A Fine Madness

by Alan Judd

  Ingram Frizer we have met already at Lyford Grange. That gave you the essence of the man: a loyal dog, bullying, robust, hard-riding, hard-dealing. Perhaps no more out for himself than most men but he cared less to hide it and was more successful. He made sure he served his masters well, especially Thomas Walsingham, Sir Francis’s nephew whose man he became and whose widow he enriched in diverse dishonest ways, for which he was well rewarded.

  You may have heard him described as a bawdy serving-man who argued with Christopher over a wench. That is untrue. He was more than a serving-man, more like a factor or bailiff who ensured obedience to his master’s bidding. He was a yeoman, later styled a gentleman. He was never a bawd, no more in drink than most men and taking women only as he found them, not as trade. I believe he later married. Nor do I know of any wench over whom he and Christopher would have argued. It is hard to imagine them having a woman in common.

  Nicholas Skeres was a London man, son of a merchant tailor and about the same age as Christopher. He was small and pale with a black beard neatly trimmed and one eye half closed as if frozen in a wink. He studied law at Furnival’s Inn, lent money at high rates, bought bonds without paying, when he could get away with it, and sold them to the gullible, who did pay. He was ever in court, suing or being sued. Quiet-spoken and polite, he was a natural deceiver or coney-catcher, on business terms with notorious London street thieves such as Staring Robyn and Welsh Dick. Yet he too styled himself a gentleman and was later servant to the Earl of Essex, whose livery he wore until his master’s head was freed from his body. He and Frizer did business together. I heard he died some years ago and, assuming there is more justice in the next world than this, he should now be held to the fire and writhing on the prongs of Satan’s fork.

  Little more needs saying about Robert Poley than I have told you already save that you needed to feel his charm to comprehend his success. Charm takes you a long way – the earls of Leicester and Essex had it in plenty, both favourites of the old Queen – but if you are to go on rising in the world you need something more. You need luck, judgement and determination. Robert Poley had all three. His was the quiet charm that strokes and calms, making whoever he spoke to feel they had all his attention – as indeed they did, while he wanted something of them. There was nothing brash or declamatory about him, no drawing attention to himself like an actor or clown or those who love to preach. He did not seek to impress you with his own importance, but with yours – at least, with the illusion of it. He had regular features and large grey eyes which twinkled with humour when he had a mind to amuse. Women found him attractive. I believe I mentioned before that while in the gaol during a temporary sojourn on our behalf – it being necessary to preserve his reputation as an enemy of the state – he contrived to seduce a comely goodwife, and may later have married her.

  But all the time he hummed with ambition, the ceaseless calculation of his own interests, masked by ease of manner and the balm of plausible lies. Had he not been lowly born he would surely have been a great statesman, an assiduous and successful courtier, as Christopher said. I could imagine him a favourite of the Queen’s. Among the few who were not taken in by him were Mr Secretary and – heeding his example – myself, although also Christopher. I have told you already what Christopher said about him. I think he saw straightaway that Poley always carried with him something hidden and I suspect he thought the same of Christopher, because they fenced each other as if in play, neither seeking seriously to stab. But neither letting down his guard. What he thought Christopher might be hiding, I am not sure. I am not sure that he himself would have known, but he sensed something.

  A mark of Poley’s charm and persuasion was that Anthony Babington, even when fleeing for his life, could not credit how greatly he was betrayed by the man who had shared his room. His farewell to this earth, his very last letter, was written to Poley. He said, ‘Robin… I am ready to endure whatsoever shall be inflicted… I am the same I always pretended, I pray God you be and ever so remain towards me… Thine how far thou knowest.’ It was never delivered. I found it among his papers when gathering evidence for his trial.

  But when we talked in the orchard that morning, amid the dappled sunlight and the buzzing of bees, all this was ahead of us. Men united by common purpose are generally agreeable while things go forward. Christopher and Ingram Frizer greeted each other with rough jocularity, a manner I never saw Christopher deploy with anyone else. Frizer said, ‘Aye, we had an encounter in Berkshire, I recall,’ to which Christopher responded, ‘Followed by an understanding, I trust,’ at which they clapped each other on the shoulder like old soldiers reunited.

