s accession, however, was fraught, with the English government concerned about both civil war and the potential for invasion, to say nothing of the lessovert maneuvering happening at court in order to secure the favor of the “right” candidate for succession. Coupled with concerns over continued religious strife were economic changes and threats to the established social hierarchy. London and its rapidly expanding merchant class were thriving, as were the artisans, farmers, and shepherds whose raw goods—malt, wool, ore—supplied the increasing

226  Kingmaker and Spymaster mercantile economy.4 The landed gentry, however, found themselves struggling, the rents drawn from their lands unable to meet the costs of maintaining court life. Many of these landholders were among those who were particularly “economically hard-pressed, and their desire to improve their condition had been one of the incentives” for rebellion.5 While, fiscally, the middling classes were well situated—and better positioned than ever to be of service in gathering international intelligence—the status quo of landed power was changing, and change produced uncertainty and instability in the very government whose restructuring around information-as-power had spurred part of that change. In addition, of course, to the question of the person to succeed Elizabeth was the perennial preoccupation of the English government with the question of religion. With continued pressure from the Jesuits and Spain for a Catholic successor, Elizabeth and the Privy Council remained keenly interested in the suppression of Catholicism. Yet there were also concerns about the increasing presence in general and at court of the Puritan faction, particularly among crypto-Catholics and the more traditional adherents of the Church of England. According to Catholic sources, “Catholics were recognizable by their ideological solidarity but, despite the extreme bitterness of the division between Protestant and puritan, it was puritanism which appeared to be on the up, both within the privy council and in London.”6 This led to the fear that Elizabeth’s successor would be not only Protestant, but—worse, in the Catholic viewpoint—more sympathetic to Puritanism and thus even less willing to tolerate the presence of Catholics (Recusant or otherwise) in England. Adding additional complication to this already chaotic religious stew was the ongoing Archpriest (or Appellant) Controversy, a movement among loyal English Catholics that included two members of Cecil’s intelligence network, Charles Paget and Snowden.7 The Appellant Controversy increased tensions between England and the Jesuit mission and introduced potential complications into the intelligence network, as it had the potential to pit Catholic agents—like Snowden and Paget—against their Protestant compatriots; yet it also drew a definitive line between spiritual Catholics, who maintained political loyalty to England, and political Catholics, who laid claim to papal supremacy.

Toleration, Appellants, and the Archpriest Controversy The origins of the Archpriest Controversy and the arguments of the Appellants had their roots in the earliest years of Elizabeth’s reign and the religious settlements largely orchestrated by William Cecil. Yet they reached a head in 1598 and continued into the early seventeenth century, playing a significant role in Robert Cecil’s intelligence work leading up to the end of Elizabeth’s reign. As Lake and Questier have argued, the Archpriest Controversy was concerned with religious conflict, specifically,

Kingmaker and Spymaster 227 with the consequences of “religious pluralism on the conduct of politics and the constitution and maintenance of (both political and ecclesiastical) order and about the appropriate limits to, and proper conduct of, public debate.”8 Not unlike the earlier Marprelate Controversy, the Archpriest Controversy drew the public and the government into the debate about religious practice versus religious politics and laid the ideological foundations for the rise of secular government in the separation of church and state (which would not, of course, appear in any practical sense until centuries later). But, also like the Marprelate Controversy, the Archpriest Controversy specifically raised very public questions about the difference between private religious practice and bringing the ramifications of that practice into the public political sphere. At the center of the Archpriest Controversy lay the notion of liberty of conscience, which, for early moderns, was understood as the ability to maintain certain “fundamental moral principles” tied to one’s natural understanding of goodness.9 The concept of “liberty” drew on the notion of “the free decision” for each individual citizen reliant upon a “distinction in the order of society between what was the Queen’s and what was one’s own.”10 Therefore, for English Catholics, liberty of conscience meant that they sought to practice their private religious devotions without interference from or in the workings of the state. Or so went the claim. The difficulty with Catholic liberty of conscience, of course, was the fact that Catholic doctrine required submission to the Papacy, and the Papacy claimed superiority to earthly monarchs—to say nothing of the specific decrees issued against Elizabeth (as well as England) throughout the sixteenth century. It was therefore believed—and repeatedly stated—by the English government that it simply was not possible for avowed Catholics to also maintain loyalty to the state and crown, since their religion essentially required them to place the Pope before their queen. Some Catholics— including the priests who initiated the Archpriest Controversy as well as Catholic intelligence agents directly employed by the government (Snowden was both)—attempted to argue otherwise. Those Catholics who claimed loyalty to England first, whether clerical or lay, argued for “two circuits of loyalty: that which bound their dependants [sic] to themselves, and that which bound themselves to the queen,” drawing a sharp distinction between their religious and political loyalties.11 It was therefore irrelevant that the Pope—in the 1570 Regnans in Excelsis— had absolved them of their loyalty to the queen, because, they claimed, they compartmentalized religion from political duty. The government, however, could not simply accept this, given the repeated activity of other Catholics, who did not make that distinction, to remove Elizabeth from the throne, including (but certainly not limited to) the militant Jesuit Robert Parsons. The argument at the core of the Archpriest Controversy was an ideological one about spheres of influence: whether one was capable of distinguishing between spiritual and secular, and, if so, which of the two ought to take

228  Kingmaker and Spymaster supremacy in the event of conflict. The Appellants argued that they placed the state before the church, while the government was concerned principally with those who placed the church before the state. Both sides, of course, existed, and are illustrated in the so-termed Wisbech Stirs of the late 1590s that directly produced the Archpriest Controversy. Yet the conflict between secular priests and Jesuits goes back to the end of the 1570s and the conflict in the English Roman College between the Jesuit superiors and many of the English students.12 This conflict—which is discussed rather one-sidedly in Anthony Munday’s English Romayne Lyfe— concerned the influence of Spain and the Jesuit order over the education of English priests in Rome, resulting in an outbreak of unrest in the English College that may (or may not) have been exacerbated by Munday and other English agents planted there in 1579. Concerns about undue Spanish and Jesuit influence produced a long-standing division within English Catholics, one that the Elizabethan government—under the guidance of both William and Robert Cecil—was keen to exploit to its advantage. By 1598, then, there was already distrust between the secular English priests and the Jesuits, and those imprisoned at Wisbech fell into open conflict, each side accusing the other of attempting to co-opt power. Those who would become known as the Appellants claimed that the Jesuits were attempting to push the agenda of Philip II (and Philip III after his father’s death) and Robert Parsons, suggesting that the Jesuits sought to prepare England for another invasion in order to install the Infanta Isabella as Elizabeth’s successor.13 Specifically, the Appellants echoed the governmental stance of linking Jesuits to treason, as Appellant Christopher Bagshaw explicitly tied the problems at Wisbech to the arrival of Jesuit William Weston after the Babington Plot.14 The Jesuits countered with accusations of impiety and even heresy, claiming that the Appellants’ willingness to put loyalty to England first led them into corruption. These conflicts were exacerbated when, in order to quell internal dissent, Parsons petitioned Rome for a bishopric in England. The Papacy decided not to grant Parsons’s specific request, but, instead, to create the office of Archpriest, appointing George Blackwell, a Jesuit sympathizer, to the position, thereby creating an outcry among the Appellants at Wisbech. They claimed that “the Jesuits were subversive of all order, political and ecclesiastical. They were responsible for turning the mission into a political machine in the service of the Spaniards.”15 These Wisbech Appellants sought the removal of Blackwell as a Jesuit sympathizer, or, at the very least, the inclusion of some of their number among his staff. This conflict played directly into the government’s long-term propaganda strategy, begun by William Cecil in the 1560s, of linking pious Catholicism with treason and Spain, specifically scapegoating the Jesuits. Robert Cecil, having assumed full control of his father’s agents upon William’s death, made direct use of jailers—such as Richard Topcliffe, who spent time at Wisbech and reported back on the behavior of the priests there—and

Kingmaker and Spymaster 229 embedded agents, including Father John Cecil, alias Snowden.16 Snowden’s preexisting relationship with the Cecils (of at least a decade) and longstanding claims of loyalty to England—as well as his record of having spied against Parsons and his agents in the past—meant that Robert Cecil felt comfortable enough employing Snowden in the resolution of the Archpriest Controversy.17 The ideological division between the Jesuits and the Appellants (and their respective allies) played directly into the government’s desire to present Catholics as inherently unreliable, specifically because of both parties’ attempts to discredit the other in public print. As Lake and Questier have explained, this smear campaign was carried out “by an apparently coherent cluster of Catholic clergy and their lay supporters,” resulting in “a washing of the Catholic community’s dirty laundry in public, on a hitherto unprecedented scale.”18 One of the Appellants, Christopher Bagshaw, appears to have allied himself early with Cecil, perhaps even as early as the Stirs in 1598.19 The combination of the public argument between Jesuits and Appellants and the actual practical political divisions between Catholic factions essentially played directly into government propaganda about Catholic instability, while also enabling Cecil’s intelligence network to mine the Appellants for information on Catholics both in and outside the realm. After the appointment of Blackwell, the Archpriest Controversy itself can be broken down into three distinct Appeals, the first of which took place in 1599. The first Appeal—to urge the Pope to refuse Blackwell’s confirmation—was carried by William Bishop and Robert Charnock, although they were arrested upon their arrival in Rome and held under guard by Parsons himself. 20 Although they were able to state their appeal (eventually) to a papal representative, it failed in its objectives. Despite their objections, Blackwell was confirmed as archpriest by papal breve at the end of March or early April (27/6) 1599, and, while the Appellants themselves were not explicitly censured, Charnock and Bishop were temporarily banned from going back to England. 21 Following this, another Appellant, William Watson (not to be confused with the Jesuit William Weston) wrote to Sir Edward Coke, seeking to work with the Privy Council—and Cecil— to create a formal, public document that spoke out against the Jesuits, yet conformed to the requirements of the government (for instance, he was not permitted to use the word “toleration”).22 This letter essentially formalized the Appellants’ position of support for the state. Subsequently, three Appellants—John Colleton, Anthony Hebburn, and John Mush—were accused by Jesuit Thomas Lister of being schismatics in order to put a stop to their petitions.23 This initiated the second Appeal, in which the Appellants petitioned the Catholic church at the Sorbonne in Paris to clear them of the accusations of heresy and schism. A disputation held in spring of 1600 at the Sorbonne found in favor of the Appellants’ case— and, consequently, angered Blackwell, Parsons, and their supporters. 24

230  Kingmaker and Spymaster The third and final Appeal came as a result of Blackwell’s continued stifling of the Appellants; in August of 1601, Blackwell was issued a papal breve that refused the appeal, but also “reproved Blackwell and repudiated Lister’s charges of schism,” essentially suggesting that both sides of the Archpriest Controversy were behaving poorly. 25 The reaction to Blackwell’s withholding of the breve was rapid and textually virulent. The Appellants immediately made use of government-sanctioned presses (granted to them by Cecil and with the support of Richard Bancroft and the authorization of the Privy Council) to produce six different treatises on the subject: William Watson’s Decacordon of Ten Quodlibeticall Questions, Thomas Bluet’s Important Considerations, Christopher Bagshaw’s Sparing Discoverie, John Mush’s A Dialogue betwixt a Secular Priest, and a Lay Gentleman, and Anthony Copley’s Answere to a Letter of a Jesuited Gentleman. 26 By 1602, Cecil’s agents Thomas Phelippes and (possible double agent) William Sterrell had become involved, with Sterrell communicating directly to Parsons and Henry Garnet and Phelippes arranging for communiques between Sterrell (as “Anthony Rivers”) and the Jesuits to be filtered back to Cecil. 27 Sterrell, as a double agent, may or may not have been aware of Phelippes’s loyalties to Cecil (which the codebreaker had transferred away from Devereux), and Phelippes was walking a very fine line in order to maintain the connection, providing some amount of intelligence to Sterrell, as well. 28 Cecil arranged for Snowden to travel with Thomas Bluet, John Mush, and Anthony Champney to Rome to make the final Appeal in 1602.29 The Appeal was made formally to Cardinals Borghese and Arrigoni, with the Appellants stating their case and Blackwell’s representatives countering with a reiterated charge of heresy, schism, and apostacy.30 The outcome was, in essence, a draw, censuring both Blackwell and the Appellants. The charges of heresy and schism were thrown out (again), and although Blackwell retained his position as Archpriest, he was forced to allow his opponents to occupy positions within his staff.31 And while the Appellants were sanctioned, ultimately, they did manage “to remove the Jesuits from positions of influence within the archiepiscopacy.”32 In short, Blackwell remained in power, but that power was curtailed, although both sides claimed victory. As for the English government, Cecil, too, claimed success—easily so. Not only had the Archpriest Controversy and its attendant publications essentially revealed the factionalism and potential threats of Catholics to the reading public, but Cecil was essentially able to infiltrate the Appellants and the Archpresbytry by means of the offices held by English loyalist Catholic priests. Additionally, while the Appellant Catholics sought to endear themselves to the Protestant government and population by exposing the nefarious machinations of the Jesuits, their behavior (and actions) instead created considerable concern among the more mainline Protestants in Parliament and the Privy Council.

Kingmaker and Spymaster 231 During the Controversy, the Appellants remaining in England, by virtue, one supposes, of their cooperation with the government, were allowed a good deal more liberty than was typical for Catholic clergy in England (in other words, any liberty at all). This spurred complaints from members of Parliament and the Privy Council, including from Sir John Popham and Sir Thomas Egerton.33 In the aftermath of the Controversy, on 19 and 20 April, multiple Catholics were executed at Tyburn, including Francis Page, Robert Watkinson, Thomas Tichborne (all priests), James Duckett (a lay printer), and Peter Bullock (a stationer).34 This compensatory violence served to reinforce the government’s official position of intolerance toward Catholic involvement in politics, dissuading other Catholics from attempting to step forward, while also reinforcing the negative image of the Jesuits being printed by the Appellants. From the perspective of Cecil’s intelligence work, both the Appellants’ actions and the state-sanctioned executions enabled the maintenance of national stability, particularly in the face of the impending succession. If Catholics were understood to be dangerous, contradictory, and allied with Spain, the population at large would be less inclined to tolerate Catholicism (in whatever form) in its midst, enabling Cecil to more fully control the movements of the actually dangerous Catholics in the realm and—perhaps most importantly—to keep control over the rapidly approaching transition of power. Yet despite the visibility of the Archpriest Controversy and the government’s frequent attempts to maintain control over the religious narrative surrounding it, there was an overall tendency at the turn of the century toward toleration, albeit toleration of a tacit, don’t-ask-don’t-tell variety. As David Anderson notes, in England, “ambivalence toward certain kinds of state violence was germinating, a remarkable revaluation of the legitimacy of specifically religious executions.”35 While the English government may well have benefitted from the control of the Appellants, even the more radical among them recognized that the execution of self-proclaimed loyal Catholics would have done more to harm than help the official cause. In more general terms, the consequence of the Archpriest Controversy led, at its conclusion, to the determination that Elizabeth would permit those who accepted her authority, and undersigned an oath to that effect, to remain in England, but other Catholics—and Jesuits especially—would have to leave England before 1 January 1603. In essence, the removal of Catholics from England meant that Cecil and the Council would be able to usher in the successor of their own choosing more easily, rather than having to contend with the potential for attack, invasion (and the mythical Fifth Column), or civil insurrection upon Elizabeth’s decease. If we examine Cecil’s intelligence network during the period from 1599 to 1603, the statistics bear out the increasing level of his influence during these years, as seen in Figure 8.3. Visually, the network from 1599 through 1603 appears similarly structured to the network from 1599 alone, although it is slightly more

232  Kingmaker and Spymaster

Figure 8.3  Social network map from 1599 to 1603

interconnected, with a smaller diameter of 6 (by one), a marginally higher average degree (1.720 compared to 1.635), a higher GCC of 0.374 (compared to 0.355), and a shorter APL of 2.938 (compared to 3.042), despite an increase in the number of agents from 85 to 117 and an increase in the number of connections from 139 to 202. Cecil remains (obviously) the most central to this network, followed by Elizabeth (centrality of 0.352), and then Phelippes (0.293), although Cecil is significantly higher in centrality than either. Snowden plays a non-­ negligible role from an intelligence perspective (with a centrality of 0.197). However, others—such as Sterrell, our “Anthony Rivers,” with a centrality of 0.212—also register as important. Waad (at 0.225), the lieutenant of the Tower, also has a significant place in the network. Devereux, having gone to war in Ireland, drops in centrality to 0.119, reflective both of his absence

Kingmaker and Spymaster 233 and his subsequent fall from favor (and eventual execution). The average centrality for the network is 0.100—so Devereux, despite his prominence at court, has fallen considerably in relative influence in this period. The network grows during these years, as well, from 85 agents to 117, and comes to include James VI of Scotland (with a centrality of 0.207, the tenth highest in the network) as Cecil and Devereux both attempt to negotiate for James’s succession to the English throne, a (perhaps) larger intelligence concern that arose simultaneous with the Archpriest Controversy.

The Spanish, the Bastard, the Stuarts, and the Queen The primary concern facing England as a whole, but the Privy Council more particularly, at the close of the sixteenth century was (obviously) the question of the queen’s heir. Elizabeth herself—most unhelpfully—remained fully committed to the belief that if she named an heir, she put herself at immediate risk of assassination. Given her history with assassination attempts and conspiracies, one can hardly blame her for her concern, but her advancing age and declining health nevertheless put the Privy Council in the difficult position of not knowing to whom to offer the crown in the event of Elizabeth’s sudden demise. Admittedly, the problem was not a new one and had been hashed and rehashed by Parliament many times during Elizabeth’s reign. However, the recent deaths of her eldest councilors and the impending turn of a century meant that the pressure to find a successor was increasingly keen. Prior to his death, William Cecil had been a repeated advocate for allowing an interregnum during which the Privy Council would determine Elizabeth’s heir, but Elizabeth (unsurprisingly) had repeatedly refused to even consider the notion. While it had fallen by the wayside, at least officially, the maneuvering of agents and courtiers—including both the Devereux and Cecilian factions—strongly suggests that it was very much prevalent in the minds of the men who sat on Elizabeth’s Council. They were uninterested in the much-feared possibilities of either invasion or civil war and were committed to hashing out the succession with or without the blessing of their recalcitrant queen. As with all things, the question of religion and religious toleration featured prominently in discussions of succession. When it came to the Catholic position on the succession, the opinions of English Catholics varied widely.36 Fears of Catholic invasion from Spain—which had, after all, repeatedly attempted invasion before—were stoked by the advocacy of some Catholics (including the Jesuit Robert Parsons, who penned a lengthy treatise on the matter entitled the Conference about the Next Succession in 1594) for the Spanish Infanta. Other Catholics preferred James VI of Scotland, son of the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots and husband to the recently converted Catholic Anne of Denmark. Yet English law technically

234  Kingmaker and Spymaster prohibited the accession of either, since both had been born outside the borders of England. Other English candidates included Edward Seymour, Lord Beauchamp, and Lady Arbella Stuart, both cousins to Elizabeth and English Protestants. Cecil’s task, as both Secretary and spymaster, was to manage the inevitable conspiracies, plots, and attempts to secure promises of loyalty from the different candidates and their allies, both foreign and domestic. Catholics, in particular, posed a threat to the task of managing the succession, and Cecil felt compelled to leverage the intelligence network to keep things under control. The greatest challenge of English Catholicism at the close of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries was that many of the powerful magnate families were Recusant or crypto-Catholic, particularly in the north. They had the capacity—as they had in the Northern Rising of 1569—to pose a potential political threat to whomever replaced Elizabeth on the throne if they were able to form a cohesive faction. Faced with this possibility, Cecil sought to minimize the ability of the northern earls to come to a consensus, recognizing that a failure to organize could curtail open rebellion, and worked actively to detach the Howards politically from their Spanish connections, hoping to rally the rest around James and the hope for toleration.37 La Infanta Isabella For most English citizens, Isabella Clara Eugenia, daughter of Philip II, was about as far from a viable candidate for the succession as it was possible to be. She was foreign-born, Spanish (and therefore an enemy to England), and Catholic. She was, however, the favorite of the Jesuit faction and Parsons in particular. The lynchpin of Parsons’s argument in the Conference was her ability to claim descent from Edward III through John of Gaunt—a claim shared, of course, by her father, who had also briefly been the king of England during the reign of his second wife, Mary I. This claim, however tenuous in practice, led many Protestant English to fear that Isabella would become the figurehead for a new Spanish invasion in an attempt to install her as a Catholic queen. In the years leading up to the turn of the century, Cecil had been advocating for a cessation of hostilities between England and Spain, a political stance that led some of the more martial members of Elizabeth’s court— including Devereux and Raleigh—to believe that Cecil supported a Spanish succession.38 In the context of Spanish support of the Irish rebel Earl of Tyrone, Hugh O’Neill, this belief drove a further wedge into the already acrimonious relationship between Devereux and Cecil. Particularly after Devereux’s deployment to Ireland and Isabella’s marriage to Albert VII, the Archduke of Austria, her claim became increasingly less likely (and it is highly doubtful that Cecil had ever entertained it at all, even given his interest in peace with Spain).

