Execution

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Marvellous. I look forward to hearing more of their progress.’ Walsingham sat back in his chair and folded his hands together, smiling to himself, showing surprisingly white teeth.

  ‘You do not seem overly concerned,’ I remarked. In truth, I could not help feeling resentful at the reception of my news; I had expected a mix of shock and gratitude, and a flurry of activity as Walsingham rushed to apprehend the plotters and warn the Queen, quietly mentioning my name as the bearer of this timely intervention. Instead, even by Master Secretary’s standards, this reaction seemed unusually phlegmatic.

  ‘Ah, Bruno. Do not think I don’t appreciate the efforts you have made to bring me this news – I have been waiting for it. We’ve been monitoring John Ballard for some time, waiting for his plans to bear fruit. And now that the game begins…’ he paused, pulling at the point of his beard ‘…all we have worked for stands on a knife-edge. One false step could mar everything. You see?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t. I had not thought it was a game.’ I looked across to Phelippes for a plainer explanation, but his eyes remained fixed on his scratching nib.

  Walsingham sighed. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to kill a queen, Bruno?’

  ‘I have never tried.’

  ‘Well, I have been trying for years, believe me. And now the means is almost at my fingertips. We cannot afford to fail this time.’

  I watched him while his meaning gradually took shape. ‘You mean the Queen of Scots.’ I let my breath out slowly and felt a tremble. ‘You want her dead.’

  ‘That vixen.’ He pushed his chair back abruptly and strode to the window with his back to me, but I could see the suppressed fury in the set of his shoulders. ‘Every damnable conspiracy against the state and the Queen of England’s person these last twenty years – who is at the heart of it? That conniving Scottish witch. There she sits like a poisonous spider at the heart of her web, under house arrest, embroidering tapestries, complaining she is not kept in regal luxury. She protests her love for her cousin Elizabeth, while her words and letters embroider plots of murder and insurrection for her devoted followers in France. She wraps every gaoler I appoint around her finger with her simpering and her flirtations. It must end, Bruno, do you understand?’ He turned back to me, thumped his fist once on the wood panelling to make his point. ‘While she lives, the Protestant Church in England will never be secure. Her name is a banner to rally every angry young man who believes his fortunes would be better if the clocks could be turned backwards to a golden England of yesteryear, before the break with Rome. An England that exists only in his imagination, but no matter – he will plunge the country into ruin to recover it.’

  ‘But the Queen of Scots cannot be held responsible for what impetuous men do in her name, surely?’

  Walsingham sank into the window seat as if the outburst had exhausted him, and I saw in his strained look why his daughter worried for his health. ‘Explain it to him, Thomas.’

  Phelippes lifted his head and glanced at me briefly before shifting his gaze to the bookshelves.

  ‘Actually, she can now – Master Secretary has passed legislation this year to say exactly that. Mary Stuart is the granddaughter of the eighth King Henry’s sister,’ he said, in his odd, flat voice. ‘So for those English Catholics who hold that Henry’s divorce was not sanctioned by the Roman church and that his second marriage to the Queen’s mother Anne Boleyn cannot therefore be legitimate, Mary Stuart is the only true, Catholic heir by Tudor blood to the English throne. They maintain that Queen Elizabeth is a bastard.’

  ‘I know all this.’ I tried to conceal my impatience, but Phelippes had a manner of explaining that addressed his listener as if they were a slow child. ‘I was the one intercepting the letters from Mary’s supporters through the French embassy three years ago, the last time they tried a plot like this. But there was no evidence that Mary had given the conspiracy her approval.’

  ‘You understand the challenge, then,’ Walsingham said, his voice soft. I looked at him; his gaze did not waver.

  ‘You mean to entice her into betraying herself.’

  ‘The new law states that anyone who stands to benefit from the Queen’s murder is guilty of treason, even if they do not commit the deed with their own hand.’

  ‘Then – this plan of Ballard’s, that Paget mentions – it’s a trick?’

