To Kill A Queen

by Valerie Wilding

  “I cannot imagine,” said Mother.

  I could. It was his feet.

  5th August 1586

  I slept late. Anne got a stinging ear because she tried too hard to wake me. By the time I was dressed, Father had heard news of Babington. He had dined with the agent who brought the note from Sir Francis, and seemed quite at ease. But then a message arrived for the agent.

  While the man read it, Babington excused himself. The agent waited, certain Babington had only gone to relieve himself. After all, he had left his sword and cape behind, so he must soon return.

  Time passed, and it became clear that Babington had fled. Had he read the message upside down? Who knows? He has not been seen since.

  I gradually became aware that Joseph had left the room. I went upstairs and found him frantically stuffing clothing into a bag.

  “What are you doing?” I cried.

  “He might come here, Kitty. He’ll be desperate. I owe him this – just some clothes and money to help him get away.” His expression was pleading. “The Queen is surely safe now – Babington can do no harm. It cannot hurt if he escapes.”

  “Dear Joseph. He won’t come. You just want him to so you can make amends. But there’s nothing to make amends for. He won’t come.” I took the bag. “If it makes you feel better, we’ll leave this ready, in case he does.”

  He had better not!

  Later

  As we dined this noon, Father suddenly gave a great shout of laughter. “Do you know what that fool Babington did? He had a portrait painted of himself and his fellow conspirators. That very portrait is now being shown around as an aid to catching them! Ha!”

  I heard a gurgle, and turned to see that Joseph had vomited on the floor.

  Mother leapt up, but I was there first. “I’ll see to him,” I said.

  Joseph clutched me as we went upstairs. I shouted for Sal to clean up, and took him to his chamber. He started to speak.

  “Ssh,” I said. “I know. You think you could so easily have been in that portrait.” And I stroked my brother’s forehead until he fell asleep.

  9th August 1586

  Each day has been the same and we have simply done our best to pass the time. But today, Father hurried in, downed a flagon of beer and said, “Kitty, bring your brother to the library.”

  Joseph begged me to go with him, so I did.

  Father behaved as if I wasn’t there. “Joseph, can you imagine Her Majesty’s feelings at this moment?”

  “N-no, sir.”

  “She is distraught,” said Father. “In fact, she’s in terror for her life. Babington, Savage and the rest are still at liberty and she fears they might strike at any moment. No one can put her mind at rest. Joseph, we have the names of six conspirators, but there are more. I believe you might know who they are.”

  Joseph backed away. “Sir, I know nothing of the conspiracy, I swear I do not—”

  Father held up a hand. “I do not say you do. I say you might know some names. Think, son. Who were Babington’s closest allies?”

  Gradually Joseph gathered his wits and gave Father the names of those he’d met with Babington. “But I cannot believe they are all involved,” he said.

  Father picked up the list he’d made. “Probably not, Joseph, but it’s likely that several of these should not be allowed to walk our city streets. Thank you.”

  As we went upstairs, Joseph murmured, “Dear God, what have I done? Even Father will believe I am one of them.”

  “Of course he will not,” I said.

  14th August 1586

  Edmund says they have caught a conspirator! It is Chidiock Tichborne, who sat in this very house with us. I begged to be allowed to go back to the Middletons’ with Edmund, and was permitted.

  Geoffrey was on guard duty. “Come to see the plotter?” he asked.

  “He is here?”

  “Where better for a traitor?” said Geoffrey.

  “Which tower is he in?”

  “Now I can’t tell you that.” Geoffrey wagged a finger.

  “There’s no need,” said Edmund. “I know he is in the Martin Tower.”

  “Martin, pah!” said Geoffrey. “That’s nowhere near as secure as the Beauchamp.”

  We smiled, said goodbye and headed straight for the green in front of the Beauchamp Tower. We were soon shooed away, but I believe I caught a glimpse of Tichborne at the window high above. He must be in despair. Few leave the Beauchamp Tower to freedom.

  At Edmund’s house, Kathryn was spiteful about the state of my hair which, it’s true, I have not bothered much with today. But I got my own back. “It seems you were wrong about Sir Anthony Babington being a true gentleman,” I said.

  “You met him, Kathryn?” Aunt Frances was appalled.

  “I may have done,” she said, sticking her nose in the air. “I do not remember.”

  “You do!” said Edmund. “You blushed every time he looked at you.”

  Kathryn stalked from the room, pinching Edmund’s arm as she passed. He winced, but grinned. Good old Edmund!

  15th August 1586

  Last evening, Father returned late, and then there was a commotion in the middle of the night. I wrapped myself in my coverlet and hurried to the landing.

  Father was pulling on his boots, Mother was trying to make him take a drink, and the front doorway was full of men.

  I ran down. “Father!” But he’d gone before I reached the bottom stair. “Where are they taking him?” I cried.

  Mother put her arms around me. “Hush, Kitty, they are not taking him! Sir Francis Walsingham needs him.”

  I cannot sleep. Now I feel ill. Perhaps I am hungry.

  Dawn

  It is almost light. I feel better now that I have had a cold roast partridge.

