by S. J. Parris
The atmosphere at Paris Garden reminded me of the theatre, but with a greater edge of menace. Though the gentry came in their finery to see the spectacle, crossing the churned-up ground outside the building on wooden walkways laid down to keep their soft leather shoes from the mud, the majority of the crowd were working men in shirtsleeves, loud and full of beer, jingling their coins for the bookmakers who gathered around the entrance, taking bets and handing out tokens. I saw fathers with young sons hoisted on their shoulders, and groups of apprentices egging each other on to catcall the Winchester geese who inevitably flocked to the bear ring; there was a raw male energy on show here, good-natured enough for the moment, but ready to tip into a fight if more drink was taken and fortune didn’t smile on their wagers. Gifford was right: there would be brawls later, and it would be easy for someone to end up with a knife in the ribs. I recalled the gleam in Ballard’s eye earlier when he had spoken of having a surprise for us this evening; I sincerely hoped Gifford had been wrong about the nature of it.
We hovered around the jostling queue at the gates, waiting for the others, watching as the wealthier patrons were allowed to pass the crowd and enter separately through a private door. A woman in a green silk gown and pearl-studded hood, lifting the hem of her skirts with one hand, glanced nervously up at the wooden stands where people were already taking their seats. She had cause to look anxious; only three years earlier, a bank of seats at the bear ring had collapsed, killing a number of spectators. The more puritanical among the city’s aldermen had suggested it was God’s punishment for putting on the entertainment on a Sunday, but Queen Elizabeth had vetoed any change to the law – she was a great lover of the bear-baiting. The arena had been rebuilt, but for some time afterwards people kept away from the tiered seating out of superstition. I hoped that Ballard would keep us on the ground to discuss business – though how he hoped to convey secret plans above the roars from the crowd and the volley of barking from the mastiffs was anyone’s guess.
Babington had been unusually quiet on the walk from Herne’s Rents, and now stood with his hands on his hips, casting his eyes around uncertainly as if fearful of seeing an unwelcome face in the crowd. Gifford kept his gaze on his shoes, arms wrapped around his shoulders, trying to hold himself together. Ballard may have thought it a good ruse to hide in plain sight, but a sense of unease had infected the group since the announcement of Clara’s murder. It was left to me to keep the conversation going.
‘Did you hear any more news about the girl?’ I asked. With some effort, Babington pulled his attention back.
‘Ballard says it is Clara Poole, for certain. It’s being given out that she was attacked by thieves while distributing alms among the destitute in Southwark, and they have a man arrested for her murder.’
‘Who?’
‘No one we know. The old man who found her. Which as good as confirms that her death is being covered up by the authorities—’ he broke off and bit the side of his thumb, his eyes flitting from side to side. ‘And yet Ballard thinks it a good idea for us to meet in the most public place in London, where we might be apprehended all together, without warning.’
‘You do not agree with Ballard’s judgement, then?’ I asked. Gifford raised his head and looked from me to Babington, roused from his self-absorption by the turn of the conversation.
‘Ballard has nothing to lose,’ Babington muttered. ‘He has no name, no family, no estate or dependants to think about. Easy for someone like him to hurl himself headlong at martyrdom.’ He glanced sideways at me. ‘Saving your presence – I know you came to help us at his urging, but now that Clara is dead, that changes everything.’
‘You think the plan should be abandoned?’
‘You heard what I think last night. Postponed, at the very least, until we learn how much is known. I think Ballard will not be persuaded to caution. He will say there are too many wheels in motion to change course now. But what he proposes – to rush to execution of the Tudor, with no back-up in place – it’s madness.’
‘And yet you all do as he says, even if it will end on the scaffold. Why?’
He turned and looked at me directly. ‘You’ve met him. There is a force about him, a conviction – I can’t explain it. When he talks of bringing England back to God, and righting the country’s ills – he makes you believe it. He carries you with him, like a prophet.’
‘And I thought you English were so cold and reasonable,’ I said. I smiled, to show the remark was meant in good humour, but Babington’s frown hardened.
‘Most of us are better at talking than action, it’s true. I’ve been in Paris among the exiles, I’ve sat in alehouses and listened while angry young men rail against the Tudor and her government. I’ve been one of them. But that is all they do. You know what I mean, Gilbert.’ Gifford nodded miserably. ‘It’s what the English do best,’ Babington continued, ‘sitting over a pot of beer complaining about all that is wrong with the country. Ballard is one who truly wants to do something. When I first met him, he made me ashamed for my apathy. That’s why I threw my lot in with him, gave my father’s money. But now I fear his passion outweighs his reason.’
I thought of Ballard the night before, handing out food to the men in Paul’s churchyard, risking his life to take the sacraments to the poor. I did not doubt the priest’s sincerity, or his desire to do good, but Babington was right: he was willing to burn everything down around him to achieve his vision of a better England.
‘So the English are capable of passion,’ I said.
‘Contrary to popular belief,’ he replied, still not smiling. ‘Most of us learn to keep it battened down.’ He left a pause, in which I thought he might elaborate, but he turned away and scanned the milling spectators again.
