Execution

by S. J. Parris

  ‘Titch is a poet,’ Babington announced, with a breezy wave of his glass; the boy shook his head, alarmed, and backed away muttering something self-deprecating about scribbles. ‘Do you like poetry, Prado?’

  I hesitated. Could it be a trick? Did Father Prado enjoy poetry? The matter had not come up in the briefing Phelippes had given me; it had probably not been the first thing they thought to squeeze out of the poor wretch in Walsingham’s cellar. I took a breath and let my head clear; it was of no importance, these men were never going to meet Father Prado. His taste in poetry, or anything else, was entirely left to my devising, and I must learn to think on my feet, without second-guessing a trap in every enquiry, or I would be unmasked before the first course arrived.

  ‘Who would not? Poetry is a gift from God,’ I said piously.

  ‘Not the way he writes it,’ Babington said, punching his friend lightly on the arm, and the others laughed. He reminded me of Sidney in that moment; what was it with these rich English boys, always cuffing and scrapping with their friends to disguise any show of affection – fear of being thought a sodomite?

  ‘We may as well sit,’ he said, motioning to the table. ‘There’s no knowing what time Ballard will be here – he could have been delayed by the tides.’ He pulled up a chair at the head.

  ‘And Savage?’ Poole asked.

  ‘He will be wherever Ballard is,’ Titch muttered.

  ‘No matter – we’ll call for bread and more wine while we wait. But we should not discuss the business until Ballard is here.’

  ‘Because he would not like it?’ Poole again; his voice was light, but pointed.

  ‘Because we will only have to repeat it all, and I do not want our new friend to find us tedious company,’ Babington said, also lightly, though defensive. I remembered what Poole had told me on our ride to Southwark; that Ballard was the de facto leader of the conspirators, though Babington’s money was furnishing the plot. Clearly there was tension there. ‘Anyway – how does your sister, Robin?’

  A sudden silence; I felt Gifford tense beside me as I pulled out a seat.

  ‘I have not seen her this past week,’ Poole said, in that same easy tone. ‘Her employer keeps her busy, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I feared. Can’t be easy, working for a Walsingham.’ Babington let the remark hang in the air. No one spoke. It could have been an innocent observation – that Lady Sidney was a demanding mistress – or something more sinister; was he implying that he knew who really employed Clara Poole? I watched him closely, but his face gave nothing away.

  ‘I suppose we must think of Lady Frances as a Sidney now, though,’ Poole said, carrying the jug of wine to the table. I had to admire his composure; he had not exaggerated his skills at dissembling.

  ‘Makes no difference. Both sides of that family are lapdogs to the usurper, running about to do her bidding. I wonder Clara stands living cheek by jowl with such a nest of heretics.’

  ‘She endures it,’ Robin said patiently, ‘the better to help us. We are fortunate that she is willing to take such a risk – do you ever think what the Sidneys would do if she were discovered to be Catholic?’

  All credit to him; his voice did not waver. Babington let that go. ‘Talking of which – I had hoped to hear more from Clara about the so-called queen’s intended Progress next month. She said she would look among the old man’s papers when she had the chance and bring us dates and locations. It is odd that she has not been in touch, do you not think? What say you, Titch?’

  ‘What?’ Titch jerked around; he had been standing by the window, peering out through a gap in the curtains.

  ‘Clara – have you heard from her? Come away from there, for God’s sake – people will see you.’

  ‘It’s not a crime for friends to take supper together – there is no reason for us to skulk about as if we have no right to be here, we only draw more attention. And I haven’t seen Clara – why would I?’

  ‘I was merely asking. I don’t like it when people go quiet, especially at this stage – it makes me nervous. God knows we have enough at stake here. Sit down and have a drink.’

  ‘You need have no fear on my sister’s account, Babington,’ Poole said, and there was a flinty note in his voice that made the young men glance sharply at him. He was looking at both of them as if they were something he would like to scrape off his shoe. ‘She is a good girl and true to the cause. If you fear betrayal, it will not come from that quarter, I will stake my life on it.’

  A complicated look passed between him and Babington.

