Mary Queen of Scotland and the Isles

by Margaret George

  In it, the company—with Babington at the centre—had all been painted in their best attire. Above them, in bold letters, was Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula dicunt: “They are allied to me in a dangerous enterprise.”

  “Is it not a good likeness?” Babington asked.

  “Indeed yes, but—” Chidiock Tichborne glanced over his shoulder at the crowded tavern. “Is it advisable to show it thus in public?”

  “Why, man, what harm can it do? No one here will know what it means!”

  “Let’s sing the Cobbler’s Song,” said Tilney. “I’ll begin: We cobblers lead a merry life, dan, dan, dan, dan, dan!”

  “Void of all envy and of strife,” sang the next man, Jerome Bellamy, “dan diddle dan.”

  “Our ease is great, our labour small,” continued Robert Gage, “dan, dan, dan, dan.”

  “And yet our gains be much withal,” cried John Travers, “dan diddle dan.”

  “Tell me more particulars,” Tichborne whispered under cover of the chorus.

  “On the way home,” said Babington. “Oh, is it my turn? For merry pastime and joyful glee, dan, dan, dan, dan.”

  * * *

  Late that night, when the tavern had almost emptied, Babington and his group at last drank their final round and then reeled out into the soft, beckoning dark. In threes and fours they went their ways, and Chidiock, who lived near Babington, walked with him back to his house. The streets were anything but empty; London never slept. And on a warm night like this, people were drawn outside like moths toward flickering candles. The two men walked purposefully, to avoid having to respond to any of the murmured remarks as they passed, and they kept their moneybags about their necks and inside their shirts. But the temptation was great to slow down and savour the delicious feeling of the night.

  They passed down Bishopsgate Street, through a parish churchyard, and past a hospital for “distracted people,” called St. Mary of Bethlehem.

  “Sometimes I feel I could be put there,” said Babington, glancing at the brick wall surrounding it.

  “Why, are your wits unhinged?” asked Chidiock. “Sometimes you do talk wildly. Ever since I have known you, you have been nervous. But not illogical!”

  “I do not know,” said Babington, all jest gone from his voice. “Sometimes I get thoughts that pursue me, take hold of me, I don’t know exactly where they come from. Then I say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’” He gave a weak laugh.

  “Satan—now you sound like a Puritan. They are always talking about him.”

  They had passed beyond the brick wall surrounding the hospital and now came to a traveller’s inn, the Dolphin. Most of the patrons had gone to bed, but there was a faint noise from the attached tavern.

  “I am very much aware of his presence,” said Babington. “They say he can take a pleasing shape. Sometimes I hear his voice.…” He broke off as he saw Chidiock staring at him. “In my imagination, I mean.”

  Now they were passing a water conduit, and even at this late hour, people were clustered about, filling their jugs. The sound of the splashing water was playful and inviting. The men went over and, filling their hands with water, rubbed their faces and let the water drip down their necks.

  “Do you think this venture is … of him?” Chidiock asked. “For I must admit, I am confused by my own feelings.”

  They walked on in silence, passing more traveller’s inns, then merchant’s houses, and came at last to Babington’s beautiful house, with its pleasure garden and bowling alley. Suddenly they were aware that there were footsteps behind them that seemed to echo theirs, stopping when they did, hurrying when they did, and yet when they looked, there was no one there.

  Babington ordered the gates of his house opened, and they entered the grounds. “Let’s go to the garden!” said Babington. They could hear a clock somewhere striking two.

  “It’s so late,” said Chidiock.

  “Does it feel late?” asked Babington. Somehow, on this night, time seemed to be playing tricks. “Come! You can stay here tonight!”

  Laughing, he ran toward the dark shapes of the cypress trees, and down the marble steps into the elaborate garden. Far down at one end, a fountain was splashing, like a mountain spring. Babington began running in circles, throwing his arms out and swooping up and down. Chidiock followed him, watching the silent marble statues of Greek gods and goddesses emerging from their little alcoves of yew, observing the antics of the two men. The moonlight was bright and friendly.

