Execution

by S. J. Parris

  Unfolding it, I saw the floorplan of a house, such as master builders use. Entrances and exits had been marked with arrows, the rooms labelled and two of them shaded. Along the top of the paper a sentence had been written in cipher, though I could see it was not Phelippes’s writing this time. Beneath this, a single word, also in cipher, and a crude drawing of a gallows. Some of the characters looked familiar; I focused and tried to pull up from my memory the codes Phelippes had given me in the past, wishing I had the cryptographer’s gift for memorising alphabets at a glance. But as I stared at the paper, I realised that I had seen at least one of the words before, in this same cipher; Phelippes must have been getting lazy, as he had evidently given the same key to me and to Robin. And the word I recognised was ‘Elizabeth’.

  My mouth dried; I slowed my breathing and shut out all other thoughts, working my way back through my memory system until I could see the alphabet as if it were written on the inside of my eyelids. When I was sure I had it, I looked back at the plan and deciphered the remaining words. It read: Justice is the Daughter of Time; a curious variant on Bloody Mary’s motto. And underneath: Elizabeth, and a gallows.

  I exhaled slowly, my hands shaking. So Robin Poole did intend to kill the Queen after all, and clearly in some manner unconnected with the rest of the Babington group and their clumsy plot, which he already knew was doomed to failure. When I had asked Robin what exactly he did for Walsingham, he had laughed and replied, ‘talk to people’. That could have meant anything; it was possible that he had clearance to carry sensitive messages to Walsingham at court, and might therefore be admitted to the heart of the palace. But that must have been the case for some time; I wondered why he had not moved before now. Perhaps he intended to wait until the arrests of Babington and his friends were occupying all Walsingham’s time and attention, and Queen Elizabeth believed the threat was past, before executing his own, private plan. I stared again at the drawing of the house, willing it to give up further information. It was not a plan of any of the royal palaces, that much was clear; the building was too small. I wondered if it might be one of the private manor houses the Queen had intended to stay in during her royal Progress to the countryside later this month. Walsingham would no doubt recognise the layout. I needed to get this paper to him as quickly as possible. I folded it again and tucked it into the lining of my doublet, before replacing the strongbox inside its cavity and pushing the bed back into place. The most obvious course was to take the paper straight to Phelippes at Leadenhall Street, though there was a good chance he might be away, trying to organise the separate pursuits of Prado and Gifford. If I didn’t find him, I could try riding direct to the palace at Whitehall and asking for Walsingham in person, though I had experience of the layers of security at court when the Queen was in residence, and without a seal or any token to prove my right to speak to Master Secretary, I could be waiting for hours to be vetted. Perhaps the best option would be to ride to Seething Lane and ask Lady Sidney to accompany me; if anyone could get me straight into her father’s presence, it would be Frances. As I decided on this course, I turned and it was as if my mind caught up with my eyes; something clicked into place, like the mechanism of a lock, and I scrabbled to take out the floorplan and open it again. I looked at the rooms that had been marked up – study, parlour, kitchen, master bedroom, nursery. Nursery. A sensation like ice water sluiced through my veins; now I recognised the layout of that study, that corridor, that dining room. This was a plan of Walsingham’s house at Seething Lane. An eye for an eye, Clara had said. She had also told me that Robin didn’t care about religion; the only thing that really mattered to him was family. If he believed Walsingham had killed his father, what would he consider appropriate justice? Elizabeth: not the Queen of England, but her namesake, baby Lizzie, Walsingham’s granddaughter.

  I put the plan away, checked that I had left nothing out of place in the room, and pulled the door closed silently behind me. I had never learned the art of locking a door without a key, only opening one; it would be obvious to Robin as soon as he came back that someone had been in his lodgings, but so far there was no reason for him to imagine it was me. In any case, there was no time to worry about that; the paper gave no indication of when he might carry out his plan, but I knew I needed to get to Seething Lane as quickly as possible and take Lady Sidney and the baby to safety.

