by S. J. Parris
* * *
Herne’s Rents was a long, timber-framed building of four storeys at the edge of Lincoln’s Inn Fields that looked as if it had once been an inn, but was now divided into apartments and occupied, for the most part, by men of the clerical class and young gentlemen of limited means sharing rooms. It was close enough to the Inns of Court and the City walls to be convenient for professionals, and anonymous enough that no one paid much attention to comings and goings; I could see why Anthony Babington had chosen it as a base, though with his income he could easily have afforded better.
Gifford was uncharacteristically quiet as I put down my bag in the set of rooms Phelippes had taken for us. He sat on the end of his bed, chewing the side of his thumb and watching through the doorway that joined our rooms as I laid out the ruffled shirts on my own bed, smoothing their creases.
‘So what else did he say?’ I straightened and ran a hand over my newly cropped hair. Phelippes had done a surprisingly professional job – another of his unexpected skills – and the wind felt cold around the back of my neck. I kept reaching to rub a beard that was no longer there.
‘As I already told you and Thomas – he was delighted to hear about you.’
‘He didn’t find it suspicious that the Spanish had responded so quickly?’
‘Not a shadow of doubt that I could see. He takes it as proof of his own rightness and God’s favour for their enterprise. He was won over by the sight of the Spanish ambassador’s seal, though I doubt he could have identified it.’
‘I’m pleased it convinced him. It was worth all the trouble.’
He pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve. ‘But Babington is trusting, you’ll see. He’s too open for a conspiracy of this nature. It’s Ballard you’ll have to get past.’ His tone suggested he wouldn’t wager much on my chances. ‘Are you ready?’
I adjusted the bright silk doublet, took a deep breath and nodded.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Gifford passed his hands over his face and let out a shaky sigh. ‘Let’s go, then. You had better do most of the talking – I’m afraid I’ll say something foolish.’
‘I’m sure you won’t. No more than usual, anyway.’
He gave me a weak smile, glanced around the room, gathered himself and opened the door. ‘After you, Father.’
We passed along a corridor with uneven boards underfoot and plaster flaking from the walls – Gifford cocking his head with a grin at the sounds of frantic coupling coming from the next apartment to ours – and took the wide staircase down to the next floor, where the ceilings were higher and the rooms larger. He knocked on a door at the end of the first landing. I cut a sidelong glance at him; he was bouncing on the balls of his feet and trying too hard to control his breathing, he could not have looked more edgy if he had been about to fight a duel. I made a calming gesture with my hand; he frowned, not understanding, and mouthed ‘What?’ Before I could answer, the door cracked an inch and a voice hissed urgently, ‘Inside.’
Almost before it was closed behind us, I found myself drawn into a scented embrace and kissed enthusiastically on both cheeks. I stepped back but my new host clasped me by the shoulders and held me at arm’s length, appraising me with a frank gaze and a smile that blazed like the torches on London Bridge. Beneath the perfume, he smelled strongly of wine, though it was not yet five.
‘Welcome, friend. We have been praying for a sign, and here you are.’
‘Aquí estoy. Here I am.’ I matched his delighted expression, and played up the accent.
‘God be praised.’
Anthony Babington was a handsome young man, no question. Dark blond hair grown long so that it curled over his collar, the way mine had until that morning; neat, straight features and prominent bones, his face all angles and hollows, girlishly full lips and inquisitive hazel eyes that seemed too large for him, giving him the look of a pretty spaniel. A sparse beard emphasised the line of his jaw – he was too fair, or too young, to grow one properly – and he wore a gold ring in his right ear. His shirt was of fine linen, unlaced at the neck to reveal a smooth chest. Clara Poole could not have found it too much of a hardship to coax secrets out of such a well-made boy, I thought; many women had to put up with worse. Immediately I felt a pinch of conscience; I must remember who these men were, and what they were capable of.
