by S. J. Parris
I found Gifford picking up the piles of shirts he had strewn around the floor of his room and folding them. I smiled, thinking of Savage’s impatience with Titch’s untidiness earlier.
‘There you are,’ he said, peevish. ‘Where have you been this time?’
‘In the company of women,’ I said. ‘Glad to see you’re not at the bottom of the Thames. You managed not to give us away, then?’
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ he said, sitting heavily on the edge of my bed. ‘It was awful, I was shaking like I had the palsy the whole time we were walking, I had to tell him it was because I was nervous about the pursuivants.’
‘What did he want?’
‘He was asking about my father again.’
‘About his release from prison? Does Ballard suspect?’
‘No, not that. He’s demanding to know how many men my father could spare to help free the Queen of Scots. Now that there’s no time for Babington and Titch to raise an army of a hundred, or whatever they boasted. Ballard seems to think that if my father has ten strong men in his household with farm implements, we can take Chartley Manor.’ He let out a bitter little laugh. ‘I won’t have my father dragged into this, the idea of it would make his heart stop. But Ballard is determined that the success of the plot depends on my family’s willingness to make sacrifices.’
‘Gilbert,’ I sat beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You do know this isn’t going to happen, don’t you?’
‘What?’ He jerked his head to me, eyes wide as if I had confused him.
‘The plot isn’t going to succeed – that’s the whole point of us being here, remember? Babington won’t get anywhere near Staffordshire, any more than your Bessie will get close enough to the Queen to poison her bedtime posset. It’s all being monitored.’
‘She’s not mine yet,’ he said gloomily.
‘Do you think she would really do it? Kill Elizabeth for Babington, I mean?’
‘Not for Babington.’ He scowled. ‘For Mary, though. She loved her as a child.’
‘But there’s a world of difference between a remembered fondness for someone who was kind to you when you were four, and committing regicide for them. Doesn’t it strike you as odd?’
He hunched his shoulders, defensive. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Out of nowhere, she gets a message from Babington, who she hasn’t seen for seven or more years, and by the end of the day she’s agreed to assassinate Queen Elizabeth. She didn’t seem to need much persuading.’
‘Mary Stuart inspires strong loyalties.’
‘If you say so. I only wondered if Bessie might have another motive.’
‘Such as?’
I shrugged. ‘You tell me – you know her. Does she write to Mary Stuart?’
‘How would I know?’ he snapped, rising abruptly and returning to his shirts.
‘Because you are the only person who can get letters in and out of Chartley Manor,’ I said, fixing him with a deliberate look. He turned his back to me.
‘You’re accusing me of carrying letters that I don’t show to Walsingham?’
‘Not accusing. Asking.’
‘I don’t answer to you. I saw you looking at the Gifford girl tonight,’ he added, with a malicious curl to his voice.
‘A man can look.’
‘I wonder now that I ever thought her attractive.’ He picked up his green cloak from the floor and slapped the dust from it as if it were a personal enemy. ‘She has no tits to speak of, and her face is too thin.’
‘To each his own,’ I said mildly.
‘She’s taller than you,’ he added spitefully.
‘Doesn’t matter when you’re lying down,’ I snapped back, and regretted it; I should know better than to rise to his needling. I was about to take off my boots and fall into bed, when I suddenly remembered Babington’s request for confession. ‘Has Babington written his letter to Mary yet, do you know?’
He left a petulant pause before he answered. ‘I should think he’s down there writing it now. The supper broke up early – Ballard said he wanted an early night.’
‘Just think, Gilbert,’ I said, forcing a note of cheerfulness into my voice, ‘as soon as that letter is written, you can take it to Phelippes and this business will be all but over. You’ll have no need to go to Staffordshire at all, except to visit your father, who will never know how close he came to raising a pitchfork army. Listen – I need a quick word with Babington. Leave the door on the latch, I won’t be long.’
He turned at that. ‘Find out if he means to mention Bessie in the letter,’ he said. ‘Advise him not to, if you can.’
‘That might look suspicious, if I start interfering.’
‘If he sets her name down in writing, she will be arrested for treason.’ He twisted the cloak in his hands, giving me a pleading look.
