A Tip for the Hangman

by Allison Epstein

  Kit inclined his head in wry acceptance. It didn’t matter: Beton’s manifest dislike, the obvious reputation he’d earned himself, none of it. Sheffield was to have a visitor, the first Kit had seen in all these long weeks. He couldn’t imagine what sort of person might make a social call on a deposed queen under house arrest, but whoever it was, they were the sort of person Whitehall would be eager to know about.

  “I will allow none of you,” Beton continued, “to let Master Babington depart with anything less than an exemplary impression of this household. Or the consequences will be as severe as it is within my power to make them.”

  The chamberlain’s threats escalated from there, with ever-increasing levels of specificity and violence, but Kit was no longer listening. The world around him ceased to matter once Beton spoke the name. Babington would be coming to Sheffield. The haughty gentleman from Cresswell, the mysterious recipient of Mary’s letters, the man who irritated and galvanized Mary more than anyone else Kit knew of. Enough waiting—everything would come to a head the moment Babington set foot in the manor. And Kit would hear what the gentleman had to say to Mary, come what may. Even if—God forbid—he had to behave himself to do it.

  Eight

  Early in the evening when Babington was set to arrive, Kit retreated from the rest of the staff, toward his attic refuge. He would need all his focus in the days to come, and anything he could do to gain a sense of calm would, he reasoned, only strengthen his resolve. Besides, no one could fault him for a tiny respite, forty-five minutes constructing the latter half of a scene. He frowned with the pen between his teeth, then scratched out a line of verse he’d spent a quarter of an hour adjusting and, somehow, had only made worse. Outside, the storm raged on, rain battering the glass in harsh drops that thickened steadily toward snow. Every so often, a low rumble of thunder sang out in the distance. It was the perfect ambiance for Tamburlaine, that persistent growl evoking invading armies, though the abysmal quality of his work did nothing to show it. He’d thought poetry would clear his mind, but even as he shaped the letters, all he could think of was Babington’s pen, scribbling down missives to Mary Stuart and sending them off by messenger into the rain.

  Through the open door to the attic, Kit heard hurried movement and the sound of two voices hissing to each other.

  “Move! You think Babington will wait for you?”

  “Where the devil is Kit? If he thinks I mean to do his job and mine—”

  Babington was here already? He wasn’t expected for two hours. Kit swore and flung his manuscript into the trunk, then bolted for the door. There should have been time to finish the scene, hide the evidence, and arrive at the same moment as the other servants. Of course, a gentleman was never early, his hosts only unprepared. But this felt dangerously like being ahead of schedule.

  Kit tore downstairs and into the entrance hall, where a contingent of footmen waited for their guests to present themselves. Breathless, he skidded to a stop beside Simon, who made a show of not looking at him.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” Simon said under his breath.

  “I value my life,” Kit said, keeping his eyes on Beton.

  With a mistress under house arrest, the chamberlain seldom had occasion to flaunt his professional skill to anyone but Mary and Morgan. Since the announcement that a visitor was en route to the manor, the chamberlain resembled a flustered hydra, sprouting new heads to berate everyone at once for trivial offenses. But now, with only minutes remaining, he didn’t say a word about Kit’s lateness. Watching the door, Beton shifted his weight from one leg to the other, like a child in need of a privy. Kit’s nerves had been strung tight before, but the chamberlain’s anxiety drove him near distraction.

  The door burst open, admitting a fierce blast of rain and a howl of wind. Kit flinched, drawing back from the storm, as two men rushed inside toward shelter. Beton had led them to expect an influx of newcomers, making the pair look, in Kit’s view, somewhat forlorn. A gentleman, tall and slender, and his valet, some ten years older than Kit—they both looked worse for the weather and in none too pleasant a mood. The valet slammed the door behind them, the sound landing almost in time with a clap of thunder from beyond. Kit watched as the gentleman stripped off his cloak and threw it to the valet, revealing beneath it a cerulean doublet of obvious quality. The valet caught the sodden cloak without looking and folded it over his arm, as though accustomed to having things thrown at him.

