by Jean Plaidy
“Not you,” commanded Mary. “You will stay.”
Bessie stood sullenly looking at the Queen.
“Why did you not tell me?” asked Mary reproachfully.
“Because you were determined to make me marry Lord Percy.”
“Of course you must marry Lord Percy. It was not I who arranged the match—but it is a good one.”
Bessie said: “I shall never marry Lord Percy.” And as she spoke all the affection she had been wont to give Mary seemed to have disappeared, and it was almost as though her grandmother stood there.
“Bessie, you are very young . . . ” began Mary tolerantly.
“I am a woman. I love Jacques. I have always loved Jacques. I love him more than anyone in the world. I always shall. I am going to marry Jacques . . . .”
“Now, Bessie, my dear, you know that a girl in your position must obey her guardians.”
“I care nothing for my guardians.”
“Bessie! You can say that!”
Mary was deeply wounded. She was thinking of the day she had become this child’s godmother, how she had told her stories as they lay in bed, how they had taken their meals together and how, when Bessie was little more than a baby, rather terrified of her overbearing grandmother, she had run to Mary for comfort. Bessie thought of nothing but her passionate love for Jacques; and she was ready to hate anyone who came between her and its fulfilment.
“I can say it, and I will say it. I love Jacques. I want Jacques, and I hate . . . hate, hate anyone who tries to stop our marriage.”
“You are a foolish child,” said Mary. “You are not being reasonable.”
“I care not for reason. I care for nothing but Jacques!”
“Bessie, I think you should think what you are saying.”
“I have thought of nothing else for months. I am going to marry Jacques and no one on Earth is going to stop me! You are an old woman—you don’t understand . . . . Or have you forgotten!”
Bessie suddenly burst into angry tears and ran from the room. Mary looked after her bewildered.
MARY WAS ENTIRELY PREOCCUPIED with the affair of Bessie and Jacques. Hatred for her had looked out of Bessie’s eyes when the girl had stood before her so defiantly proclaiming her love, and Mary was hurt.
Had the lovers come to her and told her of their feelings for each other before the Countess had expressed her desire for a marriage with Lord Percy, she would have done all she could to help them. Now it seemed that she could not, since to do so would be deliberately to oppose the wishes of the girl’s family.
Her little Skye terrier seemed to sense her grief and jumped onto her lap and licked her hands.
She stroked him tenderly for she took great joy in the little creature and since he had been sent to her he had not left her side.
She wondered what she would do about the defiant lovers; and eventually she believed that she should send Bessie away.
If Elizabeth would have the girl at Court it might be that, with all the splendor of that life, Bessie would forget Jacques. Mary was of the opinion that the girl, living the sheltered life which had necessarily been hers, had imagined she was in love with the first handsome man who had noticed her. Bessie was too young to understand this; if she went away, met other people, she might learn that her affection for the secretary was not the grande passion she had imagined it was.
Eventually Mary wrote to Sir Henry and Lady Pierpont telling them that she thought it was time they took their daughter into their home.
IN AN INN PARLOR not far from St. Giles’s-in-the-Fields a priest sat waiting for a visitor. His outstanding features were his burning fanatical eyes, and as he waited he drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. Eventually he was joined by a man in the uniform of a soldier.
“Pray be seated,” said the priest.
The soldier obeyed, drawing his chair close.
“I know we can trust each other,” went on the priest. “My name is John Ballard and we have mutual friends. I know you to be John Savage and that we hold similar views.”
“I believe Thomas Morgan has recommended me to you,” Savage murmured.
“That is so. You are the one who is ready to give his life for the Faith. That is all that matters. Danger lies ahead of us, my friend. Are you afraid of danger?”
“I am not afraid to die for my faith.”
“That is what I understood. Believe me, my friend, all of those who are ready to work in this project must hold those views.”
“Will you enlighten me?”
“With pleasure. I believe—and I am sure you as a good Catholic will agree with me—that no good can come to England while we have a Protestant bastard on the throne.”
“I believe with all my heart that no good can come to England until she returns to the Catholic Faith.”
“Then, my friend, we are in accord. It is our endeavor to bring back the Catholic Faith and, as we can only do so by removing Elizabeth, we plan to do exactly that and set Catholic Mary in her place.”
“Who else is with you in this enterprise?”
“Certain gentlemen whom you shall meet without delay. Do you wish to go further?”
“I wish it with all my heart,” replied John Savage.
IT WAS GROWING DARK when the two men made their way to a house in Fetter Lane. Ballard gave three slow knocks on the door which after a while was opened.
He stepped into a dark passage, and Savage followed him. The man who had opened the door, recognizing Ballard, nodded an acknowledgment, and they followed him down a flight of stairs and along a corridor. When they reached a certain door, this was quietly opened by Ballard, and Savage saw that he was about to enter a dimly lighted room which, it soon became apparent, had been made into a chapel; he saw the altar and, standing about it, several men.
Ballard announced: “John Savage. He is one of us.”
An unusually handsome man stepped forward and grasped Savage’s hand.
“My name is Anthony Babington,” he said quietly. “Welcome to our band. We were about to hear Mass. You will join us?”