‘As far as we know, she’s planning to poison the Queen, Gilbert. That makes her a traitor.’
‘They would burn her. Does she deserve that?’
‘Not for me to say. Or you. We just intercept the letters.’
‘I don’t believe you are really so callous. Please. Try to convince Babington to keep her name out. Otherwise—’
Otherwise you will destroy that letter before it reaches Walsingham, I thought. I picked up a candle from the table. ‘Don’t wait up,’ I said, and closed the door on his agonised expression, thinking how straightforward all our plans would be, if sex did not cloud our judgement.
* * *
I hesitated outside Babington’s door and took a deep breath, willing myself into a priestly frame of mind. It was many years since I had heard confession; I must not slip up over the phrases with Babington so keen to unburden himself. My task as Father Prado was to relieve him of whatever was weighing on his conscience, ease it gently from him with promises of God’s mercy, and hope that it was something of use to Walsingham. I wished there could have been some way to bring another witness with me, Robin Poole or even Gifford at a pinch, since a verbal confession could always be denied, but if it touched on Clara’s murder, it would be a start.
I knocked gently, but there was no reply. To knock louder risked disturbing the neighbours, and it was almost midnight now; instead, I turned the latch as quietly as I could and opened the door a couple of inches.
Inside, by the low light of a lamp, I saw Babington stretched out naked on his bed, head to toe with another man, each of them with the other’s cock in his mouth. In the instant it took to process what I was seeing, I thought of the old Gnostic symbol of the ouroboros, the serpent eating its own tail. As I pulled the door shut, Babington’s companion raised his head sharply and met my eye. It was Robin Poole.
I took the stairs up to my own floor two at a time, so fast that my candle snuffed itself out and I had to feel my way along the corridor to my room by counting the doors. Well, I thought, that was a confession of sorts. I wondered if Babington had intended for me to walk in on them, or if he had forgotten he had asked me to visit. My room was dark; I fumbled my way to the tinderbox I kept by my bed and managed to relight the candle by the time Poole opened the door and stood on the threshold in only his breeches, breathing heavily. We stared at one another for a moment, until I motioned for him to come in. I was relieved to see that the partition door to Gifford’s room was closed.
‘You told me you could not get close enough to the conspirators to find out anything useful,’ I whispered, trying to keep my voice even while I set the candle in a holder and lit another from it. ‘That looked quite close to me.’
‘I do what I must to get information,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Not that,’ I said.
He made a contemptuous noise. ‘Well, you are without sin, congratulations. Judge me if you wish.’
‘I’m not judging you. I don’t care where you put it. I am only trying to understand what it means for our situation. Does Walsingham know?’
At that, he grabbed me around the throat and
pushed me up against the door.
‘No,’ he hissed, his face an inch from mine. ‘Nor is he going to.’
Tired as I was, I mustered the energy to draw my fist back and punch him in the stomach. He rocked on his heels and let go of me; we watched one another warily, but neither of us had the appetite for a fight.
‘Phelippes suspected,’ he said in a whisper, his shoulders slumping. ‘I don’t know how. He called me in to see him and asked, in his usual way. “Robin Poole, are you a sodomite?”’ His impression of Phelippes’s flat monotone and severe expression made me smile.
‘I didn’t think he would care about that kind of thing,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t a moral objection. He was afraid it would leave me open to blackmail, or that Ballard would kick me out of the group if he knew. That priest has very strong views about sin.’
‘I know.’
‘So I denied it, and to strengthen my case I thought it would be clever if—’ He stopped, passing his hands over his face.
‘If you introduced your sister to the conspirators, so that everyone would think she was the one having an affair with Babington.’
He nodded. ‘Anthony thought it a good idea too. He feared Savage and Ballard suspected.’
I thought of Savage’s remark about Babington’s marriage at the Castle dinner, and the way he had left that insinuating although hanging.
‘He might be right. So what happened – she did not play her part?’
‘She complicated things,’ he said, through his fingers.
‘By falling in love with him?’