‘Well, I am sorry for the girl’s death, God rest her soul,’ I said, ‘and not just because of what it will mean for your plans. It is hard to lose a comrade. Especially hard for her brother, poor man.’
At that, he turned to look me in the eye with an expression of such tenderness that I revised my earlier opinion of him; he was clearly struggling to hold back genuine grief. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding vigorously and laying a hand on my arm, ‘thank you. I don’t think I have fully grasped the import of her loss. And Robin – what he must be feeling. To live through this again.’ He shook his head briskly and I saw the shine of tears in his eyes. ‘We always knew that one of us might be taken, and what it would mean to be questioned. We never supposed it would be Clara.’
‘What do you mean, again?’ I asked. Before he could answer, Gifford dug me in the ribs.
‘Here they come. And Ballard has brought a couple of – oh my God.’ His mouth hung open. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw Ballard, dressed in an assemblage of fruit-coloured silks under his gold lace cape, with what appeared to be a courtesan on each arm; two young women in long cloaks and low-cut dresses, their hair piled high on their heads with scarves and combs, cheap gaudy jewellery clinking between their breasts. They wore so much make-up that it took me a moment to realise what Gifford had seen as soon as they appeared – under the face paint and the whore’s disguise, it was Bessie Pierrepont and Sophia Underhill, or Mary Gifford, as I must remember to call her. Behind them came Jack Savage, his jacket open to reveal the knife at his belt to anyone who cared to look, and at his side, Robin Poole, his face drawn and pale.
Ballard appeared to be enjoying the charade a little too much; I had to fight to keep my countenance as he slipped a hand around Sophia’s waist and squeezed her, making her squeal playfully, and Gifford looked ready to explode with fury when he did the same to Bessie. I trod firmly on his foot as a warning, but he barely noticed.
‘Gentlemen!’ Ballard was in full Captain Fortescue mode. ‘I told you I had a surprise for you, and am I not as good as my word?’ When no one spoke, he patted the girls on their behinds and pushed them forwards, beckoning the rest of us closer into a huddle. ‘These lovely ladies may look like Winchester geese, but nothin
g could be further from the truth – they are chaste and pious gentlewomen and friends to the Queen’s cause.’
Bessie Pierrepont darted a coy look at Babington from beneath her lashes and bobbed a curtsy. ‘Hello, Anthony. I was delighted to hear from you after all this time. I thought you had quite forgotten me now that you’re a married man.’
Babington smiled, and for an instant I caught something in his expression that looked almost like disgust, before his good breeding smoothed over it and he bowed low.
‘Bessie – I knew we could count on your discretion and your wits. I will forbear from observing that you have grown into a handsome woman, since I imagine you hear that from every man you meet.’
The girl acknowledged this with a self-satisfied smile. ‘But since I was old enough to receive compliments from men, there was only one whose opinion ever mattered,’ she said, batting her lashes at him as if her living really did depend on it. Beside me, Gifford made a small noise of indignation in the back of his throat; I pressed on his toes with my boot heel again. ‘And this is my friend Mary, whose loyalty I vouch for with my life.’
Sophia gave a graceful curtsy and looked around the company; her gaze locked with mine for the fleetest moment before sliding away as if we had never met. ‘I will serve your cause, gentlemen, however I may.’
Babington regarded her coldly. ‘I could not have been clearer in my message, Bessie, that you must speak to no one of this.’
‘Yes, but you are asking me a favour, Anthony, and quite a dangerous one, not giving me orders, so you must let me decide how best to help you.’ Bessie flicked a lock of hair over her shoulder as if there were no more to argue. ‘Now – are you going to introduce me to your friends? Captain Fortescue I know, and these good gentlemen I have just met’ – she indicated Poole and Savage – ‘but who are these? I wish to know who I am trusting myself to with such an undertaking.’ She turned the full dazzle of her smile on me and Gifford in turn, affecting not to notice that he had turned puce and was opening and closing his mouth like a fish. So she was not acknowledging her acquaintance with Gifford in public. Their furtive manner at the playhouse had suggested as much.
‘Master Gilbert Gifford, of Staffordshire,’ Ballard said, pointing; Bessie’s gaze skimmed over him with a polite nod and came to rest on me. ‘And Señor Xavier Prado, a cloth merchant from Spain.’ He gave an extravagant wink as he said this.
I bowed low and kissed her hand; she giggled. ‘Cloth merchant, is it? Perhaps I shall have to buy some of your wares to have a new dress made – there seems to be hardly anything of this one. I’m amazed they don’t freeze to death, these Winchester girls.’ She tugged at her bodice, which had inched even lower. I looked away as primly as I could and caught Sophia’s eye again; at her infinitesimally raised eyebrow it was all I could do not to laugh.
‘Where is Titch?’ Babington asked.
Ballard looked around as if he might have misplaced him along the way. ‘I thought he was coming with you?’
‘No. His lodgings are nearer yours – I thought you would call for him.’
‘There must have been a misunderstanding. No matter, he knows where to find us. Now…’ he dropped his voice to a whisper and we all gathered closer to hear him, ‘I have spent this afternoon sounding out young Mistress Pierrepont here on our proposal, and for the sake of the true Queen and true religion, she is persuaded to be God’s instrument.’
