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Cecily was a very good listener.
Some would call her a walking shadow, stalking the castle’s hallways with enough stealth that not even a guard in the Tower of London could see her coming, some would call her comforting, providing an attentive ear that would listen to their grievances and reassure them through their pain. She spread her knowledge around, using it to her advantage, getting an upper hand on all those around her. If only they knew she could change their mood with one single sentence, for better or for worse. She never thought she could hold so much power.
The only issue was knowing what to reveal, and when, and to whom. There were many conversations, arguments, confessions and whispers that she’d heard but kept locked in the perfectly organised confines of her mind.
For example, one night, her mistress had ordered her to deliver a letter of utmost importance to the Bishop of Ross, John Lesley. Never one to disappoint, Cecily mounted her favourite horse and rode under cover of night. The open fields had always called out to her, being the one place where she didn’t have to hold her tongue.
As she reached the ambassador’s house, she pulled the letter out of her pouch, turning it around in her hand. It did not take a genius to tell that the letter had been written in haste, it was clear by the scrawling nature of the handwriting, far from the usually precise and tidy nature of Lady Shrewsbury’s hand.
After the successful delivery, Cecily did not head back immediately. She remained in the hallway, lightly walking through, following the streak of moonlight on the floor. As she passed a locked room, she heard a weary sigh and so stopped in her tracks, controlling her breath.
She could hear the Bishop muttering on the other side - uncharacteristically so - and pacing the floor. He had always presented himself as a stable force in every room he was in, speaking in such a pious, yet slightly pretentious tone. The pacing paused before the creak in the floorboards seemed to hint that he had knelt down. Cautiously, she leaned in closer, pressing her ear on the wooden door.
“Lord, give me strength,” He said, “You know my weaknesses and the needs I endure. I ask for your consolidation and support. I speak to you, for you know all things, and to you all my inward thoughts are open, and you alone can perfectly comfort and help me.’
As he began to pray, Cecily could only imagine the scene within his sanctimonious room. Dark, lit only by the moon and one singular candle perched in front of the man, his face altered and aged by desperation, focusing only on the flickering flame as he calls out.
“I fear the nature of what I have done, of what I have let slide, of who I have extended a hand to. I have doubts, My Lord, of what we have planned to do, and whether it strays me from the path that you have intended.”
There was a tense tone to his words now, one of a man reaching up into the sky for guidance, for hope and for answers, tiptoeing his way through his holy relationship with the Lord. She supposed it goes to show that there is nobody who is above the human nature of fear and doubt.
“I believe you have set out a plan for me, and you must understand, since I have dedicated my life to you, I do not wish to go against you. They say that you are the one who gave her the throne, but surely she is not the head of your church. I ask that you guide me, and send me a sign to reassure me. God, save me from what may come next, from what she has done.”
The Bishop then slipped into his prayers of gratitude and penitence, and Cecily slowly drew herself away from the door.
The next morning, golden hues were spilling in through the windows, filling Tutbury Castle with a warmth they weren’t quite used to in the North. She walked through the corridors, wanting to find her mistress and announce to her that she succeeded in delivering the letter, and even possibly inform her about what she had heard from John Lesley.
Bess was nowhere to be seen, and Cecily had checked nearly every single room. She had even checked the room in which they were keeping Mary and her ladies, and all Cecily had seen when she looked inside was the former Queen of Scots staring blankly at the window in front of her, and Seaton sewing next to her, her brows furrowed and her lip in between her teeth, so focused on her needle that she didn’t even notice the person hovering in the door. Eventually, Cecily narrowed it down to the accounts room, the one place nobody was allowed to go. The door was cracked open and there were voices coming from within. She stood nearby the door, picking up a cloth and pretending to clean the mirror nearby.
“George, at Bolton Castle she made three escape attempts. What did you imagine..?” Her mistress’ voice spoke in a hushed yet stern tone.
“She promised me she would never try to escape,” Lord Shrewsbury replied, and Cecily had to suppress a sigh; she had never taken a liking to him. He was brass, and acted way too innocent.
“She doesn’t keep her promises! How can you be so obtuse-!”
“She promised,” He cut her off, he was always doing that, especially whenever the conversation turned to the notorious Mary, Queen of Scots. “And in return I..”
“In return you what?”
“I swore to respect her privacy,” George said, and Bess let out a sigh, and her footsteps started quickening, pacing around the room. “You must do the same,”
“No! She has manipulated you, George!” Bess replied, incredulously. Their voices were easier to make out now, getting louder and more aggressive.
