The Captive Queen of Scots

by Jean Plaidy

  Why, thought Mary, once I am free I will never allow them to do this deed. I will demand my rights and nothing more. I do not seek to be Queen of England. I only wish to regain my own crown, to be with my son again, to bring him up as my heir.

  “Your Majesty will answer this letter?” asked Curle.

  She nodded.

  “Send for Jacques Nau,” she said.

  Jacques came sullenly into her presence, seeing that Curle was already with her.

  “Ah, Jacques,” said Mary, “I have received a letter which I must answer. You will take my notes and then Gilbert will put them into English and into cipher.”

  This was the usual custom, for Mary thought in French and Jacques took notes and composed her letters, then handing them to Gilbert for translation into English, for although Jacques spoke English well and Curle French, Mary preferred to use them in this way to ensure greater accuracy.

  “It is a letter to an Anthony Babington,” said Mary to Jacques. “You had better read what he says.”

  Jacques read the letter and turned pale as he did so.

  “Well, Jacques?” asked Mary.

  “Your Majesty should not answer this letter.”

  “Why not?”

  “To do so would put Your Majesty in the utmost danger.”

  “Gilbert, what do you think?” asked Mary.

  “I agree with Jacques, Your Majesty.”

  Mary did not speak for some time, but she had clearly abandoned her intention to answer immediately.

  “I will think about it,” she said.

  A NEWCOMER HAD APPEARED at Chartley. This was Thomas Phillipps who, when he arrived, asked to be taken at once to Sir Amyas Paulet.

  Paulet rose with difficulty to greet his guest who was a somewhat unprepossessing man of about thirty; he was short and very thin; his beard and hair were yellow, but he peered shortsightedly out of dark eyes and his skin was hideously pockmarked.

  “We could not be overheard?” Phillipps asked.

  “That is impossible,” Paulet assured him.

  “That is well. I come on the business of Secretary Walsingham.”

  “He is pleased with the work we are doing here at Chartley, I trust.”

  “He is indeed. But we are reaching the climax. An important letter has been delivered to the Queen, and we are eagerly awaiting her reply.”

  “If it is what you wish, she will be entirely incriminated?”

  Phillipps nodded.

  “And if not . . . I suppose we shall go on with our little comedy of the beer barrels?”

  “It will be what we wish. It has to be.”

  “I see you have instructions from the Secretary.”

  “Very definite instructions. As soon as the letter is in your hands it must be passed to me here. For that reason I have come here. This is the most important letter of all. It is not safe to trust it to any messenger. It must come straight from the box to me, that I may decipher it and myself deliver it into the hands of my master.”

  “Your presence in the castle will not go unnoticed.”

  Phillipps waved his hands. “Let some rumor be circulated. You are not well. You have asked for help in your task, and I have come to relieve you. That is as good a tale as any.”

  “It shall be done,” answered Paulet.

  “JANE . . . ELIZABETH,” said Mary, “who is the pockmarked man?”

  Jane did not know, but Elizabeth answered: “His name is Thomas Phillipps, Your Majesty. He is here to relieve Paulet of some of his duties.”

  “I do not much like him.”

  “Nor I,” put in Jane.

  “I saw him yesterday when I rode out in my coach for a little breath of air. He was riding toward the castle. He saluted me. I did not like his sly eyes, which peered at me so oddly. I felt almost glad that I was surrounded by guards. That was an odd feeling to have for a stranger.”

  “I hope he is not going to replace Paulet,” said Elizabeth.

  “I had thought I disliked him as much as I could dislike any jailor. Yet I think that I would rather have Paulet than this pockmarked Phillipps.”

  “Let us not concern ourselves with him, Your Majesty,” Jane said. “It may be that he will soon be gone.”

  “Yes, there are other matters with which to concern ourselves,” Mary agreed.

  There was Babington’s letter. If she did not answer it, would that mean the loss of another chance to escape?

  I have let too many chances pass by, she told herself. If I had been bolder I might not be a prisoner now.

  But for that one sentence . . . . But if she were restored to the throne, if she were free and able to command, she would tell them that she forbade them to allow any harm to come to Elizabeth. She would say: It may be that she is a bastard, but the people of England have accepted her as their Queen, and she is indeed the daughter of Henry VIII.

  She would answer the letter.

  She sent for Jacques and told him to take notes. He looked at her with those dark eyes of his which had once been so affectionate and now were often reproachful. At this moment they were fearful.

  Never mind. She was the one who must make decisions.

  “Trusty and well beloved,” she began.

  And Jacques took up his pen and wrote.

  She wanted to know what forces they could raise, what captains they would appoint; what towns were to receive help from France, Spain and the Low Countries; at what spot the main forces were to be assembled; what money and armor they would ask for; and by what means had they arranged her escape. She begged Babington to be wary of all those surrounding him, for it might be that some who called themselves friends were in truth his enemies.