Kingmaker and Spymaster 235 Edward Seymour, Lord Beauchamp Edward Seymour, the Lord Beauchamp, had been born—out of wedlock— in the Tower of London. It was an inauspicious start, and his illegitimacy was the ultimate reason given by Elizabeth for excluding him from the succession.39 Nevertheless, Beauchamp’s claim through the house of Suffolk was strong enough that his name was frequently mentioned in discussions of the succession at court. His mother, Katherine, was one of the Greys, the family named in Edward VI’s attempt to illegitimize his sisters in 1553 through Lady Jane. Jane’s sister, Katherine—legally the heir to the throne per Henry VIII’s will following Elizabeth’s decease—had secretly (and without Elizabeth’s permission) married Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, in 1560, a marriage that resulted in both Katherine and the elder Edward being imprisoned and fined.40 Beauchamp—whom the elder Seymour fully insisted was his legitimate heir—rapidly rose at court, and in 1592 his younger brother, Thomas, attempted (with his father’s support) to sue for legal legitimacy, a move that would have catapulted Beauchamp into his then-deceased mother’s place as the legal heir to the English throne.41 When this attempt came to Elizabeth’s attention in 1595—while the succession was being hotly debated on the international as well as national stages—she re-imprisoned the elder Seymour in the Tower as a warning—which functionally stopped all attempts by the Seymours to lay claim to the crown. The warning was so effective that when Arbella Stuart—also a potential claimant—sought a marriage alliance with the Seymours, the elder Edward informed Robert Cecil rather than once more risking the queen’s wrath.42 By the turn of the century, then, Beauchamp was no longer a serious contender for the succession, if he ever truly had been. Although the Seymours and their allies had perhaps held onto the hope that the combination of Henry VIII’s will—which barred James Stuart from the succession and promoted the children of Katherine Grey—and Elizabeth’s own illegitimacy might not have barred Beauchamp from inheriting, Elizabeth made it abundantly clear that she would not permit any such thing. The only remaining truly viable options were Stuarts. Arbella Stuart Arbella—sometimes written Arabella—Stuart was the daughter of Charles Stuart, the Earl of Lennox, and Elizabeth Cavendish. She was first cousin twice removed of the queen as well as first cousin to James VI of Scotland.43 Raised by her grandmother, Bess Cavendish née Hardwick, Arbella was accomplished and deeply familiar with the intricacies of the English court surrounding the queen. Initially, Arbella’s grandmother attempted to secure her future through marriage, proposing alternately Robert Dudley, Lord Denbigh (the son of Dudley, Earl of Leicester); James VI (before his

236  Kingmaker and Spymaster marriage to Anne); and Rainutio Farnese (son of the Duke of Parma).44 Elizabeth, however, had no interest in promoting Arbella’s fortunes, presumably because doing so would have made her a stronger claimant for the throne. Arbella was nevertheless still in the queen’s favor and named a royal lady in waiting in 1588, although she was “sent home in disgrace” shortly thereafter for flirting with Devereux.45 While Devereux spread rumors that Cecil supported Isabella, discontented Catholics—who seemed to hold the opinion that Cecil was among the most evil of councilors—believed that Cecil had personal designs on marrying Arbella Stuart in order to position himself as the possible future king of England; however, Loades assures us that aside from Cecil’s status as a widower and Arbella’s as unmarried, the rumors of a proposed—or even desired—match were unsubstantiated rumor and nothing more.46 The extent of their relationship was that Cecil had placed Arbella under observation during the attempted negotiations of marriage with Farnese, employing three consecutive agents (Thomas Barnes, Michael Moody, and Charles Paget) to keep watch on both Arbella and the younger Farnese in both 1591 and 1592.47 Chafing at her confinement following her disgrace, Arbella contacted the elder Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, seeking to negotiate her own marriage contract with the youngest Edward, Beauchamp’s son.48 Elizabeth, after the elder Seymour revealed the letter to Cecil, largely ignored Arbella, who had essentially discredited her own claims. When, in 1603, Arbella wrote a seemingly delusional letter to Cecil claiming to be James VI’s lover, “Cecil wrote across the back of one of her agitated letters, ‘I think she hath some vapours on her brain’,” and she was no longer considered a serious claimant for the throne.49 James Stuart, King James VI of Scotland With all other serious successors removed by religion, illegitimacy, or ill-advised behavior, only James VI—who had carefully cultivated his relationship with Elizabeth from an early age, even during his mother’s trial and execution—remained a viable contender, although most early modern English remained deeply apprehensive about Elizabeth’s death and the potential threats of civil war and foreign invasion. James had a blood claim to the throne of England through his maternal grandfather, James V, and his paternal grandmother, Margaret Douglas, whose mother, Margaret Tudor, was sister to Henry VIII.50 The principal impediment to James’s claim came from the Succession Act of 1543, which barred the accession of a foreign-born heir and which had, in effect, also barred Margaret’s English descendants by declaring her English-born daughter illegitimate in order to remove her from the line of succession.51 James also had the support of the Appellant and other mainstream Catholics who believed—however erroneously—that James’s familial ties

Kingmaker and Spymaster 237 to Mary Queen of Scots and Anne of Denmark (both of whom had been or were at the time Catholic) would lead to increased toleration for Catholics in England. In a more practical, immediate sense, English Catholics saw a sympathetic distaste in James for Puritanism on the one hand and the uncompromising militancy of the Jesuits on the other.52 Their hope was for an improvement of their conditions, not the overthrow of the Protestant regime. James was also supported by both the Devereux and Cecilian factions, despite Devereux’s seemingly delusional belief to the contrary, and the Scottish king did his best to remain in favor with both the English queen and her principal councilors.53 Despite Cecil’s minor involvement with both the Seymour and Arbella Stuart claims, it was James’s potential as successor that drew the greatest involvement of the intelligence networks of both Cecil and Devereux. Walsingham and the Cecils had been sending agents—including Snowden and Christopher Marlowe, among many others—to Scotland since before James’s birth and had been in regular communication with members of the Scottish court throughout the Scottish king’s minority following Mary’s abdication. While Devereux believed Cecil to be wooing the Spanish, he himself had originally sought to support Arbella’s claim; however, when she was disgraced from court (following her flirtation with him), he turned his attention north to Scotland and James.54 In fact, Devereux had pursued James as the most viable candidate for some time, and in 1599, following his disastrous return from Ireland, Devereux intended to raise an army in England, have Charles Blount bring another from Ireland, and convince James to send a force from Scotland in order to essentially strongarm Elizabeth into declaring James her heir, as well as effecting the removal of Cecil from power and restoring Devereux himself to royal favor.55 Even though Devereux was foolish enough to think such a scheme would work, James was not, and the Scottish king declined to participate. Cecil, of course, had multiple messengers and agents moving between England, Ireland, and Scotland and was more than aware of Devereux’s attempted political maneuvering.56 Thanks to a combination of Devereux’s overt flattery and Cecil’s circumspection, James believed that the Cecilian faction opposed his bid for the throne, leading to his attempts to secure the support of both Devereux and the Spanish.57 Devereux’s paranoid convictions only reinforced James’s misapprehension. And yet there was some question about Devereux’s devotion to the Jacobean cause, as well, particularly among English Catholics. Handover cites a letter from an English Catholic exile that reads, “I think…the King of Scots will win the game, if the Earl of Essex be not in his way,” although there was also belief among some that Devereux viewed James as a potential rival.58 Whether Devereux truly ever aspired to become king of England is unclear; there is no direct or conspiratorial evidence that he laid claim to the crown even at the height of his folly, but, as Handover suggests, such

238  Kingmaker and Spymaster ambition would not have been uncharacteristic and certainly seemed to be confirmed in the public imagination. 59 But whether Devereux’s aspirations stopped at James and becoming a new royal favorite or extended farther, Cecil recognized that it was critical to keep an eye on Devereux’s machinations in Scotland, for which purpose he continued to employ Snowden. The very thing that led Devereux to suspect Cecil’s Spanish sympathies was one of the key factors in persuading Cecil to support the king of Scotland: James’s bid to make peace with Spain. Embedded in Scotland and trusted by James, Snowden began reporting as early as 1595 about his intentions of going to Scotland: “All is now settled, and I am again ready to serve you, always reserving my own conscience; not a leaf shall wag in Scotland,” Snowden wrote to Cecil in December, “but you shall know.”60 Once there, Snowden ingratiated himself with the Scottish king, who made use of Snowden as a messenger and diplomatic envoy to Spain, unaware that Snowden was actually Cecil’s agent.61 Snowden was perhaps the most invaluable intelligencer Cecil had in this period, both in terms of keeping tabs on Catholic movements and in providing a connection between Cecil and the Jacobean court. Devereux, however, was unaware of the communications between Spain and Scotland—but Cecil knew, thanks to Snowden’s involvement in intelligence in Madrid, where he became aware of James’s solicitations and passed that information back to Cecil.62 That intelligence would form the bedrock of Cecil’s negotiations for a Spanish peace once Devereux was out of the way. While Devereux, one of the strongest proponents of the anti-Spanish view, was occupied in Ireland, Cecil began the difficult process of formally negotiating peace with Spain through a diplomatic agent by the name of Dr.  Jerome Commas.63 Philip III, who had assumed the throne upon Philip  II’s death in 1598, was less set on the invasion and occupation of England than his father had been, although he remained understandably cautious about fully committing to peace with England. Yet the venture seemed doomed to failure when a fleet of fishing vessels off the coast of the French city of Brest was mistaken for a Spanish invading force, causing a panic that Cecil’s intelligencers failed to belay. Although the early negotiations came to nothing, they nevertheless communicated to both James and Philip III that peace was a future possibility, albeit one that would not come to fruition until after Elizabeth’s long-awaited decease. For the time being, Cecil had to content himself with stopping war—a challenge exacerbated by the pro-militaristic advocacy of the Devereux faction. For better or worse, Cecil’s skill at secrecy meant that it would not be until after Devereux’s complete disgrace and execution that James would come to realize that he had—and seemingly always had—Cecil’s support for his claim, and the Scottish king had nearly jeopardized his stake through involvement with Devereux. Yet James, although ignorant in many ways about English politics, was ultimately not as great a fool as he would sometimes be accused of being and recognized that Devereux was a veritable

Kingmaker and Spymaster 239 powder keg. By choosing to avoid—although not alienate—Devereux, James’s patience would bear fruit, garnering him not simply the support of Cecil and the Privy Council, but, ultimately, the throne of England.

The Fall of the Earl of Essex As must be evident, in the midst of the succession debate—indeed, an essential part of it—was the rivalry between Cecil and the Essex faction, although it was somewhat mitigated in severity by Devereux’s departure for Ireland in 1599. Since Devereux had spent the better part of several months attempting to convince Elizabeth that he was “the realm’s most famous soldier,” as well as “master of the ordnance…[and] the leading patron of army officers,” there was no alternative but to accept the commission to Ireland when circumstances presented the opportunity—it was also likely “his only chance to recapture the political initiative” at court.64 And yet even Devereux, who was given to self-aggrandizing delusion, knew that there was little hope for success in Ireland, and he began to adopt the role of embattled martyr, hoping that Elizabeth would come to regret her censure of him.65 What this meant, practically speaking, is that the enterprise was doomed not simply because of its difficulty, but also because Devereux entered the campaign with a fatalistic attitude. Devereux was drawn into the Irish conflict in 1599, but Cecil’s agents had been in and out of Ireland throughout the 1590s, particularly focused on dealing with the Irish rebel Hugh O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone. The cause of the conflict was the simple fact that the Irish—naturally enough—objected to the increasing strictures of English rule, both in terms of politics and religion; O’Neill had rejected the English Provincial Presidency in Ulster, petitioning both Scotland and Spain for aid against the English.66 In 1595, O’Neill initiated open hostilities by attacking English forces at Clontibret in Ireland, an action that spurred English retaliation and discussion of state-sanctioned assassination, since removing O’Neill was viewed by the English government as the most efficient means of stopping the violence in Ireland.67 Multiple men in fact volunteered for the role of assassin, including Thomas Fleming and Lachlan McLean, although the viability of these offers varied widely.68 By 1597—having successfully not been assassinated—O’Neill was amassing Irish allies and in open negotiations with Philip II for Spanish support. The desperate Lord Deputy, Thomas Burgh, again sought out a potential unnamed assassin, writing to Robert Cecil that “One hath offered to kill the traitor… I caused him to be entertained, and promised 1000l. Much credit may not be given to these overtures, neither do I depend on them; yet in my allegiance I might not reject him who would proffer to kill a monstrous rebel.”69 Yet this attempt, too, failed. 1598 brought an ostensible peace, as O’Neill agreed to cease his military campaign in return for a promised pardon from Elizabeth; the queen

240  Kingmaker and Spymaster granted the pardon, although O’Neill broke the treaty only two months later by attacking the English in the Battle of the Yellow Ford.70 This renewal of violence instigated Devereux’s entrance into Ireland with 16,000 troops and 1,500 horsemen.71 Disease, desertion, and poor management of the troops led Devereux to ignominious defeat, and he was forced into a truce to save his remaining forces.72 Against explicit orders, he left Ireland for London, convinced that his failures in Ireland—and elsewhere—could be blamed on his enemies back in the English court turning Elizabeth and the rest of the Privy Council against him; chief among them, of course, was Cecil.73 It was this context of defeat—following a significant boast—that saw Devereux returning from Ireland with his proverbial tail between his legs, blaming everyone other than himself for his losses. He was, in Handover’s phrase, “a poor judge of men”: when picking agents and intelligencers, Devereux was—unlike Cecil or Walsingham before him—preoccupied with status and education rather than savvy and quick thinking.74 Cecil’s agents, those in the mold of Walsingham’s tradition of spycraft, were often middling or lower class and often formally uneducated, yet knowledgeable in geography, market negotiations, and even the criminal underworld.75 Devereux also prioritized those agents who ingratiated themselves to him, rewarding his favorites—much like the queen—rather than scaling fiscal remuneration to the relative quality of the service rendered, perhaps, in part, because he himself was often incapable of evaluating their skill—as, Handover notes, Devereux could not read or speak Spanish, forcing him to rely heavily on the skills of others.76 In short, there could not have been a greater contrast between the queen’s two erstwhile spymasters. Come 1599 and Devereux’s Irish defeat, that contrast widened in light of Cecil’s continued success. As several scholars have suggested, we might be tempted to think that Cecil had some hand in Devereux’s fall, but if Cecil had been actively working to undermine Devereux, we have no evidence of it, and, furthermore, Loades remarks, “he could hardly have done it more effectively than the earl did it for himself.”77 Devereux’s return to London did not begin well, as he immediately— without washing off the dust from the road—headed directly for court. Word of his arrival reached Cecil by way of Thomas Grey, Baron Grey de Wilton, and Cecil—no doubt recognizing that Devereux was likely to undo himself—simply waited.78 With no prior announcement or decorum, Devereux “rushed into the queen’s chamber. Famously, he found her incompletely dressed and with her hair in disarray,” an aggressive move that immediately outraged Elizabeth and put her on the defensive.79 It was not an auspicious start. However, Devereux’s self-delusion was significant, and he somehow remained ignorant of the degree of faux pas he had just committed, believing Elizabeth would embrace him—perhaps literally as well as figuratively— with open arms.80 Instead, he was required to submit to interrogation by

Kingmaker and Spymaster 241 a small contingent of the Privy Council, including Cecil, George Carey (Baron Hunsdon), Matthew Hutton (Archbishop of York and President of the North), and Sir William Knollys, which determined his guilt in countermanding direct orders and abandoning his post.81 When he was summoned once again, it was to be placed under the custody of Lord Keeper Thomas Egerton and forbidden communication with anyone outside the house. Although Devereux blamed Cecil, the Secretary managed to convince him that the best course of action would be to distance himself from both court and the military, which he at first agreed to do. It is worth remarking that had Devereux followed Cecil’s advice, he might have escaped the whole escapade with his life. By the beginning of 1599, Devereux had begun alienating some of his friends, including Francis Bacon, who was coming to understand the significant degree of Devereux’s self-destructiveness, although Anthony Bacon remained loyal.82 Yet despite its master’s continued devotion, the network Anthony Bacon had cultivated at Devereux’s behest was starting to crumble; while some of Devereux’s friends—Sir John Davies, Sir Charles Danvers, Christopher Blount, Sir Ferdinando Gorges, and Henry Cuffe, among others—remained a part of the Essex party, many of Devereux’s new followers consisted predominantly of what Alison Plowden terms a “rabble of impoverished” landed gentry and nobles, those with familial status, but lacking in actionable social capital or financial liquidity.83 These men sought to use Devereux as a means to (re)acquire the power they felt they deserved by whatever means they thought they could. It was a long way from the panoply of diplomats and trained agents Anthony Bacon had originally sought—and, for a time succeeded in managing—to groom. Yet even if Cecil and others could see the shift in the quality of Devereux’s support, the earl himself was blind to it. Devereux’s estimation of his own political significance caused him to behave—again—rashly, and he pled with James VI of Scotland for rescue. Devereux’s scheme included a plan for an invasion to come simultaneously from Scotland and Ireland under the respective leadership of James VI and Charles Blount.84 Neither was even remotely plausible; Devereux’s replacement in Ireland, Blount was fiercely loyal to the queen, and James was not so foolish as to jeopardize his own future claim to the English throne. The result was that Devereux not only was not rescued, but also became complicit in a plot to commit treason. Interestingly enough, Cecil does not seem to have either celebrated or exploited this fact, since he remained silent about his knowledge of the plot—acquired through Scottish agents—when Devereux was brought before the Star Chamber. Perhaps Cecil’s intelligence or experience told him that Devereux was highly likely to dig his own proverbial grave, and, in doing so, the Earl of Essex needed no assistance. Although Devereux was accused of “dereliction of duty” and “the unacceptable nature of his dealings with Tyrone,” treason was not among the charges leveled against

242  Kingmaker and Spymaster him upon that occasion.85 Instead, Devereux was placed once more under house arrest to await the queen’s determination. By 1600, Devereux was disgraced, but not yet destroyed. Although his political positions had been suspended, none of his offices had officially been stripped from him, suggesting that Elizabeth was inclined to be forgiving if the earl mended his behavior. Instead, Devereux seemed to slide even deeper into paranoia. He railed against Cecil, the rest of the Privy Council, and even, when she continued to put him off, Elizabeth. He found the conditions of his pseudo-imprisonment (his exile from court) intolerable and (supposedly) pronounced that “she was as crooked in her disposition as in her carcass,” a proclamation which, of course, was repeated to the queen, who found it unforgivable.86 Devereux began holding secret meetings with Davies, Charles Danvers, and Christopher Blount (among others), planning to seize the court and prevail upon the queen “for the Removing of his Enemies forcibly from the Court,” including Cecil, Raleigh, and Henry Brooke, all of whom Devereux firmly believed were conspiring against him.87 He claimed “That these men were well-affected to the Spaniard, and were all at Secretary Cecyl’s Devotion, who now (with Buckhurst Lord Treasurer…) had in a manner the sole managing of the whole State.”88 It was at this point that Devereux began planning open rebellion with the aid of Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton.89 Once he himself became guilty of treason, Devereux’s paranoia about Cecil seems to have slid into truth; Cecil’s intelligencers had reported the happenings at Essex House, and the Principal Secretary aimed to curtail the rebellion before it could begin. However, Cecil was not above allowing Devereux enough rope to hang himself, and so, again, he waited. Devereux, as always, assumed his own superiority at all things and did not consider the extent of Cecil’s intelligence network; he therefore never realized that Cecil was fully aware of all the details of his plans. In Cecil’s defense, he gave Devereux more than a few opportunities to reconcile matters, if not to where they had been before his departure, then at least to a state of relative stability. Cecil sent John Herbert to summon Devereux, but the earl refused to speak with the Privy Council, claiming he feared for his life (at the hands of Raleigh). Cecil made one more attempt to diffuse the situation, this time by having four Privy Councilors (Sir William Knollys; Thomas Egerton, the Lord Keeper; Edward Somerset, Earl of Worcester; and Sir John Popham, the Lord Chief Justice) visit Devereux. This, too, failed, as Devereux had the erstwhile ambassadors detained and, on 3 February 1601, led a group of approximately 300 through London, armed and chanting “For the Queen, For the Queen; A Plot is laid for my Life.’”90 Given the hero’s welcome he had always received at the hands of the people, Devereux expected the populace to pour from their houses and join the march. They did nothing of the sort. In fact, the guards at Ludgate