“With all my heart.”
“Afterward we will go to my house in the Barbican and there you will become acquainted with my friends.”
Savage bowed his head, and the Mass began.
When they had left Fetter Lane for the house in the Barbican, Anthony Babington entertained his friends with food and wine, and after they had been served he bolted the doors and assured himself that nothing which was said in the room could be heard by anyone outside it.
Babington, Savage realized, was a man in his middle twenties. He was somewhat flamboyant in dress as he was in manner and his handsome features glowed with an enthusiasm which was infectious. Babington believed wholeheartedly in his plot; he could not visualize failure, and such was his personality that everyone around that table caught his fervor.
He took the center of the stage and dramatically explained why this party of men were gathered together in such secrecy.
“My friend,” he said, “now that you have joined us we are thirteen in number. But do not think we are alone. Once we are ready we shall find the entire Catholic Nobility of England behind us. And we have allies outside England. This is no Northern Rising, gentlemen. This is going to be the revolt against Protestantism which will change the course of our country’s history. The Pope is with us. The King of Spain is with us. And once we have removed the bastard from the throne, these powerful allies will come to our aid.”
He looked around the assembly, his eyes glowing.
“John Savage,” he went on, “I will now introduce you to your colleagues.” He pointed to the man who sat on his right hand. “Edward Abington,” he said. Savage inclined his head in greeting which was returned by Abington. Then he indicated the others who sat around that table and the procedure was repeated: “Edward Windsor, Edward Jones, Chidiock Tichbourne, Charles Tilney, Henry Donn, Gilbert Gifford, John Traves, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury.”
Savage took his seat and Babington went on to explain the conspiracy, which he had been chosen to lead. It was well known on the Continent, he explained, that he was an ardent Catholic, devoted to the cause of the Queen of Scots. The core of the plot was to bring England back to the Catholic Faith and to free the Queen of Scots, but there was one deed which must be performed before this could be achieved: the assassination of Elizabeth. Once Elizabeth was dead the King of Spain and the Pope would not hesitate to give their open support. Therefore their first task was to plan that assassination. When the time was ripe Babington proposed to call for six volunteers for this most important task. In the meantime there were minor details to be discussed.
“I will inform the Spanish ambassador that we rely on Philip II above all, and that it is because of his encouragement and promises of help that we have the zeal and courage to go on with this dangerous plan. We shall ask for an assurance that, as soon as Elizabeth is dead, help reaches us from Spain and the Low Countries. Ships in the Thames must be seized. Cecil, Walsingham, Hunsdon and Knollys must be immediately either captured or killed. I shall inform the Queen of Scots of our intention.”
Charles Tilney put in: “Is it wise to tell her of the intention to murder Elizabeth? I have reason to believe that she will not readily agree to be party to such a deed.”
Babington was thoughtful and others added their doubts to Tilney’s.
They should go cautiously in their communication with the Queen of Scots who was, after all, a prisoner in the hands of their enemies.
“Letters will have to be smuggled to her,” pointed out Henry Donn. “A dangerous procedure.”
Gifford spoke then. “I do not think you need fear, my friends. We have a very good method of conveying letters to the Queen. The brewer of Burton is an honest man whom we can trust. The Queen must be prepared for rescue. It would be unwise to keep her in the dark.”
There was clearly a divided opinion on this matter and it was temporarily shelved.
But when the meeting was over and the conspirators went their various ways, Gifford returned to the house to speak to Babington; they sat for a long time discussing the plot, and Gifford did not have great difficulty in persuading Babington that it would be advisable to inform Mary of their intentions.
ANTHONY BABINGTON was a vain young man. Extremely handsome, elegant and wealthy, he had been intended for the Bar, but had abandoned this career for a fashionable life on the fringes of the Court. He had divided his time between that Court and his vast estates at Dethick. During the last few years he had also traveled abroad and, because he must be the center of attention, he had become known as an ardent Catholic, and a man of adventure, so that he had been noticed as a suitable leader to be remembered when such a one was needed—for his vitality, enthusiasms, wealth and charm were invaluable.
When he was barely eighteen he had married Margery, the daughter of Philip Draycot of Paynsley in Staffordshire; the Draycots were Catholics, as were his mother and his stepfather, Henry Foljambe. Among such fervent Catholics intrigue was constantly fostered, and Anthony soon became a member—with the support of his family—of a secret society which had been formed for the protection of Jesuit missionaries in England.
And so it was that while he was but twenty-five he found himself at the head of a conspiracy which if it succeeded would change the course of English history.
Anthony now saw himself as a man of destiny. He believed that Fate had chosen him. Was he not outstandingly handsome, cultured, witty? Did he not draw men and women into his circle through his charming manners?
He had always cherished a devotion to the Queen of Scots. She was such a romantic figure—a beautiful woman, a Queen, a helpless prisoner, the motive for many a conspiracy, the symbol of many a cherished ideal.
When he had met her he had been conscious of that potent charm. He was devoted to his wife and young daughter, but, for him, as she was for so many, the Queen was someone to worship from afar, the ideal woman.