  She put forward three methods by which she might escape from her prison. Firstly she might take the air on horseback to a lonely moor between Chartley and Stafford; if, say, fifty or sixty men well armed could meet her there, they could take her from her guards, for often there would be only eighteen or twenty of these with her and they would only be armed with pistols. Secondly, friends might come silently to Chartley at midnight, set fire to the barns, stables and outbuildings which were near the house and, while this was being extinguished, it would be possible, with the help of her trustworthy servants, to rescue her. Thirdly, her rescuers might come with the carters who came to Chartley in the early morning. Disguised they could pass into the castle, upsetting some of the carts under the great gateway to prevent its being closed, while they took possession of the house and brought her out of it to where armed supporters could be waiting half a mile or so away.

  She ended with the words:

  God Almighty have you in protection.

  Your most assured friend forever.

  Fail not to burn this quickly.

  Mary sat back watching the two secretaries at work. Immersed in the task, they forgot the danger, and Mary felt alive again.

  “This cannot fail. This cannot fail,” she whispered. “Soon now I shall be free.”

  It was difficult to wait patiently for the brewer to come for the empty barrels. What joy when at last he came, when the box was put into place and the letter sent on its way.

  PAULET BROUGHT THE LETTER to Phillipps.

  “At last,” sighed the latter. “I thought it would never reach me.”

  “It would have aroused suspicions, had we changed the routine in any way.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Phillipps broke the Queen’s seals and looked at the document. He glanced up at Paulet, anxious to be alone that he might continue with his task of deciphering.

  Paulet understood and left him, and as Phillipps labored, his shortsighted eyes close to the paper, he was almost trembling with excitement.

  This was what they had been waiting for. Walsingham was going to be delighted with his servant. Phillipps could scarcely wait to decipher it all.

  At last his task was completed and he read through the damning letter.

  Was it enough? Would it satisfy Walsingham?

&nbs
p; Then he had an idea. Why should he not add a postscript to this letter? No sooner had the idea entered his head than he set to work.

  I should like to know the names and qualities of the gentlemen who are to accomplish the task, for it may be that I should be able to give further advice; and even so do I wish to be made acquainted with the names of such principal persons. Also from time to time how you proceed, and how far everyone is privy hereunto.

  The letter was ready for dispatch to Walsingham, and all in good time it would reach Babington.

  Delighted with his work, Phillipps made a little design on the outside of the letter. It was of a gallows.

  WHEN BABINGTON eventually received the Queen’s letter he put it to his lips and kissed it.

  Now, he told himself, our plans will soon come to fruition. The Queen is with us. She will never forget us when we have brought her out of her prison. This is the happiest day of my life.

  Now he was going to answer the letter in detail, as she so clearly desired. He would get together all the information that she asked and gladly give it to her. The moment was at hand.

  It was while he was writing his reply that his servant came to tell him that a friend had called and was asking to see him.

  Ballard was ushered into his room, and as soon as they were alone together it became clear that Ballard was agitated.

  “All is not well,” he said. “I fear there is treachery among my servants.”

  Babington was startled. He thrust his hands out of sight, because he feared they might begin to tremble.

  “What has happened?” he demanded hoarsely.

  “Little as yet. But we must take the utmost care. I have reason to believe that one of my servants is betraying us. I saw him in conversation with a man in a tavern who I know was at one time an agent of Walsingham’s.”

  “You have questioned this servant?”

  “No. It would be unwise to arouse suspicions. I shall watch him. But in the meantime I wanted to warn you to act with the utmost caution.”

  “I was about to write a letter to the Queen in reply to hers.”

  Ballard caught his breath and held out his hand for Mary’s letter. When he read it he was silent.

  “If this fell into the wrong hands all our endeavors would be wasted,” he said.

  “My dear Ballard, of course it cannot fall into the wrong hands. All our correspondence has been reaching us through that honest man, the Burton brewer. Gifford has arranged this excellent method of carrying letters to and from the Queen. You cannot doubt its efficiency?”

  “I do not. But I say, at this stage move with care. Do not answer that letter until we have satisfied ourselves that all is well.”

  Babington was disappointed, and Ballard thought how young and impetuous he was, and for the first time questioned the wisdom of making him the leading spirit in the conspiracy.

  “If you value our lives, do not write to the Queen until we are sure that we are safe,” he insisted.

  Babington nodded slowly. “You are right,” he added, with regret.

  When Ballard had gone, he tried to recapture his dream of Babington, the first minister of the new Queen of England. But it would not return. Instead other pictures—grotesque and terrifying—were forcing themselves into his mind.

  Ballard had shaken him.

  WALSINGHAM WAS WAITING IMPATIENTLY for the letter he expected, and when it did not come, he guessed that the suspicion that all was not well must have struck the conspirators. He had not meant to make arrest at this point. There was more information that he had hoped to acquire through that interesting correspondence. But if the conspirators were aware that they were being watched, there must be a hasty change of plans.

  Babington might be called the leader of the plot, but the experienced Ballard would certainly be the chief instigator. A sharper watch should be kept on Ballard.