Kingmaker and Spymaster 243 refused to give way for him, and when he ordered Christopher Blount to attack, the guards, acting under orders from the Lord Mayor and the sheriff of London, arrested Blount almost immediately. By the afternoon, most of Devereux’s three hundred followers had dispersed, with less than a third remaining.91 The people on whom Devereux had relied to support him had been turned against him by his own rashness. When confronted by Robert Cecil’s elder brother, Thomas Cecil, Lord Burghley, Devereux retreated and his remaining followers disappeared. By evening, Essex House was surrounded, and Devereux surrendered and was conveyed to the Tower.92 Devereux attempted to defend himself by emphasizing Cecil’s villainy, but it fell far short, particularly since Devereux’s accusations (in particular, about Cecil supporting the Infanta’s claims) were unfounded. In fact, Devereux’s own uncle, Knollys, gave evidence that Devereux’s beliefs about Cecil supporting the Infanta were entirely mistaken.93 Any further protestations offered by Devereux only revealed his ineptitude for diplomacy and intelligencing, as well as his quasi-irrational hatred of the Queen’s Principal Secretary, whose performance of humility—“I am your Inferiour for Nobility: for I am not in the Rank of the prime Nobility, yet Noble I am…Yet doth my Innocency protect me: and in this Court I stand an Honest man”—only made Devereux appear more foolish and dangerous.94 The participants in the conspiracy were charged with and tried for treason. Devereux was accused not only of rebellion, but also of treason against the queen: That they had plotted to deprive the Queen of her Crown and Life, and consulted to surprize the Queen in Court; and that they had broken out into open Rebellion, by imprisoning the Counsellours of the Realm, by stirring up the Londoners to Rebellion by Tales and Fictions, by assaulting the faithful Subjects in the City, and defending the House against the Queen’s Forces.95 What was absolutely revealed during the trial, at least to Elizabeth, was the strength of Devereux’s support for and ties to James VI of Scotland. Cecil was, thanks to Snowden, aware of these connections, and, for him, none of this came as a surprise. Elizabeth, however, had forbidden discussions of succession and had therefore been kept largely in the dark about Devereux’s overtures to James. The queen was not pleased. Of the conspirators, most were fined, and only a handful—Sir Christopher Blount, Sir Gelli Meyrick, Sir Henry Cuffe, Sir Charles Danvers, and Devereux himself—were sentenced to death, either by hanging or decapitation. Penelope Blount nee Devereux, Sir John Davies, and Sir Henry Wriothesley were imprisoned in the Tower. Devereux’s execution—by beheading—took place on Ash Wednesday, 25 February, with the remaining executions following in early March.

244  Kingmaker and Spymaster The aftermath of the Essex Rebellion left Elizabeth increasingly paranoid and emotional, an unsurprising result given her closeness to her late favorite. It also cast a shadow of suspicion over Cecil for having targeted the deceased earl, despite the fact that the proverbial rope that hung Devereux had been primarily woven by the earl himself. Nevertheless, at court it was said that, for his role in Devereux’s downfall, Cecil was generally disliked by the people throughout London, because—even though they had not participated in his rebellion—the people had loved Devereux.96 Yet it is also true that this hatred seems to have been primarily from the commons rather than the nobility.97 It certainly didn’t help matters that Cecil’s physiology made him even more subject to common mockery as a result of his hunchback and limp, physical infirmities that had made him a lifelong target of mockery at court and from Devereux especially.98 For the most part, it seems, Cecil was not particularly concerned by the opinions of the commons and continued his work as implacably as ever; before long, the rumors—as rumors are wont to do—subsided.

Robert Cecil’s Spies With Devereux completely out of the picture, Cecil’s control over his father’s intelligence network was complete. No other member of the Council or court stepped up to attempt to challenge Cecil’s hold on either the queen or the secret service. Cecil even managed to be more successful in Ireland than Devereux—despite never setting foot on the island. In 1600, Charles Blount, then Deputy of Ireland and Lord Mountjoy, offered a reward for O’Neill’s capture, alive or dead.99 In 1601, an Englishman named Thomas Walker, motivated out of love for his country and Protestant zeal (there was also a monetary reward, but Walker claimed that was not his motivation), contacted Cecil.100 Walker ended up under the direct command of Sir Henry Danvers, whose brother had recently been executed alongside Devereux. Danvers and Blount approved Walker’s plan, and Danvers helped Walker to get “past the Armagh watches,” although after that Walker apparently got lost before being captured by O’Neill’s soldiers.101 But this—it seems—was part of Walker’s (and possibly Danvers’s) plan; after an audience with O’Neill, in which Walker convinced the earl of his dedication to the Catholic and Irish cause, Walker was re-armed—yet he failed to kill the earl of Tyrone because “he was overcome by ‘effeminate thoughts’ and could not do the deed.”102 Walker fled the Irish rebel forces and was (again) arrested, this time by the English, and Blount eventually sent him back to Cecil. Upon his return to England, Walker “wrote Cecil a four-page stream-of-consciousness narrative of his escapade,” providing some small quantity of intelligence, even if he had failed at his specific purpose.103

Kingmaker and Spymaster 245 Cecil was therefore—through the use of intelligence rather than open war—more successful than his archrival even in Ireland, in large part because of his ability to manage agents, something at which Devereux did not excel. In fact, one of the earl’s key agents—formerly one of Walsingham’s most important intelligencers—changed his allegiance from Devereux to the Cecilian faction when it became clear that Devereux was headed down the path to destruction. Thomas Phelippes, having scraped his way out of prison, appealed to Cecil to restore him to his former office, saying that “I will employ the whole poor powers of a distracted mind to find out what may be of this…” and “I pray your honour to affect my good in this cause, whereby you shall win to yourself one who shall be able to do you some service.”104 Cecil, who fully understood the value of Phelippes—and, presumably, his wife, Mary, as well—to the intelligence network, was more than happy to welcome back the skills of the Phelippeses. Specifically, Phelippes provided intelligence through his own connections of goings-on in the Netherlands and Ireland, among the Catholics, and even of a Spanish attempt to organize another (also failed) Armada. Phelippes thereby sought to re-prove himself as a loyal and effective intelligencer on behalf of the English government.105 By the summer of 1602, Phelippes had been roped into the Archpriest Controversy, a demonstration of Cecil’s restored faith in both his abilities and his fidelity. This is not to say that Cecil trusted him completely—that was nigh impossible in the high-stakes world of espionage—but Phelippes was once again in the employ of Elizabeth’s chief spymaster, and he brought many Catholic contacts with him. If Snowden had been critical to negotiations with the Appellants and with James, Thomas Honiman was essential to Cecil’s new program of expanding the reach of his merchant-spies. Honiman was a merchant primarily operating in France and Spain, including an outpost in Bayonne jointly operated with his brother.106 The brothers were central to Cecil’s international intelligence operations, as their points of contact in Spanish and French ports enabled the transmission of goods and information from around the world back to Cecil in London. In addition to Spain and France, in 1598 Cecil had established agents in Lisbon and Brussels and had merchant-spies traveling to Scotland, Ireland, the Low Countries, Denmark, Sweden, Italy, the Ottoman Empire, North Africa, Russia, Poland, and the New World.107 Men like Honiman became the backbone of the Cecilian network; although Walsingham and the elder Cecil had pioneered both the intelligence service and the use of merchants as agents, it was Robert Cecil who made it the lynchpin of the English secret service. Cecil’s interest in peace with Spain, in particular, led him away from the religiously motivated paranoia that had characterized his father’s and Walsingham’s tenures as spymasters; Robert Cecil wanted to use intelligence as a means of diplomatic power to negotiate peace and trade, not to quash the Catholic enemy. This shift

246  Kingmaker and Spymaster

Figure 8.4  Social network map from 1601 to 1603

in tactics away from penetrating Recusant cells and sacking Spanish ports and ships transformed England’s ability to emerge on the international imperial stage. As we see in Figure 8.4, with the disgrace and execution of Devereux, his remaining active agents either transferred their allegiance along with Phelippes—thereby increasing Cecil’s outdegree from 37 in 1599 to 53 for the final three years of the reign—or departed the network; despite this, the network itself grew to a total of 112, with 191 edges, so any loss was small. In the absence of both William Cecil and, after 1601, Robert Devereux, Robert Cecil took nearly complete control of the network and its agents, streamlining the processes and praxis of intelligence to suit his own style of politics. Robert Cecil even commandeered the remnants of Devereux’s network by securing the loyalty (through threat and payment) of Phelippes and (to some extent) Sterrell, although the latter seems to have been more loyal to Catholicism than to either Devereux or Cecil. Snowden remained

Kingmaker and Spymaster 247

Figure 8.5  Social network map from 1587 to 1589

important, too, in the final years of Elizabeth’s reign, concluding the Archpriest Controversy and almost immediately being transferred to work on the succession. If we compare the final few years of Cecil’s Elizabethan network (1601– 1603) to Walsingham’s (1587–1589), we can easily see that Walsingham’s is larger and denser. The number of agents managed by Walsingham totals 196 with 387 connections, in comparison to Cecil’s 112 agents and 191 connections. Walsingham’s GCC is higher (0.379 compared to 0.330), his average degree is higher (1.974 to 1.705), and his APL is shorter (2.854 to 2.971), despite the networks’ identical diameter of 6. This is not to say that Cecil was not a skilled spymaster; he simply was not as skilled or experienced as Walsingham, who had been managing the intelligence network for nearly a decade longer in 1587 than Cecil in 1601. Yet while Cecil’s network may have been numerically smaller than Walsingham’s, it had an even farther geographic reach. Cecil, like Walsingham and his father, was a micromanager in the extreme, keeping

248  Kingmaker and Spymaster specific contact with his agents rather than delegating (as Devereux had been wont to do). He managed to extract an annual budget of £800 “for an unspecified purpose…‘for service in Scotland’ and other special commitments,” a sign that he was able to justify the expenditure on intelligence (the Lord Treasurer, Thomas Sackville, had himself been involved in intelligence work for years).108 Yet even with this budget, Cecil frequently complained of the difficulty in retaining agents, both English and foreign-born, abroad.109 But in addition to expanding the international scope of an imperial intelligence service, perhaps the most critical event of Cecil’s career was shepherding the transition of power from his dying queen to the new king. Cecil’s candidate of choice—as discussed above—was James; yet the diminutive Secretary understood all too well that openly courting the Scottish king could only get him in trouble. Instead, Cecil leveraged his best diplomatic and secretive agents both to manage his queen’s last years and to inaugurate the arrival of the man who would become his future king. Following Devereux’s fall, the tensions that had been running high between England and Scotland abated, particularly once James realized that he and Cecil were not, in fact, working at cross-purposes. James sent John Erskine, the Earl of Mar, as an envoy to the Cecil faction on the Privy Council in order to determine, once and for all, where Cecil stood on the matter of James’s possible succession.110 Cecil met, alone, with Erskine. Given the sensitive nature of the meeting, even the meticulous Cecil made no record of its content. Loades speculates that Cecil made a “stipulation… that all communications between himself and James must be kept totally secret…These points being accepted, he undertook to bring James to the throne upon Elizabeth’s death.”111 Cecil also made the point very clear that he would in no way endeavor to hasten that moment and that his duty was to Elizabeth as long as she lived, a point James was willing to accept.112 From 1601 onward, then, Cecil was, in essence, the king’s man, using his alliance with Scotland and his position as Principal Secretary in England to build an apparatus that would enable a smooth transition of power upon the queen’s death, up to and including providing James with intelligence and even financial support to the tune of about £2,000 a year.113 From 1601 until Elizabeth’s death in 1603, the matter of the succession— and the assurance that the successor would be James—became a mission of the English intelligence service. Cecil, Erskine, Snowden, George Nicholson, and Philip Mowbray (and most likely others) even established a cipher specific to their correspondence: Henry Percy (Earl of Northumberland) as 0, Walter Raleigh 2, Henry Howard (future Earl of Northampton) 3, Henry Brooke (Lord Cobham) 7, Edward Bruce (Abbot Kinloss) 8, David Foulis (James’s secretary) 9, Robert Cecil 10, John Erskine (Earl of Mar) 20, Elizabeth 24, and James 30.114 Those who knew of the plan included Erskine, Cecil, Howard, Bruce, and Foulis. Cecil soon included Nicholson in some (although not all) of the plan, so that the agent might better fulfill

Kingmaker and Spymaster 249 his mission by being fully aware of the context in which he was to provide intelligence from the Scottish Court. During these years, Cecil was also aware—through courtly rumor as well as the work of his own intelligence agents—that English Catholics within the nobility were attempting to make overtures to James, as well, seeking the Scottish king’s promise of toleration in exchange for their support. Oddly, even as Thomas Percy was sent by Henry Percy (Earl of Northumberland) to court James’s favor, Henry delivered the same letters personally to Cecil—who also received copies of them from Edward Bruce, one of James’s diplomatic agents in Scotland. In short, the person everyone was courting was not actually James, but Cecil. Cecil had to communicate his interest in supporting James and the message that toleration of Catholics was not up for negotiation. This is not to say that Cecil was as adamantly opposed to Catholicism as his spymaster predecessor or even his father. Cecil was more broadly tolerant than many in the English government at the time; his opinion on matters of religion was that active persecution was counterproductive, since the execution of Catholics—particularly Jesuits—transformed them into popular martyrs among the Catholic community.115 That said, he also had no interest in legal toleration or tacit permission of practice. Rather, Cecil was of the opinion that open Catholicism invited civil strife, and the best policy to address that threat—for the sake of national security—was to disdain and undermine Catholics and Catholicism, instead.116 It is here that the Archpriest Controversy intersects the question of succession, as Cecil used Snowden to encourage the Appellants to reject the designation of an English archpriest and seek to remove or reduce Jesuit influence—termed regnum Jesuiticum—in England.117 In this, at least, Cecil and Snowden were successful. The legacy of the Archpriest Controversy, with its reams of libels and attacks, and the history of Catholic conspiracies all but did this for him. With such evidence, it was easy enough for Cecil to make clear to James that Catholic support would not help his bid for the English crown, particularly following Elizabeth’s 1602 proclamation refusing toleration and banishing Jesuits (and their allies). With the question of toleration put to rest—and James happy to no longer rely upon the Catholics he didn’t fully trust—Cecil could turn to the remaining task of appeasing James for however long Elizabeth still had to live. What had to be made clear to all involved—including James—was that Elizabeth was not to know of their communiques, given her propensity for jealous outbursts, which, Cecil explained, could “have moved her to think ill of that which helped to preserve her.”118 Cecil was successful in this bid, not only in keeping discussions of succession from Elizabeth, but also in managing to convince James that his claim on the English throne was secure, thereby causing James to give up his attempts to secure Catholic support.119 Cecil had cast his proverbial lot for James—more or less publicly, since he needed to maneuver the Catholics and Sackville, the Lord

250  Kingmaker and Spymaster Treasurer (who, although not himself Catholic, had close family ties to Catholics, including his mother and some of his own children), into providing the same support. Cecil saw intelligence—and his long-time agent Snowden—as the key to this effort. It was a delicate balance, but it was one that Cecil carefully maintained. And it was one to which he had convinced James to agree. So when the time came, in the early hours of 24 March 1603, when Elizabeth breathed her last, Cecil had previously prepared the official proclamation declaring James VI of Scotland to be James I of England, which he read the following morning at Whitehall, officially declaring James as the English king.120 The legends surrounding Elizabeth’s death have her indicating James as her successor, despite her severe illness and inability to speak, by making a crown with her fingers in response to Cecil’s demand for some sort of indication of her approval of James as her heir.121 Of course, we have no way to confirm this account. Whatever passed in the chamber of the queen or in the hallways of the palace in the wee hours of the morning of 24 March, the Privy Council as a whole united around the proclamation of James VI of Scotland as James I of England. They acted, Handover tells us, “as a corporate institution” rather than as individual nobles and lords, a signifier that the hierarchy of government had profoundly shifted during the reign of one of its most charismatic queens.122 Despite Elizabeth’s significant cult of personality, it was her rule that gave birth to English governmental bureaucracy, enabled non-noble men like Walsingham and the Cecils to rise to prominence and peerage, and established a network of agents, diplomats, and spies that was to persist for the better part of five centuries to come (and counting). Although no one ever questioned that Elizabeth was the central pillar of her government in terms of the public eye, the workings—the gears and cogs and threads— behind her indominable legacy had been constructed and oiled by the men and women of a new kind of government, many of them unknown and invisible.

Notes 1. Stephen Alford, London’s Triumph: Merchant Adventurers and the Tudor City (London: Penguin Random House UK, 2017), 194. 2. Alford, 194. 3. Peter Lake and Michael Questier, “Thomas Digges, Robert Parsons, Sir Francis Hastings, and the Politics of Regime Change in Elizabethan England,” Historical Journal 61, no. 1 (March 2018): 2, https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0018246X16000285 4. P.M. Handover, The Second Cecil: The Rise to Power 1563–1604 of Sir Robert Cecil, Later First Earl of Salisbury (London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1959), 277. 5. Handover, 277. 6. Lake and Questier, “Thomas Digges, Robert Parsons, Sir Francis Hastings, and the Politics of Regime Change in Elizabethan England,” 16.

Kingmaker and Spymaster 251 7. Snowden, we recall, is an alias used by the priest John Cecil, a distant cousin of Cecil’s and an active agent who worked for the English government for at least a decade. Because of the excessive number of Cecils under discussion, I will continue to use the Snowden alias. 8. Peter Lake and Michael Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest: Confessional Conflict, Toleration, and the Politics of Publicity in Post-Reformation England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 7. 9. David Martin Jones, Conscience and Allegiance in Seventeenth Century England: The Political Significance of Oaths and Engagements (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 1999), 77. 10. John Bossy, “The Character of Elizabethan Catholicism,” Past & Present, no. 21 (1962): 41. It is worth noting that the idea of liberty therefore did not apply to most people: women, children, apprentices, servants, and others in servile or subservient positions did not have the same “liberty” as the nobility or landed gentry. While it is certainly true that those of the middling classes—including merchants and artisans—made the case that such notions applied to them, as well, that liberty was applicable more broadly was not a foregone conclusion. 11. Bossy, 43. 12. “Secular priests” refers to priests who are unaffiliated with a specific religious order, such as the Jesuits, Franciscans, or Benedictines. 13. Bossy, “The Character of Elizabethan Catholicism,” 52; Victor Houliston, “Baffling the Blatant Beast: Robert Persons’ Anti-Appellant Rhetoric, 1601– 1602,” Catholic Historical Review 90, no. 3 (July 2004): 440–1, https://doi. org/10.1353/cat.2004.0131; Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 43–4. 14. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 46–7. 15. Bossy, “The Character of Elizabethan Catholicism,” 53. 16. Stephen Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I (New York: Bloomsbury, Inc., 2012), 273; Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 40. 17. Patrick Martin and John Finnis, “The Secret Sharers: ‘Anthony Rivers’ and the Appellant Controversy, 1601–1602,” Huntington Library Quarterly 69, no. 2 (2006): 202, https://doi.org/10.1525/hlq.2006.69.2.195 18. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 10. 19. Martin and Finnis, “The Secret Sharers,” 200. 20. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 83. 21. Lake and Questier, 86. 22. Lake and Questier, 88. 23. Lake and Questier, 94. 24. Lake and Questier, 95. 25. Lake and Questier, 98. 26. Lake and Questier, 98. 27. Martin and Finnis, “The Secret Sharers,” 220. 28. Martin and Finnis, 196–7. 29. Martin and Finnis, 202. 30. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 107–8. 31. Lake and Questier, 120–1. 32. Claire Reid, “Anthony Copley and the Politics of Catholic Loyalty 1590– 1604,” Sixteenth Century Journal 43, no. 2 (Summer 2012): 394. 33. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 112. 34. Lake and Questier, 113. 35. David K. Anderson, Martyrs and Players in Early Modern England: Tragedy, Religion and Violence on Stage, Reprint (2014, Ashgate), Studies in Performance and Early Modern Drama (Abingdon: Routledge, 2016), 25.

