‘No, indeed not. She has an abiding fondness for young men of dash and character. And she knows your history as grandson to bold Lord Darcy. And how is your aunt, Lady Darcy, whom I know of old?’
‘She is well. I take my dinner with her at noon almost every day.’
‘Ah yes, now that you have moved from Temple Bar to Hern’s Rents, she must be close to you. Does she not have a house close by Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’
‘She does, sir.’
‘Well, I would be honoured if you would convey my very good regards to her. Now then, sir, sit down if you please. I have just poured myself a small cup of sweet Rhenish. Would you care for some?’ Without awaiting an answer, the Principal Secretary began to pour the wine into a small silver goblet, a match for his own.
Babington took a seat at the table opposite Walsingham. ‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’ He put the cup to his lips, then gave a little nod in warm appreciation of the wine’s quality.
Smiling serenely, Walsingham looked at him and waited.
At last Babington spoke. He had already decided it would be best to get straight to the matter in hand. ‘Has Mr Poley given you some inkling of why I am here?’
‘Indeed he has, Mr Babington. He tells me you wish to have licence to travel out of England. And before you say more, let me put your mind at ease; I know that you are of the Roman persuasion. But this is no concern of mine if you are a true Englishman and if your loyalty is to Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth. This is so, is it not?’
‘I am always happy to proclaim my loyalty, my fealty indeed, to the Queen of England, Sir Francis,’ Babington replied.
Walsingham was not so easily won. ‘The Queen of England being Elizabeth Tudor, Mr Babington? Not, as some would have it, some foreign-born princess.’
‘As you say, Sir Francis.’
‘No, Mr Babington, as you must say it. Say: I am always happy to proclaim my loyalty to the true Queen of England, Elizabeth Tudor, anointed by God.’
Though a dagger stabbed at his heart Babington repeated the words. He had no choice if he was to gain anything but a noose from this meeting.
Walsingham smiled again. ‘Good man. Now we know exactly where we stand. Let me reassure you, it is the Pope and his acolytes who are my enemies, not good English Catholics. I have many friends who are Catholic, both in my office and at court. Their religion is no concern of mine, only their loyalty. Why, Robin Poley himself has heard mass at my own house, though he thinks I don’t know! A man’s faith is his own concern; his loyalty is mine.’
Babington ran a sleeve across his damp brow, then drank the remainder of his wine in one swallow. He was not sure that he believed a word Walsingham was saying. ‘Loyalty means as much to me, Sir Francis. Rest assured you have mine.’
‘Good, then you can be sure of my love and assistance, as I am certain that I can be sure of yours. Fear not, Mr Babington, there will be no problem issuing you with a passport, for travel does wonders for a young man’s mind. I still recall my own time in France, as ambassador. I believe it showed me the true nature of England’s foes and informed the work I now do for my country. When first you are in a foreign land, you see things that others do not see. So, yes, the passport will be there for you. But before I sign it, I must be able to convince Her Majesty of the justness of your suit.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then tell me, what precisely are your plans, so that I may make out a good case to Her Royal Majesty?’
Babington swallowed hard. He had had the story all worked out, but now he found the words bubbling in his head like water in a kettle. ‘I wish to travel through the lands of France and Burgundy.’
‘You have travelled there before, have you not?’
How did Walsingham know that? Did he truly know everything that every man and woman in England had ever done? Some said he conjured and knew the innermost thoughts of the lowliest subject in the land. Babington nodded; denial seemed useless.
‘What was it, four or five years ago? Within a few months of your marriage, I believe?’
Babington stiffened. This was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment. ‘It was something I had been planning before ever I thought to wed Margaret. Indeed, it was our marriage that stayed me longer than I intended.’
‘And so you travelled to Rouen and Paris. A man of your good family must have had introductions to some of the great men of that beautiful land.’
‘I was a young man, not yet twenty. And though my mother’s father was titled, I was not and so I attracted no attention from the French court.’