  ‘Oh, the plot is real enough.’ Walsingham stood, with evident effort, and returned to his desk, taking a small sip from his glass. ‘The invasion plans too, quite possibly, though I suspect Philip of Spain will think twice before reaching into his coffers again for a rabble of hot-headed Englishmen – he has heard all this before, remember, with the Throckmorton business in ’83?’

  I nodded; my part in that was not an experience I would forget in a hurry.

  ‘But none of this worries you. You appear to have it all under control, so I see I have had a wasted journey.’ I heard the pique in my voice but was too tired to disguise it. As so often with Walsingham, I had the sensation of playing a hand of cards without being told the rules of the game. I wondered if Nicholas Berden knew the information he had risked so much to procure was already familiar to Walsingham, or if he too was being kept in the dark.

  ‘Far from it, my dear Bruno. It is never a waste to see old friends.’ He moved around the side of the desk and put an awkward arm around my shoulder, patting it briefly. A moment later he moved away – he was not a demonstrative man – and covered his embarrassment with a cough. ‘In fact, since you are here, a thought occurs to me – but you must allow me a pause while it takes shape. Thomas’ – he clicked his fingers in Phelippes’s direction – ‘decipher that letter as quickly as you can – I want to know about this Spanish Jesuit Mendoza is sending. In the meantime, Bruno, you must wash, and eat, and we will talk further.’

  He handed me my pack and showed me to the door, patting my shoulder again for reassurance. As it closed behind me I heard Phelippes say, quite clearly, ‘You cannot seriously propose the Italian?’

  I waited, keeping as still as possible.

  ‘Why not?’ Walsingham replied, his tone buoyant. ‘He is Catholic, or was. He can parrot their incantations without missing a word. It is the perfect solution.’

  ‘I will tell you why not,’ Phelippes said. ‘Because they will kill him.’

  I strained to hear more, but at the sound of footsteps I glanced up to see the steward, Marston, approaching from the other end of the corridor; I smiled and stepped towards him, trying not to look as if I had been eavesdropping. I would have to wait for the details of Walsingham’s plan for my impending death.

  THREE

  ‘You will wish to leave us now, my dear.’ Walsingham wiped his fingers on a linen cloth, pushed away his plate and directed a meaningful look at his daughter. ‘No doubt the child needs your attention.’

  Candles burned low in their sconces, a warm light touching the curves of Venetian glass and the edges of silver platters, softening our faces and the old wood of the panelling. The table was littered with the debris of a fine meal – a soup of asparagus, capons in redcurrant sauce, a custard tart with almonds and cream, sheep’s cheese and soft dark bread. As with the furnishings of the house, the food had been plain, but of excellent quality. Though I had rested for an hour before supper, I could feel myself dragged by my full belly towards sleep, and hoped I might be excused before anyone – Lady Sidney or her father – could draw me into their schemes. In my somnolent state I would likely agree to anything if it would grant me an early night. I was aware that my hosts had barely touched the jug of excellent Rhenish which had been generously poured for me, and Phelippes did not drink wine at all, preferring to concentrate on consuming food methodically, one dish at a time, which he arranged on his plate in geometric patterns and ate without speaking.

  Frances Sidney returned Walsingham’s look with cool resistance. ‘She is asleep, and her nurse is with her. I wish to speak to you, Father, in this company, on an important ma
tter. You understand me.’

  Walsingham sighed, and made a minute gesture with his head to the serving boys clearing the table. He beckoned Marston, who stood silently in the corner by the door as he had throughout the meal, alert to his master’s needs; Walsingham whispered to him and the steward nodded. When the last dishes had been removed, Marston brought fresh candles and a new jug of wine, before discreetly withdrawing. The door closed softly behind him.

  ‘I know what you are going to ask me, Frances.’ Walsingham’s eyes rested briefly on me, and there was a warning in his tone.

  ‘He is the man to do it,’ she said, her voice rising; she nodded at me across the table as she worked her linen cloth between her fingers, twisting and untwisting it. When Walsingham said nothing, she sat up straighter. ‘You know he is. Let him find out the truth – he has done it before.’

  ‘Frances—’ Walsingham laid both hands flat on the table.