  Chidiock caught Babington’s arm. “Why?” he said. “Why do you want to do this? Look at what you have.” He gestured down the long avenue of the garden and toward the magnificent house. “You are young, rich, have a lovely wife. Why do you not rest content? Why do you gamble it away? I cannot think that you are so religious. If you were, you would have gone to be a priest. You like this life too much. Why squander it?”

  “It won’t be squandered. You write too much poetry. You think always of loss and sorrow. That poem of yours—the one about dying young—”

  “My ‘Elegy’?” said Chidiock. “‘My youth is spent and yet I am not old, I saw the world and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut and yet it is not spun, And now I live, and now my life is done.’”

  “Gloomy stuff,” said Babington.

  “You should think on it. Why are you doing it? Is it for her? Or is it for him?”

  “For her, of course. You know I have always loved her.” He held his breath and waited. It was absolutely still. “I have received a letter from her, herself, just yesterday. She bids know how I am, and so on. And at the same time, I have talked with Ballard, the priest. He is ready to perform the deed—to dispatch the Usurping Competitor. He and six others. I assume you will want to be one of them? You can get near her person.”

  “One of them?” Chidiock’s voice grew faint.

  “I am going to reveal to her our plan. Without her blessing, it can only come to naught. But with her blessing it cannot fail!”

  “I beg you, don’t put it in writing!” cried Chidiock. “And as for her blessing—man, everything she touches seems to fail. Almost as if she and he were one!”

  “You seek colouration for your cowardice! I’ll find another to take your place!”

  “Nay, I’ll come, only…” he paused. “Please move with caution.”

  * * *

  Alone in his spacious workroom, fashionably appointed with an inlaid Italian desk, ebony-trimmed chairs, gold candle sconces, and a marble bust of Marcus Aurelius, Anthony Babington sat down to write to his chosen sovereign. On the desk was an ivory Virgin, looking imploringly over at Marcus Aurelius. Anthony’s grandfather had treasured this Virgin, and she was very old; family legend said she had been carved in thanksgiving for their family’s having been spared the Black Death.

  But now there’s another Black Death stalking the land, Babington thought. The Black Death of heresy, or the loss of the soul.… He shook his head to clear it. He was tired; the wine and the late hour had finally caught up with him. But he must write the letter now, while he had privacy and complete quiet.

  He lit a candle on his desk and sat for a moment watching how the light brought out the beauty of the delicate face of the Virgin. Such beauty, all trampled underfoot nowadays, desecrated … surely it must pain Christ and His Blessed Mother.

  Yes, that is why I am doing this. That is why it must be done.

  He spread out the fine-quality paper and began his letter to Mary, Queen of Scots, unjustly imprisoned, true Queen of England.

  He set out the plans, as Ballard and Savage had described them. There would be an invasion from abroad, courtesy of the King of Spain, with sufficient force to ensure that it would be successful. These would be joined by all the loyal Catholics throughout the land, a mighty force. Elizabeth must be captured and assassinated, else all was pointless.

  O mighty and virtuous Queen,

  I salute you, to whom I have ever, as you know, been loyal. Now it is the determination
of myself and my friends to effect, at the risk of our lives and fortunes, your deliverance from prison, and the dispatch of the Usurping Competitor. We await your approbation; when we have received it, immediately we will engage to succeed or die. I humbly beg your authorization to act in your royal name, and ask that you direct our proceedings.

  For the dispatch of the Usurper, from obedience to whom we are by the excommunication of her made free, there are six noble gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear unto the Catholic cause and Your Majesty’s service will undertake that tragic execution. It rests that according to their good deserts and Your Majesty’s bounty their heroic attempt may be honourably rewarded in them if they escape alive, or given to their heirs. I ask that I may be able by Your Majesty’s authority to assure them of this promise.

  Yes, he hoped that she would agree. This was indeed a solemn and risky venture.