‘Sit, please.’ He indicated a chair by the hearth. Babington’s room was large, with two long windows facing the street. ‘Gilbert, close the casements, will you, while I fetch our guest a drink. Wine, Father?’
I hesitated. ‘Best you call me Prado, friend.’ I nodded towards the door. ‘How do you say it in English – the walls have ears? I will take a small glass, thank you.’ I had no intention of drinking it. Father Prado would have to be abstemious on religious grounds, I decided, so that I could stay sober and keep my wits about me. Babington handed me a glass and pulled up a chair opposite, leaning forward eagerly, elbows resting on his knees.
‘So Ballard explained our venture to you in Paris?’
I was ready for this one. ‘Alas, I did not have the pleasure of meeting Señor Ballard. Our mutual friend the ambassador dispatched me after their discussion, there was no time to make his acquaintance. It was thought less suspicious if I arrived in England separately.’
‘Did they give you any trouble at the port?’
I thought of my two eager interrogators in Rye and made a face. ‘The usual insults, a few questions. But I came in on a merchant ship and they took me for what I appeared to be, in the end.’
Babington nodded. ‘What about Paget? Did he tell you the details of our enterprise?’
‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting him either. My only conversation about this business was with Don Bernadino de Mendoza, who appraised me of your intentions.’ I dropped my voice so that I spoke his name barely above a whisper.
He frowned. ‘Still, it is strange that you should live in Paris and not know Paget. He knows everyone.’
I kept my expression carefully neutral. ‘Naturally, I know him by reputation. But I work much of the time as a courier, you understand – I am constantly on the road between Paris and Madrid with letters. It gives me little time to make friends in either city. Besides,’ I added, with another tilt of my head towards the door, ‘the ambassador gave me strict instructions that I should not mention him or his associates in relation to this business of yours, until the crucial stages are completed. For everyone’s sake.’
He nodded, his expression excessively earnest, and I saw that he was already quite drunk, despite the hour. Not to the degree that his speech or movement was impaired; still, it was telling. He struck me as a man looking to take the edge off his anxiety. ‘We proceed well. I have faith that God will bless our enterprise this time. He must, for we do His will.’
‘Spain has faith too.’
His face brightened at this, and he grasped my hand. ‘Yes. And we thank you. I know this is not the first such attempt, and it would be understandable if Spain doubted our ability to make good our promises, but you see’ – he loosened his grip and lifted his glass with his other hand for a long draught – ‘they were too hasty, the last time. They confided in too many people, Throckmorton and his friends, and did not trouble to discover traitors among their number. Whereas we have kept our counsel, and told our plans only to those sworn to uphold our endeavours.’ His eyes focused and narrowed. ‘Talking of which – do not think me impertinent, but have you some proof of Spain’s good faith?’
‘Besides the ambassador’s seal, you mean, and the considerable risks I have taken as a priest in entering the territories of the heretic Elizabeth?’ I aimed for mildly offended; it seemed to work. Babington held up his hands, conciliatory.
‘I meant no harm – we deal as men of honour, and brothers in Christ. Only – we cannot be too careful, you understand. Already—’ he broke off, a shadow passing briefly over his flushed face. I wondered if he had been going to say something about Clara Poole,
but he only gave a brief twitch of his head, as if to dislodge whatever stray thought had troubled him.
‘I have this.’ I reached inside the ridiculous doublet and brought out the bill of goods with Mendoza’s secret letter – or, to be more accurate, a painstakingly rendered forgery that had taken Phelippes the best part of the morning, since alum writing, once revealed by heat, cannot be erased.
Babington broke the seal and glanced at the contents. ‘Quantities of silk and linen.’
‘That is not the whole of the message.’
‘How do I read it?’
‘In the usual way.’
He nodded and smiled, as if to convey a shared knowledge of this world of subterfuge, and tucked the letter into the silk purse that hung at his belt; I guessed that the technicalities of deciphering were not something he concerned himself with directly. Someone would examine every pen stroke of that letter, though; I wondered if it would be the infamous Ballard. I found I was looking forward to testing myself against him.
