Salvation

by Harriet Steel

  As he always did when the Unicorn’s company travelled into the country, he had kept his ears open for any information Walsingham might find useful, but he had made his report weeks ago and there had been nothing the old spymaster seemed to find important, although it was always hard to read his mind. Presumably something new had arisen. He hoped it would not involve too much work. With business flagging, he needed to devote as much time as possible to the theatre.

  He sighed. In truth, he had no right to resent Walsingham’s demands. Where would he be now if Walsingham had not helped him to get out of Paris after St Bartholomew’s Day and given him money to set up a new life? Nothing came without a price.

  Of course by that time, he had already been in thrall to Walsingham for several years. He remembered the first approach from one of the spymaster’s agents, an affable fellow who had struck up an acquaintance with him in a tavern one hot July evening over a bottle of good burgundy. He had been smarting at the insults one of the local gangs of Catholic youths had hurled at him. The agent had stopped him doing anything foolish – there were five of them and only one of him.

  Lamotte remembered how subtly matters had progressed from there: the exploration of his loyalties; the discreet questions about what work he did at the Palais de Justice; what knowledge his job made him privy to and what else he might be able to ascertain by stealth. Like a moth to the flame, he went a little further and a little further until the information he was passing on would have hanged him if it had come to light.

  He had to admit, his motives were not entirely pure. Yes, he was serving the Huguenot cause, but he also enjoyed the spice of danger and excitement. Now, he thought, in my soberer years, spying seems a grubbier trade than it did when I was young.

  The river was already busy with other craft and noisy with the shouts of boatmen. Frequently, the rowers were forced to slow in order to avoid ramming or being rammed. Soon, the massive bulk of St Paul’s came into view, towering over the spires of the city churches at its feet. Further on, the grand houses of the rich and powerful sprawled along the north bank, imposing edifices with many courtyards and fine gardens running down to the river.

  At the bend by the village of Wandsworth, the rowers veered towards the north bank to avoid the mud flats thrown up by the annual floods. The stench of river mud was even worse here but when they drew level with the wharves at Putney the air sweetened. On the bank, lightermen jostled to load boxes and bales of goods onto the boats going down to the city. The boat docked and Lamotte scrambled out onto the quayside. The last part of the journey to Barn Elms provided a pleasant walk and he would be glad to stretch his legs.

  When he reached the gates, he paused for a moment to look at the house before him. It was old fashioned and modest compared with the palatial residences of men like Lord Treasurer Burghley and Chancellor Hatton. Lamotte suspected Walsingham had made less money out of his office than most of his peers, but his tastes were also more frugal. On occasion too, he had hinted that Queen Elizabeth’s notorious parsimony often forced him to spend his own money on maintaining his network of spies.

  Lamotte skirted the sheep-cropped lawn, taking advantage of the cover of a narrow belt of trees to reach a side entrance. In his study, Walsingham sat at a desk piled high with papers.

  Bowing, Lamotte doffed his black velvet cap. ‘Forgive me, Sir Francis, I did not receive your message yesterday until it was too late to set off.’

  ‘It is no matter, sit down. May I offer you refreshment?’

  Lamotte shook his head. He noticed the slight tremor in Walsingham’s right hand and the shadows around his eyes. Clearly, something was amiss.

  ‘Very well, to business: I wish to talk to you about Antony Babington.’

  Lamotte nodded. A few years ago Walsingham had asked him to befriend the young aristocrat and report on his movements. Babington had been an attractive, intelligent young man whose personable qualities had recommended him to Mary, Queen of Scots, when he was a page in a house where she was imprisoned. Walsingham had suspected him of carrying secret letters for her. Not long afterwards, Queen Mary was removed to Chartley, a manor house in Staffordshire, where security was better enforced.

  ‘Do you have reason to suspect him again?’

  ‘Yes. I have my doubts he is particularly dangerous acting alone, but he may be part of a group that poses a serious threat. Five years ago, a priest named John Ballard landed in England. He was swiftly discovered and arrested but after a few months in prison, he escaped with another priest and fled the country. Nothing was heard of him for a while then in March this year he was seen supping with Babington at an inn near Temple Bar. In May, they left England together and I have since learnt that they visited Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris. When they returned to England, Ballard was overheard boasting he had persuaded Spain to provide sixty thousand troops to support an uprising.’

  ‘A formidable threat.’

  ‘As I say, it may well not be true, but a lie can be as dangerous as the truth if it has the effect of attracting more men to Mary’s cause.’

  ‘So Queen Elizabeth would be in greater danger than before?’

  ‘Indubitably.’

  ‘Did you have Babington and Ballard arrested?’

  ‘I wanted to know more first. Since Mary has been in the charge of Sir Amyas Paulet at Chartley, everyone who comes and goes there is searched, even the laundresses, although initially Paulet’s scruples made him loath to order it. It was a necessary precaution but it meant that the flow of correspondence between Mary and her supporters dried up and their suspicions were aroused. I wanted that to change so there would be letters we could intercept.’

  ‘Was that possible?’