“That is an order!” He shouted; he rarely raised his voice at anyone, much less his own wife, even Cecily couldn’t help but flinch. “Good God, Bess. I ask very little of you but sometimes I wish you would remember your wedding vows. You do a great wrong to treat her with such suspicion. She is a kind, gentle, vulnerable woman.”
The air grew thick, even from where Cecily was standing she could feel it. She wouldn’t dare move, in case they sensed her and stopped talking. She stared at the door through the reflection in the mirror, ready to move in case either of them went to leave.
“You like her.” She said, bluntly. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, I like her!” George responded, acting like he had no clue exactly what she meant. Men could pretend to be so smart and behind closed doors be so incredibly stupid.
“You like her.” She repeated.
There was another pause.
“How dare you?” He spat. His voice had the capacity to change from naive, oblivious and caring to harsh, cold and accusatory at the drop of a hat. He was acting as if he hadn’t immediately defended Mary every single time her name came up. Cecily had experienced it a couple of times, the moment he was out of view of his guests he’d scold her and mock her for hovering. Bess had found her afterward and had reassured her that she had done nothing wrong.
Just then, she heard footsteps and she only had a split second to duck out of the hallway to avoid being caught by George. It seemed like everyone was hitting a breaking point; it seemed like everyone was suddenly becoming very useful.
Cecily continued making her rounds around the castle, simply deciding that she would tell her mistress of her completion of her task later. She twisted a ring around her finger, it was gold and intricately engraved. God knows it wasn’t hers, it belonged to her mistress. She didn’t steal it, she didn’t have to, Bess had insisted she take it in order to frame that strange girl they’d picked off the street. Rose, her name was, she was incredibly odd, quite eccentric and temperamental but she was entertaining to listen to at times.
Late into the night, she kept walking, she was never still these days. She held a candle in one hand, and grazed the walls with her other. It wasn’t difficult for her to slide past the sleeping grooms, running up the stairs, illuminating her way.
Cecily wasn’t really remembered. She’d never understood why, even her mother had failed to acknowledge her with the same warmth as her many siblings. It was difficult being the youngest, perhaps everyone was just tired by the time she was born. She’d been left with Bess when she was young and nobody came back for her. It was the raw anger and desperation that gave her the strength to get to where she is now. And hey, she even learned some new skills along the way. People turned to her for all the petty gossip, and she held the key to changing their emotions in the palm of her hand.
Mary Seaton was the quietest of the two waiting ladies. She always stood the straightest and sat the stillest; she was often chastising Mary Livingston for her failure to follow in her footsteps. Livingston was more talkative, but all the more annoying because of it and there was no way that Cecily would be able to hold her tongue during a conversation with her. It was clear that coercing Seaton into giving up some sort of information would be the best way forward. However, she was incredibly clever; she wrote a lot before the new regulation from Walsingham prevented any letters coming through from the prisoners and she would destroy her fellow women in any quizzes they would do to pass the time.
Cecily saw all this, of course, sat in the corner of the sewing room while hunched over her own embroidery. She had become quite proud of it, and as she usually never had much time to sit and focus on one task, she took some enjoyment in it. She had still kept her finished product, it was simple really compared to the outlandish and glorious tapestries she’d seen but it was hers. It was of a broken down castle, with dogbane and marigolds creating a border around the outside. Lady Shrewsbury liked it, which meant more than it should’ve.
As luck would have it, during her usual stalking through the castle, Cecily heard an unusual sound coming from the east wing paired with footsteps that paced over the same creaky floorboards over and over again. Despite the fact she had been about to retire to bed, she followed the sound, making her way there until she saw who was up so late. Mistress Seaton. Her nightgown was wrinkled and her eyes were red with tears.
Perfect.
Cecily led her to the kitchen, helping her through the dark. She cooed over her like she was a child, listening intently while reacting with variants of ‘aw’ and ‘oh no’. It was hard to get anything out of her for a few minutes, with most of the sounds coming out of her mouth being some form of incoherent sobbing. It was really starting to test Cecily’s patience but good things come to those who wait. She put together a cup of spiced milk and gave it to the crying woman, who seemed to settle down slightly.
Eventually, Seaton actually started putting together sentences and spilling everything. According to her, what had happened was that Mary had sewn together a cushion cover with the help of Lady Shrewsbury's new helper, and that the cushion cover was intended to be sent to the Duke of Norfolk.
Thomas. Of course. The Duke was highly respected by most, though Cecily had heard far from positive comments about him by those in Elizabeth’s court, on the few times Walsingham had summoned her. There had been whispers that he had been planning to meet with Mary and discuss a possible union between the two. Pembroke had supposedly shown him a portrait of the Scottish Queen and Thomas immediately started putting the plan together. The possibility of them marrying wasn’t exactly a secret, Walsingham had realised quite quickly and made it clear to all his spies that they should keep an eye out for any attempts to carry out the union. It would be incredibly threatening for such a marriage to take place, and so everyone was on high alert.
