Holy Spy

Chapter 27

Kat left an hour before dawn, her hair tucked up beneath her plain woollen cap, still refusing to say where she was going.

‘How will I contact you if I discover anything?’

‘Post a note on the Si Quis Door. Mark it a notice of vacancy for a footman, inquiries to be referred to Lady Cutler.’

Shakespeare nodded. The Si Quis Door – from the Latin Si Quis, meaning ‘if anyone’ – was a door at St Paul’s where notices of jobs for would-be servants were posted every day. ‘So you will be staying close by? Do you not think it would be wiser to leave London? Your man’s guise does not bear close inspection.’

‘I must be on hand. This must be solved or I will have no life worth living.’

Shakespeare kissed her farewell. For the first time, he truly believed that she was both desperately afraid – and innocent. He had discovered something else, too: he no longer loved her.

Shakespeare went back to bed for two hours’ sleep, then took his time over a leisurely breakfast. If Jane had any suspicion that there had been anyone else in the house overnight, it was not evident in her demeanour or anything she said. She bustled about brightly, bringing her master fried links of sausage and

eggs. Her one concern seemed to be Boltfoot.

‘Will Mr Cooper be away long, master?’

‘Not long, I hope.’ There was no point in letting her know that he feared the worst. The poor girl could have had no idea what she was letting herself in for when she agreed to enter this house.

Babington arrived at nine o’clock, ready for his meeting with Sir Francis. He was attended by a richly attired valet and was himself dressed in court finery: a doublet of silver and red with a surprisingly modest ruff, probably worn so as not to risk irritating the Puritan sensibilities of Sir Francis Walsingham.

‘We are to meet Mr Robin Poley at Greenwich. Do you know him?’

‘I have heard his name. He is a Catholic gentleman, is he not?’

‘Indeed, he is, Mr Babington, but he has the ear and friendship of Sir Francis Walsingham and has already spoken to him on your behalf, entreating him to grant you a passport.’

Babington was shocked. ‘I had thought you would be making the arrangements, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘I feared my own intercession would be treated with suspicion. Walsingham is my master, not my friend.’

‘But this Mr Poley. Can we trust him?’

‘He is devout and honourable. He also has great beauty of face and character and he is as wedded to the true faith as we are, Mr Babington. Though he is not wealthy, he gives whatever he may in the way of grants to seminary priests. Being of modest means, he must always live in the households of great men.’

‘His patron is Sir Philip Sidney, I believe.’

‘Indeed, but with Sir Philip away at the wars, Poley has been taken into the house of Sir Philip’s father-in-law, who you will know to be Sir Francis Walsingham himself. Robin Poley has full use of Mr Secretary’s home and has even invited me to mass with him at Barn Elms, under the very nose of his host. I fear I took the coward’s way and did not attend.’

Babington was aghast. ‘Does Sir Francis know him to be a Catholic?’

‘He does, and likes him none the less for it. I would go further and say that he has Walsingham’s love.’

‘How can he bear to live with Walsingham? He is Satan made flesh.’

‘You could ask the same of myself or Abingdon or Tilney – or a hundred other men at court. Mr Byrd of the Chapel Royal has the Queen’s favour, and yet she knows he cleaves to his Catholic faith. We work among them because how else are we to live? And more to the point, how are we to defeat them? Our time will come soon enough.’

‘But Poley-’

‘Enough, Mr Babington. If you do not want his help, then do not come with me.’ Shakespeare took Babington’s hand in both of his. ‘Mr Poley is charming, pious and full of wit. But the greatest of his virtues is honesty. Which is why it is my firm belief that it were better for you if he rather than I were to broach the subject of your passport with Mr Secretary.’ He frowned anxiously. ‘I hope I have not gone beyond my brief.’

Babington hesitated, then nodded. ‘No. You have spoken well, Mr Shakespeare. I will take Robin Poley as I find him.’

‘If you still harbour doubts after meeting him, inquire at the French embassy where he has their full trust. Mr Poley is considered a very prince among the Catholics of this realm. And yet I must repeat that he is not wealthy. So he will ask money of you in return for his services.’

‘How much?’

‘Whatsoever you can afford. But bear in mind that he will be putting himself at great risk on your behalf.’

‘Fifty pounds?’

It seemed Babington had plucked the figure from the air, but Shakespeare imagined he had already given the matter of money thought; something as valuable as a licence to travel was not easily come by in these troubled days and would always cost a great deal.

‘I should not speak for him but I think he would consider that fair.’

Babington shook his handsome head. ‘Fifty pounds to put my head in the lion’s mouth . . .’

‘Fifty pounds to seek safer shores and protect your inheritance. Will you send for your wife and child when you are abroad?’

Babington did not answer. ‘Let us get to it, Mr Shakespeare. Midsummer is past. Time catches us unawares. Let us go now to Greenwich and meet your Robin Poley.’

The trip downriver to Greenwich Palace was swift and uneventful. On arriving, Shakespeare escorted Babington to the presence chamber.

If Babington was anxious, he disguised it well, for he held his head high and smiled at the numerous courtiers with whom he was acquainted: a wave of the gloved hand here; a nod of the head there.

Walsingham had been as good as his word. Shakespeare spotted Poley instantly.

‘Good morrow, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘And to you, sir.’ He extended his hand to indicate his companion. ‘This is Anthony Babington. Shall we step outside, gentlemen? I think it a fine day to stroll in the gardens.’

As they walked from the palace into the southern gardens, away from the river, Shakespeare observed his two companions with a little inner smile. Babington had fallen in love at first sight. Poley was as perfectly formed as a Roman statue; not tall, but lean and muscular with long fair hair and an aspect of innocence that would have won an abbot to his cause. Shakespeare stood back and watched as Poley drew Babington into an arbour of roses. It made a pretty picture. With fortune on their side, Babington would not notice the thorns until it was too late.

‘It will be my great pleasure to help you, Mr Babington,’ Poley said. ‘I believe I can judge a man at first meeting, and I know that we will be the firmest of friends.’

‘Thank you, Mr Poley. My hopes accord with yours.’

‘Then let us get straight to business, for we have little time before you are called in to see Mr Secretary. I am so well acquainted with his daughter and wife that I flatter myself I know the innermost workings of his mind. He is a secretive man, but not beyond knowing, as some would have it.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘He is beyond my knowing, Mr Poley.’

Poley dismissed Shakespeare with a playful flick of the hand. ‘Do not listen to him, Mr Babington. What you must realise is that while Sir Francis scorns the Pope and Catholicism, he does not bear antagonism towards those Catholics whom he sees as loyal to Her Majesty. He does, however, see them as misguided. And so you must be open and honest with him and declare your faith. He will tell you that you are a fool and may try to convert you to his interpretation of the scriptures, but that is all. Merely endure his barbs and all will be well. And then you need a story – a tale to convince him that you are not fleeing England into the embrace of the Jesuits. You need, too, to offer your assistance. Do you understand?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Then let us rehearse. Come, sit here at my side’

Anthony Babington had always looked down on men such as Walsingham. They were dour creatures, mere functionaries, men of poor family. A gentleman of great family did not spend his time dealing with papers and administrative duties unless they related to his own estates. And yet he smiled at him, bowed extravagantly and put out his hand as though he were his dearest and most respected friend.

‘Sir Francis, such a pleasure and honour to meet you.’

‘Come in, Mr Babington, come into my humble office. The pleasure is all mine. I am sure I have seen your face at court. I know you have attended on Her Majesty, for she has often mentioned you with affection and some disappointment that she does not see more of you.’

‘You flatter me, sir.’

‘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.’