  ‘I meant only that I worried she had been caught, Robin. You are the one who brought up the subject of betrayal.’

  They faced one another down; perhaps only I saw the veins standing up on the back of Poole’s hand as it rested at his hip, near his knife, the muscles minutely quivering in his fingers. Walsingham said it had taken all his powers of persuasion to stop Poole running Babington through when he heard of Clara’s murder; I suspected the urge had not left him. I felt I should say something, in character, to break the moment.

  ‘You fear betrayal? My master would be alarmed to hear this, I think. One does not invest in a ship that is rumoured to be holed below the waterline.’

  ‘By God, no – you misunderstand.’ Babington let out a nervous laugh and clasped my arm. ‘Our ship is watertight and seaworthy, Prado, believe me. We are all sworn to this enterprise, no one’s love for the Queen or the faith is in doubt. It is just that – we have a young friend to our designs, Robin’s sister, who lives in the household of Secretary Walsingham’s daughter. She brings us useful information, the better to plan our access to the heretic Elizabeth.’

  ‘And you are sure her loyalties are not compromised? Because I have heard, you know, that such people can have, how do you say it, double faces?’

  Robin Poole took a step forward and pointed a finger in my face. ‘Watch yourself. Priest or no priest, if you insult my sister’s honesty, I will settle the matter with you as a man.’

  I tried to look taken aback, but the ferocity in his eyes seemed unfeigned; this was not quite how I had imagined the conversation unfolding.

  ‘Peace, Robin.’ Babington half-rose in his chair, the other hand stretched out, placating. ‘No one is impugning Clara’s loyalty. I am only concerned that we have not heard from her in several days, it is not like her, and Prado is right to be cautious, when his master is risking so much in our support.’ He turned to me. ‘Forgive us, Father. A business such as this puts everyone on edge – it is easy to start jumping at shadows. But all will be right when Ballard arrives and you hear what encouragement Gilbert has brought us from Staffordshire.’

  The company turned to look at Gifford, still hovering by the door.

  ‘Yes, what news of the Queen, Gilbert?’ Poole took his seat on Babington’s right and patted the chair beside him. Gifford sat, as if reluctant to commit himself, and refused to meet my eye. I could see how he was feeling his way with every step around me, terrified of putting a foot wrong; I wanted to shake him.

  ‘In good spirits,’ he managed, though his mouth was dry and his voice emerged as a croak. ‘At least, according to the brewer, who heard it from the kitchen girl.’

  ‘So she should be,’ Babington said, lifting his glass as if in a toast. ‘Her hour is at hand, and she knows it. Here’s to the good brewer. And now that Spain is on board—’

  ‘What brewer?’ I asked.

  ‘You have not heard our scheme?’ Babington looked delighted; he set his glass down and poured a fresh round of drinks for everyone. ‘I am amazed Master Gifford here has not boasted to you already of his ingenuity. Gilbert, tell our friend the system you have devised for getting letters in and out of the prison. You will like this, Prado – it is a fine example of English know-how.’ He nudged the wine towards me; I inclined my head in thanks, but did not touch it.

  Finally Gifford raised his head and looked across the table at me with an effortful smile. ‘Well – you wi
ll have heard how Her Majesty is kept close at Chartley Manor. Her keeper, Sir Amias Paulet, is cruelly strict in his dealings. She may not walk outside, and her servants are not permitted to come and go, or associate with the household staff. Even her laundresses are searched when they leave and enter her chambers, right down to their shifts, to make sure they are not carrying any messages.’

  ‘I’ll bet Paulet takes charge of that himself, the old lecher,’ Babington cut in. ‘I’ll bet he checks every crevice twice over, with the other hand inside his breeches, for the good of the English Church. Saving your presence, Father. But you see what hypocrites these Puritans are.’ The others laughed, except Titch, who continued to scratch splinters from the tabletop with his fingernail; I affected to look amused and shocked at the same time. ‘Continue, Gilbert.’

  ‘So, you see our difficulty. How to get letters in and out without discovery? Well – we hit upon an ingenious solution.’