At that, he raised his head and laughed. ‘God, no. She disliked Anthony from the start, though she was willing to pretend, for my sake.’
‘Then what?’
‘She—’ He broke off and glanced at the partition door. ‘Wait – is Gilbert in?’
I turned to follow his gaze. I motioned to him to be silent, and slid the latch open to check. When I heard no sound from within, I pushed the door wider, to see that Gifford’s bed was empty and all the neatly folded clothes vanished.
‘Merda.’ I whipped around and stared at Robin. ‘He was here five minutes ago, I left him tidying his clothes.’
‘Packing, you mean.’ He brought a candle and shone it around Gifford’s room. ‘You fool. Looks like he’s run out on us.’
‘He must have taken the other staircase, while I was on the landing. He can’t have got far, come on.’
I raced down the stairs and into the street, to find it empty; with only the light of one small candle it was impossible to see which direction Gifford could have taken. He may even have been a few feet away, hiding in a gap between houses until he was sure no one was looking for him. Damn him; I realised he must have planned to wait until I was asleep before leaving, to give himself enough of a head start, but decided to take the chance while I was downstairs with Babington. A moment later the street door clattered and Poole joined me, after picking up his shirt and boots on the way.
‘No sign,’ I said. ‘I should have guessed he might do this. He doesn’t want to take that letter to Walsingham if it incriminates Bessie. And Babington won’t hand it over except to his trusted courier. Would he give you a copy?’
Poole looked at his feet. ‘Uh – I don’t think he’s had time to write it yet.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh yes – he’s been otherwise occupied. Look – Phelippes needs to know Gifford’s bolted. You’d better get to Leadenhall Street right now and tell him.’
He glanced back up at Herne’s Rents, where lights still burned in some of the windows – including, presumably, Babington’s. ‘Can’t you go?’
‘No,’ I said bluntly. ‘That’s the price of me forgetting what I just saw.’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘How in God’s name would Gifford get away at this time of night? Where would he find a horse?’ Then a thought struck me. ‘Tell Phelippes to try the house of Lady Grace Cavendish on the Strand – Bessie might be helping Gifford escape.’
‘Wouldn’t it be quicker if you went directly there to look for him? If she’s giving him a horse he’ll be long gone by the time I get to Leadenhall and Phelippes manages to organise men in pursuit.’
I was forced to concede the logic of this, though I too cast a wistful glance up at the window where my bed waited for me. I regretted my enthusiasm for hearing Babington’s confession; I could have been asleep by now, and blissfully ignorant of all this.
‘I’ll be back here as soon as I can. Leave a note under my door if you find anything.’ I gestured back to Herne’s Rents. ‘Better tell your inamorato to hurry up with his letter. Say Father Prado has sent you home to pray and repent.’
Poole shot me a withering glare, but he nodded and limped back inside the building. I returned to my room to fetch a lantern and tinderbox and stood for a moment, buttoning my doublet with one hand, looking at Gifford’s empty bed and cursing all of them.
TWENTY-TWO
I took the path across Lincoln’s Inn Fields with my knife drawn; I could not shake the sense that I was being followed, and in that lonely stretch of countryside, at this time of night, I was making myself an obvious target. Was it Douglas tailing me still? I couldn’t see why he would have need, now that he had revealed himself and made his threats, unless to show that he didn’t trust me. Though more than once I found myself whipping around for some noise at my back, or starting like a frightened deer when an owl glided low and silent past my face, I saw no one until I came out into Little Drury Lane on the far side of the fields. Here I found one or two late drinkers weaving their way home; at the junction with the Strand I ducked into the shadow of a building to avoid a pair of watchmen, their lanterns held high on a wooden pole, calling to stragglers to get themselves off the streets or face a night in gaol for vagrancy. The Strand was lined with some of the grandest houses in London, belonging to the wealthiest families, so the area was well patrolled, and anyone found loitering immediately suspected of intent to rob. I sincerely wished I had not volunteered for this task; not only did I not know which was the Cavendish house, I was only now realising that these residences would be bristling with guards, and I could hardly knock on the front gate and enquire whether Gifford had called in for a horse.