‘What of the English exiles? The treacherous Morgan – did he not seek you out? Or Beaton, the so-called Archbishop of Glasgow, who styles himself the Queen of Scots’ ambassador?’
Babington was silent. He had both met them and been pressed by them to work for Mary. Clearly Walsingham knew all about it. He could not gainsay the Principal Secretary, and so he said nothing, but smiled like a loon.
Walsingham picked up the silver pitcher and refilled Babington’s goblet. ‘Forgive me, I am discomfiting you. You were young when you went before and, anyway, these things are not important in themselves. Thomas Morgan and James Beaton and Charles Paget seek out all young Englishmen as they travel through France. It means nothing as long as you understand this time that you must report back all such encounters to me, and all that is said to you. No secrets must be kept from me.’
‘I understand, Sir Francis. Of course, I will be happy to report every word I hear.’
‘Good. I knew you were a fine man, for only the best of men have Her Majesty’s love. And so to your plans . . .’
Babington breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Walsingham seemed to have no knowledge of the secret work he had done for Mary on his return to England – the long rides across country carrying letters, escorting priests, providing horses and carriages and money. Work that would have cost him his head had it been uncovered and that he had eventually given up through fear of discovery. He had made a momentous decision: he would eschew such dangerous pursuits. Let others hazard their lives.
But in the early months of this year letters had arrived from Paris via the French embassy in London. Babington had handed them back, unread. He would have nothing to do with such things. And then in May, Father Ballard had arrived from France with persuasive arguments. Catholics were suffering under the yoke of tyranny. No true Catholic could stand aside and do nothing. More than that, he was a man trusted and loved by Mary of Scots and was uniquely placed to further her cause, with many young friends at court and beyond. Babington was flattered. Yes, he had said at last, he would help in whatever way he could.
But that was then. Now, everything had changed. Now it seemed that Ballard’s constant companion, Bernard Maude, was a Walsingham spy. The cause was lost – and so he must go into exile, like so many young Catholics of good family.
He sipped the wine and tried to appear relaxed.
‘Will you travel to Rome, Mr Babington?’
‘It is my intention . . .’
‘Then you must go to the English college. Send me details of every young man presently there, for I know some of them will return to England secretly, to sow dissent and treason.’
‘I will consider it my duty.’ I will consider it my duty to cut my own throat before ever I do such a thing as betray my fellows.
‘Then I am sure we can do business, Mr Babington, and the passport will be yours. Robin Poley will deliver it to you as soon as the papers are prepared. Now if you will excuse me, I must attend upon Her Majesty.’ The dour spymaster rose from his plain chair, gathered his grim features into something akin to a smile, and extended a hand to his guest. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
‘Has he granted you a passport?’ Robin Poley had been waiting
outside the chamber.
‘I believe he has, Mr Poley.’
‘But he demanded much in return, yes? You look as though you have run a mile through a rainstorm, Mr Babington! Come,
let us find you a towel, and then I would be delighted to escort you back to London where we shall dine together at my expense.’
Babington looked at Poley’s soft skin and exquisite features. Perhaps the meeting with Walsingham had not gone so badly; he was still alive, at least, and not imprisoned. Perhaps he had truly gulled Walsingham into believing that he would spy for him. His spirits lifted. He looked around. ‘What of Mr Shakespeare?’
‘He has business to attend to here at court. Come, let us drink wine together and discuss what is to be done to heal the rotten heart of this state.’ Poley lowered his voice. ‘I would do all I can to assist you in your endeavours, both at home and abroad.’ He put out a slender hand to touch Babington’s arm. It was almost a caress, and Babington did nothing to move away. And then he allowed the arm to encircle his shoulders. ‘You know, Mr Babington,’ Poley said, drawing him away from Walsingham’s quarters, ‘it would be my greatest joy to come with you to foreign lands, away from these persecutors of the true faith.’
‘Then why not come with me?’
‘Is it possible you would truly accept me as your companion, sir?’