  ‘You need not say “we”, Gilbert, when the plan was all of your devising – take credit where it is due.’ Babington grinned, but I saw Gifford’s eyes flash to mine, stricken; that ‘we’ was his first slip of the tongue. Though I had not heard the details, I knew that the system of communication with Mary Stuart’s household had been carefully worked out by Phelippes, with all risks assessed and accounted for; to suggest the involvement of others was a serious mistake if Gifford was meant to be passing this off as his own idea. Again, I was relieved that Ballard had not arrived; he would have noticed it, I was certain.

  ‘I meant only, myself and the brewer, of course,’ Gifford said, flustered.

  ‘Tell me of this brewer, then.’ I smiled encouragement, hoping it would calm him.

  ‘Well.’ He laid his hands flat on the table as if to steady himself. When he began again, he sounded more in command. ‘A household the size of Chartley gets through a good deal of ale, you may imagine. They take deliveries twice a week from a brewer in the town of Burton, an honest man who is a friend to the Queen of Scots’ cause. I take him the letters sealed inside a waterproof tube, which fits through the bung-hole of a beer barrel. The cask in question is marked with a chalk cross, very small. Then, when the delivery is unloaded in the kitchen yard at Chartley, one of the serving girls, also a friend to us and glad of a few extra coins, takes out the tube and passes it in secret to Queen Mary’s secretary. And once the Queen has written her reply, it returns the same way when the brewer collects the empty barrels, and I wait to receive it from him and ride with all haste to London, as I have this past week.’

  ‘Is it not cleverly done?’ Babington looked at me, his eyes dancing, like a child expectant of praise.

  ‘Most ingenious,’ I agreed. ‘And the letters cannot be tampered with?’

  Gilbert’s eyes widened, as if to warn that I had strayed from my script; before he could answer, the door flew open, crashing against the inner wall, and an imposing figure filled the space.

  ‘The only person who could tamper with them is the courier,’ declared the newcomer, in a cultured voice. ‘Gentlemen, be advised your talk carries down the stairs, take better care or half London will know our business.’ He crossed the room, trailing a gust of sweat and horses. Close behind him followed a shorter man, wiry and muscled, with a shaved head and a small pointed beard. The one who had spoken ruffled Gifford’s hair in passing, unknotting his travelling cloak with the other hand. ‘Only sporting with you, Gilbert, son. We know you for an honest man too, am I right?’ He swept off his broad-brimmed hat, handed it to his companion, cast around the room, then stopped dead and looked from me to Babington with the face of a man who has found his wife in bed with the neighbour. ‘Who the devil is this?’

  ‘Here is Captain Fortescue!’ Babington exclaimed, rising as if to embrace the new arrival, then thinking better of it and remaining trapped in a half-crouch. A quiver in his laugh betrayed his nerves, and he gestured to me as if presenting me at court. ‘Behold, the fruit of your labours.’ He lowered his voice and sat down. ‘This is Father Prado, come from Paris on the orders of Ambassador Mendoza, to bring us earnest of Spanish support after your meeting.’

  The new arrival kept his black gaze fixed on me without smiling; I stood, bobbed a quick bow, and met his eye, steady and unhurried, to show him I would not be daunted. So here was John Ballard: my own age or thereabouts, but his wiry dark curls and thick brows were already threaded with grey, as was the full beard hiding a small mouth. Ruddy spots bloomed across his cheeks, as if he spent much of his time in strong winds, or strong drink, but he had good teeth. He was taller than me, though less than six foot, running to fat around the middle, but with a slab of a chest, broad shoulders and large hands; I guessed he would still give good account of himself in a fight. He wore an outfit as garish as mine: beneath his travelling cloak a cape edged with gold lace over a green satin doublet slashed to show crimson lining. I recalled Poole saying he passed himself off as a soldier, hence the military alias, though in that get-up he looked more like he should be on stage at The Curtain, embodying the vice of Vanity or Self-Regard.

  He continued to eye me as if daring me to look away first; I could see how a man might be afraid of him, even one who had nothing to hide. I drew myself up, determined not to be shaken by his scrutiny. It was to be expected, I told myself; he would have regarded the real Father Prado in the same way.