No one spoke. Bessie allowed her gaze to travel around the company; the twist of her mouth suggested she had expected a more enthusiastic reception.
‘It is no small thing you ask of me, gentlemen,’ she said, a little ruffled. ‘I would like to feel that I have your full confidence.’
‘How will you do it?’ Savage asked, evidently put out that he had been displaced as assassin.
‘It would have to be untraceable,’ Bessie said, affecting an expert air, as if she dealt with such matters all the time. ‘Something slipped into her drink at night, I think, so that by morning it will be thought she took a seizure or some such sudden illness.’
‘And you are in a position to administer this without being caught?’ Savage sounded sceptical.
‘This week I have been off duty and staying with my aunt, Lady Cavendish, at her house on the Strand, but on Sunday I return to Whitehall, to the Tudor’s Privy Chambers. I am confident I can find the opportunity. I am trusted by Elizabeth, for the sake of my family name, and for my good service.’
‘Where would you get such a poison?’ Savage demanded. He seemed determined to find a weakness in this new plan.
‘I will take care of that,’ Ballard said. ‘There is a woman at the Unicorn here on Bankside who has a skill with herbal preparations unrivalled by anything I have seen on my travels. For the right price I’m sure she could make something that fits our purpose.’
‘And this woman would not ask questions about why you wanted to buy a deadly potion?’ I said.
Ballard let out a hearty guffaw and slapped me on the back. ‘My dear friend, we are talking of the Unicorn. People know better than to ask impertinent questions. Besides, this woman is in my debt – she will keep her mouth shut.’
I nodded. It was clear he meant Leila; I wondered what debt she could owe Ballard, and whether it had anything to do with Joe’s reaction to seeing the priest that morning.
‘So there is the how. The bigger question is, why?’ I said.
Bessie fixed me with a look that would turn milk. ‘Excuse me?’
I glimpsed the displeasure in Ballard’s expression, as I felt the others’ eyes on me.
‘Out of nowhere, these men approach you with such an extraordinary request – one which, as you say, will put you in significant danger. Why would you agree?’
Her gaze narrowed; she was used to flattery from men, not scrutiny.
‘I’m sorry – who are you, again?’
Ballard laid a hand on her arm and softened his voice. ‘You may trust him, for all his blunt ways. He is only being careful of his interests.’
‘Huh.’ She tilted her chin at me with disdain. ‘It’s a little thing called loyalty. Anthony knows my affection for the Queen of Scots goes back many years. I knew her as a child, and loved her then. She sewed a gown for me when I was four years old, and to this day I keep it in a chest.’ She smiled around the company, and appeared to realise that this did not mean much to a group of men. ‘I would not have dared take such a risk on my own, naturally, but to learn that such gentlemen as yourselves have plans so advanced, and to think I might play my part…’ She laid a palm flat on her breast and paused, as if overcome. ‘Of course, I was unprepared, and the idea frightened me at first. But I have prayed on the matter since talking to Ballard, and I am sure of God’s hand in the enterprise – for the love I bear the Queen, how could I refuse to serve?’
Ballard nodded approval. I could not work Bessie out; there was such artifice in her manner that if I had been a genuine conspirator, I would have wanted better proof of her allegiance. But perhaps she always came across as if she were overacting, and her intentions were entirely sincere. Ballard was clearly so desperate to hasten the assassination that he was willing to accept her ready agreement without further questions, and the others – though they looked uneasy – seemed to believe that his judgement was good enough. I would have to ask Sophia what she thought, if I found a chance to speak to her alone.
‘And your friend?’ I pressed, stealing a glance at Sophia.
‘I have made Mistress Gifford my confidante because she is also a true believer – aren’t you, Mary? She lived among the exiles in Paris. And because her life is so dull, poor Mary.’ Bessie patted Sophia’s arm in sympathy. ‘Besides, I shall need someone to carry messages to you once I am back on duty – I cannot be seen to be meeting men when I am out of this disguise.’
Sophia cast her eyes down sadly, as if acknowledging the tedium of her life and her gratitude to her friend. I had to admit she was playing her part well – as if I
didn’t already know her skill at dissembling.
‘I had not thought we were in the business of providing entertainment for bored girls,’ Savage said, not bothering to disguise his contempt.
‘Do not condescend to us, Master Savage,’ Bessie said, drawing herself up, her expression making clear what she thought of men like him. ‘We are not silly girls. Mary here speaks three languages, including Latin and Greek.’
‘Oh, well then,’ Savage said, ‘I can’t think how we have managed without her.’
‘Come now, Jack,’ Ballard turned to him with his most reassuring expression. ‘We serve a common purpose here, let us not bicker among ourselves. When the Almighty closes one door, he opens another. Without Mistress Pierrepont we have no hope of getting close to our target in the immediate future, and all will have been in vain. She is the answer to our prayers.’
I glanced at Gifford, knowing his prayers with regard to Bessie; he looked as if he might be sick at any moment.
‘And have you decided when the deed shall be done?’ I asked Ballard.