252  Kingmaker and Spymaster 36. David Loades, The Cecils: Privilege and Power Behind the Throne (Kew: The National Archives, 2007), 225. 37. Loades, 225. 38. Loades, 220. 39. Because there are at least three Edward Seymours who feature in this chapter, I will refer to this one by his title, Beauchamp. 40. Susan Doran, “Seymour, Edward, First Earl of Hertford (1539?–1621), Courtier,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2010), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/25161 41. Doran. 42. Doran. 43. Rosalind K. Marshall, “Stuart [Married Name Seymour], Lady Arabella [Arbella] (1575–1615), Noblewoman and Royal Kinswoman,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2004), https://doi. org/10.1093/ref:odnb/601 44. Marshall. 45. Marshall. 46. Loades, The Cecils, 222. 47. Handover, The Second Cecil, 106–7; Patrick H. Martin, Elizabethan Espionage: Plotters and Spies in the Struggle Between Catholicism and the Crown (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2016), 136–7. 48. Marshall, “Stuart.” 49. Marshall. 50. James and Margaret were siblings. 51. That English-born “illegitimate” daughter, Margaret Douglas, Countess of Lennox, was the mother of Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, James VI’s father (Rosalind K. Marshall, “Douglas, Lady Margaret, Countess of Lennox (1515–1578), Noblewoman,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2006), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/7911). 52. Lake and Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest, 17. 53. Lake and Questier, 12. 54. Handover, The Second Cecil, 152. 55. Alison Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service (Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1991), 125. 56. Plowden, 126. 57. Loades, The Cecils, 224. 58. Handover, The Second Cecil, 189. 59. Handover, 189. There are repeated accounts of Devereux insisting to his followers that he did not wish harm upon Elizabeth, only the removal of her Council (and Cecil, specifically), which suggests that he did not aspire to regicide, although he may have hoped to be named heir. 60. John Cecil to Robert Cecil, “J. Cecil [Alias Snowden] to Sec. Cecil,” December 1595, SP 12/255 f.27, Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1595–1597, ed. M. A. E. Green. London, England: Longman, Green, Reader and Dyer, 1867, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/ mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304400574&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL& sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 61. Handover, The Second Cecil, 122. 62. Loades, The Cecils, 202. 63. Loades, 213. 64. Paul E.J. Hammer, “Devereux, Robert, Second Earl of Essex (1565–1601), Soldier and Politician,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/7565 65. Handover, The Second Cecil, 184.

Kingmaker and Spymaster 253 66. Nicholas Canny, “O’Neill, Hugh [Aodh Ó Néill], Second Earl of Tyrone (c. 1550–1616), Magnate and Rebel,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/20775 67. Hiram Morgan, “‘Treason against Traitors’: Thomas Walker, Hugh O’Neill’s Would-Be Assassin,” History Ireland 18, no. 2 (2010): 18. 68. Morgan, 19. 69. Thomas Burgh to Robert Cecil, “The Lord Deputy Burgh to Sir Robert Cecil,” September 10, 1597, SP 63/200 f.306, Calendar of the State Papers relating to Ireland, of the reigns of Henry VIII., Edward VI., Mary, and Elizabeth, 1509-[1603], ed. Ernest George Atkinson. Vol. 6: July 1596– Dec 1597 London, England: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1893. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4310001269&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar 70. Canny, “O’Neill, Hugh [Aodh Ó Néill], Second Earl of Tyrone (c. 1550–1616), Magnate and Rebel.” 71. Lytton Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex: A Tragic History (London: Chatto & Windus, 1928), 202. 72. Canny, “O’Neill, Hugh [Aodh Ó Néill], Second Earl of Tyrone (c. 1550–1616), Magnate and Rebel.” 73. Loades, The Cecils, 213. 74. Handover, The Second Cecil, 175. 75. Handover, 175. 76. Handover, 175. 77. Loades, The Cecils, 212. 78. Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex, 212. 79. Hammer, “Devereux.” 80. Loades, The Cecils, 214. 81. Handover, The Second Cecil, 197. 82. Strachey, Elizabeth and Essex, 178. 83. Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 126. 84. Loades, The Cecils, 215. 85. Loades, 215. 86. Qtd. in Hammer, “Devereux.” 87. William Camden, The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess Elizabeth, Late Queen of England Containing All the Most Important and Remarkable Passages of State, Both at Home and Abroad (so Far as They Were Linked with English Affairs) During Her Long and Prosperous Reign, Fourth Edition (London: M. Flesher, 1688), 605, http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/ books/history-most-renowned-victorious-princess/docview/2240956365/ se-2?accountid=14731 88. Camden, 605. 89. Loades, The Cecils, 217. It is worth noting, as Loades does, that Devereux seems to have had no intention of actually causing physical harm to Elizabeth. His rebellion aimed to violently remove Cecil and other corrupt advisers (most of the Privy Council, specifically) from her side. 90. Camden, History of Elizabeth, 609. 91. Hammer, “Devereux.” 92. Hammer. 93. Handover, The Second Cecil, 226. 94. Camden, History of Elizabeth, 617. 95. Camden, 613. 96. Handover, The Second Cecil, 230.

254  Kingmaker and Spymaster 97. Handover, 230. 98. Handover, 231. 99. Morgan, “Treason against Traitors,” 19. 100. Morgan, 20. 101. Morgan, 20. 102. Morgan, 20. 103. Morgan, 21. The war between O’Neill and Blount, called the Nine Years’ War, would continue until 1603 just after to Elizabeth’s death, finally ending in O’Neill’s surrender to Blount (who managed to keep Elizabeth’s death from him until after the peace was concluded) (Christopher Maginn, “Blount, Charles, Eighth Baron Mountjoy and Earl of Devonshire (1563–1606), Soldier and Administrator,” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (Oxford University Press, 2008), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/2683). 104. Thomas Phelippes to Robert Cecil, “THOMAS PHELIPPES to SIR ROBERT CECIL,” 6 March 1596, Calendar Entry Number [195], Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most Hon. the Marquis of Salisbury, Preserved at Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, ed. R. A. Roberts. Vol. 7: 1597 London, England: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1899. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE| MC4305800199&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype= Calendar; Thomas Phelippes to Robert Cecil, “Thomas Phelippes to Sir Robert Cecil,” 28 March 1596, Calendar Entry Number [237], Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most Hon. the Marquis of Salisbury, Preserved at Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, ed. R. A. Roberts. Vol. 6: 1596 London, England: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1895. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GA LE|MC4305700240&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Calendar 105. Thomas Phelippes to Robert Cecil, “Thos. Phelippes to Sec. Cecil,” 26 September 1601, SP 12/281 f.196, Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1601-1603 with Addenda 1547–1565, ed. M. A. E. Green. London, England: Longman & Co., 1870. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id= GALE|MC4304600270&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Calendar; Handover, The Second Cecil, 263. 106. Handover, The Second Cecil, 126. 107. Handover, 264–5. 108. Handover, 175. 109. Qtd. in Handover, 264. 110. Loades, The Cecils, 221. 111. Loades, 221. 112. Handover, The Second Cecil, 235. 113. Loades, The Cecils, 224. 114. Handover, The Second Cecil, 235–6. 115. Handover, 288. 116. Handover, 288. 117. Loades, The Cecils, 225. 118. Qtd. in Plowden, The Elizabethan Secret Service, 132. 119. Plowden, 132. 120. Loades, The Cecils, 227. 121. Qtd. in Handover, The Second Cecil, 295. 122. Handover, 296.

Conclusion A New King in the Network

James VI of Scotland received the news that he had been proclaimed King James I of England by Robert Cecil, Principal Secretary, on 27 March 1603. He immediately wrote to Cecil, accepting the proclamation and giving his approval to the infrastructure established by the Privy Council for the months between Elizabeth’s death and James’s arrival in London. By the beginning of April, the government was carrying on in the name of its new king.1 In essence, Cecil was at the head of a new—if temporary—style of government, one that did not explicitly require the presence of its monarch in order to function smoothly. Cecil—alongside the Privy Council and with the assistance of a bevy of agents—had managed the transition of power not only from an aging queen to a new king, but also from one dynasty to another. England had survived the much-feared changeover following Elizabeth’s death without even one minor riot, much less the widespread violence, civil war, or even invasion that had haunted the public imagination for the better part of the previous decade. In large part, that relatively smooth transition was thanks to the work of the Privy Council and Cecil’s intelligence service, which made use of clandestine diplomacy to manage James’s expectations and maintain diplomatic ties to Scotland. The same network also made possible the peace Cecil had desired since his rise to the post of Secretary. The pressure of the war between Spain and England had been increasing gradually throughout the 1590s, and by turn of the century there was considerably more desire for peace among Elizabeth’s dwindling Privy Council than has been popularly recognized. Although war-mongers like Raleigh continued to push for the lucrative practice of anti-Spanish privateering, more and more members of the Council, including Cecil, were seriously discussing an end to the hostilities.2 On a second front, the conflicts in the Low Countries and Ireland were fatiguing the English military, and the prospect of James as Rex Pacificus became increasingly appealing on multiple fronts: militarily, socially, politically, and economically. The spread of peace also, however, shifted the religious dynamic, not specifically because James wished to actively promote the toleration of DOI: 10.4324/9781003274391-10

256  Conclusion Catholics—although that was the not-so-secret hope of many English Recusants at home and abroad—but because peace between England and Spain necessarily required England’s willingness to sit at the literal and proverbial table with the Catholic enemy. It was not possible, as Peter Lake and Michael Questier have noted, for the cessation of hostilities to have no bearing on English Catholics, whether at home or on the Continent.3 While encouraging the Scottish king’s interest in peace with Spain and also maintaining the flow of information from potential aggressors in Spain, France, Italy, and the Low Countries, Cecil’s network (and the information it provided) was vital to the formal treaty that was successfully negotiated between Spain, England, and the Low Countries at the Somerset House Conference in 1604. Cecil’s network—and the agents who participated in it—were representatives of a new kind of government; it was a style to which James, as a life-long highly centralized monarch, was not accustomed. Although he benefitted enormously from Cecil’s management of intelligence (which, after all, thwarted—or claimed to have done so, at any rate—four major plots against James’s life in the first three years of his reign), James ultimately failed to understand his Secretary’s motivations or the enormity of the sea change that had been created in the English government in the previous half-century. In fact, James was rather resentful about the proto-bureaucratic government into which he had entered in pomp and ceremony, apparently unaware of the complex machinery to which he owed his new crown. Nevertheless, he did understand that Cecil was the central figure of the management of government, evident in the postscript added in the king’s handwriting to a formal letter sent to Cecil the same day: “How happy I think myself by conquest of so faithful and so wise a counsellor I reserve it to be expressed out of my own mouth unto you.”4 Yet despite his acknowledgment of Cecil’s importance, James dramatically underestimated the significance of Cecil’s role as chief bureaucrat, spymaster, and orchestrator of government workings. James held the view that only God could place him on a throne, completely failing to appreciate the efforts undertaken by Cecil, the Privy Council, and Parliament to place and confirm him in his new royal seat. We can only imagine the frustration of Robert Cecil in attempting to manage a monarch who believed himself absolute and unconstrained, but whose Parliament (particularly the Commons) and Privy Council were functioning all but independently of him. James’s ideology functionally flew in the face of English proto-bureaucracy in the early seventeenth century. In particular, his frequent arguments with the House of Commons encapsulated the new king’s disbelief in the capacity of government service— whether in Parliament or intelligence—to empower common men (and women, in the case of intelligence work) to participate in the machinery of government. And while James managed to weather the frequent storms of

Conclusion 257 conspiracies, revolts, Parliamentary resistance, and attempts to subvert his authority, his son Charles was ultimately not so fortunate. The government of England at the end of the sixteenth century was not what it had been when Elizabeth took the throne in 1558, and absolutely was not what it had been when her grandfather, Henry VII, assumed the crown in 1485. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the medieval era had been all but forgotten, at least in governmental terms, and the system of rule—of bureaucratized paperwork that drove the secretariat and the Privy Council, of consent and negotiation that characterized Parliament—was a radical departure from even the centralized limited participatory monarchy of earlier England. The government Robert Cecil shepherded into the seventeenth century was in the process of founding the tone and institutional structures that—although not yet fully evolved into what they would become—had the capacity to persist through civil war, interregnum and Restoration, and into the modern (not just the early modern) era. And while we cannot, of course, solely (or even primarily) ascribe this transformation to the work of the intelligence service, the existence of a dedicated network of covert and overt government agents drawn from across England’s social classes and religions likely contributed to the long transformation of the English medieval monarchy into a modern bureaucracy. So if we look at the network itself in Figure C.1, not simply as it was in 1603 when James took the throne, but across the 45 years of Elizabeth’s reign from 1558 until 1603, we can see the three principal spymasters (and Secretaries) and the ways their respective networks interweave.5 The three most obvious hubs (visually as well as statistically) are clearly Walsingham (bottom right), William Cecil (top right), and Robert Cecil (top left), with some smaller hubs evident in Phelippes (bottom left) and Elizabeth (top center). It is also visually apparent that of the three, Walsingham had the greatest influence (outdegree) and reach (number of agents), as is evident in the darkness of his node (followed by William, then Robert) and its relative size (again, followed by William, then Robert). Statistically, Walsingham remains the most central figure, even in a network that he did not control for 30 of the 45 years of its existence; the fact that he remains the most central figure for all 45 years with only 15 years of active service says something about the remarkable nature of his leadership of the network. William Cecil, who administered the network for its first 16 years, then again for the 7 years between Walsingham’s death and when Robert officially took over the position in 1596 (although Robert was already active in the network), is the second most central, with a centrality of 0.723. Robert comes in third, with a much lower 0.382, which says significantly more about the monumental importance of William Cecil and Walsingham than it does the failures of Robert. The fourth most central is the queen whose life and reign the network was meant to protect, with a centrality of 0.308. And fourth we find Thomas Phelippes (0.306), whose work was of long duration, having served all three of the Elizabethan

258  Conclusion

Figure C.1  Social network map from 1558 to 1603

spymasters, and whose centrality as codebreaker and master of communication made him indispensable to the machinery of English government, despite his common birth. James VI, despite his importance in the final years of Elizabeth’s reign, was a good deal less central to the workings of intelligence (particularly given the fact that he wasn’t alive for part of it), with a low centrality of only 0.085… which is still, for what it is worth, higher than the average of 0.058. It is also worth discussing some of the broader demographics of the network as we know it. From 1558 until the death of Elizabeth in 1603, 416 men and 13 women (and 1 unknown, “the brewer”) were involved in the Elizabethan intelligence service, for a total of at least 430 known participants. The vast majority of these agents were English-born, although about 80 were likely foreign-born, with 26 from Scotland and 3 from Ireland (given the absence of birth records for the period, many remain unknown). Most of them were not people of noble birth. The nobility and gentry, when they were involved in the network, tended to be the providers and recipients of information, like Sir Amias Paulet, and the occasional managers of

Conclusion 259 agents employed by the Principal Secretary at the time. That said, a fair few, including Thomas Sackville (Lord Buckhurst, who replaced William Cecil as Lord Treasurer in 1598), served as both agents and ambassadors during Elizabeth’s reign. Furthermore, the vast majority of agents were known to have served as intelligencers for multiple years, rather than as one-off sources of ­information—at least such was the case of those whose names were recorded. It seems likely that most one-time informants were paid cash and did not necessarily make their way into the records. This matters to us because it suggests that intelligence work—whether spycraft, codebreaking, ciphering, information gathering, espionage, or some combination thereof—was not simply a temporary aside engaged in for quick cash or a lark. Intelligence work, for many agents, including Thomas Phelippes, William Sterrell, Anthony Munday, Robert Poley, and Snowden (aka John Cecil), among others, was a career. At the time of Elizabeth’s death, there were 86 known active agents still working for Robert Cecil, including Phelippes, Sterrell, and Munday, some of the longest-serving agents in the government employ. What all this tells us is that the network at the end of Elizabeth’s reign, while perhaps not as extensive as it had been in the 1580s at the height of Walsingham’s tenure as its spymaster, was still strong, as shown in Figure C.2. The network in 1603 remained fairly tight-knit—again, not as much as it had been in the 1580s, but still more coherent and centralized than it had been in the early 1590s when it was being tugged in two directions by the Cecilian and Devereux factions. With 86 active members, 136 interconnections, an APL of less than three (at 2.990), and an average degree of 1.581, the network Cecil carried into the reign of King James was both global in its reach and entrenched at home. While the three most central people in the network were Cecil and the two monarchs he served in that year (Elizabeth at 0.568 and James VI and I at 0.362), agents of common background, like Thomas Phelippes (0.320), Richard Cocks (0.318), and Anthony Munday (0.279) nevertheless remained remarkably important to the work of English intelligence as Cecil shifted the network’s focus from his now-late queen to the new king. While we cannot—and I make no claim to do so—fully attribute the profound shift in English attitudes toward commonwealth and republican power to the creation and persistence of intelligence work (and both the Royalists and Parliamentarians made use of intelligence networks in spades during the mid-seventeenth century), I do think it likely that both the English intelligence service and the rise of commonwealth attitudes share a common thread.6 In short, what made the English intelligence service possible was the notion that common people—men and women from any and all avenues of life, from the court to the countryside to the merchant stalls to the playhouses and prisons—possessed the ability not only to serve the nation, but also to act in an agentic capacity to build and maintain its power. The

260  Conclusion

Figure C.2  Social network map from 1603

rapid expansion of London; the birth of the burgeoning English empire (which would, eventually, become the British Empire); and the stability of the English government through monarchical transition, plague, and war owe their existence to the middling classes of merchants, traders, intellectuals, and explorers from whose ranks most of the intelligence service came. These were men and women who were literate, numerate, and, in many cases, polyglot—they had seen and experienced places and cultures other than their own, recorded or remembered what they saw, and brought that intelligence back to England for its betterment. At the beginning of the Tudor era, England was an island largely isolated by geography and religion; by its end, England was well on its way to becoming a global power, active in trade, exploration, and colonization around the world. This is not to say, of course, that the development of the English empire was a net positive from a global ethical perspective. With European— including English—expansion came the exploitation of Indigenous peoples in Asia, Africa, and the Americas, the seizure of “colonial” lands occupied

Conclusion 261 by those peoples, and the enslavement of millions.7 English imperialism resulted in widespread oppression across multiple continents, creating an ideological plague from which the world still has not fully recovered in the twenty-first century. And yet, it is important from a historical perspective to acknowledge the importance of early English proto-bureaucracy to the development of democratic processes such as representative government and the modern republic. We find the origins of modern capitalism—in all its glories and horrors—in the international trading of goods and information participated in by English intelligence agents in nations around the world. The spread and development of the ideas of religious toleration brought to England from Eastern Europe by means of traveling intelligencers (Ralph Rutter and Thomas Glover) ultimately led to the ideas of John Locke and the writing of the American Declaration of Independence.8 And while these events are beyond the scope of this volume, they stand in testament to the invisible power of intelligence in the processes of shaping and reshaping not simply the life of an individual agent, but also of the collective capacity of citizen-agents to alter the very systems of which they are a part. By the end of the seventeenth century, spies had played a significant role in the establishment of the English empire, and participated (on both sides) in a war that led to the legal execution of a monarch and the establishment of an (albeit temporary) English government with no monarch at all. Spies changed the shape of English colonies, and, by the end of the next century, entirely new nations and new governments were born out of those first founded with spies in their midst. And through it all, the English intelligence service, created by William Cecil on the eve of Elizabeth’s accession in 1558 and shaped by Francis Walsingham and Robert Cecil over the succeeding fifty-plus years, oversaw the excommunication of one queen and the execution of another; played a role in defending England from Europe’s most formidable navy; spread English religion and mercantilism to Africa, Asia, and the shores of the Americas; and played a role in establishing a new type of bureaucratic government. And this government—one that drew upon its commoners as much as its nobility—was one in which intelligence—in all senses of the word—mattered more than the strength of an arm or the blood in one’s veins.

