As Ballard bore down upon him, Martin hastily pretended to be doing up his breeches. The priest looked a trifle disconcerted to encounter him, but he recovered with a jocular greeting, slinging his arm about Martin.
Martin stole a frustrated glance toward where the stranger had evaporated into the darkness, longing to follow him, learn his identity. But with Ballard’s arm about his shoulders, urging him forward, Martin had no choice but to return to the inn.
CANDLES BLAZED, ILLUMINATING THE MAKESHIFT ALTAR IN Jane Danvers’s private closet, both the crucifix and the statue of the Blessed Virgin brought out of hiding. Several of the household maids knelt and prayed, Adela and Hilarie fingering their ave beads, young Louisa with her head bowed, tears streaking her cheeks.
Only a single candle lit the adjoining chamber where Jane hovered over the dying woman. Jane had tucked up the elderly servant in her own bed, doing what little she could to bring some comfort to Sarah Williams’s final hours.
Her old nurse had oft seemed such a formidable figure to Jane during her childhood. But the tumor gnawing away at her stomach had reduced Mistress Williams to little more than a hollow shell.
Sarah looked like a mere waif, swallowed up in the vastness of Jane’s tester bed. The old woman’s white hair was stretched thin across her pink scalp, her withered cheeks sunken in. Her eyes were feverish as Jane lifted her, coaxing Sarah to take a sip of laudanum in a vain effort to dull the pain.
The old woman could scarce swallow, let alone speak. Nonetheless as Jane lowered her back to the pillow, Sarah rasped, “Has—has he come yet?”
Jane took the old woman’s withered hand between her own, wanting to tell Sarah she had no need of a priest just yet. She was not going to die tonight. But the time for such soothing lies had passed.
“Father Ballard will be here soon, I promise you. I sent Timon to fetch him. There will be time enough…time enough.” Jane faltered over the last words, her eyes stinging with tears.
“Nay, don’t be sad for me, milady.” Sarah squeezed Jane’s hand as another spasm of pain shook her. “I—I will be well as long as I can confess my sins.”
“Oh, Sarey, what can you possibly have to confess?”
“We are all sinners, child.” The old woman smiled wanly. “But I have fewer regrets than most. I only reproach myself for leaving you now when—you need me most.”
“Hush, Sarey. You must not fear for me.”
“But I do. I always have. So passionate, so headstrong.”
Jane pressed the old woman’s hand to her lips. “Nay, I’ll be meek as a lamb if only you will stay with me.” She attempted to smile as she echoed the promise she had always made as a child when she had been banished to her chamber for letting her temper fly. But the words stuck in her throat and her tears spilled over, splashing against Sarah’s hand.
Though it appeared to cost the old woman great effort, she stroked the back of her frail fingers against Jane’s cheek.
“D-don’t cry. You have always been so brave, too brave, taking such risks. I should not have allowed you to take this one for me, summoning the priest. I am not afraid to die. Only if…if…” A look of terror crept into Sarah’s eyes.
“I must be forgiven my sins, must have the last rites or I’ll never reach the gates of heaven. I—I will go to the fires of hell, never to look upon the face of God.”
She clutched at Jane’s hand with a strength born of desperation. “I want to see God, milady.”
“You shall, Sarey, I swear to you,” Jane said. She glanced over her shoulder, wondering what was keeping Father Ballard.
She was relieved when Louisa crept into the room to whisper of Timon’s return. Easing her hand from Sarah’s grip, Jane bade Louisa stay with the old woman.
As Jane hurried out of the bedchamber, she reflected that she was glad Ned was not at home. Usually, she worried much when her brother was abroad so late, fretting over what he might be doing, but this evening, it was a mercy that he was absent.
Ned was far too impulsive, reckless enough on his own without Jane embroiling him in these secret matters of hers. She even regretted the necessity of employing Ned’s valet for her errand. But Giles Timon was a good Catholic, a brave sensible man, and by far the most reliable servant in the household.