  I myself, at the head of ten gentlemen, will take you from your prison. We will be part of a larger force of at least a hundred men who can forthwith overwhelm the garrison that holds you, and spirit you away.

  O my most dread sovereign, my liege lady, I can barely endure the passage of days that must elapse until the moment, when, face to face, I meet you and deliver you into freedom.

  He sighed. It was true. Every moment between now and then seemed wasted, foolish, worthless.

  Outside it was growing faintly light. The June nights were short. He could hear the slightly different sounds that distinguished early morning from the dead, still hours of night. There was a rustling, a quickening.

  Three houses away from his stood the dwelling of the ambassador representing Frederick II of Denmark. Remembering that caused a shadow to pass over his joy. Bothwell. Everything she touches seems to fail. Or die.

  But everything dies, he thought. To die in a noble cause is a privilege. The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church.

  Still, perhaps I should take the precaution of securing a passport for leaving England. If the plot fails, it would certainly be nobler to flee to safety and make other plots, than to be taken here like a rabbit in a trap. Once the plot has failed, there is no point in dying for it.

  XXIII

  Walsingham walked slowly to his main office, the one where anyone could walk in off the street and request a passport or import licence, or any of the thousand and one legitimate concerns of Elizabeth’s loyal subjects. In this office, not far from his home, he had three assistants, who were busy all the time. One entire room was devoted to storing the records of these transactions; like everything Walsingham touched, it was methodical and neat. He was most proud of it; after all, Parliament had no permanent storage place for its records—imagine! he would think, when he saw Parliamentary clerks scurrying about with the books tucked under their arms, looking for a place to stash them safely.

  Now, as he made his way through the London streets in high summer, he prayed that no outbreak of plague would strike, as it often did at this season. This was not the summer to be interrupted; no, not when they were so close to success. The ingredients were curdling together now, setting like a baked pudding. Only a little longer …

  All around him, stenches rose from the garbage in the gutters. The hot July sun seemed to draw the very humours of decay and rottenness out into the air; no wonder the court left London in summer. Dead rats and discarded offal lay in iridescent gleams, crawling with flies. He turned his head away and walked faster, dodging a lumbering cart that squashed all the refuse under its wooden wheels, releasing even more odours.

  He was grateful to reach his office, an island of cleanliness and order. His three clerks were already at their desks, and looked up respectfully. He nodded to them and retreated to his inner office.

  He was reviewing the recent agreement with the Bordeaux shippers about maximum tonnage when there was a knock at the door, and it opened hesitantly.

  “Yes?” said Walsingham, annoyed at having been interrupted. But the annoyance faded as he saw who it was. He struggled to keep his expression expressionless.

  “Good morning, sir. I am Anthony Babington.” A smooth, sculpted face was smiling at him, a face framed by dark curls and a fashionable hat.

  “Yes?” Walsingham repeated. “What may I help you with?”

  “Sir, I foresee a future need to travel abroad, and so I am applying for a passport in advance. Your assistants insisted I petition you directly.”

  “And this vague future need—what does it concern? Pray sit.” He gestured toward his most comfortable chair.

  “I often have business in France, sir, in Paris, as a matter of fact.” Babington was staring blandly at him.

  “What sort of business?”

  “I am somewhat embarrassed to admit it, sir.” He hung his head charmingly, and looked up from underneath his curls. His eyes were blue as Aegean skies. “But I am often at court, and dress is important to me. I also like to bring Her Majesty news of the fashions, and little trinkets of the sort she likes.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, gloves, perfume, leather books of poetry.”

  “So you make the voyage to France just to acquire such things? Is this what the youth of England does now? Tell me—why are you not in the Netherlands, fighting with others of your generation? Sir Philip Sidney is there, Christopher Marlowe, young Essex—is that not a nobler calling than remaining at court, passing back and forth to France to procure womanish trinkets?” He surprised himself by his own outburst. “You are nothing but a lapdog, like the kind the Queen of Scots keeps under her skirts.”