  With Poley Christopher was more circumspect. They nodded and shook hands. ‘We met in Paris,’ said Christopher, ‘and escaped unharmed.’

  ‘So far,’ said Poley, smiling.

  Christopher and Skeres were introduced, we were offered ale and all sat to await Mr Secretary. Until he came, which fortunately was not long, we talked of anything but the matter we were gathered for. Poley asked Christopher about the theatre, what was on, who was playing, Skeres and Frizer discussed a court case they were embroiled in, I asked Poley about matters in Scotland, knowing he travelled there on Mr Secretary’s behalf. He said that most of the Scottish nobility would be pleased if Mary’s head should roll, her presence in England being almost as great a problem for them as for the English. Only the French and Spanish stood to gain by it.

  Mr Secretary joined us, striding through the long grass like an avenging angel, dark with purpose. He got down to business immediately, with no preliminaries. ‘There are three essentials. Firstly, we must keep the plotters in play so that we may net them when they are all fully committed. They must believe their game is going forward, otherwise they will disperse and we shall lose them. Secondly, we must keep them all under observation in case they decide to act precipitously against Her Majesty, in which case we must be on hand to prevent them. Thirdly, we must catch Ballard the priest – Captain Fortescue as he now calls himself – as soon as possible. Although he may have just joined them – or may be just about to – he is the engine of the plot, the man to make it happen. But he is also the only one we can arrest without compromising it, because priests in hiding can be arrested at any time. We must make his arrest seem like a routine discovery. But first we must find him.’

  ‘He was last heard of in Kent,’ said Poley.

  ‘That was days ago. He is on the move but so long as he believes his presence is unknown he is unlikely to flee the kingdom. Where then will he go?’ He glanced at us all but resumed too soon for anyone to respond. ‘He will go where he can most swiftly bring his plot to a conclusion. He will seek the man best placed to make it happen. Ballard is the trout which will rise to the fly, Babington. Babington is our fly.’ He turned to Poley. ‘You are still lodging with him?’

  ‘I am, Sir Francis. That is, I was when I left this morning. But he hourly speaks of moving, of running or going abroad, so that I cannot answer for him from one hour to the next.’

  Mr Secretary’s black eyes rested on Poley’s. ‘Answer for him you shall. I hold you responsible. He must be here, under our gaze, for Ballard to find. As soon as Ballard is within our grasp we shall arrest him. But we shall not arrest Babington until we can net the whole crew, as I said. They must all be implicated. Even if Babington and Ballard are together the arrest of Ballard must appear a separate matter, with no mention of the plot. Therefore the arresting party will know nothing of it. They will be city officials and royal pursuivants armed with a warrant signed by Lord Admiral Howard. That said, I want our own eyes and ears there when it happens. All three of you’ – his glance swept across Poley, Frizer and Skeres – ‘are known or suspected of having worked for me. Indeed, it is the prospect of a meeting with me that keeps Babington attached to you, is it not, Mr Poley?’

  ‘He hopes that if he confesses all you will intercede with the Queen who will in return promise there shall be no persecution of Catholics.’<
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  ‘You must make sure he continues to believe that. It may be that we shall have to have you arrested, too, in order to deflect suspicion. As a temporary measure, of course.’ He turned to Christopher. ‘Mr Marlowe, you are not suspected of any association with me so I should be obliged if you would accompany the party to arrest Ballard, whenever it happens. May I trust you to do that?’ Mr Secretary often phrased his orders as requests but there was never any doubt as to which they were.

  Christopher nodded. He looked pleased.

  ‘Thomas will alert you when it is to happen. You must make sure he knows where to find you at all times. During the arrest you say nothing unless you have to intervene. If Mr Poley is present, as is likely, you will not recognise him. So far as the arresting officers are concerned you are a servant of Lord High Admiral Howard, sent to ensure that the conditions of the warrant are complied with. You will observe Babington and any other conspirators closely and, if necessary, you should assure them that they are not in danger, that it is only the suspected priest you are after.’