‘I would.’
‘Then I must find a way. In the meantime, let us to London, for I know you have had a most trying morning. We must look after you well, Mr Babington, for all our hopes rest on these fine shoulders of yours.’
Chapter 28
Walsingham stroked his coarse dark beard in thought. ‘I wonder whether I pushed him too hard. Do you think he might take fright and flee, John?’ Shakespeare shrugged non-committally. ‘That all depends on Robin Poley.’
‘He is slippery, is he not? I would not trust him.’
‘Not to all men’s taste, certainly. But those who are drawn to him cannot resist him. Mr Babington’s eyes lit like a beacon at the sight of Poley. Am I permitted to know more of his background?’
‘Robin? He was born a gentleman but penniless and had to go up to Cambridge as a Clare’s sizar, a time he clearly resents, waiting on his betters. He claims kinship to the Blounts by marriage and I know from Tom Phelippes that he once carried letters to the Catholic exiles in Paris on behalf of the damnable Christopher Blount. Blount even offered him money to kill my lord of Leicester. That is how far the Catholics trust him.’
‘But not all of them.’
‘No. But we only need the one – Mr Babington. And you say he is smitten.’
Shakespeare was silent.
‘Once again I see that you are squeamish, John.’
‘Perhaps my conscience is too fine. But these men are going to the scaffold and I struggle with their guilt. I know that Ballard and Savage are assassins and must be put down; I understand that well enough. But for the others, like the vain Babington, sometimes it seems to me that they are happily imbibing a summer cordial of youthful indiscretion, not knowing the poison it contains.’
‘They are not children. I grant you they are fools – but not such fools that they are unaware of the line between idle talk and treason.These men crossed that line long ago. Do you not think that I too have a conscience? I promise you this: if Babington balks at the final hurdle, I will allow him to slip away to exile. I will not have innocent blood on my hands.’
Shakespeare nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Remember, John, this is war. On the eve of battle, you may dine with your enemy in his camp. You may drink with him and enjoy his company. But come morning, you must kill him, for if you do not, he will surely kill you.’
Shakespeare knew it to be true. It was, indeed, the nature of war, and this was war. England’s enemies had made that plain enough.
‘And so, let us proceed. When you see Poley next tell him I want Babington to return to me in three days’ time. He is to bring him to me at Barn Elms. Soon after that, I will have Mary’s letter delivered to him. His reply – if he writes one – will tell us all we need to know.’
Shakespeare bowed and walked down to the quay to hail a boat for London. Gilbert Gifford should be waiting for him at Seething Lane, and he had a plan to put to him; the exposing of Harry Slide had left a dangerous hole in their surveillance of Ballard. He needed to take matters into his own hands, to push forward the plans of the conspirators.
As he was stepping into his craft, something made Shakespeare turn back and look up. At a leaded window, he saw the face of Sir Robert Huckerbee. Their eyes locked for a second, and then Huckerbee moved away.
One thing puzzled him: if Sir Robert Huckerbee had reported his so-called misuse of Treasury funds to Walsingham, as threatened, why had Sir Francis made no mention of it? And what was it about Huckerbee that enraged him so?
As Shakespeare walked up Seething Lane he saw six or seven men gathered outside his house. They were standing beside a handcart, laughing. One of them spotted him and pointed, then they all looked his way.
He walked on without breaking his stride, but jolted to a halt as he came within fifteen yards of the men, for he saw that their leader was Richard Young, magistrate of London. Hanging loose from the back of the cart was an arm, and it was attached to a body which had all the appearances of being lifeless.
Shakespeare’s heart stopped. Boltfoot. They had brought him the dead body of Boltfoot Cooper. For reasons which he did not understand, his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed deeply and tried to maintain his composure. ‘What is this, Mr Young?’
‘I have a corpse, dragged not an hour since from the river by the bridge. It was brought to my attention as Justice of the Peace, for it is feared some foul play has been used.’