  Babington shrugged. “It is not given to all men to be soldiers on the actual battlefield. We can fight in other arenas. Surely you, sir, are the best example of that.” The blue eyes were looking directly into Walsingham’s.

  “I strongly urge you to consider my words,” said Walsingham. But in this duel, of course I want you to disregard them. As you are compelled to do, you proud young fool.

  “Sir, I stand by my original request for a passport.”

  “For what time?”

  “Oh”—he looked around vaguely—“for the rest of the summer, and autumn.”

  “I see. Well, I am unable to grant your request at present. Reapply in two or three weeks, to agent Robert Poley.”

  Babington shrugged. “I think you should reconsider. Perhaps I can help you.”

  “In what way?”

  “As you said, there are other battlefields. I could spy for you.”

  “In what way?”

  “In any way you choose. I am Catholic, I am accepted there—”

  Walsingham was shocked, and was shocked at his own shock. No one had surprised him in ten years.

  “I have access to Morgan in the Bastille, and Paget and Beaton in the Queen of Scots’ embassy in Paris. And Mendoza—”

  “I already have agents there. What can you do that they cannot?”

  Babington’s face registered confusion. “I thought you would be delighted at my offer!”

  “Come, come. All spies are not equal. Bumblers are worse than no spies at all, for they betray their presence. I will consider your offer, but you must write me a detailed plan of exactly how you would perform your duties. ‘Many are called, but few are chosen.’ You do not think my fifty-three agents throughout the world attained their position and my confidence by walking in off the street?” He laughed softly.

  “Very well.” Babington rose and clapped his hand to his sword. “You shall see!”

  After he left, Walsingham found himself so stunned he could not concentrate on the tonnage report.

  No, my friend, he thought. You shall see.

  * * *

  The day climbed toward its noon, the heat increased, and stillness descended upon the streets of the city. At length Walsingham rose and bid his secretaries good day; he was going to his other office. They locked up and went to the White Hart, three doors down, to have their midday meal; Walsingham went straight to his destination, ten minut
es’ walk away.

  As he walked, avoiding the refuse, and holding up a pomander to guard his lungs from the repulsive odours, he was haunted by the strange visit. Why had Babington come? Was he driven to guilt, ready to confess? Or did he sense that his plot had been penetrated, and was testing Walsingham?

  Was I the observer, or the observed? he wondered.

  Or has he lost his nerve, and stands ready to betray his fellow plotters? Is he that unstable? Then we must work fast, before it all falls apart. He must want a passport so he can flee.

  Those eyes … such odd eyes … so innocent looking … so misleading …

  Walsingham shook his head. If only my faith did not prevent my completely embracing the philosophy of Machiavelli, he thought, it would all be so much easier. I could fabricate evidence and not be bothered with all this labour, nor in fathoming Babington’s motives.

  Sighing, he turned the key in his lock and entered his dark, quiet quarters. Stepping aside, he examined the fine dusting of Alexandrian sand he had sprinkled about the door to catch footprints. None. Then he went to the next door and checked the strand of hair from a horse’s tail that he had affixed to the door and door jamb; it was unbroken. No one had entered.

  He now checked the third, inner door, bending down to see if there were any handprints on the handle, which he had coated lightly with Arabian gum. None. He wiped it off with a handkerchief and let himself into his inner refuge.

  All was awaiting him, and there was not an item in the entire room that did not in some way reflect his personality. He felt more completely himself in this room than in any other place on earth; at the same time, sometimes he felt imprisoned by it, as if all these drawers and their contents were his master, rather than the other way round, as if somewhere there was a large drawer with his own name on it, and it was within these dark and dreary confines that he operated.

  He jerked open the window-covers to let in some light, then settled at his desk.

  I most likely have calluses on my buttocks, he thought. If a young man came to me asking what is the most important trait to have for this line of work, I would say a large, flat bottom accustomed to immobility.