  The rest of the meeting comprised surveillance instructions for the other three. They were told they were under the command of Francis Mylles and Nicholas Berden, both already deployed on the ground. On our journey back downriver I asked Christopher if he was happy to be involved.

  ‘Grist to the mill.’

  ‘Will you make a play of it?’

  ‘Perhaps. The cause is just and it is an adventure.’ He glanced across the water. ‘What would I do, what would I not do? How far would any of us go in anything? Do we ever know?’

  ‘You are becoming Narcissus.’

  ‘But we are enjoined to know ourselves, are we not? Except you, Thomas. You do not seek to know yourself. Yourself does not interest you. That is true wisdom, perhaps.’ He smiled. ‘But you do seek to know the Widow Turner. And now you have reason to call again.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  That happened sooner than I had thought. One of Lord Admiral Howard’s men roused me at my house before dawn the next morning, telling me I was to go to the Rose tavern at Temple Bar. There I would meet others outside the tavern and proceed to Master Poley’s lodgings nearby. The man clearly did not know why, nor did he know that it was actually Christopher who was to go there. Ballard must have risen to the Babington fly.

  Finding my way to Widow Turner’s house in the dark was a hazardous undertaking. The sky lightened as I went, however, and the most fearful thing I witnessed were looming grey figures in the dawn in Holywell Street where some houses had been pulled down for rebuilding. They looked like ghosts assembling and alarmed me at first until I saw they were vagrants who had slept in the ashes of the bonfires to warm themselves. Two were sturdy beggars who made towards me until they saw I wore my sword. There are even more such fires and more new buildings in our city now, are there not, sir? Sometimes I imagine a terrible conflagration. We should be roasted as in the flames of Hell.

  It was properly light when I knocked on Widow Turner’s door. I expected the servants to answer but eventually she herself called out to know who was there. It was another long wait until she unbolted the door. She wore a shawl and shift, her hair tousled and awry, and before I could explain my mission she began apologising for her appearance, saying she regretted I should see her so untidy. I dared not say I thought she looked most fetching.

  She left me to wait in the panelled room while she found a maid to wake Christopher. When she reappeared she kindly offered me bread and sustenance and I was still declining, with genuine regret, when Christopher appeared. He too looked tousled, blinking through the shroud of sleep. I could not explain anything before Widow Turner but merely said we were summoned to our duties. As she closed the door upon us I fancied she gazed almost wistfully, but whether after Christopher or me I could not tell.

  I could not participate in the arrest, of course, but walked part of the way with Christopher to Temple Bar, rehearsing what he should say or not say. Before we parted I bought us an apple each from a stall, then left for Whitehall and my numbers and ciphers.

  They were ever a solace to me. I accept the necessity of action, of acting in the world, having been obliged to bestir myself more often than I desired. But it always felt like a distraction. A distraction from what? Well might you ask, sir. From the search for truth, from that human quest we find in Plato and the ancients. Now that I am confined here, without my beloved Mary for company, I become more than ever convinced that Plato was right, that truth is to be found in the mathematic. Granted, it is beyond my fathoming, unimaginable, unattainable, but there is in number an echo of eternity that reaches us from beyond the clamour of humanity. I confess I am now more convinced of this than of the truths of scripture which, in those days, I never questioned. Until prompted by Christopher. This may shock you, sir, but if you will have the truth you must hear it. I leave it to you to decide what to tell His Majesty.