  I raced the length of Long Lane towards the square where I had left the horse and at the corner almost collided with Anthony Babington. He did at least have the grace to look shame-faced.

  ‘Father,’ he muttered, shuffling his feet.

  ‘Anthony.’ I bobbed him a little bow, and we stood in awkward silence for a moment while I willed him to hurry away.

  ‘I suppose you were visiting Robin?’ He gestured down the street.

  ‘I went to look for him, but he was not at home.’

  ‘I did not expect you, last night.’

  ‘You asked me to call on you,’ I said.

  ‘Oh. So I did. But it got so late, I thought you had forgotten. And then Robin knocked, and I thought he had bolted the door behind him…’ He let the words drift, his eyes on the ground. ‘Will we go to Hell, Father?’

  The simplicity of the question made me think of Joe. I laid a hand on his arm; I no longer cared whether my response was consistent with Father Prado’s character.

  ‘I think God has bigger things to think about,’ I said. Relief washed over his face; it had not escaped me that he was still addressing me as if he believed I were the priest. Wherever the real Prado had got to, he did not seem to have reached Babington yet.

  ‘I’m glad I ran into you, though,’ he said, falling into step beside me with a last yearning glance back towards Robin’s lodgings. ‘I came to call on you earlier, at your room – I was hoping we might talk without Gilbert there. But you were both gone.’ He sounded peevish.

  ‘I don’t know where Gilbert could be,’ I said truthfully. ‘Did you finish your letter to Mary? Was that why you wanted him?’

  ‘I did, but it’s not ready to send yet – there may be further developments.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I said, apprehensive.

  ‘Yes, Savage came by this morning – Ballard has called an emergency meeting at the Unicorn. Something about agreeing the exact date for the execution – apparently he has procured the poison. If we settle upon that, then I can let Queen Mary know of it in my letter, and tell her to prepare imminently for escape.’ His eyes were bright with excitement, despite his previous reservations. I marvelled again at his naïveté in setting every detail down in writing.

  ‘You really think Bessie will go through with it?’ I asked, curious, though I wanted more than anything for him to take his leave.

  ‘It sounds that way,’ he said. ‘She is a reliable girl, as far as I know. Anyway – we can go to Southwark together now. Do you have a horse?’

  ‘Yes, but – I must run an urgent errand first. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you. Savage was quite adamant that we should all be there as soon as possible – he’s out looking for you himself. He might even catch up with us in a minute.’

  I shot him a sidelong glance, wondering if he had been told not to let me out of his sight. It smelled like a trap. Babington may not yet know I was an imposter, but if Ballard had called a meeting, it was quite possible that he did. I hesitated. One good punch to the head and I could knock Babington out long enough to gallop away to Seething Lane; would it be worth it? Hardly, if Savage was somewhere around the corner. And of course there was always the chance that Prado had not yet found the conspirators, that the meeting was not a ruse, and I might be about to find out their exact plans for assassinating the Queen; Walsingham would not forgive me for letting that slip through my hands, and giving myself away needlessly.

  ‘Is Robin going to the meeting?’ I asked.

  ‘We are all needed,’ Babington said. ‘He’s probably already on his way, if he’s not home.’<
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  ‘Good, then,’ I said brightly. If Poole was heading for Southwark, he could not also be at Seething Lane; I could even intercept him on the way back, find an excuse for a quiet word alone, knock him out and deliver him to Phelippes, bound and ready for questioning. I could not help wishing I had brought Ben with me; it could be useful to have someone knowing my whereabouts.

  Babington said little as we rode side by side to Southwark and he seemed edgy and uncomfortable with me, though I supposed this was because of what I had witnessed the night before. He was not such a skilled dissembler as Poole or Ballard, and I was sure that if he had learned the truth about my identity, he would have given it away somehow. My gut wound tighter with every yard we rode away from the direction of Seething Lane. When we left our horses at the Unicorn, I half expected to see Joe appear, palm out for coins; his absence only served to sharpen my fear and guilt.