Jane spied Timon waiting for her at the head of the stairs and her heart sank. Timon’s expression was extremely grave, and worse still, he was alone.
Jane rushed toward him. Not giving the valet a chance to speak, she demanded, “Where is Father Ballard?”
“He was unable to come, milady.”
“Un-unable to come?”
“He said he was needed elsewhere tonight. And he feared he might be followed. He thought it might prove too great a risk to both him and your ladyship—”
“The devil take his risk and mine,” Jane cried fiercely, not caring that she caused Timon’s mouth to fall open in shock.
Jane stole a frantic glance back toward her bedchamber. Her jaw hardened with resolve. “Very well. I shall just have to go fetch the man myself.”
“Milady, you can’t. You mustn’t.” Timon trailed after as she stormed back to her bedchamber. “Father Ballard said he will try to come tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow will be too late.”
But as Jane crossed the threshold, she realized it already was. Her maids knelt by the bedside, weeping and praying. Sarah was lying so still, her sightless eyes staring upward at the canopy.
Jane’s breath left her in a rush. Part of her wanted to scream, beat her fists against the wall in anger and frustration as she cried out, “No! I promised her. I promised!”
The other part of her was too numb to move, to speak. She could not even bring herself to close the old woman’s eyes, too fearful of the expression she might find there. Not peace, but stark terror.
Louisa approached Jane, clutching her ave beads, her slender frame shuddering as she suppressed a sob.
“Oh, m-milady! Mistress Williams is gone and s-she died without a priest.” The girl gulped and whispered, “Is she in hell?”
The other two maids turned to Jane, even Timon gazing at her as though they somehow expected her to be able to answer that question. As mistress of the household it was her place to guide her servants, offer them spiritual wisdom. But never had Jane felt less able to perform her duty.
“No,” she managed at last. “We tried to fetch a priest to Mistress Williams. It was not her fault that she died without being shriven. I am sure God will understand.”
At least Jane hoped that He would, because she didn’t. Why did such a good blameless woman as Sarah Williams have to die not only in agonizing pain but in mortal terror for her soul? Why was it considered such a crime against the realm merely to consult a priest?
What harm could it have done anyone for a poor old woman to be eased into death, comforted by the rituals of her faith?
When Elizabeth Tudor had come to the throne, she had vowed to be a good queen to all her subjects, Catholic and Protestant alike. But over the years she had yielded to the pressure of her parliament and councilors like Lord Burghley and the infamous Sir Francis Walsingham, passing increasingly repressive measures against the Catholics.
Jane had once believed the queen had done her best to remain tolerant. But Elizabeth had not tried hard enough. The queen had failed her Catholic subjects, making it hard to remain loyal to such a woman.
When Jane’s father had died, rebelling against the new edicts, Jane had wept angry tears. Wondering how her father could have risked everything, his life, his family, his estates, adding more disgrace to the Lambert name by being branded a traitor. But now she understood, Jane reflected grimly.
And for the first time in her life, her own path seemed clear.
Chapter Thirteen
MARTIN PACED BEFORE THE WINDOWS IN WALSINGHAM’S chamber at Whitehall. He could see the flare of torches in the dark courtyard below, hear the clatter of hooves as messengers came and went. Wearied serv
ants still bustled about the halls, cleaning, sweetening rushes, airing linens and hanging tapestries, all preparing for the imminent return of the queen.
Even the indefatigable Walsingham showed signs of exhaustion, deep circles rimming his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, listening gravely as Martin concluded the report of his evening at the Plough Inn.
“And when I left them, they were still dreaming over their ale, discussing what rewards they might expect from Queen Mary. Savage hopes to be knighted, Father Ballard looks to be made a bishop. Babington…” Martin gave a tired, mirthless laugh. “I think all that young romantic fool longs for is to kneel at Mary’s feet and be allowed to kiss the hem of her gown. As for Robert Poley, I have no idea what the devil he expects for his part in all this. I have not yet been able to take his measure.”