  So this was Anthony Babington. Kit didn’t know what he’d expected. Someone older, at least. Babington might be within a few years of Kit’s age, though he carried himself with the haughtiness of a fifty-year-old duke as he approached the chamberlain. Still, there was something compelling about this young aristocrat, the imperious set of his slim shoulders and his hooded eyes. He was almost too good-looking, so handsome it was unsettling to look at him directly. Babington had a saint’s face, meant for viewing by candlelight. At once a disdainful gentleman and a noble heretic, persuaded there were worse things than hellfire.

  “Sir,” Beton said. “On behalf of the Lady Mary Stuart, you are welcome.”

  “Mm.” Evidently the travel-worn gentleman was not known for his scintillating repartee. “Show me somewhere I can change. This weather’s not fit for rats to move in.”

  “Of course, sir. Harper—” Beton rounded on Simon, who looked like his dearest wish was to sink into the floor. “Escort the gentleman to his chambers. Marlowe, show Master Babington’s man to the servants’ quarters.”

  Kit swallowed a protest. Simon was a nervous wreck under the best of circumstances. He was more likely to escort Babington into a broom closet by accident. And Kit would give anything for five minutes alone with the gentleman. Babington looked like the type who would say anything in front of his servants, considering them incapable of thought. Jaw tight, Kit turned to the valet, who smiled in return. It was the least sincere smile Kit had ever seen, and an instant flame of distrust sparked in his gut at the sight of it. Without a word, Kit started up the stairs.

  A normal man would have followed several steps behind, but Babington’s valet kept close to Kit’s shoulder, sharing each stair with him. In the intermittent candlelight along the stone stairway, the valet glittered with energy. There was a swagger to his step that seemed foreign to his role, as though he thought he could play everyone in the manor like a lute. If his game was to irritate Kit, it was working.

  “Marlowe, your name was?” the valet said.

  Kit lengthened his stride, attempting to keep a stair between them. No luck. What wouldn’t he have given for longer legs. “Yes.”

  “Charmed. Robert Poley.”

  Kit nodded. Lying was his profession, but telling Robert Poley it was a pleasure to meet him pushed the limit.

  “You know your way around, I’ll give you that,” Poley remarked, as they passed the second landing and took a series of tight turns toward the servants’ stair. Babington’s cloak, still over Poley’s arm, dripped against the floor.

  “I hope so. I live here.”

  “True,” Poley said. His smile looked like a cat seconds before it disemboweled a mouse. “You’ve been here long?”

  A faulty understanding of personal space, Kit could forgive that. He could even ignore an unnerving smile or an insincere countenance. But a habit of asking questions was beyond the pale. Perhaps the man was merely making conversation, but Kit saw no reason to take the risk.

  “Long enough,” Kit said, as they reached the landing. He gestured toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me. My mistress needs me in the hall.”

  Poley gave Kit a small bow, as false as his smile. “Yes,” he said. “I expect she does. I’m sure I’ll see you again.”

  Kit took the stairs two at a time. He sincerely hoped Poley was wrong.

  * * *

  —————

  The dining room’s floor was swept t
o a shine, its walls papered with a green and gold pattern of vines and leaves and lilies that made Kit’s head swim. In the center stood a long table: built for twelve, set for three, occupied by two. Against the wall, Kit closed his eyes and fought down a sigh. He’d never been patient at the best of times, but two hours standing here waiting for Babington was frankly ludicrous.

  He couldn’t have prayed for a better chance than this. Kit was the only footman in service that evening, Beton having realized that, despite his own misgivings, Kit’s theatricality would suit the occasion better than Simon’s twitchy anxiety. The only other servant on hand was Anne—but then, Anne was always on hand. She sat on a small wooden chair by the door, steadfastly knitting away at a shapeless square of wool. Each click of one needle against the other set Kit’s teeth on edge. Mary and Morgan had managed to fill the first hour discussing the news from London—nothing of interest. The second hour had been a diplomatic tour de force on Mary’s part, as she fought to keep Morgan from dragging Anthony Babington downstairs by the ear.