Babington eyed my clothes; I felt myself grow hot under his scrutiny.
‘Gilbert here says you bring us money,’ he said eventually. There was a gleam in his eye that did not come merely from the wine.
‘A gift from Spain. I have it safe. My instructions were to entrust it to the group, for the sake of openness.’
‘You mean, so that I can’t pocket a few escudos without the others knowing?’ He sprawled back in his chair, a lazy smirk at the edges of his lips. ‘Fair enough. Don’t worry, I have no need to steal your master’s coins. It is more for your sake, to assure us that Spain is earnest in her support. And that you are to be trusted.’
I dipped my head modestly. ‘I place myself at the mercy of your good judgement, and that of your friends. This is a business of shared trust on both sides, is it not? For my part, I have only your word that you are not a government agent waiting to whisk me off to gaol the moment I give you the information you want.’
Babington laughed, and tilted his glass in my direction. ‘Imagine if I were.’ Gifford gave a sort of hiccup behind me. ‘That kind of thinking will send us all mad. Let us take one another in good faith, and embrace as brothers. For God’s sake, sit down, Gilbert, you’re making me nervous, hovering like that. You’re very quiet today, are you mooning after some girl?’
Some girl. So Gifford’s infatuation with Bessie Pierrepont was not common knowledge among his associates. That did not necessarily mean that she had nothing to do with Babington. Gifford approached from the window where he had been hanging back, pulsing with pent-up energy. He cast around for a chair, found none, so took a cushion and sat at Babington’s feet, careful not to catch my eye. ‘My mind is on higher things, Anthony. I did not wish to interrupt our honoured visitor.’ His voice was subdued, but Babington appeared not to notice. ‘Have you read the Queen’s letters yet?’
It took me a moment to realise that Gifford meant Mary Stuart – though Phelippes had drummed into me the need to be mindful at all times of how the Catholics reversed the titles of the main players in this drama. For them, Mary was the only true queen, and the present sovereign of England was always ‘the heretic’, ‘the usurper’, ‘the bastard’ or, if they were feeling unusually respectful, merely ‘the Tudor’. It was the most obvious shibboleth – one slip of the tongue and I would be betrayed on the instant.
Babington stretched and cast around for the wine bottle. ‘Give me a chance, you only brought them this morning. And I am slow at decryption, as you know. I will have them done by tonight, or Titch can help. Are you quick with a cipher, Prado?’
I inclined my head again. ‘It is a necessary part of my work. If you would care to show me the message, I would be happy to cast an eye over it.’
Babington mulled this over as he poured. ‘Or perhaps we had better wait for Ballard before I go showing you the letters, just to be sure. I mean no offence, Father,’ he added, with a flicker of anxiety.
‘I take none, sir. We have all learned to be cautious in these times.’ I glanced at Gilbert, who was absently fingering the seam of his doublet where Bessie’s note was hidden, or had been. I almost wanted to click my tongue at him, the way a nursemaid will with a small boy who won’t leave his parts alone. He was so painfully uncomfortable in the presence of me and Babington together, I thought it best to get him away so he had time to gather his wits before supper; a sharper man than Babington – John Ballard, for example – would note Gifford’s edginess immediately. ‘Perhaps I should not keep you any longer from your letters.’ I pushed the chair back in anticipation of leaving.
‘Yes, the others will want to hear the news tonight. You will join us for supper, I hope, at The Castle? We are expecting Ballard back – he will want to know everything your master discussed with you about Spain’s contribution to the business.’
‘I look forward to making his acquaintance, with the rest of your comrades.’ I stood then, and effected a little bow; by the relief on Gifford’s face, I saw that my instinct to cut the meeting short had been correct. I was almost at the door when Babington jumped abruptly out of his chair and clutched at my sleeve with both hands.
‘Wait – not so fast, I pray you.’