  Well, he reported to me in Whitehall later that day, after the arrest of Ballard. It went as planned, the other parties to it being a city official and two royal pursuivants. They asked no questions of Christopher, having been told they would be joined by one of the Lord Admiral Howard’s men. Armed with clubs, swords and chains, they proceeded directly from the tavern to Poley’s lodgings where they found the door unlocked and ajar, though all was dark and quiet within. The explanation for this was that Poley had opened it and was awaiting them, guessing they would come. He whispered that Ballard and Babington were sleeping within, and asked that they knock loudly on the door and that upon his answering they force their way in, handling him a little roughly and perhaps even binding him, but letting him go once they had secured Ballard. They queried this, knowing nothing of Poley or the background, at which point Christopher had to intervene to say that Poley was a trusted man, that they should heed what he said and secure only Ballard, leaving the other one, the young Babington.

  Poley quietly closed the door and a minute later the city official banged upon it with his cudgel and demanded entry loudly enough to wake the neighbourhood. Poley opened and the pursuivants barged in, seizing him and demanding to know whether he was the priest, John Ballard. By this time the other two were on their feet in the back room. Christopher could see them crouching, frozen with shock, until Babington suddenly made for the window at the back. But the city official was too quick for him, rushing into the room and thrusting Ballard aside so that he fell. He grabbed Babington by the shoulder and arm, throwing him to the floor beside Ballard. Then one of the pursuivants let go of Poley and knelt upon Ballard’s chest, pinning him to the floor.

  Satisfied they were all under control, they roped them together and stood them up against the wall to search and examine them. Poley tolerated it with the resignation of one who was no stranger to such procedures, as indeed he wasn’t, and who had nothing to fear, as indeed he hadn’t, this time. Babington, wide-eyed and shaking, protested in a high querulous voice, demanding to know who they were, what was going on and insisting that the Court should hear of this. No one answered him. Ballard, a tall man with hair and beard as black as Mr Secretary’s, was silent and watchful, calculating. No doubt he was fearful, too, and with good reason, but he didn’t show it.

  Christopher witnessed all this from just inside the door. He had no need to say anything more and neither Babington nor Ballard paid him any attention.

  The city official stood before each man in turn and said, ‘Who are you? Give me your name.’

  Poley answered straightforwardly and, when asked who could vouch for him, said, ‘Sir Francis Walsingham, whose messenger I am.’

  Babington described himself as Anthony Babington, gentleman of Derbyshire and Lincoln’s Inn. Then, recovering himself, he demanded to know who it was who asked. They ignored him.

  Ballard drew himself up and gave his name as Captain Fortescue, military gentleman. The city official stared at him. ‘Are you known by any other name?’

  ‘People sometimes call me Black Fortescue.’r />
  ‘What else do they call you?’

  ‘They may call me many things, depending on whether they mean good or ill.’ He had a deep voice, controlled and clear.

  ‘Do they ever call you John Ballard, priest?’

  ‘Never to my knowledge. Why should they?’

  The official turned to the pursuivants. ‘Take him. Let the others go.’

  Ballard was bound anew and led out. Christopher said that his expression was set hard like a man determined to resist. Determined he may have been, then, and certainly remained so while held in the Counter prison. But taken later in the Tower he confessed all to the rack, as nearly all do.

  That was the end of Christopher’s official role in the affair. For what happened next we had only Poley’s account, which was true enough but, as usual, showed its author in a fair light and was not quite complete. He said that he and Babington stayed talking a while. Babington was shaken, white as a ghost, fearful that the plot had been discovered. Poley persuaded him that the authorities were very hot on priests entering the country in order to preach sedition and that somehow they must have discovered Ballard’s real name and his Fortescue alias, perhaps from spies in the seminary that sent him. If they had suspected the plot they would have arrested Babington, Poley insisted, and probably himself too, but they had shown no interest. It was clear that they were simply after a priest.

  Babington, calming, accepted this but worried that Ballard might under torture reveal the plot and the names of all the plotters. He and the others must flee, he said. It would be best to flee abroad but they had no papers so would have to go to ground in the country. Poley urged that they should simply lie low, do nothing to indicate that they feared arrest and meanwhile bring their plot to early fruition. Killing the Queen and restoring the old religion was now their best – perhaps only – route to long-term safety. Or so Poley said he said. Babington agreed, allegedly, and Poley left the house pleading other business, though in fact to report to me and Mr Secretary.