  Madam Rosa greeted us cheerfully, relieved us of our weapons, and the servant girl Dorothy escorted us to Captain Fortescue’s room on the top floor. The door cracked open and Ballard’s face appeared, smiling.

  ‘Gentlemen! Thank you for coming at such short notice. Anthony, would you go down and wait for the others in the tap-room? I just need a quick word with Prado. Priestly business,’ he added in a low voice. Babington looked somewhat put out, and all my muscles tensed.

  ‘I’m sure there’s nothing Anthony can’t hear,’ I said, matching Ballard’s smile. Babington flashed me a look of pure fear, and I realised he thought the priest had somehow found out about his sins of the flesh.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ Ballard said. ‘Anthony doesn’t mind, do you? Don’t get distracted by any of those lovely ladies on the way, now.’

  Babington gave him a sharp glance, unsure if he was being mocked; he muttered something disgruntled and set off towards the stairs. I should have run after him then, or slammed the door on Ballard’s hand, anything that would have bought me time to run, but I hesitated a moment too long; I was not yet certain I had been discovered, and any sudden moves would have given me away. In the moment that I turned to watch Babington, Ballard seized me by the arm and pulled me inside the room; the door was slammed and bolted behind me and I knew instantly that I had made a terrible mistake.

  Two other men were present. One was Father Weston, watching me from a window seat, his expression more of sorrow than anger. The other, standing by the fireplace, so taut with rage that his lips and knuckles had turned white, was a man of around my own age and height, with the olive skin and black hair of those who grew up in sight of the Mediterranean. He glared at me with eyes dark as my own; he could have been, if not my brother, then at least a cousin. Apart from a bruise on his cheek, he appeared in good shape.

  ‘He doesn’t even look anything like me,’ he remarked to the room in general, in barely accented English.

  I did not have a chance to reply because Ballard swung his arm and crashed a fist into my ribcage. I stumbled back and he took another swing, this time to my jaw; I felt the warm spill of blood bubbling in my mouth and down my chin. The Spaniard yelped.

  ‘Get my clothes off him before you do any more,’ he squealed, and I had time to think dandified little prick before Ballard landed another punch to my stomach and I dropped to my knees, holding up a hand weakly to shield my face, but the Spaniard leapt forward and grasped both my arms behind my back.

  ‘You were good, Bruno, I’ll give you that.’ Ballard leaned down, his breath hot in my ear. ‘I’ll hold my hands up and say, you fooled me.’

  I stared back at him in silence, blood running down my chin.

  ‘You’re wondering how I know who you are. I worked it out. That conversation we had on the way to Paul’s about the Italian heretic in the French embassy – you couldn’t let it go. You kept asking questions – you hinted that you understood his books. Your intellectual vanity was your downfall.’

  Not for the first time, I thought, cursing my wilfulness. He wrestled with the doublet, hauling it off me until I was left in my shirt, then he hit me again in the side of the head, and something exploded in my ear.

  ‘How much do they know?’ he said, clamping a hand around my throat.

  I turned my head and spat a gobbet of blood on to the floor.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him how much he told them?’ I said. My voice came out thick and clotted.

  The real Prado leaned over my shoulder, still holding my arms. ‘You want to hear what your friends did to me? You’ll find out, because I’m going to do it to you in return.’

  ‘What happened to turning the other cheek, Father? They didn’t do anything to you. I heard you cried for your mama before they’d even asked your name. Jesus would be proud.’

  I flinched as he spat in my face. ‘I take no pleasure in knowing you will rot in hell, dog. But you will have the chance to repent of your blasphemies before you die.’

  ‘That’s good of you.’

  Ballard gently ushered Prado back, and tightened his grip on my throat, his face so close to mine that I could almost feel his beard tickling my skin.

  ‘You know what disgusts me the most?’ he asked softly, managing to sound regretful and menacing at the same time. ‘I let you give the sacraments to my flock. An excommunicate heretic. A good woman died taking the host from your hand. Where is her soul now, thanks to you?’

  I tried to speak; he eased his fingers so that I could get the words out.