Notes 1. David Loades, The Cecils: Privilege and Power Behind the Throne (Kew: The National Archives, 2007), 227. 2. Peter Lake and Michael Questier, All Hail to the Archpriest: Confessional Conflict, Toleration, and the Politics of Publicity in Post-Reformation England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019), 35. 3. Lake and Questier, 39.

262  Conclusion 4. James VI and I to Robert Cecil, “King James to Sir Robert Cecil,” March 27, 1603, [19]9, Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most Hon. the Marquis of Salisbury, Preserved at Hatfield House, Hertfordshire, ed. M. S. Guiseppi. Vol. 15: 1603 London, England: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1930, https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE| MC4306600023&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype= Calendar 5. For a discussion of the network from 1601 to 1603, see Chapter 8. 6. I have talked elsewhere about the significance of common law and the English commonwealth as distinct from absolute monarchy (Kristin M.S. Bezio, Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays: History, Political Thought, and the Redefinition of Sovereignty (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2015)). 7. For particularly thoughtful examinations of these concepts, see Stephen Alford, London’s Triumph: Merchant Adventurers and the Tudor City ­(London: Penguin Random House UK, 2017); Zach Bates, “The Idea of Royal Empire and the Imperial Crown of England, 1542–1698,” Journal of the History of Ideas 80, no. 1 (2019): 25–46; Gabriel de Avilez Rocha, Nicholas R. Jones, and Miles P. Grier, “Maroons in the Montes: Toward a Political Ecology of Marronag in the Sixteenth-Century Caribbean,” in Early Modern Black Diaspora Studies: A Critical Anthology, ed. Cassander L. Smith, Nicholas R. Jones, and Miles P. Grier, 1st ed. 2018 edition (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 15–35; Kim F. Hall, Things of Darkness: Economies of Race and Gender in Early Modern England (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995); Alison Games, The Web of Empire: English Cosmopolitans in an Age of Expansion 1560–1660 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008); Derald Wing Sue, “Whiteness and Ethnocentric Monoculturalism: Making the ‘Invisible’ Visible,” American Psychologist, November 2004, 761–9; Ashley Williard, “Ventriloquizing Blackness: Citing Enslaved Africans in the French Caribbean, c.1650–1685,” in Early Modern Black Diaspora Studies: A Critical Anthology, ed. Cassander L. Smith, Nicholas R. Jones, and Miles P. Grier, 1st ed. 2018 edition (New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 83–105. 8. Kristin M.S. Bezio, “The Polish Brethren & the Early Modern English Stage: Reformation Religion, Revolutionary Politics, and the Public London Theatres” (International Congress on Medieval Studies, Kalamazoo, 2018).

Appendix

For each of the chapters that include social network analysis, I have provided a brief chart to accompany the discussion in the chapters themselves.1 In these statistical tables, I have included centrality, indegree, and outdegree for a selection of significant figures discussed in the chapters. It is worth noting that the statistics reflect only the relationships specific to the contexts given. For each network, I have chosen a handful of individual nodes for which I have provided statistics on centrality, outdegree, and indegree. We can see that some of the connections are reciprocal, meaning they go in both directions (such as co-workers or friends), so there may be total “degrees” that are higher than an individual’s edge count.

Introduction The sample network:

Sample Network Nodes 11

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

17

0.593

2.182

3.091

5

Sample Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham

Elizabeth I

Rutter

Marlowe

Average

0.733 3 1

0.763 4 1

1 4 7

0.458 2 3

0.482 2.723 2.091

264  Appendix I have also provided the statistics on the overall spy network from 1558 to 1603, as it is mentioned in this chapter. The network from 1558 to 1603: 1558–1603 Network Start Year 1558

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

430

1100

0.390

3.186

2.558

7

Chapter 2 The network from 1558 to 1569: 1558–1569 Network Start Year 1558

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1569

66

100

0.336

3.211

1.515

7

1558–1569 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham Elizabeth W. Cecil Ridolfi Thomaso J. Day Average 0.525 9 3

0.468 10 0

1 23 4

0.408 1 8

0.327 1 4

0.175 1 2

0.148 1.515 1.515

In addition to the specifics of the spy network, I also briefly mention a more comprehensive (although still incomplete) network which includes politicians, court and family connections, and spies. This network specifically traces connections to those involved in spycraft, but many of these nodes are not themselves involved in the intelligence network in any way. I have provided statistics for that network below for the same span of years discussed in Chapter 2 as a point of comparison. A more comprehensive network from 1558 to 1603:

1558–1603 Network (Expanded) Start Year 1558

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

1036

5071

0.482

3.274

4.895

11

Appendix 265

Figure A.1  Social network map (expanded) from 1558 to 1603

266  Appendix

Chapter 3 The network from 1558 to 1573: 1558–1573 Network Start Year 1558

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1573

107

186

0.405

3.147

1.738

7

1558–1573 Individual Statistics  

W. Walsingham Cecil Elizabeth Thomaso

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

0.564 22 4

1 41 4

0.364 13 0

0.207 0 1

Mary QS Randolph Ridolfi Barne Average 0.117 4 1

0.313 1 9

0.322 0.046 0.112 2 0 1.738 9 1 1.738

The network from 1574 to 1579: 1574–1579 Network Start Year 1574

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1579

126

196

0.404

3.143

1.556

7

1574–1579 Individual Statistics

 

Walsin­ W. Eliza­ Mary Mun­ A. Nor­ gham Cecil beth Sackville QS day Marlowe ton Average

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 43 3

0.714 0.193 30 8 5 0

0.180 0 2

0.059 0.439 4 23 1 5

0.155 2 3

0.281 1 4

0.104 1.556 1.556

Chapter 4 The network from 1574 to 1584: 1574–1584 Network Start Year 1574

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1584

217

425

0.353

3.275

1.959

10

Appendix 267 1574–1584 Individual Statistics  

Walsingham

W. Cecil

Elizabeth

Munday

Average

1 91 3

0.445 36 5

0.182 15 1

0.298 27 8

0.0696 1.959 1.959

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Chapter 5 The network from 1585 to 1587: 1585–1587 Network Start Year 1585

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1587

224

483

0.376

2.915

2.156

8

1585–1587 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham

W. Cecil

Elizabeth

Mary QS

Paulet

Sackville

1 122 4

0.381 39 5

0.156 19 1

0.207 9 7

0.143 5 2

0.122 8 2

1585–1585 Contd.   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Gi. Gifford

Barnard

0.169 11 9

0.115 3 4

Berden Phelippes 0.178 18 7

0.185 9 9

W. Williams

Poley

Catlyn

Average

0.159 5 7

0.156 10 9

0.117 5 4

0.0697 2.156 2.156

For the discussion of the Babington Plot, only relationships specific to the Plot itself are included, even though there were additional relationships between the people in the network that did not include Babington-related interactions. Although both Cecil and Elizabeth were connected, their interactions did not have to do with the intelligence service, specifically, and are therefore not reflected in their respective indegrees and outdegrees. Some of these do not change from the wider network to the narrower one because their work was focused entirely on the plot (such as “the brewer”). For others, like Walsingham or Cecil, the difference is significant.

268  Appendix The network for the Babington Plot only, 1585–1587: Babington Network Start Year 1583

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1587

63

122

0.402

3.143

1.937

7

Babington Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham

W. Cecil

Elizabeth

Mary QS

Paulet

Sackville

1 21 3

0.369 5 2

0.186 4 0

0.683 7 6

0.405 5 1

0.271 1 1

Babington Contd.  

Gi. W. Gifford Barnard Berden Phelippes Williams Poley Catlyn Average

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

0.381 7 4

0.117 3 3

0.441 8 6

0.667 8 7

0.117 3 3

0.161 0.117 5 3 2 3

0.182 1.937 1.937

Chapter 6 The network from 1587 to 1589: 1587–1589 Network Start Year 1587

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1589

196

387

0.379

2.854

1.974

6

1587–1589 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham

W. Cecil

Elizabeth

1 110 4

0.428 40 4

0.174 20 1

A. Marlowe Sackville Munday 0.109 2 3

0.131 8 2

0.136 3 6

Appendix 269 1587–1589 Contd.   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Standen

Phelippes

Dee

Whitgift

Average

0.106 3 4

0.159 6 8

0.126 2.000 3.000

0.019 4.000 0.000

0.075 1.974 1.974

The network from 1585 to 1590: 1585–1590 Network Start Year 1585

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1590

248

570

0.390

2.918

2.298

7

1585–1590 Individual Statistics  

Walsingham W. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 128 4

0.563 62 5

Elizabeth A. Marlowe Sackville 0.156 20 1

0.134 2 4

0.116 9 2

Munday 0.115 3 6

1585–1590 Contd.  

C. Marlowe Phelippes

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

0.167 6 10

0.219 11 11

Dee

Poley

0.118 0.151 2 11 3 10

Gi. Gifford Snape Average 0.168 12 10

0.074 2 1

0.069 2.298 2.298

The network from 1580 to 1584: 1580–1584 Network Start Year 1580

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1584

200

388

0.389

3.199

1.94

10

270  Appendix 1580–1584 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsin­ W. A. gham Cecil Elizabeth Marlowe Sackville 1 89 3

0.433 0.169 33 14 4 1

0.125 2 3

0.119 0 2

Mun­ C. Phelip­ day Marlowe pes Ave. 0.2899 24 8

0.219 5 9

0.123 0.073 2 1.940 4 1.940

Chapter 7 The network from 1574 to 1589: 1574–1589 Network  Start Year 1574

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1589

305

671

0.360

3.040

2.200

7

1574–1589 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsin­ W. gham Cecil 1 139 4

Eliza­ Phelip­ beth pes

Poley Berden Sackville Average

0.395 0.155 0.167 0.137 0.162 49 21 10 10 18 6 1 10 9 8

0.1199 8 2

0.058 2.200 2.200

Comparative statistics for all subset networks during Walsingham’s time as spymaster: Comparative Walsingham Network Charts Start Year 1574 1580 1585 1587 1574

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1579 1584 1587 1590 1589

126 200 224 210 305

196 388 483 439 671

0.404 0.389 0.376 0.401 0.360

3.143 3.199 2.915 2.944 3.040

1.556 1.940 2.156 2.090 2.200

7 10 8 8 7

Appendix 271 The network from 1591 to 1598: 1591–1598 Network Start Year

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1598

166

363

0.342

3.129

2.187

7

1591

1591–1598 Individual Statistics  

W. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 56 2

R. Cecil

Eliza­ beth

Phelip­ A. R. pes Bacon Devereux

0.869 0.413 0.487 45 24 13 5 1 13

0.207 6 4

0.338 14 3

Poley

Snowden Average

0.242 5 7

0.315 8 6

0.115 2.187 2.187

Network for only 1590: 1590 Network Start Year 1590

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1590

157

290

0.450

2.941

1.847

8

1590 Individual Statistics  

Walsin­ gham

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 87 3

W. Cecil

R. Cecil

0.667 0.049 51 6 4 0

Phelip­ pes 0.203 5 7

Eliza­ A. R. beth Bacon Devereux 0.167 0.171 16 3 1 4

0.023 3 0

Poley

Ave.

0.138 3 5

0.089 2.941 2.941

The network from 1591 to 1595: 1591–1595 Network Start Year 1591

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1595

149

308

0.343

3.195

2.067

7

272  Appendix 1591–1595 Individual Statistics  

W. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

R. Cecil

1 56 2

Eliza­ beth

Phelip­ A. pes Bacon

0.383 0.361 0.312 22 22 12 2 1 10

R. Devereux

Poley

Sackville

Ave.

0.212 10 3

0.195 5 7

0.058 2 1

0.100 2.067 2.067

0.204 6 4

The network from 1595 to 1598: 1595–1598 Network Start Year

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1598

125

250

0.305

3.064

2.000

6

1595

1595–1598 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

W. Cecil

R. Cecil

1 45 1

Eliza­ beth

Phelip­ A. pes Bacon

0.969 0.447 0.506 40 21 8 5 1 9

R. Devereux

Poley

Snowden

Average

0.360 13 2

0.243 4 6

0.233 2 2

0.139 2.000 2.000

0.123 6 3

Chapter 8 The network in 1598: 1598 Network Start Year 1598

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1598

104

179

0.230

3.101

1.721

7

1598 Individual Statistics  

W. Cecil

Centrality 0.886 Outdegree 36 Indegree 1

R. Cecil 1 36 5

Phelip­ pes Snowden 0.469 6 8

0.244 1 2

Eliza­ beth

Ster­ rell

0.499 0.298 20 3 1 8

R. Devereux Waad 0.249 11 1

0.444 6 4

Average 0.144 1.721 1.721

Appendix 273 The network in 1599: 1599 Network Start Year

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1599

85

139

0.355

3.042

1.635

7

1599

1599 Individual Statistics  

R. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 37 5

Eliza­ Pheilip­ beth pes Snowden 0.489 0.387 21 6 1 7

0.146 1 1

R. Ster­ Devereux rell 0.199 8 1

A. Bacon Waad

0.305 0.064 3 4 8 3

0.318 5 3

Average 0.125 1.635 1.635

The network from 1599 to 1603: 1599–1603 Network Start Year

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

117

202

0.374

2.938

1.720

6

1599

1599–1603 Individual Statistics  

R. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 58 6

Eliza­ Pheilip­ beth pes Snowden 0.352 0.293 21 9 1 10

0.197 14 2

R. Ster­ Devereux rell 0.119 8 1

Waad

James VI Average

0.212 0.225 0.207 0.100 3 5 10 1.720 8 3 2 1.720

The network from 1601 to 1603: 1601–1603 Network Start Year 1601

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

112

191

0.330

2.971

1.705

6

274  Appendix 1601–1603 Individual Statistics  

R. Cecil

Centrality Outdegree Indegree

1 53 6

Eliza­ Pheilip­ beth pes Snowden 0.386 21 1

0.283 9 9

0.211 14 2

A. Bacon

Sterrell Waad

0.029 3 2

0.1996 0.198 3 4 7 3

James VI Average 0.229 0.103 10 1.705 2 1.705

Statistical comparison to 1587–1598: 1587–1589 Network Start Year

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1589

196

387

0.379

2.854

1.974

6

1587

Conclusion Network from 1558 to 1603: 1558–1603 Network Start Year 1558

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

430

1100

0.390

3.186

2.558

7

1558–1603 Individual Statistics   Centrality Outdegree Indegree

Walsingham

W. Cecil

R. Cecil

Eliza­ beth

James VI

Phelip­ pes

1 144 5

0.723 99 6

0.382 67 6

0.308 36 1

0.085 0.306 10 24 5 23

Average 0.058 2.558 2.558

The network in 1603: 1603 Network Start Year 1603

End Year

Nodes

Edges

GCC

APL

Ave Deg

Diam

1603

86

136

0.253

2.990

1.581

7

Appendix 275 1603 Individual Statistics R. Cecil Elizabeth James VI Phelippes Cocks Munday Average Centrality 1 Outdegree 36 Indegree 1

0.568 20 1

0.362 10 2

0.320 5 7

0.318 1 4

0.279 2 4

0.129 1.581 1.581

Note 1. For lengthier analyses and discussions of the individuals included in the maps and tables, please see their respective chapter texts.

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278  Bibliography ———. Staging Power in Tudor and Stuart English History Plays: History, Political Thought, and the Redefinition of Sovereignty. Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2015. Black, Joseph. “The Rhetoric of Reaction: The Martin Marprelate Tracts (1588– 89), Anti-Martinism, and the Uses of Print in Early Modern England.” The Sixteenth Century Journal 28, no. 3 (1997): 707–25. Borot, Luc. “Richard Overton and Radicalism: The New Intertext of the Civic Ethos in Mid Seventeenth-Century England.” In English Radicalism 1550– 1850, Edited by Glenn Burgess and Matthew Festenstein, 37–61. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Bossy, John. “The Character of Elizabethan Catholicism.” Past & Present, no. 21 (1962): 39–59. ———. Giordano Bruno and the Embassy Affair. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991. ———. “Surprise, Surprise: An Elizabethan Mystery.” History Today 41, no. 9 (September 1991): 14–9. ———. Under the Molehill: An Elizabethan Spy Story. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001. Bruster, Douglas. “The Structural Transformation of Print in Late Elizabethan England.” In Shakespeare and the Question of Culture: Early Modern Literature and the Cultural Turn, 65–93. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003. Burgh, Thomas. Letter to Robert Cecil. “The Lord Deputy Burgh to Sir Robert Cecil,” September 10, 1597. SP 63/200 f.306. Calendar of the State Papers relating to Ireland, of the reigns of Henry VIII., Edward VI., Mary, and Elizabeth, 1509–[1603]. Edited by Ernest George Atkinson. Vol. 6: July 1596-Dec 1597 London, England: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1893. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/ mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4310001269&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw= w&viewtype=Calendar Burton, Jonathan. Traffic and Turning: Islam and English Drama, 1579–1624. Newark, NJ: University of Delaware Press, 2005. Caldwell, Melissa M. Skepticism and Belief in Early Modern England: The Reformation of Moral Value. New York, NY: Routledge, 2017. Camden, William. The History of the Most Renowned and Victorious Princess Elizabeth, Late Queen of England Containing All the Most Important and Remarkable Passages of State, Both at Home and Abroad (so Far as They Were Linked with English Affairs) During Her Long and Prosperous Reign. 4th Edition. London: M. Flesher, 1688. http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/ login?url=https://www.proquest.com/books/history-most-renowned-victoriousprincess/docview/2240956365/se-2?accountid=14731 Campion, Edmund. The Great Bragge and Challenge of M. Champion a Jesuite Co[m]Monlye Called Edmunde Campion, Latelye Arriued in Englande, Contayninge Nyne Articles Here Seuerallye Laide Downe, Directed by Him to the Lordes of the Counsail, Co[n]Futed & Aunswered by Meredith Hanmer … Early English Books Online, 1896:12. Inprinted [sic] at London in Fletestreate nere vnto Sayncte Dunstons Church: By Thomas Marsh, 1581. http://newman. richmond.edu:2048/ login?url=https://w w w.proquest.com / books/greatbragge-challenge-m-champion-jesuite-co/docview/2240921524/se-2?accountid= 14731

Bibliography 279 Canny, Nicholas. “O’Neill, Hugh [Aodh Ó Néill], Second Earl of Tyrone (c. 1550– 1616), Magnate and Rebel.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2008. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/20775 Carpenter, S. C. The Church in England 1597–1688. London: John Murray, 1954. Caxton, William. The Fables of Esope in Englishe. Early English Books Online. London: Henry Wykes, 1570. Cecil, John. Letter to Robert Cecil. “J. Cecil [Alias Snowden] to Sec. Cecil,” December 1595. SP 12/255 f.27. Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1595–1597. Edited by M. A. E. Green. London, England: Longman, Green, Reader and Dyer, 1867. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/ i.do?id=GALE|MC4304400574&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw= w&viewtype=Calendar Cecil, William. Letter to Francis Walsingham. “Ld. Burleigh, to Fr. Walsingham,” September 11, 1572. Cotton Vespasian F/V f.148. British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond. edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4318870312&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL& sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript ———. “Memorial by Cecil.” British Library, May 1568. Cotton Caligula C/I f.97. Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547– 1603. Edited by Joseph Bain. Vol. 2: 1563–1569 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1900. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019. http://go.galegroup.com.newman.richmond.edu:2048/mss/i.do?id=GALE| MC4308000683&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar ———. “Sir William Cecil, to Sir Henry Norris.” In Cabala, Sive, Scrinia Sacra, Mysteries of State and Government: In Letters of Illustrious Persons and Great Ministers of State as Well Forreign as Domestick, in the Reigns of King Henry the Eighth, Q: Elizabeth, K: James, and K: Charles: Wherein Such Secrets of Empire, and Publick Affairs, as Were Then in Agitation, Are Clearly Represented; and Many Remarkable Passages Faithfully Collected. Formerly in Two Volumns. To Which Is Added Several Choice Letters and Negotiations, No Where Else Published. Now Collected and Printed Together in One Volumn. With Two Exact Tables, the One of the Letters, and the Other of Things Most Observable, Edited by G. Bedell and T. Collins, 141. London: G. Bedell and T. Collins, 1663. Clay, William Keatinge, ed. Liturgical Services, Liturgies and Occasional Forms of Prayer Set Forth in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2004. Cobbett, William, and David Jardine. Cobbett’s Complete Collection of State Trials and Proceedings for High Treason and Other Crimes and Misdemeanors from the Earliest Period [1163] to the Present Time [1820]. Vol. 1. 33 vols. London: R. Bagshaw, 1816. Coby, J. Patrick. Thomas Cromwell: Machiavellian Statecraft and the English Reformation. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2009. Coffey, John. Persecution and Toleration in Protestant England 1558–1689. Studies in Modern History. Harlow, Essex, UK: Longman, 2000. Collinson, Patrick. “Servants and Citizens: Robert Beale and Other Elizabethans.” Historical Research 79, no. 206 (November 2006): 488–511. Condren, Conal. “Public, Private and the Idea of the ‘Public Sphere’ in Early– Modern England.” Intellectual History Review 19, no. 1 (January 2009): 15–28.