  Later

  I am bored being confined to the house. Babington will never let himself be seen around here, surely? The bells of St Peter’s are ringing. I wonder why. . . Now there are more bells. . . And more! What’s happened? The bells sound joyous, so it cannot be anything bad like an invasion.

  Very late

  They are caught! All the conspirators have been brought to the city – I suppose to the Tower. Everyone in London is going wild! Even Mother came out with us. We met all the Middletons except Uncle William, who is needed in the Tower, and made our way through the thronged streets.

  Such rejoicing! People have lit bonfires and are singing and dancing. Everyone shouts, “God save the Queen!” I cannot help thinking that God has a lot of help from Her Majesty’s loyal subjects, like Sir Francis and my father.

  We wandered like a band of apprentices on their holiday. Joseph tried, I could see, to enjoy the celebration, but he was uneasy. Mother wouldn’t let us buy any food from street sellers, but Aunt Frances has no such scruples, and the morsels she slipped us kept our hunger at bay. Kathryn was disgusted, but Aunt Frances threatened to throttle her if she said anything.

  When some nearby thatch caught fire, it was enough for Mother. “Let’s return home and hold our own celebration,” she said. So that is what we did.

  Perhaps our lives can get back to normal now.

  17th August 1586

  Mother has had a letter from Father. He is at a house called Tixall, near Chartley. A few days ago, Mary Stuart was out hunting with her ladies and her doctor, with Sir Amyas Paulet close behind with guards. Sir Amyas told Father that when horsemen appeared, Mary’s face lit up. She probably thought they had come to tell her Queen Elizabeth was dead. Instead they had come to order her to be confined, and to go through all her possessions. She rode on, with her doctor, to Tixall, and will remain there until she is permitted to return to Chartley.

  She is in great trouble, I think.

  26th August 1586

  Mary Stuart has returned to Chartley, and Father is home. He said she was livid when sh
e discovered that the chest where she keeps her papers was empty, and her money all gone, but she showed no fear. Father said she became dignified and calm, even when told she will be tried for treason in a few weeks.

  I’m sure I would not be dignified and calm. I would be screaming for my father and mother. But Mary Stuart has no one.

  7th September 1586

  Mother’s birthday, and Sir Francis Walsingham brought her gift. She expected it to be forgotten this year, with all the plots and danger, but not so.

  Sir Francis looked ill. He has a bad leg, and was limping horribly. Old Tom saddled a horse to carry him back to his barge. He’s on his way home for a rest and to prepare for the trial of Babington and the conspirators.

  15th September 1586

  The conspirators’ trials are over. Fourteen men have been sentenced to be hanged, bowelled and quartered. Richard has been at the Tower today, and spent an hour with us. “Somebody cares for Babington,” he told us.

  “Who?” Mother asked.

  “His wife, in Derbyshire,” said Richard. “She took a letter to the Queen, begging her to spare him.”

  Well! While Babington was enjoying himself in London, he had a wife at home. Wait till I tell Kathryn!

  19th September 1586

  Edmund heard from Geoffrey that Babington, too, has written to the Queen this very day, begging for his life. He could not have expected mercy, because his warder took another letter (which he read) to a friend. In it, Babington offered a thousand pounds if the friend could arrange his freedom.

  Too late. Tomorrow, the first seven conspirators will die. I hope I can go. I’ll ask Mother this evening, when she’s had a cup or two of wine.

  Later

  I am so angry. All the Middletons are to follow the prisoners to the executions, but I may not! Everybody in the world will be there.

  I curtsied beautifully to Mother, and asked, “Madam, please may I attend the executions tomorrow with my uncle?” (I knew she would not go, nor Joseph.) She refused! “Feelings are running high,” she said, “now it is known in what peril the Queen has been. I would not expose you to danger. I am sure you understand.”

  I curtsied again. “I do, Madam.”

  Of course I do NOT! I came straight up to my room and have cried ever since. It is so unfair.

  20th September 1586

  I slipped out this morning while Mother was still in her chamber, and watched the procession leave the Tower. The crowd’s mood was quiet at first, but when the gates opened and the horses clattered over the cobbles, the noise grew like the howling and baying of dogs when they scent their quarry. The prisoners were bound to hurdles, dragged behind the horses. They would have a long and painful ride.

  All I glimpsed were two white faces. Neither was Babington’s, but he was there, for he is to be executed today. Will he be brave and calm, or will he scream for mercy?

  Later

  Edmund and Kathryn came to tell us about the executions. They had never seen such crowds, but they managed to worm their way through to the front.

  “I wish we had not,” said Kathryn. “It was gruesome. . .”

  Well, of course, I thought. It was an execution! But it seems it was a little more than that. Ballard went first, and Edmund said he hung for hardly any time before he was cut down. His bowels were hacked out before his very eyes, while he was still conscious.

  “Enough, Edmund,” said Kathryn. “Spare Aunt Tilly any more details.”

  For once I was glad she’s so stuffy, but I needed to know about Babington. “And Sir Anthony?” I asked.

  “Calm and almost dignified,” said Kathryn, “as befits a true-born gentleman. Which he was,” she snapped, “whatever he has done since!”