  ‘By a stroke of good fortune, it was. A young Catholic called Gifford, who is an agent for Mary’s supporters in France, was apprehended at Rye and brought to me. I perceived him to be a weak, irresolute character. It was not hard to alter his loyalties.’

  Lamotte felt a chill go through him. It was only too easy to imagine the effect a few meetings with the grim-faced spymaster might have on a frightened young man.

  ‘I arranged for Gifford to tell Mary and her friends that he could deliver their letters safely. Before taking them to Chartley, Gifford brings them to me. They are deciphered and resealed to look as if they have never been tampered with. Gifford then takes them to the brewer who supplies Chartley. He encloses them in waterproof canisters and hides them in the barrels. Mary’s replies are brought out in the same way.’

  ‘You are sure the brewer can be trusted?’

  Walsingham raised an eyebrow. ‘He has put his prices up, knowing Paulet can’t obtain supplies from anyone else. I think money will ensure his support.’

  ‘And the letters?’

  ‘At first, the volume was considerable but most of them were old and of no great importance. Then we intercepted a letter from Babington. In the clearest terms, he set out a plan to rescue Mary and rally her supporters. At the same time, some of the conspirators were to go to Court and murder the queen.’

  ‘But how would they get near her?’

  ‘You know as well as I do that the queen has never been sufficiently concerned for her own safety; she refuses to be properly guarded. Provided the conspirators were appropriately dressed and appeared confident, it would not be hard.’

  ‘But surely the plot changed her mind?’

  Walsingham shook his head. ‘I had good reasons for keeping it from her.’

  Lamotte started. ‘But the danger to Her Majesty - would it not be wiser to arrest Babington?’

  ‘Hear me out,’ Walsingham snapped. ‘I needed to hold back for Mary’s reply. It was everything I could have hoped for. She embraced the plan and analysed it with remarkable perspicacity. If I had not known otherwise, I would have thought a seasoned military commander had written the letter. Where Babington had been imprecise and optimistic, she was exact, recognising every flaw and danger. After all the years I had waited,
I knew her fate was sealed.’

  For a moment, Lamotte felt a twinge of pity. A man had to be hard of heart not to feel sorry for the tragic queen, her health and beauty fading as she endured interminable years of lonely imprisonment in a succession of damp, draughty castles.

  ‘Do not grieve for her, Alexandre. Mary is not the heroine of one of your plays. She’s a scheming vixen who would drag England back to the old religion and into the arms of Spain. Both of us know what that means.’

  ‘Forgive me: you’re right, of course. So what is my part in all this?’

  ‘I want you to stay close to Babington and try to find out who, other than Ballard, is involved in the plot.’

  ‘But is further secrecy not ill advised?’

  Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not for you to question my decisions. Will you accept the charge, or not?’

  The back of Lamotte’s neck prickled. He should have known when to keep his mouth shut. ‘I shall do as you command, Sir Francis.’

  ‘Good.’

  As he walked back to the river, Lamotte contemplated this unexpected interruption, potentially a dangerous one, to his peaceful life. The bald fact had to be faced too that whatever Walsingham said, in the last resort he would put country above everything else. If it was necessary to achieve his ends, Lamotte thought, he would drive the dagger between my ribs himself.

  Back at the Putney quay, a boat waited by the landing stage. He gave a coin to the ferryman then sat down in the bow. The rhythmic creak of the oars and the slap of water on the hull helped to compose his thoughts. From the sun, he guessed it was past twelve. There was no time to begin his search for Babington before he needed to be at the theatre, but after the day’s performance he would start with some of the old haunts. Sadness clouded his mind, for Babington had been an engaging companion. However mistaken the lad’s beliefs, he wished he did not have to contribute to his downfall.

  *

  ‘Babington!’

  When the young man swung round, Lamotte saw with relief that he had identified him correctly. The search had not taken as long as he had feared it would. He glimpsed the apprehension in Babington’s eyes before his expression turned to one of recognition.

  ‘Lamotte! Well met.’

  ‘I thought you must have left London.’

  ‘I did for a while, but as you see, I have returned.’ Babington smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me for keeping myself apart for so long. Family business has occupied me a great deal.’

  Lamotte waved a hand. ‘We’re all too busy these days. Your wife and daughter are in good health, I hope?’

  ‘They’ve gone to Margaret’s family in the country.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t join them. I would avoid London in this heat if I could.’

  Babington stared at the ground and mumbled something indistinct.

  ‘Well, at least take a drink with me for old times’ sake.’

  For a moment, Lamotte thought Babington would demur but then he nodded. As they walked to a nearby tavern, however, conversation was stilted. It was clearly too soon to extract any confidences from him. Perhaps wine would loosen his tongue a little.

  Sat at a small table in the hot, noisy room, Lamotte pulled out his pipe and filled it. ‘You’ve not adopted the new habit yet?’

  ‘What? Oh, no.’

  ‘You should try it, very soothing. All one’s troubles seem to dissolve in the smoke.’

  A startled look flitted across Babington’s face. Had he touched a nerve?

  ‘So are you busy at the Unicorn?’ Babington asked abstractedly.

  ‘Trade’s brisk enough, although it could be better. You should come and visit us.’