280  Bibliography “Conspiracy of Amboise.” Britannica Academic. Accessed March 6, 2019. https://academic-eb-com.newman.richmond.edu/levels/collegiate/article/ Conspiracy-of-Amboise/6055 Cooper, John. The Queen’s Agent: Sir Francis Walsingham and the Rise of Espionage in Elizabethan England. New York, NY: Pegasus Books, 2012. Cooper, Thomas. An Admonition to the People of England Vvherein Are Ansvvered, Not Onely the Slaunderous Vntruethes, Reprochfully Vttered by Martin the Libeller, but Also Many Other Crimes by Some of His Broode, Obiected Generally against All Bishops, and the Chiefe of the Cleargie, Purposely to Deface and Discredite the Present State of the Church. Seene and Allowed by Authoritie. Early English Books, 1475–1640/205:06. Imprinted at London: By the deputies of Christopher Barker, printer to the Queenes most excellent Maiestie, 1589. Danou, Photini. “Catholic Treason Trials in Elizabethan England. Complexities and Ambiguities in the Stage Management of a Public Show: The Case of William Parry.” Journal of Early Modern History 14, no. 5 (October 2010): 393–415. Devine, Michael J. “John Prestall: A Complex Relationship with the Elizabethan Regime.” Master of Arts, Victoria University of Wellington, 2009. Doran, Susan. “Seymour, Edward, First Earl of Hertford (1539?–1621), Courtier.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2010. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/25161 Duffy, Eamon. Saints, Sacrilege & Sedition: Religion and Conflict in the Tudor Reformations. Paperback (2012 hardcover). London: Bloomsbury, 2014. ———. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400–1580. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992. Elias, Norbert. The Court Society. Translated by Edmund Jephcott. New York, NY: Pantheon Books, 1983. Elizabeth I. Elizabeth I Collected Works, Edited by Leah S. Marcus, Janel Mueller, and Mary Beth Rose. Chicago, IL: The University of Chicago Press, 2000. ———. “Instructions to the Commissioners SENT to Mary.” Fotheringhay, November 16, 1586. SP 53/20 f.29. Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603. Edited by William K. Boyd. Vol. 9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019. https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu /mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308700157&v=2.1&u=vic_uor& it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar ———. “Proclamation Concerning the Sentence against Mary.” London: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, December 4, 1586. SP 53/20. Edited by William K. Boyd. Vol.  9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/ mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308700185&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL& sw=w&viewtype=Calendar ———. “Speech by Elizabeth I in Parliament.” London: Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603, November 12, 1586. Lansdowne Vol/94 f.84. Calendar of State Papers relating to Scotland and Mary, Queen of Scots, 1547–1603. Edited by William K. Boyd. Vol.  9: 1586–1588 Edinburgh, Scotland: H.M. General Register House, 1915. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2019. https://lst-gale-com.newman. richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4308700150&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r& p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar

Bibliography 281 Fiehler, Rudolph. “Burghley’s Commonwealth.” The Mississippi Quarterly 14, no. 1 (1960): 20–32. Foxe, John. The Acts and Monuments of John Foxe. Vol. V. The Church Historians of England: Reformation Period. London: Seeleys, 1857. Gallagher, John. “The Italian London of John North: Cultural Contact and Linguistic Encounter in Early Modern England.” Renaissance Quarterly 70, no. 1 (2017): 88–131. Games, Alison. The Web of Empire: English Cosmopolitans in an Age of Expansion 1560–1660. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Gephi. “Gephi - The Open Graph Viz Platform.” Accessed May 28, 2020. https:// gephi.org/ Gestrich, Andreas. Absolutismus Und Öffentlichkeit: Politische Kommunikation in Deutschland Zu Beginn Des 18. Jarhunderts. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1994. Goldring, Elizabeth. “Talbot [Née Hardwick], Elizabeth [Bess] [Called Bess of Hardwick], Countess of Shrewsbury (1527?–1608), Noblewoman.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi. org/10.1093/ref:odnb/26925 Goodare, Julian. “Mary [Mary Stewart] (1542–1587), Queen of Scots.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2007. https://doi. org/10.1093/ref:odnb/18248 Graham, Winston. The Spanish Armadas. London: George Rainbird Limited, 1972. Graves, Michael A. R. “Campion, Edmund [St Edmund Campion] (1540–1581), Jesuit and Martyr.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2008. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/4539 Gray, Austin K. “Some Observations on Christopher Marlowe, Government Agent.” Publications of the Modern Language Association of America 43, no. 3 (1928): 682–700. Griffin, Eric J. English Renaissance Drama and the Specter of Spain: Ethnopoetics and Empire. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009. Gunther, Karl. “The Marian Persecution and Early Elizabethan Protestants: Persecutors, Apostates, and the Wages of Sin.” Archiv Für Das Studium Der Neueren Sprächen Und Literaturen 107 (2016): 137–64. Guy, John. Tudor England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988. H., A. “To the Reader.” In The Compleat Ambassador: Or Two Treaties of the Intended Marriage of Qu: Elizabeth of Glorious Memory Comprised in Letters of Negotiation of Sir Francis Walsingham, Her Resident in France, edited by Dudly Digges, [1–4]. London: Thomas Newcomb for Gabriel Bedell and Thomas Collins, 1655. http://newman.richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https:// www.proquest.com/books/compleat-ambassador-two-treaties-intended/docview/ 2240916884/se-2?accountid=14731 Haigh, Christopher. English Reformations: Religion, Politics, and Society under the Tudors. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993. Hall, Kim F. Things of Darkness: Economies of Race and Gender in Early Modern England. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995. Haller, William. The Elect Nation: The Meaning and Relevance of Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. New York, NY: Harper & Row, 1963. Hamilton, Donna B. Anthony Munday and the Catholics, 1560–1633. Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2005.

282  Bibliography Hammer, Paul E. J. “Devereux, Robert, Second Earl of Essex (1565–1601), Soldier and Politician.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2008. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/7565 Handover, P. M. The Second Cecil: The Rise to Power 1563–1604 of Sir Robert Cecil, Later First Earl of Salisbury. London: Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1959. Herle, William. Letter to William Cecil. “[William Herlle] to Burghley,” April 11, 1571. SP 53/6 f.64. The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/ i.do?id=GALE|MC4308180700&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w& viewtype=Manuscript ———. Letter to Nicholas Bacon. “Wm. Herlle to the Lord Keeper,” January 1570. SP 12/77 1v. The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/ mss/retrieve.do?sgHitCountType=None&sort=R N-SORT&inPS =true& prod Id= SPOL &userGroupNa me =vic _uor&tabI D =T0 05&sea rch Id=& r e s u l t L i s tTy p e = R E S U LT _ L I S T & c o n t e n t S e g m e n t = & s e a r c hTy p e = StandardsBrowse¤tPosition=0&contentSet=GALE|MC4304105651&& docId=GALE|MC4304105651&docType=GALE&searchId=&viewtype= Calendar Hogge, Alice. God’s Secret Agents: Queen Elizabeth’s Forbidden Priests and the Hatching of the Gunpowder Plot. New York, NY: HarperCollins Publishers, 2005. Hogge, Ralph. Letter to Elizabeth I. “Petition of Ralph Hogge,” January 1574. SP 12/95 f.40. The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE| MC4304186593&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype= Manuscript Holmes, Peter. “Paget, Charles (c. 1546–1612), Roman Catholic Conspirator.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2008. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/21103 Hölscher, Lucian. Öffentlichkeit Und Geheimnis: Eine Begriffsgeschichtliche Untersuchung Zur Entstehung Der Öffentlichkeit in Der Frühen Neuzeit. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1979. Houliston, Victor. “Baffling the Blatant Beast: Robert Persons’ Anti-Appellant Rhetoric, 1601–1602.” Catholic Historical Review 90, no. 3 (July 2004): 439–55. ———. “Persons [Parsons], Robert (1546–1610), Jesuit.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/21474 Howell, Thomas Bayly, and Thomas Jones Howell, eds. Cobbett’s Complete Collection of State Trials and Proceedings for High Treason and Other Crimes and Misdemeanors from the Earliest Period to the Present Time. Vol. 1. London: T.C. Hansard for R. Bagshaw, 1809. Hunter, G. K. “Religious Nationalism in Later History Plays.” In Literature and Nationalism, Edited by Vincent Newey and Ann Thompson, 88–97. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1991. Hutchinson, Robert. Elizabeth’s Spy Master. London: Weidenfeld & Nicholson, 2006. James VI and I. Letter to Robert Cecil. “King James to Sir Robert Cecil,” March 27, 1603. [19]9. Calendar of the Manuscripts of the Most Hon. the Marquis of

Bibliography 283 Salisbury, Preserved at Hatfield House, Hertfordshire. Edited by M. S. Guiseppi. Vol. 15: 1603 London, England: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1930. https:// lst-gale-com.newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4306600023& v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar Johanesen, Sarah. ‘“That Silken Priest’: Catholic Disguise and Anti-Popery on the English Mission (1559–1640).” Presented at the Renaissance Society of America, Toronto, March 17, 2019. Jones, David Martin. Conscience and Allegiance in Seventeenth Century England: The Political Significance of Oaths and Engagements. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 1999. Jones, Norman. Being Elizabethan: Understanding Shakespeare’s Neighbors. Digital. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley Blackwell, 2019. ———. Faith by Statute: Parliament and the Settlement of Religion. Cambridge: Prometheus Books, 1982. Jusdado, Sandra. “The Appellant Priests and the Succession Issue.” In The Struggle for the Succession in Late Elizabethan England: Politics, Polemics and Cultural Representations, Edited by Jean-Christophe Mayer, 199–216. Astraea Collection 11. Montpellier, France: Université Paul-Valéry Montpellier, 2004. Jütte, Daniel. The Age of Secrecy: Jews, Christians, and the Economy of Secrets, 1400–1800. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2015. Kenny, Anthony. “Anthony Munday in Rome.” Recusant History 6, no. 4 (1962): 158–62. Kitzes, Adam. “The Hazards of Professional Authorship: Polemic and Fiction in Anthony Munday’s English Roman Life.” Renaissance Studies 31, no. 3 (2017): 444–61. Knecht, R. J. The French Wars of Religion 1559–1598. 3rd Edition (1989). Seminar Studies in History. London: Routledge, 2010. Lake, Peter. Bad Queen Bess? Libels, Secret Histories, and the Politics of Publicity in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth I. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016. ———. “Puritanism, Familism, and Heresy in Early Stuart England: The Case of John Etherington Revisited.” In Heresy, Literature, and Politics in Early Modern English Culture, edited by David Loewenstein and John Marshall, 82–107. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Lake, Peter, and Michael Questier. All Hail to the Archpriest: Confessional Conflict, Toleration, and the Politics of Publicity in Post-Reformation England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2019. ———. “Thomas Digges, Robert Parsons, Sir Francis Hastings, and the Politics of Regime Change in Elizabethan England.” Historical Journal 61, no. 1 (March 2018): 1–27. Lander, Jesse M. “Martin Marprelate and the Fugitive Text.” Reformation 7, no. 1 (January 2002): 135–85. Li, Yusheng, Yilun Shang, and Yiting Yang. “Clustering Coefficients of Large Networks.” Information Sciences 382–383 (March 1, 2017): 350–8. Loades, David. The Cecils: Privilege and Power behind the Throne. Kew, UK: The National Archives, 2007. Lockey, Brian C. Early Modern Catholics, Royalists, and Cosmopolitans: English Transnationalism and the Christian Commonwealth. Transculturalisms, 1400– 1700. Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate Publishing Ltd., 2015.

284  Bibliography Lomas, Daniel W. B., and Christopher J. Murphy. Intelligence and Espionage: Secrets and Spies. Seminar Studies in History. London: Routledge, 2019. MacCaffrey, Wallace T. “Cecil, William, First Baron Burghley (1520/21–1598), Royal Minister.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/4983 MacCulloch, Diarmaid. Thomas Cromwell: A Revolutionary Life. New York, NY: Viking, 2018. Maginn, Christopher. “Blount, Charles, Eighth Baron Mountjoy and Earl of Devonshire (1563–1606), Soldier and Administrator.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2008. https://doi.org/10.1093/ ref:odnb/2683 Marprelate, Martin, “The Epistle.” In The Marprelate Tracts [1588–1589], Facsimile, A Scholar Press Facsimile, 1–54. Menston, UK: The Scholar Press Limited, 1967. Marprelate, Martin, pseud. Oh Read Ouer D. Iohn Bridges, for It Is a Worthy Worke: Or an Epitome of the Fyrste Booke, of That Right Worshipfull Volume, Written against the Puritanes, in the Defence of the Noble Cleargie, by as Worshipfull a Prieste, Iohn Bridges, Presbyter, Priest or Elder, Doctor of Diuillitie, and Deane of Sarum Wherein the Arguments of the Puritans Are Wisely Prevented, That When They Come to Answere M. Doctor, They Must Needes Say Something That Hath Bene Spoken. Compiled for the Behoofe and Overthrow of the Parsous [Sic], Fyckers, and Currats, That Have Lernt Their Catechismes and Are Past Grace: By the Reverend and Worthie Martin Marprelate Gentleman, and Dedicated to the Confocation House. Edited by John Penry. Early English Books Online. Printed oversea, in Europe [i.e. East Molesey, Surrey : By Robert Waldegrave], within two furlongs of a bounsing priest, at the cost and charges of M Marprelate, gentleman, 1588. http://newman. richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/books/oh-read-ouerd-iohn-bridges-is-worthy-worke/docview/2248516531/se-2?accountid=14731 Marshall, Rosalind K. “Douglas, Lady Margaret, Countess of Lennox (1515– 1578), Noblewoman.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2006. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/7911 ———. “Stuart [Married Name Seymour], Lady Arabella [Arbella] (1575–1615), Noblewoman and Royal Kinswoman.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/601 Marsland, Claire. “The Material Culture of Catholicism and Confessional Politics in Early Modern England.” Presented at the Renaissance Society of America, Toronto, March 17, 2019. Martin, Patrick H. Elizabethan Espionage: Plotters and Spies in the Struggle between Catholicism and the Crown. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc., Publishers, 2016. Martin, Patrick, and John Finnis. “The Secret Sharers: ‘Anthony Rivers’ and the Appellant Controversy, 1601–2.” Huntington Library Quarterly 69, no. 2 (2006): 195–238. https://doi.org/10.1525/hlq.2006.69.2.195 Mayer, T. F. “Sander [Sanders], Nicholas (c. 1530–1581), Religious Controversialist.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2014. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/24621 Mazzola, Elizabeth. “The Renaissance Englishwoman in Code: ‘Blabbs’ and Cryptographers at Elizabeth I’s Court.” Critical Survey 22, no. 3 (2010): 1–20.

Bibliography 285 McDermott, James. “Stafford, Sir Edward (1552–1605), Diplomat.” Oxford Dic­ tionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2012. https://doi.org/ 10.1093/ref:odnb/26203 McGoldrick, James Edward. “Cecil [Alias Snowden], John (1558–1626), Roman Catholic Priest and Spy.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/4978 Mendoza, Bernardino de. “Bernardino de Mendoza to the King [Extract].” In Calendar of Letters and State Papers Relating to English Affairs of the Reign of Elizabeth, Edited by Martin A. S. Hume, 3:574–77. London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1896. Merriam, Thomas. “The Misunderstanding of Munday as Author of Sir Thomas More.” The Review of English Studies 51, no. 204 (2000): 540–81. Meyer, Allison Machlis. “Constructing Islam in an Early Modern Anthology: Intertextuality, Politics, and Religion in Seventeenth-Century Europe.” Renais­ sance Quarterly 71, no. 3 (2018): 959–99. Morgan, Hiram. “‘Treason against Traitors’: Thomas Walker, Hugh O’Neill’s Would-Be Assassin.” History Ireland 18, no. 2 (2010): 18–21. Morton, Adam, and Nadine Lewycky. “Introduction.” In Getting Along? Religious Identities and Confessional Relations in Early Modern England - Essays in Honour of Professor W. J. Sheils, Edited by Nadine Lewycky and Adam Morton, 1–27. London: Routledge, 2016. Munday, Anthony. A Discouerie of Edmund Campion, and His Confederates, Their Most Horrible and Traiterous Practises, against Her Maiesties Most Royall Person and the Realme Wherein May Be Seene, How Thorowe the Whole Course of Their Araignement: They Were Notably Conuicted of Euery Cause. VVhereto Is Added, the Execution of Edmund Campion, Raphe Sherwin, and Alexander Brian, Executed at Tiborne the 1. of December. Early English Books Online. London: [By John Charlewood] for Edwarde VVhite, dwelling at the little north doore of Paules, at the signe of the Gunne, 1582. https://www.proquest. com/eebo/docview/2240931302/citation/41D969EAFA3B4157PQ/1 ———. The English Romayne Lyfe Discouering: The Liues of the Englishmen at Roome: The Orders of the English Semiminarie [Sic]: The Dissention Betweene the Englishmen and the VVelshmen: The Banishing of the Englishmen out of Roome: The Popes Sending for Them Againe: A Reporte of Many of the Paltrie Reliques in Roome: Ther Vautes Vnder the Grounde: Their Holy Pilgrimages: And a Number Other Matters, Worthy to Be Read and Regarded of Euery One. Early English Books Online. London: Iohn Charlewoode, for Nicholas Ling: dwelling in Paules Church-yarde, at the signe of the Maremaide, 1582. https://www.proquest.com/eebo/docview/2248544966/ citation/B423ACED3C6F4627PQ/2 ———. The Mirrour of Mutabilitie, or Principall Part of the Mirrour for Mag­ istrates Describing the Fall of Diuers Famous Princes, and Other Memorable Personages. Early English Books Online. London: Iohn Allde and are to be solde by Richard Ballard, at Saint Magnus Corner, 1579. https://www.proquest.com/ eebo/docview/2240934472/citation/C79D0356FBA74746PQ/1 Murphy, G. Martin. “Hart, John (d. 1586), Roman Catholic Priest and Jesuit.” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004. https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/12483 Myers, Henry Allen. Medieval Kingship. Chicago, IL: Nelson-Hall, 1982.

