Holy Spy

Chapter 30

It was a perfect summer Sunday. The river was alive with traffic; families visiting each other, men and women escaping the stink of the city for a day in the meadows of Surrey, sportsmen with their fowling pieces heading to the woods upriver for some shooting. None of them would have noted the tilt-boat carrying Anthony Babington and his companion Robin Poley.

The two young men reclined at the back of the craft in the shade of the canopy, so close together that their thighs and shoulders touched, and yet neither of them sought to shift away from the other. Each held a cup of wine and, at their side on the bench, they had half a flagon. Their touching might have been yet more intimate, but for the watchful eyes of the tilt-boat’s rowers who toiled against the current while their clients took pleasure in the wine and the breeze blowing off the river.

Babington and Poley had hired the vessel at the Temple Stairs, having strolled there from Hern’s Rents; they had scarcely been out of each other’s company since their meeting at Greenwich Palace. Now they were on their way to Barn Elms, a journey that would take them two hours at the present rate of progress.

‘Perhaps they might row harder if we offered them a few pence more,’ Babington said, whispering into Poley’s ear.

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘Yes, I am in a hurry – and a state of panic, Robin. I fear what Mr Secretary will say to me. I fear what he will ask of me. Am I not right to be afraid? Is he not Beelzebub made flesh?’

‘Then, dearest Anthony, why rush to meet the devil?’

‘Because I wish to get it over and done with.’

‘Like the child who hastens to his father for a birching! Anthony, you fear too much. Mr Secretary will have your passport, all signed and sealed.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Poley held up the flagon. ‘Come, sup your wine and enjoy the day. Never has the Thames looked so beautiful.’

Walsingham did not have the passport. ‘I have not yet been able to secure Her Majesty’s approval, Mr Babington. She considers all matters, great and small, with the utmost care. Never was there a more discerning monarch. I will not hide from you that this, at times, can cause some frustration among her ministers and petitioners. I can only apologise to you; the matter is out of my hands.’

Babington somehow managed to prevent his shoulders from slumping and even achieved a discreet smile and modest bow of the head in acknowledgement.

‘I do believe, however, that I will be able to bring her around to my way of thinking. What I need from you today is a list of specific tasks you will be prepared to carry out on her behalf while you are in foreign lands. Such a list, I am sure, will tip the scales in your favour.’

‘Tasks, Sir Francis? What manner of task would Her Majesty require of me?’

They were seated amid the apparent chaos of Walsingham’s office within his country manor at Barn Elms. The room was littered with piles of books, correspondence, maps and writing materials. Despite the summer, it was as chilly as Walsingham’s manner. He made no allowance for the warm weather outside, dressed all in black save the modest white ruff at his neck. And he was nowhere near as welcoming as he had been at his first meeting with Babington.

‘The tasks we spoke of before – word from the cities you visit, information about the people you meet, both the nobility and the common folk. But most particularly she would like to hear word of those Englishmen who have chosen exile and now plot against her. You know of whom I speak, I am certain: Dr Allen, Mr Persons, Dr Gifford at Rheims, the Jesuits. All the Jesuits, for they are betrayers of both God and man. And the snakelike Morgan, corrupt Paget and the Spanish intriguer Mendoza, who is England’s sworn enemy. Her Majesty would like your assurance that you will seek out these people, discover their movements and their conspiracies, and send intelligence of the same to us post haste. That is how these infamous beasts will be brought low. Is this well with you, Mr Babington? I am sure you would wish to help us in such wise.’

‘I can but promise to do my very best on Her Majesty’s behalf.’

Walsingham pushed a blank sheet of paper across to Babington, followed by a quill and inkhorn. ‘Then write down the details of your planned route. Whom you hope to meet and where, what letters of introduction you have. Add your mark and I will present the list to Her Majesty so that she will know how dearly you love her and how courageous you will be in defying her enemies.’

‘But Sir Francis, my plans are not so well formed. Initially, I had planned to go to Paris. But I know not how long I will be there, nor whom I will be able to meet. I have no letters of introduction.’

Walsingham sighed heavily. His dark, hooded countenance betrayed no good humour. ‘This will not do.’

‘I beg you, Sir Francis. I will do all that you ask and more – but as yet I am in no position to write down the precise details.’

‘What of the traitors in London?’

The question made Babington start. ‘Traitors, Mr Secretary?’

‘You know who I mean. The Pope’s White Sons: the young gallants you run with. The whole court knows of them. Some of them conspire against us. Will you bring me word of their scheming?’

‘I am sure I know no traitors, Sir Francis. A few men might speak too loudly and a little unwisely when cup-shotten, but they are harmless enough. No, there are no traitors among us.’

‘Then if they – and you – are harmless, you will not mind providing me with their names and their indiscretions. Yes, Mr Babington?’

‘Were I to hear of any indiscretions, I would bring them to your notice immediately, as would be my bounden duty.’

The Principal Secretary was silent, save for his laboured breathing. His eyes were fixed on his young guest, like a circling hawk staring at a fieldmouse a hundred feet below. ‘I have an idea,’ he said at last. ‘A way forward, perhaps. You are a handsome, charming young man, Mr Babington. I am certain I could persuade the Queen to give you an audience where you may explain to her why you desire this passport – and just what you can do for her in return. How does that sound to you?’

