The King's Deception

Robert Cecil and the Lord Admiral came close to the bed. Robert stood at the foot, the admiral and several other lords on either side.

“Your Majesty,” the lord admiral said. “We must ask this of you. Who do you desire to succeed you?”

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Where yesterday they had seemed weak and near death, Robert now saw in them something of the fire this old woman had displayed before taking to her bed.

“I tell you my seat hath been the seat of kings. I will have no rascal to succeed me, and who should succeed me but a king?”

The words were barely a whisper, but all there heard them clearly. A few of the lords appeared puzzled by the cryptic response, but Cecil understood perfectly, so he asked, “A name, Your Majesty.”

“Who but our cousin of Scotland?”

The effort seemed to tax what little strength she possessed.

“I pray you trouble me no more,” she said.

The lords withdrew and discussed what they’d heard. Many were unsure, as Cecil thought would be the case. So the next day they returned to Elizabeth’s bedside with a larger, more representative group. Unfortunately, the queen’s ability to speak had waned. She was fading fast.

Cecil bent close and said to her, “Majesty, these gentlemen require a further sign that your cousin, King James of Scotland, is your choice. I beg you to provide them that.”

Elizabeth’s eyes signaled that she understood and the men waited. Slowly, her arms rose from the sheets to her head. Her fingers joined in a circle, forming a crown, which she held there for a moment.

No one could now argue as to her intent.

A few hours later, Elizabeth, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, died.

“Cecil was ready,” Eva said. “He assembled the council and informed them of her announced choice. The witnesses who were there confirmed the truth. Then, the next morning, from Whitehall Palace, heralded by trumpets, he personally read a proclamation declaring King James VI of Scotland, James I, King of England. That same proclamation was read all over the land throughout that day. Not a word of opposition was raised. In one clean move, Robert Cecil ensured a swift, bloodless succession from a monarch who left no direct heirs. Pretty skilled, wouldn’t you say?”

“But you’re going to have to explain what all this means in relation to what Sir Thomas wants me to do.”

“I know. And I plan to. The rain seems to have finally abated outside, let’s enjoy the quad.”

They stepped from the hall into one of the college’s grassy quadrangles. Gothic buildings, most of their windows dark, enclosed them on all four sides. Darkened archways and doors led in and out. The rain was indeed gone, the night sky clear.

They were alone.

“Though both Cecils were secretive,” Eva said, “and left nearly nothing in the way of personal papers, there is one artifact from them that survived. I am told that you saw an image of it earlier.”

She recalled the page with gibberish.

“Robert’s coded notebook was preserved at Hatfield House, where he lived until he died in 1612. Unfortunately, that original volume was stolen almost a year ago.”

One of those thefts her supervisor had described. “I was told a man named Farrow Curry may have solved the code.”

“He may have. Which is why it is imperative that you retrieve whatever data Curry may have accumulated.”

“The page I saw was incomprehensible.”