  As the days passed Ballard’s suspicions grew stronger, and he called a meeting of his friends in St. Giles’s Fields at dusk.

  When they were all gathered there he said that they must disperse after the meeting and wait until they had further news from him. He suspected they were being spied on, and he was determined to question the spy without further delay.

  They would each leave the Fields separately and go their different ways. Soon he hoped to send them news that it was safe for them to reassemble and make their final preparations.

  Ballard was the last to leave and, as he sauntered to the edge of the Fields, two men emerged from a clump of bushes.

  “John Ballard?” said one.

  “You wished to speak with me?”

  The other came swiftly toward him and had seized him by the arm.

  “You are the Queen’s prisoner.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Treason,” was the answer.

  Then John Ballard understood that his fears were well founded.

  BABINGTON WAS REALLY ALARMED NOW. He knew that Ballard had been taken, but he did not believe that Walsingham was aware of the conspiracy. If so, why should he arrest Ballard and allow the others to go free?

  Ballard could be trusted not to betray his friends. He was a zealous Catholic and one of the bravest men Babington had ever known. He would remain silent no matter what they did to him, for he would still hope that the plan to murder Elizabeth and set up Catholicism in England would succeed.

  But it was unwise to stay in England. Babington invited several of the conspirators to the Barbican and told them that he planned to go to France to make the final arrangements for a foreign invasion. He was therefore applying to Walsingham for a passport.

  This explanation was plausible. As for Ballard’s arrest, they discussed this and Gifford suggested that it may have been that he had been taken on account of his being a recusant—as many priests were.

  “Undoubtedly that is so,” answered Babington. “But we must go ahead with our plans. The sooner I am in France the sooner we shall be in a position to proceed.”

  This was agreed and when after a few days Walsingham had made no reply to his request, Babington, beginning to grow uneasy, wrote once more to the Secretary offering his services while in France to act as a spy. As a gentleman of Catholic leanings, he pointed out, he would be trusted by other Catholics and would thus be in a position to move easily among the enemies of their Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.

  Walsingham was amused, and called his steward, one of his secretaries and several of his higher servants to him.

  “There is a young man,” he told them, “who is importuning me to supply him with a passport. Get into touch with him, ask him to sup with you. Watch him carefully and ply him with wine. Listen to what he says when in his cups. You might suggest that . . . for a consideration . . . you would see if you could procure for him what he wants.”

  Shortly afterward Babington received a call from Walsingham’s secretary and accepted an invitation to supper.

  But Walsingham’s servants had not been trained to spying, and something in their demeanor aroused Babington’s suspicions. He did not drink as freely as they would have wished and, during the time he was in Walsingham’s house, he caught a glimpse of papers on the secretary’s table and there was one in Walsingham’s own handwriting on which, to his horror, he saw his own name.

  That put an end to his peace of mind. Excusing himself he left the party and went hastily to his house in Barbican; there he left a message, with one of his servants whom he could trust, to warn the rest of the conspirators and then made with all speed to St. John’s Wood.

  In the heart of the wood he found a hut, and here he stayed for the rest of that night. In the morning his servant came to him, as he had told him to, bringing with him food and walnut juice. With this latter Babington stained his skin, and then made his servant cut off his hair. Then he changed clothes with his servant, and sent him back to Barbican.

  He could not live here for long, so he only remained in the hut for the rest of the next day and then, during the
following night, he walked to Harrow to the home of a Jerome Bellamy, who had recently been converted to Catholicism.

  Jerome stared at the brown-faced man whom he did not immediately recognize, but when Babington explained his plight and the danger in which he knew himself to be in, Jerome eagerly agreed to shelter him.

  There he remained for some weeks. But the hunt had begun.

  Walsingham, aware that Babington knew he was a wanted man, decided his freedom must be ended; he knew also that his quarry could not be far away, and it was no secret that Jerome Bellamy of Harrow was a recent convert to Catholicism and a friend of Babington’s.

  One warm August night a man knocked at the door of Jerome’s house, and when the door was opened forced his way past the startled servant.

  “It is no use trying to eject me,” said the newcomer. “The house is surrounded by the Queen’s men. I come to search it because I believe you are sheltering here a traitor to our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.”

  There was no escape.

  Anthony Babington was taken from Harrow, Walsingham’s prisoner.

  SIR AMYAS PAULET came to the Queen’s apartment; he was smiling, and rarely had Mary seen him in such a good humor.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “I have here an invitation from Sir Walter Aston of Tixall, which is close by Chartley, as you know. He is arranging a stag hunt in his park and asks if you would care to join his party.”

  Mary’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. In the summer she felt so much better, and during these lovely August days she had felt herself to be quite well enough to ride a horse and handle a crossbow.

  “Then I will convey your wishes to Sir Walter,” Paulet told her.

  And all that day Mary was excited at the prospect of riding a horse.

  “I believe,” she told Jane Kennedy, “that Paulet no longer hates me as he once did. He seemed almost pleased because I was to have this pleasure.”