My heart lurched; had I given myself away with some word or gesture? Over his shoulder, I saw the colour drain from Gifford’s face. Babington dropped his gaze to the floor.
‘Give me your blessing, Father, before you go.’ He spoke quietly, his speech sober; I reminded myself that Babington might well be cleverer than Robin Poole had given him credit for, and the drunkenness could easily have been a show to put me off my guard. I must not take any one of them at face value. ‘May God forgive my weakness,’ he said, ‘but sometimes when I wake in the night, I find myself wracked with doubts about our chances of success. Not because God is not on our side, only – we are few, there is so much that must come together, and the heretic Tudor has spies everywhere.’
‘So I understand,’ I murmured.
‘And we all remember what happened to Throckmorton.’ He glanced up to meet my eye and there was fear in his face, beneath the bravado. ‘Is it a sin to want reassurance, Father?’
‘Of course not, my son. And you are not few now. You have the might of Spain at your back.’
He smiled at this and squeezed my hand. Gifford, behind him, looked impressed. Babington released me and rummaged in the purse to draw out a silver crucifix, pressing it to his lips as he meekly bowed his head to my hand. I spoke a few words in Latin, a priest’s blessing to his flock, harmless pieties. Gifford’s mouth twisted in disdain and he turned away; he was a fine one to have scruples about hypocrisy, I thought, but I raised my eyes to the window and imagined, as I had on the boat, what the ledger of my offences against God must look like by now, always supposing He was there to record them.
THIRTEEN
The Castle Tavern, on Cornhill. A private room, upstairs, with a table set for seven. Three branched candlesticks along its length gave out a soft light that seemed to breathe in and out each time the door opened; more at either end of the room kept the shadows in the corners at bay. A bead of sweat trickled down the inside of my collar; I pulled with a finger at the elaborate ruff where it scratched my neck and wished again that Father Prado could have disguised himself as something other than a young gallant of fashion. The air was close and stuffy; though it was still pleasantly light outside, at only eight o’clock, here the casements had been closed and the curtains drawn, the better to conduct the secret business of bringing down a queen and a government.
A serving boy had left a pitcher of wine on a dresser against the far wall, before being sent away; Babington poured it himself for his guests and passed the glasses around. I had walked to the tavern with Gifford, neither of us speaking much; as we climbed the stairs I had braced myself for my first encounter with Ballard, and could not quite disguise the shake in my breath when we pushed open the door to find only three of the conspirators present.
Babington hande
d me around the room like a rare treasure he had brought back from his travels: to Robin Poole, who appraised me with a cool glance as if it were truly the first time we had met, then bowed his head and kissed my hand reverently, a nice touch; next, to a young man presented as Chidiock Tichborne, his closest friend, son of a noble Catholic family from Southampton, about Babington’s own age or younger. He and ‘Titch’ had travelled in France together some years earlier, I gathered, in search of disaffected English exiles to share their grievances – an adventure that, I knew from Phelippes, had brought them both to the attention of the authorities, since they had failed to apply for a licence to travel out of the realm. Young men of the old Catholic families heading for France – where secret priests were trained and conspiracies brewed – always attracted interest, as you’d think they would have anticipated. Perhaps not the brightest, then; if they hadn’t foreseen that, I wondered how they had ever believed they could manage a plot to assassinate Queen Elizabeth, spring Mary from prison and organise a Catholic uprising in concert with a Spanish invasion, all without the government noticing. But the better for our purposes, if they really were so naïve. This Tichborne was unusually tall, taller even than Sidney, and skinny with it. Unlike Sidney, he did not own his height, but seemed to apologise for it by hunching over like a heron watching for fish. His only other striking feature was a pair of startlingly blue eyes that transformed his boyish, slightly ferrety appearance into a face you would look at twice. His smile as he shook my hand appeared nervous, but I decided this was just his manner, rather than any direct suspicion of me; I could see that he was a youth brought up with an unquestioning reverence for priests, and that he was a follower, not a leader, content to fall in with whatever Babington suggested.