  ‘What – because it might interfere with your plan? It’s your fault she’s dead!’

  She threw down her cloth and glared at her father; I glanced from one to the other and was surprised to see him lower his eyes, his expression pained.

  ‘That is not a reasonable conclusion,’ Phelippes said mildly, concentrating on folding his napkin into a neat square, the corners precisely aligned. ‘There are a number of factors that contributed—’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Thomas.’ Frances rounded on him. ‘What would you know? You have no more feeling than a clockwork machine.’

  He raised his head at this and blinked rapidly, before returning his gaze to his task.

  Walsingham watched his daughter in the flickering light. ‘Do not vent your anger on Thomas, my dear. This was not his doing.’

  ‘How do you know? Maybe one of his letters gave her away.’

  ‘Very unlikely, Lady Sidney,’ Phelippes said. ‘My forgeries are excellent and have never yet been detected. It is much more probable that Clara Poole was careless. I had doubts about her ability to perpetrate a deception at that level of sophistication. She was too much at the mercy of her emotions.’

  ‘Oh, you had doubts? Then why did you let him send her?’ She pointed a trembling finger at her father.

  ‘Lower your voice, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone had grown sharp, the indulgence gone. ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘You know already.’ She swivelled in her chair to look at me. ‘Let Bruno investigate. He will tell you who killed her and whether your precious operation is compromised.’ Her voice was tight with emotion; when she dropped her gaze I saw tears shining on her lashes. ‘Then, once we know, you can tear the bastard’s insides out while he’s still alive to watch them drop in the flames, and I will be in the front row, applauding.’

  There was little that could shock Walsingham, but I saw him flinch at her words.

  ‘Would someone mind explaining—’ I began.

  ‘Oh, my father will tell you,’ Frances said, winding the napkin around her knuckles. ‘He can explain how his ward Clara Poole ended up in a whore’s graveyard south of the river with her face smashed up. Oh, I see you look startled, Father – did you not realise I had heard you discuss that detail with Thomas? Perhaps you forgot I was there, as usual.’ She poured herself a glass of wine and drank a deep draught; I saw how her hand shook.

  Walsingham brushed down his doublet, took a moment to compose himself, and raised his eyes to fix me across the table with his steady gaze.

  ‘These men Paget mentions in his letter,’ he said, eventually. ‘A band of devout Catholics sworn to carry out the Pope’s death sentence on Queen Elizabeth. We know who they are.’

  ‘Then – can you not arrest them?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for them to give us more conclusive evidence,’ he said evenly.

  I nodded, understanding. ‘You want to use them as bait, to catch a bigger prize.’

  Walsingham fetched up a faint smile, but it did not touch his eyes. ‘You always were perceptive. They do this in the name of the Queen of Scots, as you know. Part of their plan is to break her from her prison at Chartley and set her on the throne. I have enough in their letters alone to hang and quarter every last one of them. What I lacked was a firm response from her hand.’

  ‘So you mean to let this plot unfold until she gives it her explicit support in writing?’

  ‘The instant she signs her name to any approval she will have committed high treason. The only possible sentence under the terms of my new Act for the Queen’s Safety will be execution.’

  Frances snorted. ‘He thinks Queen Elizabeth will simply agree to that. Chop the head off a fellow queen, her own cousin. I tell you, Father – I know I have only met Her Majesty a handful of times, and you converse with her every day, but I am certain of this – she will not sign that death sentence, no matter how many letters you show her in Mary’s hand. She dare not. No matter how many people you consider expendable in the process.’

  ‘My daughter sometimes believes she sits on the Privy Council,’ Walsingham said drily.

  ‘I would talk more sense than half the blustering old men there,’ Frances shot back. ‘If the Privy Council and the Parliament were all women, we’d have less money wasted on war and twice as much done.’

  Walsingham caught my eye with a half-smile; I tried to picture Elizabeth Tudor seeking the counsel of other women on matters of state. An unlikely scenario; it was well known she commanded most of her courtiers to leave their wives at home in the country so she did not have to share their attention.