  ‘I wouldn’t claim to know. But she died at peace,’ I croaked. ‘And if your God is so petty that he would damn a faithful old woman for my deception, I’m glad He is no God of mine.’

  ‘You have no God, you atheist bastard.’ He slapped me in the face with the back of his hand; the crack sounded like a pistol shot. ‘I’ll ask you again, Judas – how much do they know, your friends in the government?’

  I forced my swollen lips into a smile; he followed up with another punch to the gut that made me retch.

  ‘John, you promised,’ Weston said, half-standing, a warning note in his voice.

  ‘You’re right.’ Ballard stood, rubbing his knuckles, then aimed a kick at my ribs; I toppled on to my side and curled into a ball, bracing myself, thinking of Anneke’s story about the man he had beaten to a pulp to protect Joe. ‘I will have it out of you, but time is pressing – I’ve got to find Gifford urgently and send him to warn Mary. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you right this minute,’ he said, looking down at me with a face of pure contempt. ‘We can use you to bargain with, if it comes to it. We’ll put you somewhere safe for a little while.’

  ‘Why were you in London?’ I managed to stutter.

  ‘What? When?’

  ‘You came back from France early and lied to your friends about it. You were here on the twenty-seventh – it’s in the ledger.’

  He crouched down and stared at me, as if he couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

  ‘I came back to see my mother. If that’s all right with you?’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes. In Putney.’ He stood, rubbing his knuckles. ‘In case something went wrong with the plan and we were arrested. In case it was the last time.’

  ‘Just as well you did,’ I said, and he kicked me again in the stomach. I let the blood trickle out of my mouth and tried to focus on him; my right eye was beginning to swell and it was difficult to keep it open.

  ‘Enough talking now. Hold him up,’ Ballard barked at the Spaniard, who hauled me to my knees again, keeping my arms firmly behind my back. Ballard walked a few paces away, to the corner of the room; I could not move my head far enough to see what he was doing. He returned with a small glass bottle in his hand, and immediately I understood what he intended.

  ‘This is so you don’t cause any trouble while we decide what to do with you. Over here, Weston.’

  Father Weston rose reluctantly from his window seat and stood beside me. ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘one more question.’

  ‘I’m not in the humour to
indulge you.’ Ballard unstoppered the bottle and gave Weston a nod.

  ‘Did you give Robin a bottle of opium?’

  He paused, watching me as if he suspected a trick. ‘What is it to you?’

  ‘I wondered where he had got hold of it.’

  Ballard frowned. ‘He had seen me giving doses to the sick – he asked me for some to help him sleep. His leg often pains him. It brings a sweet oblivion, as you are about to discover. Weston.’

  ‘No.’ I twisted my head away. If he gave me opium I would be helpless; they could take me anywhere, do anything, and I would have no chance of escape, no hope of getting to Frances and the baby. Weston pulled my head back; I struggled, but he pinched my nose tight until the lack of air forced me to open my mouth.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, in a very English way, but whatever his reservations, he held my head fast as I tried to shake it to avoid the bottle. Some spilled down the sides of my face, but Ballard kept pouring and though I choked a little, I swallowed enough that in a few moments I felt my vision start to spin; the faces around me became blurred, as if I were seeing them through water, and a warm, gentle current carried me away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I opened my one good eye in a dark room, wincing at intervals as feeling returned to various parts of my body, pain shooting white-hot bolts through my neck, my shoulders, my side, my jaw. My limbs appeared to be paralysed; as my sight adjusted – one eye remained stubbornly swollen shut – I became aware of a dim glow from a candle somewhere behind me, and the quiet sound of someone breathing. A cloth had been tied around my mouth, pressing against my tongue; trails of spittle ran down my chin at each side. My head felt as if I had been drinking for a week. I looked down and realised that I was bound to a chair. The low light was enough to see, as the room swam into focus, that I was in a bare space like an attic, with no windows or doors that I could make out. In frustration, I wrenched my arms against the cords that held them fast behind my back; the chair rocked and I tried to move a foot to steady myself, only to find my legs were fixed too.