  “He was still alive when his innards were cut out,” said Edmund. “I heard him say, ‘Parce mihi.’”

  “What does that mean, Kathryn?” I asked, knowing she has no Latin. “Oh, I remember, it means, ‘Spare me.’”

  She flushed, then glanced over my shoulder, as Joseph entered.

  “Joseph!” cried Edmund. “We have been telling of the executions.”

  “I have heard,” said Joseph. “It was brutal.” He looked green.

  Just then, Father came in and sat at the table, his head in his hands. “A bad business,” he muttered. “What is she thinking of?”

  When he realized Edmund and Kathryn were there, he smiled and became his usual self. But I knew he was pretending. I was right, for when they’d gone, he sagged again. “It was a bad business, Tilly,” he said. “Those men were killed most brutally – at the Queen’s wish. Lord, even the ordinary people are sickened by it. I pray that tomorrow will not be another day like this.”

  21st September 1586

  Father’s prayer was answered. Queen Elizabeth was so frightened and angered by the plot against her that she ordered the conspirators to suffer as much agony as possible. The executioners were told to ensure the traitors were still conscious when they were bowelled. But she has relented. Today’s seven terrified victims were allowed to hang until they were dead, or at least unconscious.

  Now they are gone. I do not want to think of Babington ever again.

  5th October 1586

  Father is to accompany Sir Francis Walsingham and the Queen’s commissioners to Fotheringhay Castle, where Mary Stuart has been sent to stand trial for treason. Mother made him promise to remember everything. I suggested he might keep a diary, and he laughed. “If I had the days of leisure you two have,” he said, “I might.”

  I wish I had fewer days of leisure. Imagine being a man, doing exciting, important things. Though not all have exciting lives – my poor Joseph finds everything a struggle.

  26th October 1586

  Father is home, the commissioners have met at Westminster, and the Scottish queen has been pronounced guilty of, as Father says, “compassing, practising and imagining of Her Majesty’s death”. Her fate is in Queen Elizabeth’s hands. Sir Francis, of course, wishes for her death. He says the throne of England will not be safe until the Catholic threat is removed. He means Mary Stuart and, in his belief – and Father’s – the Scottish queen must die.

  27th October 1586

  Poor Joseph has been in a deep gloom ever since the Babington affair, and he dreads restarting his studies.

  “Kitty, I am not like Richard,” he said, as we walked Pawpaw by the river. “When we were born, he got all the cleverness. I was left with little brain.”

  “Joseph, what you lack in brain, you make up for in sweetness of nature,” I told him.

  He smiled his gentle smile. “But what can I do? How can I tell Father all the money he spends on my education is wasted . . . that I would be better off being a – a – a saddler, or a blacksmith.”

  Of course, he cannot tell Father that.

  28th October 1586

  What a day. Oh, what a day.

  This morning, Father knocked on my door and told me to dress in my finest. “We are summoned to Sir Francis Walsingham’s office at Greenwich Palace,” he said. “Tom will bring the carriage round at midday.”

  I was completely flustered, but then Joseph burst into my chamber and grabbed me by the shoulders. I could not understand a word at first.

  “Stop jabbering!” I forced him to sit down. “Be calm.”

  His breathing slowed and soon he could speak clearly enough for me to understand.

  “Sir Francis, he wants me there so he can arrest me. . .”

  “Joseph, you dear fool,” I said, “if he wanted to arrest you, he would send men here. It cannot be that. Maybe he is returning Father’s hospitality.”

  “In his office?”

  He had a point. But Joseph need not have feared. Not for one moment. By the time we had reached Greenwich, drunk a welcome cup of wine and been shown to Sir Francis’s office, we were all (except Father) open-mouthed at
such grandeur.

  Sir Francis was waiting with Richard. He welcomed Father, kissed Mother’s hand, then turned to me and Joseph. “Ah, my two young friends.” He kissed my hand and clasped Joseph’s, beaming all the while. Then he excused himself and left the room.

  Richard was whispering to Father and Mother, so I turned to Joseph and said, “Do you still think he will arrest you, pudding-head?”

  But before he could reply, the door opened and in swept – Queen Elizabeth!

  “Sir Nicholas, we meet again,” she said, as Father bowed. I sank down into a curtsy so deep I almost sat on the floor.

  The Queen turned to Mother, and raised her from her curtsy. “Lady Matilda,” she said. “Tilly Middleton! How well we remember you the night you served us so well.”

  She says “we” and “us” instead of “I” and “me”! Very confusing.

  “Do you still use our gifts?” the Queen continued.

  “Every day of my life, Your Majesty,” said Mother.

  “Then perhaps you will also use this token of our regard for your family.” The Queen pressed something into my mother’s hand. Then she turned to Joseph.

  “Another loyal Lumsden! Your brother, Richard, serves us well, and it is easy to see you are his twin.” Joseph bowed, quite nicely. “We understand that you have had a brush with deceit and dishonour, and have emerged with your own honour intact. Tell me, would you serve us, too?”

  Oh, Joseph was so embarrassing! He mumbled and stumbled, and bobbed little bows, and behind him I could see Sir Francis’s eyes actually twinkling – not something I have seen before!