Babington was horrified. The last things he wanted were the Queen’s beady eyes and sharp, inquiring tongue examining him. ‘I – I – I am most flattered that you should think me worthy of such a signal honour.’ Even as he spoke, he knew Walsingham must see how flustered he was. How he sweated, how his hands quivered . . .

‘Good. I do believe you will be able to speak more freely with Her Majesty than with me, for she has a way of putting men at their ease, and I seem to be discomfiting you. I shall have word brought to you when a time has been arranged.’ Walsingham rose from his plain-backed chair and put out his hand.

Babington rose, too. He was being dismissed. Walsingham’s hand was as cold as a winter’s day.

When Babington had gone, Walsingham clapped his hands twice. ‘You may come out of your hidey-hole, John.’

An inner door leading off from the Principal Secretary’s office creaked open and John Shakespeare emerged carrying a heavy black book and writing implements.

‘Did you hear it all?’

‘Yes, Mr Secretary.’

‘And you noted it all down?’

‘Indeed, I did.’

‘What did you think?’

‘He must be scared and bewildered. I find it hard to believe he will do what you hope of him.’

‘Then this will be a remarkable lesson for you, for I am certain he will do precisely as I hope; and more. Wait and see, John, wait and see. He thinks he has me. Even now he will be congratulating himself that he has triumphed over the Principal Secretary.’

‘I am not so certain, Sir Francis. Nor do I see how he can be persuaded to write a letter to the Queen of Scots in the manner you hope. Were I in his place, I would gather together what gold I could muster and pay for passage out of England without a passport – even at the cost of losing my estates and all my treasure.’

‘But you are not Anthony Babington. You are a man of wit and cunning. He is a vain young traitor who aspires to murder Elizabeth and raise up the Scots devil in her place. He thinks he will sit at her right hand. Perhaps he would like to be her Principal Secretary. His vanity and his treachery will most certainly be his downfall. Everything depends on Mr Gifford now. When he goes to him at Hern’s Rents tonight, it is important that Robin Poley is not there. Nor will it work if Babington’s companions Salisbury or Tichbourne are in attendance. Mr Gifford must have space and time to work on Babington alone. Then you will see the measure of the man. Then you will see what treason he is capable of.’

‘If Gifford is to do this, I must offer him sweeteners.’

‘Spend whatever you need.’

‘Are you not concerned that Sir Robert Huckerbee considers them beyond his budget?’

‘I care not a jot what Huckerbee thinks. Take no notice of him. He is a functionary whose life is spent fretting like a fool, but he will pay up as ordered, for I have Lord Burghley’s full support.’

‘Gifford wants written assurances from you that he will not face charges of any kind.’

‘Then assure him that my word is my bond. He needs nothing in writing. Now, John, be seated. Talk with me a while and then take dinner with me. My wife and daughter would be most pleased of your company.’

Talk with me a while. Dine with me. Shakespeare almost laughed aloud. They were words he had never expected to hear from the lips of Sir Francis Walsingham. But he took a seat at the table. The straight-backed chair was probably the least comfortable he had ever sat in.

Walsingham did indeed seem in the mood for conversation. ‘How fares your inquiry into the death of Nick Giltspur? Do you still believe his widow to be innocent?’

‘I do. Yet my inquiries are not promising. My man Mr Cooper has gone missing while investigating the killer Will Cane, one of Cutting Ball’s henchmen. This Mr Ball truly seems beyond the reach of the law.’

Walsingham shrugged. ‘Cutting Ball is a gross carbuncle on the face of the realm. But he is not a threat to it, and so my priorities must lie elsewhere.’

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. Nothing was so small or so large that the Principal Secretary did not take an interest.

‘Do not raise your eyebrows at me, John Shakespeare! Of course, I would happily see Mr Ball hanged, but first I would have to find him. Mr Phelippes believes he has never been caught because he gives money to corrupt constables and justices and breaks the bones of those who will not be bribed.’

‘Well if he has harmed my man Cooper I shall make it my life’s work to do for him myself.’

‘Enough of Cutting Ball. If you find him be sure I will have him prosecuted to death. What possible motives have you discovered for the murder of Nick Giltspur? You must have some, I am certain.’

‘I have twice been to Giltspur House. So far all I have discovered is that Katherine’s lady’s maid is pregnant and will not say who the father is.’ He shook his head, hesitated, and then ventured a question. ‘Sir Francis, what do you know of the Giltspurs? The old matriarch, Mistress Joan, says the family has done more for England than the whole Privy Council combined. What did she mean by that?’

Walsingham did not speak for a few moments, seeming to weigh up how much he should reveal. Eventually he said, ‘It is true Nick sometimes lent assistance . . .’

‘May I ask how?’

‘His ships would call in at the ports of northern Europe, from the Baltic all along the coasts of the Low Countries and France to Aquitaine and the Iberian Peninsula. He would carry messages – and sometimes men. In both directions.’

‘Is that what the old lady meant?’

‘Possibly. I can think of nothing else, save the getting of fish.’

‘Was there anything in these helpful trips by the Giltspur ships that might have led to him being a target?’

Walsingham shrugged. ‘I know not. But we both know this, John: the getting of intelligence is a deadly business.’