286  Bibliography “The Names of Foreign Places from Whence Mr. Secretary Walsyngham Was Accustomed to Receive His Advertisements of the State of Public Affairs.” Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1581–1590. Edited by R. Lemon. London, England: Longman, Brown, Green, Longmans, & Roberts, 1865, May 7, 1590. SP 12/232 f.20. Calendar of State Papers, Domestic Series, of the Reign of Elizabeth, 1581–1590. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2020. http://go.gale.com.newman.richmond.edu:2048/mss/i.do?id= GALE|MC4304206391&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype= Calendar.Nebeker, Eric. “The Broadside Ballad and Textual Publics.” Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900 51, no. 1 (2011): 1–19. Nicholl, Charles. The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe. New York, NY: Harcourt Brace & Company, 1992. Norris, Beth. “London Aliens.” InteractiveResource. The Map of Early Modern London, 2016. Austin Friars. https://mapoflondon.uvic.ca/ALIE1.htm Norris, Sir Henry. Letter to William Cecil. “Sir Henry Norris to Cecil,” July 23, 1568. SP 70/100 f.59. Calendar of State Papers Foreign, Elizabeth, 1558–1589. Edited by Allan James Crosby. Vol. 8: 1566–1568 London, England: Longman & Co, Truebner & Co, Parker & Co, Macmillan and Co, A&C Black, A. Thom., 1871, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com. newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4311602400&v=2.1&u=vic_ uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Calendar Norton, Thomas. A Discourse Touching the Pretended Match Betwene the Duke of Norfolke and the Queene of Scottes. London, England: John Day, 1569. https://www.proquest.com/eebo/docview/2240939015/citation/ D8D4F27D94024BFFPQ/1. ———. Letter to Francis Walsingham. “Thomas Norton to Walsyngham,” March 27, 1582. SP 12/152 f.124. The National Archives of the UK. State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com.newman.richmond. edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4304280483&v=2.1&u=vic_uor&it=r&p=SPOL& sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript Norton, Thomas, and Thomas Sackville. The Tragedie of Gorbodvc, Whereof Three Actes Were Wrytten by Thomas Nortone, and the Two Laste by Thomas Sackuyle. Early English Books Online. London: William Griffith, 1565. http:// newman.richmond.edu:2048/login?url=https://www.proquest.com/books/ tragedie-gorboduc-whereof-three-actes-were/docview/2269047329/se-2?accountid= 14731 Nusteling, Hubert P. H. “The Population of England, 1539–1873: An Issue of Demographic Homeostasis.” Histoire & Mesure 8, no. 1/2 (1993): 59–92. Oetzel, Lena. “When Criticism Becomes Resistance: The Marian Episcopacy in 1558/59.” Archiv Für Das Studium Der Neueren Sprächen Und Literaturen 107 (2016): 107–36. Parry, William. Letter to Elizabeth I. “Dr. Parry’s Extraordinary Letter of Confession to the Queen,” February 14, 1584. Lansdowne Vol/43 f.117. British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021. https://lst-gale-com. newman.richmond.edu/mss/i.do?id=GALE|MC4305083589&v=2.1&u=vic_ uor&it=r&p=SPOL&sw=w&viewtype=Manuscript ———. Letter to William Cecil. “Mr. Win. Parry,” January 15, 1579. Lansdowne Vol/29 f.126. British Library, State Papers Online, Gale, Cengage Learning, 2021.

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Index

Abington, Edward 143–144 absolute monarchy, see divine right Act against Fugitives over the Sea (1571) 70–71 Act against Jesuits (1585) 106 Act for the Queen’s Surety (1585) 128 Act to Retain the Queen’s Majesty’s Subjects in their True Obedience (1581) 106 Act of Succession (1534) 36 Act of Succession (1543) 236 Act of Supremacy (1534) 34, 36, 42, 45 Act of Supremacy (1559) 48–49, 54, 74 Act of Uniformity (1559) 48–49, 54, 72 Africa 58, 88, 91, 161, 177, 180, 190, 245, 260–261 agent provocateur 6, 76, 86, 114, 142 agents, see intelligence, intelligencers Albert VII 234 Aldred, Salomon 113 Allde, John 111 Allen, William 104–105, 117, 125, 199 Alfred the Great 30 alum smuggling 32–33, 41 Álvarez de Toledo, Fernando 73–75, 77, 90 Americas, see New World ambassadors, see diplomacy, diplomats Andrada, Manuel de 206 Anglo-Spanish War 162, 167, 182 Anne of Denmark 233, 236–237 Appellant Controversy, see Archpriest Controversy Appellants 197, 199, 207, 222, 226–231, 233, 236, 249 arcana imperii 165 Archpriest Controversy 183, 221–222, 226–231, 233, 245, 247, 249

Armada, see Spanish Armada Arnault, Jean 123 Arundel, Charles 142 Arrigoni, Cardinal Pompei 230 Asia 161, 190, 260–261 Atkinson, Clinton 163, 191 Austria 88, 90, 221, 224, 234 Babington, Anthony 140, 142–144, 189 Babington Plot 22, 132, 134, 136–137, 139–144, 150–152, 155, 158, 163–164, 167, 170, 176, 179, 185, 187, 190, 198, 228, 267 Bacon, Anthony 23, 192, 200–202, 205–212, 218, 241, 271–274 Bacon, Francis 23–24, 30–32, 186, 200–202, 205–207, 224, 241; History of the Reign of King Henry VII, The 30–32 Bacon, Nicholas 48, 187 Baillie, Charles 75–79, 97 Baines, Richard 203 Bagshaw, Christopher 228–230 Ballard, John 140, 142–144 Banastre, Lawrence 78 Bancroft, Richard 230 Barker, William 78 Barnard, Robert 137, 267–268 Barne, George 200, 266 Barnes, Thomas 236 Barney, Kenelm 79 Barnwell, Robert 144 Barton, Elizabeth 36 Bazán, Álvaro, de 168 Beale, Robert 80, 118, 126, 137, 147, 188, 193 Beaton, James 77 Beauchamp, see Seymour, Edward, Lord Beauchamp

296  Index Bellamy, Jerome 144 Benavides, Peter 70 Berden, Nicholas 93, 137, 142, 150–151, 169, 178, 189–190, 193, 267–268, 270 Bereton, William 37 Best, (first name unknown) 92–93 Best, Robert 190 Bishop, William 229 Bisley, Reinold 202–203 Black Chambers 11, 13–15, 76, 152, 188–189 Blackwell, George 228–230 Blount, Charles 237, 241, 244, 254 Blount, Christopher 241–243 Blount, Penelope 243 Bluet, Thomas 230 Bodenham, Roger 92 Bodley, Thomas 201 Boleyn, Anne 36–38, 42–43, 71 Boleyn, George 37 Boleyn, Thomas 43 Book of Common Prayer 39, 48, 59, 81, 85, 108, 172–173 Bond of Association (1584) 56, 126, 128, 143 Borghese, Cardinal Scipione 230 Bourbon, Henri, see Henri IV of France Bourbon, Louis de 52 Boyd, James 141, 144 Bradbridge, William 104 Bragge, Martin 75, 97 brewer, the 141, 150, 179, 187, 267 Briant, Alexander 117–118 Bright, Timothy 83 Bristow, Richard 115 Bromley, Thomas 109, 115, 118, 149 Brooke, Henry 187, 190, 242, 248 Brooke, William 90 Brooksby, Eleanor 179 Brown, Thomas 77–78 Bruce, Edward 248–249 Bruno, Giordano 123 Burgh, Thomas 239 Bullock, Peter 231 Burnham, Edward 165 Cabot, Sebastian 40 Caddy, H. 118 Cahill, Hugh 207 Camden, William 92, 137, 188–189, 193

Campion, Edmund 22, 104–105, 114, 117–118 Campion’s Brag 117 Captain François, see Franchiotto, Tomaso Captain Jacques, see Franceschia, Giacomo Carew, Nicholas 38 Carey, George 241 Carleill, Christopher 162–163, 166, 200 Castellesi, Adriano 32 Castelnau, Michel de 79, 84, 123–124, 139, 153 Catherine of Aragon 34, 36 Catholic Church, see Papacy Catholic League 102, 105, 107, 122–123, 135, 161, 163, 165 Catholicism 1, 7, 16, 21–22, 33–36, 38–39, 44–47, 50, 52–54, 59–60, 63, 68–72, 74–75, 77, 82, 84, 91, 96, 102–107, 109–119, 122–128, 135, 139, 142, 158, 161–164, 171–173, 221, 226–231, 233–234, 244, 249, 256 Catlyn, Maliverny 137, 267–268 Cavendish, Elizabeth 235 Cecil, John, see Snowden Cecil, Robert 4, 23, 186, 192, 195–202, 205–206, 208–215, 219–226, 228–234, 236–250, 252–253, 255–257, 259, 261, 271–275 Cecil, Thomas 215, 243 Cecil, William 7, 17, 21–23, 28, 37, 40, 44, 48–67, 68–81, 84–97, 99, 102–103, 105, 107–109, 115, 118, 120–123, 125–128, 130, 137–142, 144–146, 148–152, 164, 166–167, 171, 174, 176–180, 186–188, 190–203, 205–207, 209–211, 213–226, 218, 221–224, 226, 228, 233, 237, 245–246, 249, 257, 259, 261, 264, 266–272, 274 Cecilian Faction 186, 200–211, 213, 233, 237, 259 Champney, Anthony 230 Chapuys, Eustice 36 Charles I 146, 155, 257 Charles II 177 Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor 36, 38 Charles IX of France 69–70, 81–85, 89 Charnock, John 143–144

Index 297 Charnock, Robert 229 Chasteau-Martin, Henri (Pierre d’Or) 194, 213 Cheke, John 49 Chérelles, see Arnault, Jean Church of England 34, 36, 39, 42, 47–48, 69, 81, 84, 104, 152, 159, 171–174, 226 ciphers 11, 13–15, 73, 75, 77–80, 88, 92, 141, 151–152, 187, 189, 259 Civil War 1, 35, 259, 261 Clement VII, Pope 34 Clement VIII, Pope 228–229 Clenocke, Maurice 112–113, 116 clerks 11, 33, 118, 188 Cloudesley, Thomas 202–203 Cobham, Thomas 75 Cocks, Richard 259, 275 Cockyn, Henry 88 code breakers 14, 53, 74, 79–80, 137, 140, 152, 162, 187, 189, 258–259 Coke, Edward 206, 229 Coligny, Gaspard II de 82 Colleton, John 229 colonies 10, 190, 261 Commas, Jerome 238 Commines, Philippe de Condé, see Bourbon, Louis de conspiracies 68, 72, 75, 77–79, 88–90, 104, 126–128, 137, 139–144, 148, 159, 164, 189, 208, 233–234; see also Babington Plot; Gunpowder Plot; Ridolfi Plot; Throckmorton Plot Copley, Anthony 230 Cooper, Thomas 174 Admonition, The 174 Cornwallis, William 123–124 Counter-Reformation 38, 44, 47, 135 Courcelles, see Leclerc, Claude couriers, see messengers court 4, 7–8, 10, 17, 37, 62, 79, 85, 89–90, 162, 197, 202, 206, 211–212, 215, 221–222, 226, 240, 244 Courtenay, Gertrude 38, 43 Courtenay, Henry 37 courtiers 4, 6–10, 15–17, 80, 89, 233 Crane, Elizabeth 175 Crighton, William 200 Cromwell, Thomas 9, 17, 28, 30, 32–33, 35–38, 41, 43, 72, 80, 92 Crowley, Robert 115

crypto-Catholics, see Recusants cryptographers, see code breakers cryptography, see ciphers Cuffe, Henry 201, 241, 243 Curle, Gilbert 143–144 Dacre, Leonard 77 Dale, Valentine 190 Danvers, Charles 241–244 Danvers, Henry 244 Danyell, John 207 D’Avila, Gomez 205 Davies, John 241–243 Davison, William 149–150, 157, 198 Day, John 50, 60, 78–79, 264 deception 1, 11–12, 15–16, 26, 111–115, 118, 127, 137, 158, 188–189, 202–203; disguise 16, 117–119, 123 Dee, John 74, 162, 189, 269 Delgado, John 70 Denham, Robert 92 Denmark 215, 245 Devereux Faction, see Essex Faction Devereux, Frances, see Walsingham, Frances Devereux, Robert 4, 23, 186, 192, 197–216, 218, 220, 221–225, 230, 232–234, 236–246, 248, 252–253, 271–273 diplomacy 3–4, 8, 29, 33, 49–52, 56–57, 79, 83–85, 90–91, 102, 141, 160–161, 168, 180, 190, 200–201, 204, 245, 248, 255–256; diplomats 3, 6, 8–9, 15–16, 25–26, 31, 37, 52–53, 63, 88, 161, 165, 168–169, 190, 207, 250, 259 divine right 16, 23, 29, 31, 41, 134, 145–149, 256–262 Dominicans, see priests, Dominicans Donne, Henry 144 double agent 6–8, 15–16, 22, 74–77, 92, 127, 137, 142, 154, 187–189, 213, 230 Douglas, George 123 Douglas, Margaret 236, 252 Drake, Francis 166–171 Drury, Dru 149 Dryland, Christopher 189–190 Duckett, James 231 Dudley, Ambrose 115 Dudley, John 49

298  Index Dudley, Robert 72, 76, 90, 109, 115, 118, 130, 135, 138, 149, 163, 167, 171, 186 Dudley, Robert (the younger) 235 Dunne, John 92 East Indies Company 40 economy of secrets 5, 8 Edward II 3, 30 Edward III 164, 234 Edward IV 31 Edward VI 21, 28, 38–41, 44–49, 73, 235 Egerton, Thomas 231, 241–242 Elizabeth I 1–2, 7, 16–17, 19, 21–23, 25, 28, 35, 44, 46–48, 50–52, 54–57, 59–64, 67–69, 71–81, 83–87, 89, 91, 95–97, 102–108, 116, 121–122, 124–128, 134–151, 156, 158, 161–164, 166–168, 170–171, 177, 179–180, 182, 185–188, 191, 193, 195, 197–201, 203, 205, 207–208, 211–215, 220–227, 233–237, 239–245, 248–250, 252–253, 255, 257, 259, 263–264, 266–275 Elizabeth, Queen of Henry VII 31 Elliot, George 118 Emerson, Ralph 117 empire 134–135, 152, 158–163, 180, 190, 197, 260–261 Englefield, Francis 77, 141 Erskine, John 248 Espés, Guerrau de 73, 79 espionage, see intelligence Essex Faction 186, 200–211, 213, 215, 218, 221–222, 233, 237, 239, 259 Essex Rebellion 23, 239–244 Exeter Conspiracy 37 Eycke, Cornelius van 75 Fagot, Henry 123, 139, 153 Farnese, Alexander 141, 165, 169–170, 236 Farnese, Rainutio 236 Fava, Lodovico della 32 Feron, Laurent 123–124 Ferreira, Esteban 205–206, 219 feudalism 1–2, 4, 13, 28–31, 35, 70–72 Fifth Column 70, 77, 84, 103, 125, 135, 164, 169–170, 179, 187, 231 Figliazzi, Giovanni 165, 194

Finnes de Clinton, Edward 48 FitzAlan, Henry 48, 72 Fitzmaurice, James 91 Fixer, John 199 Fleming, Thomas 239 Florio, John 139, 190 Flud, Evan 203 Forster, John 123 Foulis, David 248 Foxe, John 33, 115, 171; Actes and Monuments 171 France 3, 10, 22, 34, 42, 44, 49–52, 56–60, 63, 68, 70, 79–85, 88, 90–91, 93, 96, 102, 106–107, 110–111, 114–116, 122–128, 134–135, 139–140, 148, 152, 156, 158, 160–166, 168, 180, 189–190, 200–201, 203, 207, 215, 245, 256 Franceschia, Giacomo 142, 207 Franchiotto, Tomaso 57 Francis I of France 55 Francis II of France 52 freedom of conscience 172, 183, 197, 221, 227, 251 Frescobaldi family 32–33 Frizer, Ingram 187, 204 Frobisher, Martin 92 Gage, Robert 144 Garnet, Henry 179, 230 Gérard, Balthazar 126 Germany 45, 88, 124, 180, 201, 215 Gifford, Gilbert 113, 140–141, 143, 150–151, 154, 179, 267–269 Gifford, William 140 Gilbert, Gifford 203 Gilbert, Humphrey 162 Gilpin, Henry 91–93 Glover, Thomas 95, 261 Good, William 103 Gorges, Ferdinando 241 government, English 1–4, 6–10, 16–17, 21–23, 28–33, 35, 37–39, 44, 46, 49, 53–56, 60–64, 68–72, 74, 78–81, 85–92, 102–120, 122–128, 134–135, 137–138, 144–150, 158–160, 162, 165, 171–175, 179, 186–192, 195, 202, 221, 225, 227–231, 239, 250, 255–257, 261–262 Gregory XIII, Pope 77, 81, 84–85, 90–91

Index 299 Gregory, Arthur 189 Grenville, Richard 104 Gresham, Thomas 51, 75 Grey, Jane 45, 49, 235 Grey, Katherine, see Seymour, Katherine Grey Grey, Thomas 240 Guise, Charles de 52, 57–58, 60, 71, 81–83, 85, 89, 96, 102–104, 144, 163 Guise, Francis de 52, 57 Guise, Henri de 57–58, 60, 17, 81–83, 85, 89, 96, 102–103, 105, 122–124, 141–142, 144, 163–164 Guise, Marie de 51–52 Gunpowder Plot 46, 179 Guzmán, Alonson Pérez de 168–169 Hacket, John 37 Hackluyt, Richard 162 Hales, John 175 Hamilton, Alexander 88–89 Hamilton, John 77 Hammond, John 118 Harborne, William 160 Hardwick, Bess 235 Hart, John 107, 130 Hatton, Christopher 115, 118, 149, 187 Hawkins, John, 77, 80 Hebburn, Anthony 229 Heneage, Thomas 204 Henri III of France 80–81, 84, 105, 161 Henri IV of France 82, 200 Henry VI 30 Henry VII 1–2, 9, 21, 29–33, 35, 42, 46, 80, 257 Henry VIII 5, 21, 28–30, 33–39, 41, 43, 46–47, 72, 92, 159, 161, 166, 182, 235–236 Hepburn, James 56 Herbert, John 242 Herbert, William 48, 72 heresy burnings 45–46, 105 Herle, William 75–77, 79–80, 97 Highford, Robert 78 Hoddesdon, Christopher 91–93 Hodgeskin, John 175 Hogge, Ralph 165 Holder, Botolphe 92 Holland, see Netherlands Holland, Hugh 38

Holt, William 123, 207 Holy Roman Empire 26, 159, 162 Honiman, Philip 213, 245 Honiman, Thomas 213, 245 Howard, Catherine 38 Howard, Charles 212, 220 Howard, Henry 89, 126, 248 Howard, Margaret 156 Howard, Philip 89 Howard, Thomas 38 Howard, Thomas (the younger) 52, 59–60, 71–73, 77–80, 89, 103 Howard, William 48 Huguenots 51–52, 58, 80–84, 90, 93, 166 Hutton, Matthew 241 imperialism, see empire individualism 2, 28 Infanta Isabella, see Isabella of Spain informants, see intelligence, intelligencers Inquisition 135, 205 intelligence 1–17, 21–26, 28, 30–33, 35–38, 40–41, 44, 50–53, 58, 60–64, 68, 72–80, 85–93, 95–96, 99, 102–103, 107–109, 111–116, 118–128, 132, 134–144, 147–152, 154, 157–165, 167–169, 174–180, 186–216, 221–226, 229, 231–234, 236–241, 243–250, 255–261; intelligencers 3–11, 13–17, 25–26, 28, 30–33, 35–38, 52–53, 60–64, 70, 72–80, 88–93, 95–96, 99–100, 102, 109–116, 118–124, 126, 134–144, 148, 150–152, 154, 157–158, 160, 163, 165, 167–169, 175–180, 186–194, 199–216, 221–230, 232–233, 236, 238–241, 243–250, 255–261 intelligence service, see network, English intelligence Ireland 23, 90–91, 159–162, 225, 232, 234, 237–241, 244–245, 255, 258 Isabella of Spain 103, 228, 233–234, 236 Islam 160–161 Italy 32–33, 88, 91, 93, 110, 124, 160, 165, 168, 189–190, 201, 245, 256 Ivan IV “the Terrible” 19–20, 84, 101, 160