  “You’re certain Babington has arrived?” Morgan said, glaring at Kit.

  “Yes, sir,” Kit said, for the sixth time.

  “Thomas,” Mary said. If not for her unshakable poise, Kit suspected she would have put her elbows on the table and taken her head in her hands. “He will be worth your wait.”

  “I’m sure, madam,” Morgan said, though he did not stop glaring at Kit.

  Kit looked away. He could volunteer to seek Babington out. If he caught the gentleman alone…But before he could voice the suggestion, Mary and Morgan looked to the door. Kit turned as well. Anne shot him a disapproving glance, which he ignored. True, it wasn’t his place to be curious, but he’d stood in this drafty room for two hours. Extenuating circumstances were to be considered.

  Anthony Babington bore no sign of having ridden through a biblical storm earlier that evening. He had changed into another doublet, this one in bold crimson, with an elegant ruff that reminded Kit of a young lion. Babington had seen to his hair, and Kit caught a note of perfume as the gentleman walked, head high, toward Mary and Morgan. His faint smile was not apologetic in the slightest.

  As Babington approached the table, taking long steps intended to showcase his legs, Morgan pressed one fist to his mouth, somewhere between thoughtfulness and loathing. After weeks in his service, Kit knew Morgan well enough to read him. Babington was a shameless dandy, but that wasn’t why Morgan hated him. Babington could go, and had gone, where he pleased: Paris, Rheims, London, anywhere. Meanwhile, Morgan—like Kit—had been trapped within these four walls, never venturing farther than a corridor’s length. For a man with Morgan’s aspirations, an idiot with freedom of movement must have been unbearable.

  For Kit’s part, everything he needed was right here. This exiled queen. Her irascible councilor. And this self-satisfied, good-looking gentleman, a peacock amid the pious, at risk of spilling his secrets.

  Watching Babington take his seat across from Mary, Kit couldn’t decide what feeling possessed him. Interest, certainly. Respect, possibly.

  Then he saw that Babington had brought his valet. Identifying his reaction to that was simple.

  Easy to see, now, where Poley took inspiration for his manner. The imitation was poor at best. The self-possessed swagger in Babington’s walk was like a wild cat in motion. In Poley, who boasted neither Babington’s youth nor his good looks, it reminded Kit of a tavern brawler. When Poley took his place beside him, Kit pointedly ignored him.

  “My lady,” Babington said. His lack of a bow visibly grated on Morgan’s nerves, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Forgive the delay. The weather. You understand.”

  “Of course, Anthony,” Mary said with a barbed smile. “Clothes make the man. As you have repeatedly informed me.”

  In that moment, Kit liked Mary more than ever. Someone had to put Babington in his place. Two hours. Kit hadn’t been able to feel his feet in ages.

  “Just as they make the woman, madam,” Babington said. “Might I add that you look—”

  “You may not,” Mary interrupted. “If I want flattery, I will pay my footman a shilling to liken my eyes to sunbeams.”

  She waved a hand in Kit’s direction. Kit wiped the smile from his face. He’d wanted to earn Mary’s trust, not her attention. Fortunately, Anthony Babington had better things to do with his head than turn it for a footman, however loquacious.

  “God forbid I grudge you your pleasures, sir,” Morgan said coolly. “But I’m not certain you understand our situation.”

  Babington found something of pressing interest on the floor. Kit, having been on the receiving end of Morgan’s ire more than once, could hardly blame him. But when Babington looked up again, his glimmering courtier’s smile was perfectly in place. “I understand quite well. To the matter at hand, then. I think you’ll be pleased with my report.”

  Mary’s insincere smile sharpened, until Kit feared the curve of her lips might reveal fangs. “For both our sakes, Anthony, I certainly hope I will.”

  “Never doubt it,” Babington said. He leaned back, draping one arm over the chair. Morgan’s eyes narrowed. But Babington had a trump left to play, something to justify this mad confidence. “His Most Catholic Majesty is nothing if not faithful.”