“It’s an orchard.” Her voice shook, putting down the mug with a sniff. “There’s this hand coming down from the sky, and she said it’s the hand of God, but it’s not. It’s hers. It’s going to get us all into a lot of trouble.”
Mary had always loved her symbolism; Cecily found that out quickly in her couple sessions in the sewing room.
“Oh. Poor you.” She put a comforting hand on Seaton’s shoulder, massaging softly, all while softening her eyes as much as she could. “So, what did it say on the cushion cover?”
“Virescit vulnere virtus.”
Virtue flourishes from its wounds. That’s it. But she had to play dumb.
“What does that mean you think?”
Seaton suddenly pulled back and stood up, her eyebrows narrowing and her mouth pulling into a frown, all tears long forgotten.
“If I had thought you spoke Latin I wouldn’t have told you. I’m not stupid, you know.”
“I can see that.” Cecily sighed, pretending to be disappointed and picked up her lantern from the table, walking back to the door. She unhooked a cloak that was hanging on a wall and briskly put it on.
As she left, she could hear Seaton call out to her in a hushed voice.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Cecily didn’t take much with her, just the essentials. She was used to travelling back and forth to report information, but Whitehall was further than she usually went. It took a gruelling five days during which she stayed in many different inns with the help of her mistress’ ring acting as a token for her free meals and bed to sleep in. It was rare for her to leave Tutbury for this long but she was sure Bess would forgive her once she hears the news that is sure to echo far and wide of the attempted act of treason that was foiled by a measly, unassuming spy that nobody even remembered the name of.
The guards saw the ring on her finger and immediately escorted her inside. She wasn’t exactly sure if Walsingham had been informed that she was on her way to deliver news and so she didn’t wander for once in her life, choosing instead to pace the room she was taken to. It wouldn’t be a smart move to sneak up on one of the most powerful, and easily aggravated men in the country. The guards had informed her however that the Queen would be arriving shortly, which was all the better.
Whitehall was lavishly decorated, almost disturbingly so with portraits and tapestries covering nearly every inch of every wall but none of this perturbed Cecily. She’d grown up around wealth for nearly her whole life, there was no point in being threatened, she kept her head straight and didn’t dare falter. Bess had shown her that you could still hold power, even when you were technically someone’s inferior, it was clear through how she acted with Mary. Bess had taught her a lot of things, including Latin.
It was taking a while for Walsingham to appear, and the man was usually known for his punctuality and dedication to his job. This man had been working against Catholics since he was born, it was extremely impressive. He had even hid Protestants in his embassy while they were at risk of being slaughtered in France. Nobody had to wonder why Her Majesty had appointed him the head of her spy network and her secretary. Cecily naturally began to give into her curiosity and she slowly started moving out of the room.
Down the hall, she could hear a faint voice talking through one of the doors. It was unmistakable Walsingham’s voice, even when he wasn’t giving orders or berating someone his tone remained stern and could make even the most unrespectable man stand up straight.
“Out of everyone, it had to be him.”
Cecily fixated her eyes on one of the tapestries displayed in the hallway, gazing over it so anyone who could pass by would assume she was simply transfixed by the delicate and careful embroidery that seemed to portray an overgrown boxwood intertwined with purple hyacinths. It was certainly something interesting to see in the spymaster; Walsingham had usually expressed his less than ecstatic opinions on embroidery.
“Of course, it would be. Most eligible man in the kingdom. Norfolk. Thomas. Why did it have to be you who went against Her Majesty?”
It was odd, to put it bluntly. Cecily had never heard him talk in such fragmented sentences and in such a confused manner. To say it was out of character for him would be an understatement.
“She put her trust in you, and now you act foolishly. If you knew what could come of this if somebody found a way to prove it. If only..”
Cecily went to step back, if only to further admire the incredibly detailed needlework in front of her eyes but the floor under her foot creaked. She held her breath, unsure whether this would be the end of the road for her. She hadn’t memorised where to stand on these floorboards yet and it could cost her everything. Luckily enough, all that happened was that Walsingham’s ramblings were silenced and he finally entered the hallway. Cecily had turned around to look at a portrait of some regal extended royal family member that she had never seen before.
“Ah, Cecily.” Walsingham grunted, clearing his throat.
She turned around and gave him a curtsy as was accustomed. His right brow was furrowed and his collar looked as if it had been tugged on, with the fabric being punctuated by creases.
It seemed as if Walsingham had his own secrets that needed to be uncovered.
And well, didn’t everybody that Cecily ran into?