“And what of the stranger who demanded to see Father Ballard?”
“It was too dark and I was too far away to make out the man’s features or clearly hear what was being said.” Martin hastened to add, “But it was not Lord Oxbridge, if that is what you are suspecting. I am sure I would have recognized his voice or stature. I know Ned Lambert well enough for that.”
“Do you indeed?” Walsingham murmured.
“Yes, I do. I am sure his lordship spent tonight in the arms of his mistress as he usually does.”
Walsingham pursed his lips in an expression of disapproval. “Though I cannot condone such behavior, keeping a mistress is the usual practice of many noblemen and his lordship does not have a wife to betray. Why then is Lord Oxbridge so furtive about his amours?”
Martin gave an impatient shrug. “There is no great mystery in that. Ned’s woman appears to be a rather low sort of creature. He steals off to meet her in some ram-shackle lodging in the stews of Southwark. I can well understand why he would wish to keep such a liaison a secret, especially from his sister. Lady Danvers is a very proper and pious woman.”
Martin wondered how a sinner like himself would fare if he were to wed the virtuous Lady Danvers. Well enough, he hoped. He did not love Jane in the way that he had adored Miri, but he respected her. He would try to be all that she would require in a husband, staid, somber, and reliable. That is, if he ever managed to extricate himself from Walsingham’s service.
He could not tell if the secretary was satisfied with his current report or not. Walsingham shuffled through some documents on his desk, a faint dent between his brows.
“So what would you have me do next?” Martin asked. “Perhaps I should try to find out more about this Poley.”
“No, there is no need for you to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because the man also works for me.”
Martin’s mouth fell open in shock. “Oh, thank you,” he said acidly. “How good of you to inform me of that fact.”
“I am not here to inform you, Master Wolfe. It is you who are supposed to be keeping me informed,” the secretary replied with a cold look. “There was no need for you to know anything about Robert Poley if you had concentrated on Lord Oxbridge as I ordered you to do.”
“I did,” Martin snapped. “I discovered everything about Ned Lambert there is to know.”
“You think so?” Walsingham arched his brows in haughty inquiry. “Then I am sure you are aware that Lord Oxbridge recently applied to my secretary for a passport.”
Martin frowned, shifting uncomfortably.
“No, I didn’t.”
“It seems his lordship suddenly feels a pressing need to travel to France. Now why is that, do you think?”
“Because he’d like to drink some decent wine for a change?”
When Walsingham scowled at his flippancy, Martin amended his tone. “I realize that you are all business and duty, but there are some men who might be inclined to travel for the mere joy of it and there is no more pleasure to be found anywhere than in France. Belike his lordship has friends there—”
“Friends like Thomas Morgan, for instance? Busily weaving plots on the Scottish queen’s behalf from his cell in the Bastille? Or Mary’s cousin, the duc de Guise?”
“You have no proof that Lord Oxbridge is acquainted with either of those men.”
“No, perhaps France is merely the fashionable destination this summer because Lord Oxbridge is not the only one seeking a passport. Sir Anthony Babington has as well.”
Martin wanted to dismiss the actions of the two men as mere coincidence, but found that he could not. What if Walsingham was right and there was a connection between Babington and Lord Oxbridge? What if Ned was somehow involved in the conspiracy and Martin was too blind to see it? He hoped not…for Jane’s sake.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It would seem I have not been as vigilant as I thought.”
He expected Walsingham to be vexed with his incompetence. The secretary regarded Martin in a fixed manner, but there was a surprising hint of sympathy in his gaze.
“You have served me well enough in the past, Master Wolfe, but I fear you have made a mistake fatal for one in your line of employment. You have allowed yourself to become attached to the object of your surveillance. If not Lord Oxbridge, then certainly his sister.”
“You can’t suspect Jane is involved in any of this. She is completely innocent.”
“I believe she is. But did you ever consider that by proving Lord Oxbridge guilty, you might actually save Jane Danvers from being caught up in his treason? With her brother gone, the lady would perhaps turn to you for comfort.”