But Anthony Babington was no simple-hearted George Douglas. His devotion was not single-minded. For although Anthony admired the Queen, he admired himself more.
Anthony must be the center of the stage—the leading character in the drama. The Queen was a charming second—but a symbol, whose grace and beauty must merely serve to emphasize the valor of the man of action.
He had already committed an act which he knew some of the conspirators would have declared not only foolish but highly dangerous, when he had caused to be painted a picture of himself with six of his friends—himself in the center as leader—and had allowed this picture to be inscribed with the words:
Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula ducunt.
Perhaps the best time to have had such a picture painted would have been after the conspiracy had been brought to a successful conclusion, but Babington was impatient, and he derived great pleasure from looking at this portrait of himself.
He was impatient now—eager to receive the approbation of the Queen of Scots. He wanted Mary to know that he was ready to risk his life for her; when the plot succeeded there would be many to claim her praise for their part in it; he wanted her to know now that the plot was Babington’s plot and that it was he who was at the very heart of it.
He knew that he should act with caution, that some members of the company had thought it unwise to write to Mary; but Gifford was with him. Gifford believed that Mary should be informed.
Anthony took up his pen and wrote to Mary:
Most highly and excellent Sovereign Lady and Queen unto whom I owe all fidelity and obedience . . . .
He smiled as he wrote, and the eloquent words rose to his lips while he mouthed them slowly to keep time with his pen.
He himself, with his trusted followers, would deliver her from her prison; they planned to dispatch the “Usurping Competitor”; he told her that Ballard, who was one of Her Majesty’s most zealous servants, had recently come from overseas with promises of help from Christian Princes. He wished to know if he could promise his friends rewards for their services when victory was won.
He signed himself: “Your Majesty’s most faithful subject and sworn servant, Anthony Babington.”
Having finished, he read through the letter once more, repeating the phrases which seemed especially well turned.
He closed his eyes and rocked to and fro in his chair, looking into a future colored bright with the rewards of valor and loyalty. The Queen of Scots was now the Queen of England also. She reigned in Hampton Court and Greenwich; and always beside her was her most faithful friend and adviser, without whom she would make no decisions. She wished to shower honors on him; she wanted the whole world to know that she would never forget all he had done for her.
But he only smiled and said: “It matters only that I can say to myself: ‘But for Anthony Babington my gracious lady would still be a prisoner of the bastard Elizabeth.’ That is all the reward I ask.”
Then she begged and pleaded—and just to please her he accepted an earldom . . . a Dukedom . . . great estates . . . and so it was—almost against his will—that the most important man in England was now Anthony Babington of Dethick.
This was no time to dream. He sealed the letter and took it to Gifford.
“I have written to the Queen,” he said. “I know I can trust you to see that it reaches her.”
“With the help of that honest man it shall reach Her Majesty in her next consignment of beer.”
When they parted, Gifford was smiling. His master would be pleased, he was thinking, as he made his way to Walsingham.
WALSINGHAM EXULTED as he read the letter.
“Well done,” he murmured. “Well done.”
“It seems, my lord,” ventured Gifford, “that the end is in sight.”
“Let us not be impatient. This Babington is a fool.”
“Assuredly so. Do you pr
opose to arrest him now?”
“No. We will give him a little more rope. He is such a fool that he gives me no qualms. I will have this letter resealed at once and you must see that it reaches the Queen’s hands without delay. Her answer will be interesting. Go now. You will be hearing from me very soon.”
Gifford left Walsingham and made for Chartley. Meanwhile Walsingham sent for Thomas Phillipps. He had work for him.
MARY CONTINUED TO BROOD on the change in her relationship with Bessie Pierpont. Bessie was sullen in her presence and showed no regret that their love for each other had undergone this change. Bessie hated everyone and everything which kept her from Jacques.
“I understand her love for the man,” Mary told Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, “but surely she must understand my position. How can I help her against the wishes of her grandmother? And she grows more like Bess of Hardwick every day. To tell the truth, when I see her looking so much like the Countess I almost wish that she were one.”
There were complications also with Jacques who knew that the Queen was endeavoring to have Bessie sent away. He too was resentful, and she knew that he jealously watched Barbara and Gilbert Curle as though, by favoring them and not himself and Bessie, she had been guilty of unkind favoritism.
“As though I do not want everyone about me to be happy!” She sighed. “God knows there is enough unhappiness in these prisons which I have been forced to inhabit for so many years!”
She looked forward to those days when the beer was delivered. There was always the excitement of seeing what was in the box; and it was while she was so distressed about Bessie and Jacques that she received the letter from Babington.
It was in cipher of course, and it was necessary for one of the secretaries to decipher it. This duty fell to Gilbert Curle who, when he brought it to her, was very agitated. He handed it to her and she read it, catching her breath as she did so.
Freedom! she thought. A chance of freedom at last.
She reread the letter and her eyes rested on that phrase “dispatch the Usurping Competitor.” She knew what that meant, and she heartily wished it had not been included. And yet . . . Elizabeth had kept her in prison for all these years. Should she be anxious on her account?