When the watch had passed, I started westwards along the street, keeping to the shadows on the opposite side to the ornate gatehouses and high walls that separated the palatial façades from the road. At the back, these houses had elaborate gardens that stretched down to the river. I reflected that if I had known the right house, it might have been easier to hire a boat and try to get in that way – but then a wherryman would know my business, and would likely remember the Spanish-looking foreigner seeking to slip over a back wall. As I continued along the street, I recognised the entrance to Arundel House, London residence of Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel; I had been invited to a dinner here three years earlier, during my involvement in the Throckmorton business, and had been lucky to escape with my life. The sight of the gate-house tower sent an involuntary shudder down my neck. As I paused outside, peering as far up the street as the light from my feeble lantern would allow, a man passed me, weaving from side to side and singing. I took a chance and asked if he knew the Cavendish house; he muttered something about lions and pointed vaguely towards the Charing Cross.
I carried on towards the end of the street and came to a large house with stone lions crouching sentinel on the pillars flanking the front gates. I hoped the drunk was right; it was going to be difficult enough to get into one of these mansions and I didn’t want to end up arrested for breaking into the wrong one.
Gifford had not had so much of a head start; if Bessie Pierrepont was fitting him out with a horse to help him flee, I would have expected to see or hear some activity, but the place was sunk in silent darkness. But then the stable yard would surely be at the back, and Gifford was unlikely to have knocked at the main entrance at this time of night if he wanted to slip away unseen. To the left of the boundary wall I
noticed the mouth of an alleyway running down towards the river. I followed it alongside the grounds until I had passed the main buildings; on the other side of the wall I could make out only the tops of trees. The wall must have been at least ten feet high, but it was clad in trailing ivy. I set the lantern down, removed the candle and snuffed it, tucking it into the bag at my belt, congratulating myself on remembering to bring the tinderbox. After a moment of waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, I grasped the plants with both hands and pulled myself up to the top of the wall, rolled over and dropped to the other side in blind faith, landing awkwardly in a shrubbery, though thankfully not a bed of nettles or rose bushes.
I crouched, listening for the sound of any guard dog or night watchman; when I was certain that no one was coming, I brushed myself down and tried to make out my position by the thin moonlight alone. I could see the shapes of low box hedges, and the pale lines of symmetrical paths where they had been laid in white gravel. I walked out a little way into the gardens until I had a clear view of the back of the house; a light burned in one window on an upper floor, but the rest of the household appeared to have retired for the night. There were a series of low outbuildings to the side of the house which were likely to be stables, but I heard nothing stirring. I turned and strained my eyes to see in the other direction, towards the river, when my eye was caught by a small light further down the garden. I began walking towards it, keeping to the path that ran along the inside of the boundary wall. As I drew closer, the light appeared doubled, and I realised that it was reflected in glass; to judge by the shadow ahead, I was looking at a small pavilion or summer house in the grounds, with a lamp burning inside. Could Gifford be taking shelter here overnight while he made further plans? I crept closer, across grass now silvered with dew, until I was able to crouch and peer into the window. To my surprise, I saw Sophia, wrapped in a heavy embroidered gown, propped up against cushions on a day bed with a wooden tray on her lap that held an inkpot and a sheaf of papers. She had washed all the garish make-up off her face and her hair hung in a loose twist over one shoulder. She twirled a quill between her fingers and her brow creased in a frown of concentration. An oil lamp burned on a small table beside her. My heart clenched with a potent mix of love and desire; I watched her, mesmerised, as she scribbled briefly and returned to stroking the plume of the quill along her cheekbone while she thought. God, I wanted her; it barely occurred to me to wonder what she was doing there, in the middle of the night. The summer house was lavishly furnished; Turkey carpets on the floor, and cushions in the corners, as well as the bed. I straightened up to ease my legs; the movement must have caught her eye because she snapped her head up and froze, like an animal scenting a predator. Her gaze met mine through the window and she gave a little scream, stifling it immediately with her fist as she jumped up, knocking her tray to the floor. She stared at me a moment longer before darting forward to pick up the spilled ink; when she looked up, her face was furious, but she gestured towards the door at the side.