“Oh, yes,” Martin said bitterly. “There is nothing more likely to endear a man to a woman than helping to place her brother’s head on the block.”
“Lady Danvers need never know of your part in this affair.”
“I might be capable of a great deal of deceit, Sir Francis, but that would be one lie even I couldn’t stomach. I would have to tell her ladyship the truth and she would hate me. As well she should.”
Martin raked his hand wearily over his beard. “This is a wretched affair and I wish it was over with. The only reason I ever entered your service was because of my daughter.”
“To secure Margaret a better future.”
Martin smiled sadly. “I would do anything for my little girl. Give her the world if I could, with the moon and stars for her rushlights.”
Sir Francis drummed his fingers on the desk, frowning. “I realize you find this an ugly business. Believe it or not, so do I. But the end is in sight.”
He plucked a document from his desk, hesitating as though debating something within himself. “I am going to risk showing you something and I hope my confidence in you is not misplaced.”
Walsingham extended the parchment toward Martin, who accepted it warily.
“What is it?”
“It is the latest letter from the Scottish queen to Sir Anthony Babington. The message was coded as were all the others. That is Phelippes’s translation of the original text.”
Martin lowered his gaze to the document, his stomach knotting with dread. A dread that was not unfounded. The Scottish queen pressed Babington for particulars of the plot, how many English Catholics would rally to the cause, the number of forces expected from abroad, what ports would be used for the invasion.
But the most damning paragraphs came at the end.
“The forces being thus prepared both within and without the kingdom, then shall it be time to set the six gentlemen to work to procure my release. Before this can happen, it is imperative that Elizabeth be dispatched. Otherwise if the attempt to free me should fail, my cousin will imprison me forever in some dark hole from which I shall never escape if she does not use me worse.
“Fail not to burn this present letter quickly…”
And with those words, Martin realized the Scottish queen had flitted straight into Walsingham’s web and signed her own death warrant. Phelippes had even embellished his translation with a tiny sketch of a gallows.
Poor foolish woman…
“Congratulations,” Martin said flat
ly, handing back the letter. “It seems you have the Scottish queen’s head at last and the others as well. I assume you will begin issuing arrest warrants.”
“Not quite yet.”
When Martin regarded Sir Francis in surprise, Walsingham explained, “I still do not know the identity of all of these six gentlemen the queen mentions. I intend to let her letter go through to Sir Anthony with a forged postscript imitating the queen’s hand, asking him to name all his conspirators.”
“And if your ploy does not work?”
“Then I shall arrest the men you supped with tonight and be obliged to resort to cruder methods.”
Martin shuddered. “Torture, you mean.”
“Certainly it is an extreme measure I would deplore and one you might help avert. Perhaps with a little more diligence and ingenuity you can discover the rest of the names.”
“I will do my best to get you the list, sir.”
“Even should Lord Oxbridge chance to be one of the names on it?”
Martin hesitated a fraction too long before nodding. He feared that Walsingham might have noticed, but the secretary appeared absorbed by some papers on his desk. Bowing, Martin made haste to take his leave. He tensed when he was stayed by the sound of Sir Francis’s voice.
“Martin?”
He glanced back in surprise. It was the first time the secretary had ever addressed him by his Christian name.
“When the arrests are made, take care to keep your distance so that you are not also detained.”
Martin frowned. “But I work for you, sir. Surely you would be able to vouch for me.”
“I would, but this matter will no longer entirely be in my hands. If you were implicated in the plot, it might be awhile before I could extricate you. You could be imprisoned for months, perhaps years. It would be most distressful for your daughter.
“So…so just take care,” Walsingham concluded, dropping his gaze back to his paperwork. “Good night, sir.”
LONG AFTER MARTIN HAD LEFT, SIR FRANCIS STARED OFF INTO space with a troubled frown. He employed many spies and agents, trusting none of them entirely and liking them even less.
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