300  Index James V of Scotland 236 James VI & I 23, 46, 56, 66, 74, 92, 122–123, 132, 147, 156–157, 175, 199, 203, 219, 222, 225, 233, 235–239, 241, 245, 248, 252, 255–259, 273–275 Jamestown 163 Jeffreys, John 104 Jesuit Mission 22, 96, 102, 104–109, 112, 117–118, 123, 125, 135, 164, 226 Jesuits, see priests Jewkes, Simon 75, 97 John of Austria, Don 74, 90 Jones, Edward 144 Kett, Francis 20 Kirbie, Lucas 114–116 Knight, William 33 Knollys, William 241–243 Knowles, Francis 115 Lambarde, William 174 Lang, Matthäus 33 Laurentson, Martin 163 Leclerc, Claude 123 Lee, John 75 legitimacy 31–32 Leo X, Pope 34 Leslie, John 73, 76–79 Levant, the 9–10, 22, 58, 88, 92, 134, 159–161, 177, 180, 190 Levant Company 92, 160, 180, 190 liberty of conscience, see freedom of conscience Lister, Thomas 229–230 Locke, John 261 London 34, 46–47, 51, 90, 107, 138, 142–143, 169, 174–175, 193, 202, 205, 221–222, 225–227, 240, 242, 244, 255, 260 Lopez, Roderigo 127, 205–206, 208, 210–211, 219 Lorraine, see Guise, Charles de; Guise, Francis de Louis IX of France 10 Louis of Nassau 90 Low Countries, see Netherlands Loyola, Ignatius 103 Lumley, John 77 Luniga, Juan de 81 Luther, Martin 33; Ninety-Five Theses 33 Lyly, William 190

Madre de Dios 208, 212, 220 Manwood, Roger 104 Marlowe, Anthony 95, 160, 203, 266, 268–270 Marlowe, Christopher 19–20, 26, 95, 160, 165, 178, 181, 187, 203–204, 206, 210, 219, 263, 269–270; Doctor Faustus 26, 237; Edward II 219; Jew of Malta, The 206 Marprelate Controversy 158, 174–175, 177, 185, 227; Marprelate Tracts 174–175; Epistle, The 174; Epitome, The 174; Hay any Work for Cooper 174–175; Just Censure and Reproofe 174; Theses Martinianae 174 Marsh, John 75 Mary I 21, 34, 38, 40–41, 44–50, 65, 103, 107, 234 Mary Queen of Scots 7, 21–22, 55–60, 71–79, 85, 88–89, 102–103, 107, 122–124, 126–128, 132, 134–135, 137, 139–153, 156–157, 163–165, 233, 236–237, 266–268 Mather, Edmund 79 Maude, Bernard 142 Maurevert, Charles de 82 Mayne, Cuthbert 104–105 McLean, Laughlan 239 Medici, Catherine de 81–82, 85 Medici family 32 Mendoza, Bernardino de 92, 117, 122–124, 139, 141–142, 144, 154, 164, 168–169, 205–206 Merchant Adventurers 50, 75, 92 merchants 6, 9, 12–13, 15, 29, 33, 38, 40, 50, 53, 58, 75, 79, 91–93, 134, 159–161, 163–166, 180, 188, 190, 200, 213, 222, 225–226, 260–261 Mercurian, Everard 104–105, 117 messengers 3–4, 6, 9–11, 15, 17, 25, 31, 38, 77–79, 84, 88, 93, 120, 138, 143, 161, 179, 187, 202, 204–205 Meyrick, Gelli 243 Mildmay, Walter 106, 128 moles 9, 15, 124 Montaigne, Michele 10 Moody, Michael 236 More, Thomas 34 Morgan, Thomas 89, 127, 141–142, 144, 154 Mowbray, Philip 248

Index 301 Munday, Anthony 22, 95, 101, 108–121, 175, 177–179, 187, 228, 259, 266–270, 275; Discoverie of Edmund Campion, The 117–118; English Romayne Lyfe, The 109–118, 121, 228; Mirrour of Mutibilitie, The 110 Murad III 160–161 Muscovy Company 9–10, 40, 50, 53, 91–92, 160, 169, 180–181 Mush, John 229–230 Nau, Claude 144 Netherlands 23, 33–34, 40, 45, 57–58, 72–77, 81–84, 86, 88, 90–91, 93, 99, 102, 134–135, 138, 152, 163, 166–167, 171, 180, 188, 190, 198, 200–205, 207, 215, 245, 255–256 network, English intelligence 20–23, 37, 41, 51, 53, 60–64, 67, 72, 74–76, 79–80, 85–89, 91–96, 99–100, 102, 107–108, 120–128, 134–139, 142–144, 147, 149–152, 158–161, 163–165, 175–180, 185–198, 209–216, 221–226, 229, 231–234, 237, 239–241, 244–250, 255–261 Neville, Charles 59 Neville, Edmund 127 Neville, Edward 38 New Monarchs 4, 15, 28–30, 35, 43, 71 New World 22, 50, 58, 88, 92, 134, 152, 159, 161–163, 166–168, 180–181, 187, 190–192, 203, 245, 260–261 Nicholson, George 248 nonconformity, religious 22, 158–159, 171–175, 181 Norris, Henry 36–37, 57, 70 Northern Rising 22, 59–60, 63, 71–72, 74–76, 85, 91, 105, 164, 170 Norton, Thomas 60, 66, 95, 107–108, 118, 124–125, 130, 266 Nowell, Alexander 112, 115 Nowell, Thomas 110–112, 118 Oath of Supremacy 47–49, 54, 74 O’Collun, Patrick 207 Ogilvy, John 200 O’Neill, Hugh 234, 239–241, 244, 254 Orton, Henry 114–116 Ottoman Empire 22, 88, 159–162, 177, 180, 245

Ousley, Nicholas 62, 165 Owen, Hugh 202 Page, Francis 231 Paget, Charles 126, 141–142, 144, 154, 206–207, 226, 236 Palavicino, Horatio 212 Palmer, Edmund 194 Papacy 21, 31–35, 43, 45, 52, 68–72, 77, 80, 84, 91, 102–108, 126, 134–135, 152, 155, 158, 161, 163, 227–231; papal supremacy 35, 39, 70, 104, 226–229 Parker, Matthew 48 Parker, William 75, 77, 80 Parliament 29, 31, 33, 35, 42–49, 55–56, 70–71, 73–74, 102, 106, 108, 125, 127–128, 145–149, 155, 208, 230–231, 233, 256–257; House of Commons 35, 52, 55, 173, 256; House of Lords 35 Parr, William 72 Parry, Thomas 48 Parry, William 126–127, 152, 205–206 Parry Plot 126–127 Parsons, Robert 103, 105–106, 117–118, 123, 141, 163, 197, 199, 202, 217, 227–230, 233–234; Conference about the Next Succession 233–234 Paulet, Amias 90–93, 137, 140–141, 144, 149–150, 187, 258, 267–268 Paulet, William 48 Peckham, George 162 Pellegrini, Pompeo, see Standen, Anthony Penry, John 175 Percy, Anne 77 Percy, Henry 123, 248–249 Percy, Thomas 59, 71, 249 Perez, Antonio 201, 205 Phelippes, Mary 151–152, 157, 188–189, 218, 220, 245 Phelippes, Thomas 137, 140–141, 143–144, 151–152, 178–179, 189, 193–194, 202–203, 212–213, 219–220, 223–225, 230, 232, 245–246, 257–259, 269–275 Philip II of Spain 45, 52, 57–58, 60, 69–71, 74, 77, 81, 85, 89–92, 96, 103–105, 123, 129, 142, 147, 152,163–165, 167–168, 193, 199, 228, 234, 238–239 Philip III of Spain 179, 228, 238

302  Index piracy, see privateers Pius V, Pope 68–70, 73, 227 plots, see conspiracies Poland Company 160 Poland and Lithuania, kingdom of 18, 130, 245 Pole, Geoffrey 38, 43, 74 Pole, Henry 38, 74 Pole, Margaret 38 Pole, Reginald 37–38, 74 Polewheele, William 207 Poley, Robert 142–143, 152, 178–179, 193, 204, 259, 267–272 Popely, William 33 Popham, John 231, 242 Portugal 166, 168, 198, 205, 215, 245 postal carriers, see messengers postal service 10–15, 25, 37, 204 Powle, Stephen 190 Prestall, John 74–75, 97 priests 16, 104, 114–115, 118–119, 137–138, 189, 228–231, 251; Dominicans 113; Jesuits 16, 96, 104–110, 112–113, 117–119, 135, 137, 155, 158, 165, 172, 188–189, 197, 200, 202, 221, 226, 228–231, 233–234, 237, 249, 251 Principal Secretary 7, 33, 35–36, 45, 48, 50–51, 68, 71–72, 80, 86–91, 122, 149–150, 179, 186, 189, 193, 197–200, 208, 212, 214, 221, 234, 248, 256–257 privacy 11–15, 25–26, 227; reflexive secrets 13; simple secrets 13 privateers 57–58, 60, 73, 75, 77, 93, 152, 158, 163, 166–168, 180, 182, 208, 255 Privy Council 2, 7, 11, 17, 29–31, 35, 41, 48, 50–52, 54–60, 66, 69, 71–72, 76, 80, 84–91, 95, 102, 106, 109–111, 115–116, 118, 124, 126, 130, 135, 138, 144–146, 148–150, 156, 158, 162, 164–165, 173–175, 186–188, 191, 193, 195, 197–200, 202–204, 207, 209, 211, 215, 219, 221, 226, 229–231, 239–242, 244, 248, 250, 252, 255–257 propaganda 50, 60, 69, 78–79, 91, 103, 107, 109, 117, 125, 127, 158, 166, 174–175, 228–231 Protestantism 21, 28, 34–35, 42, 44–48, 50, 52–54, 59–60, 63, 69, 80–84, 88, 90–93, 105–108,

125–126, 134, 158, 162–163, 170–173, 188, 226, 244; English Protestant identity 1–2, 39, 44, 53, 102, 105, 107, 128, 134, 137, 139, 158, 162, 170–172, 188–189; Puritanism 172–175, 226, 237; see also nonconformity proto-bureaucracy 1–2, 5, 13, 15, 22, 28–29, 31–32, 35, 51, 53, 55, 63–64, 68, 80, 86, 108, 137, 145, 148–149, 156, 159, 188, 250, 255–257, 259–261 proto-nationalism 2, 22, 93, 108, 119, 138, 158, 166, 170–171, 188 pursuivants, see intelligence, intelligencers Quadra, Alvarez de 54–55, 74 Raid of Ruthven 122–123 Rainbow Portrait 16 Raleigh, Walter 4, 162, 208, 220, 234, 242, 248, 255 Ramsden, Roger 75, 97 Ramus, Pierre 83 Randolph, Thomas 95, 266 Recusants 54, 63, 71, 88–89, 93, 95–96, 102, 104–107, 111, 118–120, 125–126, 128–129, 134, 137, 140, 142, 144, 146–148, 152, 156, 162, 164, 172–173, 181, 188–190, 194, 197, 199, 219, 226–228, 234, 236, 246, 249–250, 256 Reformation 1–2, 21, 28–29, 33–36, 38–40, 49, 53, 81, 125; Henrician Reformation 1, 21, 28, 33–36, 38–40 Regnans in Excelsis 21, 68–71, 91, 96, 104–105, 146, 227 religious conflict 1, 7, 21, 34–35, 40, 42, 44, 47, 63, 81–85, 89, 102–103, 109–117, 125–126, 128, 135–140, 158, 225–231, 237 religious persecution 1, 16, 22, 44–48, 63, 71, 82–85, 89–91, 104–108, 112, 114–119, 128, 135, 138, 158–159, 172–175, 189, 197, 226, 231, 249 religious toleration 47, 69, 84–85, 130, 197, 221, 226–227, 229, 231, 233, 237, 249, 255, 261 Renaudie, la 52 Restoration 1, 35, 177, 257

Index 303 Ridiera, Diego 70 Ridolfi, Roberto 72–73, 77, 95, 121, 264, 266 Ridolfi Plot 22, 68, 72, 75, 77–79, 88–90, 164 Ripa, Cesare 15–16; Iconologia 15–16 Rivers, Anthony, see Sterrell, William Roanoke 10, 134, 162–163, 167, 191 Rogers, Daniel 190 Rogers, John 45 Rolston, Anthony 211–212 Rome, Church of, see Papacy Rome, geographic location 21–22, 71, 76–77, 88, 93, 106, 109–117, 120–122, 128, 134, 187, 199, 215, 229–230 Rorque, Stephen de 194 Roures, David 216 Roures, Mistress 216 Rowlands, Richard, see Verstegan, Richard Russell, Francis 48, 115 Russell, Gregory/Rowland 163, 191, 216 Russia 9–10, 19, 40, 58, 88, 101, 134, 159–162, 180, 245 Rutter, Ralph 19, 26, 95, 101, 261, 263 Sackville, Richard 48, 65 Sackville, Thomas 60, 62, 65–66, 88, 103, 130, 144, 147–149, 156, 174–175, 177, 187, 202–203, 219, 242, 248–250, 259, 266–270, 272 Sackville, Winifred (nee Brydges) 156 Sadler, Ralph 12, 48, 78 Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre 22, 52, 68, 80–85, 103, 108, 160–161, 216 Salisbury, Thomas 143–144 Sander, Nicholas 91 Sassetti, Tomasso 83 Saulx, Gaspard de 82 Savage, John 140–141, 143–144 Scotland 7, 51–52, 56, 59, 74, 79, 122–123, 144, 148, 152, 159, 175, 188, 199–201, 215, 237–239, 245, 248–249, 255, 258 secret service, see network, English intelligence Secretary, see Principal Secretary Secretary of State, see Principal Secretary Seymour, Edward 49, 235–236

Seymour, Edward (the younger) 236 Seymour, Edward, Lord Beauchamp 234–237 Seymour, Katherine Grey 235 Seymour, Thomas 235 Sherwin, Ralph 117–118 Sidney, Frances, see Walsingham, Frances Sidney, Henry 40 Sidney, Philip 83, 200, 216 Sigismund II 18–20 Sixtus V, Pope 135 Skeres, Nicholas 204 Skipwith, Henry 78 Sledd, Charles 113, 118, 190 Smeaton, Mark 37 Smith, Thomas 48, 78, 88 Snape, George 179, 269 Snowden 199, 207, 209, 222–224, 226–227, 229, 232, 237–238, 243, 245–246, 248–251, 259, 271–274 Snynton, Quentin 21, 65 social mobility 2, 15–17, 28, 71, 76, 89, 95–97, 159, 163, 222, 226, 250, 256, 259, 261 social network analysis 17–21, 26–27, 60–63, 67, 86–87, 93–96, 120–121, 132, 136–137, 150–152, 175–179, 185, 191–192, 194–197, 209–211, 213–214, 217, 222–225, 231–233, 246–247, 257–260, 263–275 Socinianism 18–19, 26 Socinus, Faustus 18, 20, 26 Somerset, Edward 242 Somerville, John 124 Spain 21–23, 34, 42, 44, 52, 54, 57–60, 68, 70, 73, 75, 81–82, 84, 90–93, 96, 102–103, 107, 122–123, 134–135, 138–140, 142, 148, 152, 154, 156, 158–170, 173, 175, 183, 187, 190, 199, 201, 204–206, 212–215, 226, 228, 231, 233–234, 237–239, 245–246, 255–256 Spanish Armada 22, 77, 158, 161, 163, 165–170, 172–173, 175, 177, 179, 183, 187, 204, 212, 245 Spanish Main 58, 152, 163 Spenser, Edmund 193; Fairie Queene, The 193 spy, see intelligence, intelligencers spycraft, see intelligence spymasters 7, 23, 33, 36, 50, 63–64, 67, 73, 79, 86–96, 103, 107, 119,

304  Index 121–122, 144, 150–151, 174, 180, 186–193, 195, 199, 202–203, 215, 222, 234, 245, 256–259 Stafford, Edward 141–142, 154, 168–169, 198 Standen, Anthony 165, 168–169, 201, 205, 207, 269 Stanley, William 202, 207, 225 state power 4–10, 13–17, 26, 38, 68, 79–81, 86, 88, 91, 134, 145–152, 156, 159, 165, 198, 208 Statute Against Seditious Words and Rumours (1581) 106 Sterrell, William 202–203, 219, 223–225, 230, 232, 246, 259, 272–274 Steward, (first name unknown) 88 Stewart, James 57 Story, John 72–75, 97 Stuart, Arbella 234–237 Stuart, Charles 235 Stuart, Esme 122–123, 132 Stuart, Henry 56, 252 Stukeley, William 90–91 succession crisis, Elizabethan 175, 186, 215, 221–222, 225–226, 228, 231, 233–239, 247–250, 255, 260 sumptuary laws 16 Sweden 215, 245 Switzerland 45, 53, 86, 88, 91 Symmes, Valentine 175 Talbot, Elizabeth 140 Talbot, Francis 48 Talbot, George 77, 88, 140, 144 Tesimond, Oswald 179 Thomaso, Francisco 62, 95, 264, 266 Thomlin, Arthur 175 Throckmorton, Francis 103, 123–126, 139, 153 Throckmorton, Nicholas 52, 56, 123 Throckmorton, Thomas 124–126, 139, 153 Throckmorton Plot 22, 102–103, 123–126, 132, 134, 140, 156, 164, 176, 187 Tichborne, Chidiock 143–144 Tichborne, Thomas 231 Tilney, Charles 143–144 Tinoco, Manuel Luis 205–206, 219 Topcliffe, Richard 228 Torre, Alexander de la 194 Torture 36, 78, 106–108, 124, 127, 158

trade, see merchants Travers, John 144 Treason 26, 36, 70–71, 74–75, 77, 79, 96, 105, 107–108, 127, 137, 148, 242–244 Tregian, Francis 104 Tudor, Margaret 236 Tudors 1–2, 21, 29–30, 32, 38, 45–46, 102, 140, 161, 182, 192, 215, 260 Tumult of Amboise 52 Udall, John 175 Urban VII, Pope 114, 117, 119 Valdes, Pedro de 170 Valois, Henri, see Henri III of France Valois, Hercule 83–84, 99, 141 Valois, Marguerite 82 Valois, Marie Elizabeth 83 Vega, Antonio de 205 Vere, Edward de 111 Verstegan, Richard 198, 217; Burghley’s Commonwealth 198, 217 Virginia 9, 58, 159–160, 162, 177 Virginia Company 40, 163, 190 Waad, William 212, 224, 232, 272–274 Waldegrave, Robert 175 Walker, Thomas 244 Walpole, Henry 202 Walsingham (Sidney Devereux), Frances 186, 200, 216 Walsingham, Francis 7, 9, 17, 19–20, 22–23, 28, 37–38, 44–45, 48, 50, 52–53, 57–58, 60–68, 73, 76–77, 80–81, 83–96, 100, 102–103, 105, 107–109, 111, 115, 118–128, 130, 134–144, 146–152, 154, 160–169, 171, 176–180, 186–197, 203–205, 207, 213, 216–217, 222, 225, 237, 245, 247, 249, 257, 261, 263–264, 266–271, 274 Warbeck, Perkin 31–32 Wars of Religion 52, 57, 80–85, 96, 102, 200 Wars of the Roses 21, 29 Watkinson, Robert 231 Watson, Thomas 193; Meliboeus 193 Watson, William 229–230 Watts, William 123 West, Thomas 38, 43 Weston, William 228

Index 305 White, John 163 White Rose Faction 37–38 Whitgift, John 173–175, 269 Wigginton, Giles 175, 185 Wigston, Roger 175 Wilkes, Thomas 124–125 William of Orange 84, 90, 126 Williams, Richard 207 Williams, Walter 84, 137, 267–268 Wilson, Thomas 78, 90–93, 115 Windsor, Edward 142 Wisbech Prison 120, 228

Wisbech Stirs 228 Wolley, John 199 Wolsey, Thomas 33, 37 Wotton, Edward 198 Wotton, Henry 201 Wriothesley, Henry 242–243 Wyatt, Thomas 45, 53 Yorke, Edmund 207–208 Young, Richard 142, 207 Zuñiga, Philip 179