  ‘He had my companion, Clara Poole, working for him in this business of Babington,’ Frances said to me, tilting her head towards her father. ‘It ended badly for her, as you heard. He needs to know why, I want justice for her, and you want employment, so you see, we all want the same thing.’

  ‘Who is Babington?’

  Walsingham lifted his wine glass and studied it without drinking. ‘The ringleader of this little band of would-be assassins is a young blood by the name of Anthony Babington. Catholic, twenty-five, made extremely wealthy by the death of his father last year. Studied in Paris not long ago, remains friendly with known conspirators there, including Mary’s agents. A wife and infant daughter at the family seat in Derbyshire, but spends all his time in London now, throwing himself into the Catholic cause – more out of desire for adventure than ardent faith, I think, but he met Mary Stuart as a youth and has romantic notions of her suffering and her rightful claims.’ He paused, sucked in his cheeks, as if weighing how much more to say. ‘I needed someone on the inside to monitor Babington and his friends without drawing suspicion – it proved difficult to get any of my trusted men close enough. Babington is hot-headed but he is not a fool, and he is understandably cautious about this business. Clara Poole is – was – a beautiful young woman. It seemed an obvious solution.’ He lowered his eyes and looked at the glass turning between his hands, avoiding his daughter’s sharp stare.

  ‘She was beautiful until they broke her face,’ Frances said, through her teeth. She turned to me, her tone softer. ‘I’ve known Clara since I was ten years old. She was four years older than me, and my father took her and her brother in when they were orphaned. She was my companion for four years until she married at eighteen, but she was widowed a year ago and returned to my household, since her husband had left her without means. I had thought she would work as governess to my daughter when Lizzie was old enough to take lessons. She knew French and could draw beautifully.’ Her voice wavered, and she returned to twisting the napkin between her fingers.

  ‘Clara’s half-brother, Robin, has been in my service for some time,’ Walsingham said. ‘The Catholics trust him – he has helped import books and relics for them in the past, and served time in prison for it, without betraying that he was my man. They do not know the extent of his work for me – they think he is true to their cause and believe he spies for them. It was an easy matter to have Clara introduced to Babington’s circle. I thought her charms might open door
s closed to the men in my employ, and I was not deceived in that.’

  ‘You sent her – forgive me – to seduce him?’ I stared at Walsingham, thinking of the court in Paris, and the bevy of beautiful, accomplished young women trained by Catherine de Medici, the Queen Mother, to use their wiles in spying on the King’s enemies; I had personal experience of their determination. I had imagined Master Secretary, whose morality leaned towards the puritanical, to be above such methods. Clearly I had been mistaken.

  ‘Like a whoremaster,’ Frances said, pointedly.

  ‘Remember to whom you speak, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone was stern, but he looked uncomfortable. ‘Clara was willing to be of service,’ he added, to me. ‘We must conclude that certain things are no sin when they are done to save the life of an anointed sovereign, or to protect the state. We must trust that God sees the greater picture.’

  ‘Just as He does when my father turns the handle of the rack to make a priest confess to treason,’ Frances said, with a flash of triumph in her eyes. I sensed that she enjoyed sparring with her father, and that Clara Poole’s death had given her a licence to do so.

  ‘Would you have them move freely through the realm instead?’ Walsingham turned to her, his voice wound tight; her provocation was succeeding. ‘If you had seen what I have seen, young lady – you were but four years old when—’

  Frances rolled her eyes. ‘When we were barricaded inside the English embassy in Paris on Saint Bartholomew’s night, yes, yes, I have heard this story before, Father. All my life, in fact.’ She sounded like a sullen child.

  ‘So that you never take it for granted.’ Walsingham leaned back in his chair. I could see that he was forcing himself not to lose his temper. ‘We were a hair’s breadth from being massacred along with all the other Protestants in Paris that night. And if you think the same could not happen in London if Catholic forces invade, you are nothing but a silly girl and not worthy to carry your husband’s name or mine. Sacrifices must be made. Philip knows that. So did Clara. Only you seem to think the world should fall into your lap without cost, and perhaps the blame for that rests with me, and the way I have spoiled you.’