  Anne’s knitting needles stopped clicking.

  Both Kit and Poley leaned forward as much as they dared, desperate to catch whatever came next. Kit glanced at the valet without turning his head—what did an arrogant ass like this care about Babington’s report? But perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Any thinking man would want to hear what followed an opening salvo like that.

  Morgan’s expression was a masterpiece of contradiction, equal parts eagerness and exasperation. He turned to Kit like a soldier sighting a pistol. “Boy, fetch a flagon of Anjou from the cellar,” he said. “Master Babington must be weary from riding.”

  Leave? He couldn’t leave now. Kit’s mind was in a frenzy of connection, pulling together facts and conjecture almost too fast to follow. His Most Catholic Majesty. God’s light. Spain. It had to be Spain. No ruler wore the pope’s approval as proudly as King Philip. So Mary Stuart communicated through Babington with Philip of Spain. Mary, the would-be claimant to the throne, and Philip, ruler of the most powerful nation ever to loathe and be loathed by England. It didn’t require a Cambridge education to put the pieces together. And he’d be thrown out before he could hear what followed.

  Poley looked at Kit sideways. “Go, then,” he said under his breath. Kit didn’t think he imagined the pleasure in Poley’s words.

  The thought occurred to him, wild, half formed—could he hide? Watch through the keyhole and…

  And earn himself a dagger point through the eye. He bowed low and walked with feigned composure toward the door.

  “Poley,” Babington said from behind him, as an afterthought. “Run to my rooms. I believe I’ve left the window open, in a storm like this.”

  Kit could see the shock on Poley’s face without turning. He smiled. It was a cruel smile for a petty pleasure, but sometimes cruel and petty were all one had.

  “Yes, sir,” Poley said.

  Kit opened the door and stepped outside, Robert Poley on his heels. For a moment, they stood in silence.

  They looked at each other. They looked at the door. They looked at each other.

  “Damn it to hell,” Poley said.

  They turned in opposite directions and tore off at a dead run.

  The wine cellar was two flights down, almost directly beneath the room where the trio in council now sat. And every stair Kit took stole another word from him. Another thought. Another plan.

  Kit’s breath stabbed at his side as he flung the cellar door open. This was what he deserved, for spending five years sitting at a desk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run so hard, and his legs and lungs bot
h burned as he skidded across the floor, raking the racks of bottles with his eyes. His body yearned to catch its breath, but every moment cost him dearly, and if a little pain was the price to pay, then he’d pay it. Kit seized the nearest flagon of wine—he had no idea what it was, and did not care—and bolted back toward the stairs. A maidservant had just turned the corner on her way to the larder; Kit nearly knocked her flat as he charged down the corridor. He stammered an apology, catching himself on the wall, and sprinted up the stairs, her angry shout following after.

  Not too late, he thought. Don’t let it be too late.

  He halved his pace ten feet from the door, panting for breath. Composing himself as best he could, he adopted a look of total uninterest and slipped back inside.

  “I will, of course, remain in constant correspondence,” Babington was saying. He cast a glance toward Kit—or, more accurately, toward the sound of the opening door.

  The words stripped Kit of breath. As if someone had fastened a noose around his neck and pulled. Too late. Babington had already said his piece. And every scrap of information Walsingham could have used had blown away into the storm.

  “Constant correspondence would be an improvement,” Mary said. “Let me remind you, Anthony, that in my circumstances I rely on you for news. I cannot wait for your convenience to know where I stand.”

  Babington shifted like a chastened child. But for the moment, Kit wasn’t looking at him. He was watching a pair of knitting needles, dancing in and out of loops of wool.

  Anne. Anne, who’d been there all along. Anne, who would have listened, even if she hadn’t meant to.

  “You know where you stand, madam,” Babington said. “In the favor of God.”

  “And too soon for comfort in his presence,” Mary snapped.

  “Madam,” Morgan cut in, with a sharp look at Kit.