  ‘Is that so? Mendoza sent you?’ One brow arched in a show of curiosity, or scepticism. I inclined my head in assent. This would be the test; only Ballard knew precisely what had been promised by the Spanish ambassador in their meeting, and I feared that Walsingham had not had time enough to extract from the Jesuit all the necessary information to convince him. Ballard pulled at his beard. ‘You must have set off hot-foot the moment the door closed behind me. When did you arrive?’

  ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘Did they search you?’

  ‘Of course. Unsuccessfully.’ I took my seat again.

  ‘Evidently, or you would not be here. But you had letters, I presume?’ He glanced around at the company. ‘Even an excitable pup like Babington would not be so trusting as to admit you without proof that you are who you say, I’m sure.’

  ‘I had letters. They were well concealed. I am skilled in this business, Capitan, as you are. That is why the ambassador chose me. Here.’ I reached into my doublet and passed him Mendoza’s seal – now scrubbed thoroughly in boiling water, Phelippes had assured me.

  He held it to the nearest bank of candles and made a show of examining it. ‘I meant no insult, hermano. You understand how much caution must be exercised. The heretic whore has her men everywhere. And women too, I don’t doubt.’ He left a pause. ‘The more people know our business, the greater the chance one of them will sell us out for profit.’

  ‘You came to my master. He sent me direct to London. Who else could know of it?’ I wondered if his reference to women was general or specific.

  Ballard considered this for a moment and nodded. ‘Does Paget know you’re here?’

  ‘I have no idea. I take my orders from Don Bernadino.’

  ‘He’s brought money, John,’ Babington said, eager to redeem himself after the barb about his lack of proper caution.

  ‘Well, that will speak eloquently for him. I should like to see it.’ Ballard walked slowly around the foot of the table to stand at my shoulder. I reached for the leather bag I had stashed under my chair and brought out the strongbox, unlocking it for his examination. I could not tell at a glance how much it contained and I did not suppose Ballard could either, but the amount was clearly significant. Phelippes had shown me the contents – all in Spanish gold pieces. Ballard looked down at the slew of coins in silence for a minute or two. Eventually he raised his head and met my eye.

  ‘This is not the sum agreed.’ He made it sound casual, an observation rather than an accusation, but I felt the sweat prickle inside the absurd ruff and my mouth dried.

  ‘It is all I was able to carry without attracting
attention.’

  ‘All?’ The eyebrow shot up again. He waited.

  ‘This is what I was given. If you have a complaint, take it up with my master.’

  After a short pause, he let out a bark of laughter.

  ‘I’m not complaining, man. This is far more than Mendoza led me to expect. He plays his cards close to his chest, eh?’ He lifted a handful of coins and let them slide through his fingers.

  ‘He wanted to surprise you,’ I said, feeling again the racing heart that went with the slippery sense of relief at having dodged a shot. I was glad I had kept my seat so my shaking legs could not betray me, though I had to bite down a smile, picturing Walsingham’s irritation at the thought that he could have kept some back.

  ‘Prado, is it?’ Ballard leaned a hand casually on the back of my chair and bent down until his mouth was six inches from my ear. ‘You’re a difficult man to read. I can’t tell if you’re playing games with me. I suppose that must be a good thing, in this world. Is it your real name?’

  I twisted my head to look at him.

  ‘Today it is.’

  He laughed again, and lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes; he grasped me by the shoulders and kissed me once on each cheek. ‘Very good. Que Dios le bendiga. You and your money are welcome. But we will swear you in before the evening is done, to be certain.’ He pulled out the chair at the foot of the table and Savage slid into place on his left. ‘Now then, my gallant boys, before I tell you of France, I bring sobering news from south of the river. Gilbert – stand by the door, check none of those serving lads is loitering.’ When Gifford had confirmed that the staircase was empty, Ballard leaned forward in confidential manner and the others mirrored his pose. ‘I stopped off at the Unicorn on my way into London tonight. You know how it is – Captain Fortescue has accounts to settle, messages to collect, questions to ask.’

  An uneasy titter rippled around the table. Ballard turned to me. ‘Are you familiar with Southwark, my friend?’

  ‘I have not had the pleasure.’