‘Why have you brought it here? Who is it?’
‘I believe it is a friend to you and your whore. Take a look, see if you recognise him.’
Shakespeare removed his hand from his sword and walked forward. The body in the cart lay on its front. His first close look told him it was not Boltfoot, but he did know the dead man. From the red of the lank hair and the shape and size and clothing of the body, he was almost certain that it was Oswald Redd. Shakespeare grasped the hair and pulled back the head to look at the face. Yes, it was Redd. There was no blood, obviously washed away by the waters of the Thames, but a large indentation in the back of the head was clearly visible. He lowered the head to the wooden boards of the cart.
‘Why have you brought him here?’
‘To see your reaction. You can tell a murderer by his eyes.’
‘Really?’ Shakespeare inclined his head. ‘So you must think he was murdered. What evidence do you have, Mr Young?’
‘It is plain to see that he was clubbed across the head. And you are my chief suspect, Shakespeare.’
‘Why would I kill Oswald Redd?’
‘That is for me to discover. Perhaps a falling-out of felons? Perhaps you fought over the whore’s dirty favours. Don’t think I am unaware that you two have been conspiring together to conceal the whereabouts of the notorious murderess Katherine Giltspur.’
‘You gibber, Young. You know not what you say.’
‘I know more than you think. I have been to a farm at Chigwell, not far from London, as have you. And I know what you did there. You took her away into another place of hiding and you burnt her dress. Did you believe a change of clothes would disguise the bitch?’
Shakespeare looked Young straight in the eye and did not attempt to conceal his contempt. ‘Do you think it befits a man of supposed magisterial dignity to be wheeling a corpse about the streets of London? Take this body to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s. Mr Peace will tell us all we need to know.’
‘I have more of a mind to take you to Newgate and hold you there for murder and for harbouring a murderer.’
‘Try it. Arrest me if you wish to feel the wrath of Mr Secretary. He will have you stripped of your office by day’s end if you interfere with me. You are a paltry maggot of a man,
Young. Now do as I say – take this corpse to Mr Peace.’
‘That sodomite necromancer? He knows nothing.’
> Shakespeare grasped Young by the throat. As he did so, the six deputies moved towards him with menace, but did not attempt to drag him off. The words Mr Secretary clearly carried more weight than the authority enjoyed by Justice Young. ‘Just do as I say, Young, do your duty under the law. Or I pledge there will be consequences for you.’ He pushed Young and watched as he gasped for breath and stumbled into a pile of dung. Then Shakespeare turned away and walked through the men.
As he opened his front door Shakespeare glanced back to glimpse a scowl on the face of Justice Richard Young; the scowl of a man with a costly boot coated in steaming horseshit.
Boltfoot was brought up from the hold as the ship reached the wide estuary of the Thames. On deck the stink of fish was greatly reduced by the stiff breeze that billowed the sails above him. He looked to starboard and saw, ahead of him, the squat buildings and smoking chimneys of Gravesend, on the southern shore of the river. The town’s quays were full of ships, moored two or three deep, their masts and skeletal rigging singing in the wind. It was a town he knew, a town of chandlers and sail-lofts, taprooms and taverns, whorehouses and gaming rooms. If only he could land there now and catch the long ferry back to London.
His heart sank as the ship cut through the choppy waves and made no attempt to veer towards port, instead carrying on eastward towards the North Sea. His last hope of getting ashore had gone. He looked to larboard and astern and saw the other vessels in the flotilla, all under sail and maintaining good progress with the ebb tide.
‘Say farewell to England, Mr Cooper. You won’t see her again until Christmas.’
‘I’d make it worth your while if you could somehow get me ashore, Mr Turnmill.’
‘You know there’s no chance of that.’
‘At least tell me what ship this is. Who is her captain?’
‘You’re aboard the Giltspur Falcon and the captain is a gentleman out of Hamburg, name of Bootmann. Reinhard Bootmann.’
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