  Covertly, Lamotte noticed how Babington’s hand shook as he raised his wine to his lips. Draining it in one gulp, he suddenly jumped to his feet, bumping the table and making the wine bottle and glasses rattle.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay.’

  Lamotte knocked out his pipe. ‘I’ll come with you.’ But Babington was already halfway across the crowded, smoky room. Lamotte followed, keeping far enough back to be out of sight.

  After half an hour of walking through the darkening streets, he saw his quarry stop and look back. Quickly, Lamotte merged into the shadows but it was likely Babington had not noticed him for, seemingly reassured, he dived into a nearby alley bordered with terraces of tall, narrow houses. Lamotte was just in time to see him enter one of them. It was not where he remembered him living. Had he come to meet someone? After a few moments, restless shapes moved backwards and forwards in the yellow light of a first-floor window.

  Lamotte settled down to watch and wait. Time dragged and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His back ached and he had not had time to eat since morning. The air had cooled a little but the reek of the open drain running along one side of the alley was powerful. Once, a noise made his hand fly to the hilt of his sword, but it was only a rat that scuttled away squeaking. At last, the light in the window went out. Lamotte waited another half hour then returned home. He would have to take the chance Babington was going nowhere until tomorrow.

  When he slept, he dreamt of St Bartholomew’s Day and woke shaking. Moonlight illuminated the room and naked, he sat on the edge of the bed. He was stocky in build with muscular arms and legs, but there was a slackening of the belly that had not been there a few years ago. He grimaced and sucked in his stomach. At least he had kept plenty of thatch on his head.

  He rubbed his thighs and got up to fetch his old night wrap. His knees cracked and he scowled; he felt more like sixty than forty-five. Pulling the night wrap around him, he returned to his bed. He wished Amélie were there to warm it for him. It was because of Catholics like Babington she was dead. No matter how charming he was, the sooner he and his kind were destroyed, the better.

  He woke again at dawn but before he had the chance to leave the house, a message came from Walsingham. With a frown, Lamotte read it then struck a spark from his tinder box, set the paper alight and dropped it in the fireplace. He watched the paper’s crimson glow fade to grey.

  Sometimes it was impossible to fathom how Walsingham’s mind worked. One minute he wanted you to fasten onto Babington like a tick on a dog’s belly, the next to stay away from him. Lamotte sighed and went to his study. Well, at least he was free to devote his attention to the Unicorn now, and there was plenty of work to be done before he was due there.

  *

  Three days passed before another summons came, this time to attend Walsingham at Richmond where he was engaged on Court business. Once again, Lamotte made the journey upriver. The stench of the water seemed even more noxious than before. Passing Putney, Mortlake and Kew, he disembarked at the landing stage for the vast royal palace. It reared up before him, its awe-inspiring bulk bristling with forbidding battlements and towers.

  The Royal Standard was not among the pennants fluttering from the flagpoles. He was glad to see it; the guards would let him through without too many officious questions if the queen was not in residence. It looked as if she soon would be, though. On the road to the gatehouse, packhorses, mules and carts jostled in the hot sun, their drivers cursing and grumbling. Their loads included sides of venison and beef, squawking crates of poultry, braces of game birds, exotic fruits, French wines and barrels of beer.

  Lamotte slipped unnoticed past the guards at the gatehouse as they held up a belligerent carter and demanded to see his permit. With a confident stride, he then made his way through the throng in the main courtyard and found the staircase Walsingham had told him to use. A few minutes later, he was in his presence.

  ‘I appreciate I owe you an explanation, Alexandre,’ Walsingham motioned him to sit down. ‘When I ordered you to stop following Babington, it was because I had decided to arrange a meeting with him. It was my intention to explore how malleable he was and whether an appeal to his love of his country and his sovereign, matched of course with a promise of pardon for any treasonable acts he has
committed, would persuade him to change his allegiance.’ Walsingham leant back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘He stubbornly refused to understand me.’

  ‘So he has been arrested?’

  ‘No, I do not want him seized yet.’

  Lamotte frowned. He wouldn’t risk questioning Walsingham’s judgement again, but the old spymaster did seem alarmingly willing to let the plot come close to fruition. Was he really so determined to frighten Elizabeth into dealing once and for all with Queen Mary? It was a very dangerous course to take.

  ‘On my orders, Richard Young, the London Magistrate, has sent his men to arrest John Ballard, but I want you, Alexandre, to find Babington again and stay with him until you hear from me. Give him this letter. In it I have assured him Ballard’s arrest is nothing to do with him and told him to keep close to you to avoid being taken by Young’s men. You look dismayed, but I promise you, I know what I am doing. I return to London in the morning. If you have a message for me, I’ll be at Seething Lane.’

  *

  The house where Lamotte had seen Babington go that night was shut up. As he searched the areas and taverns he used to frequent, Lamotte felt his irritation rise. The task might take days and Babington might not even be in the city now. The whole business began to resemble a bungling comedy rather than a treasonable plot. He found his part in it increasingly frustrating and obscure. Eventually he recalled that in the old days, Babington had often spent time at St Paul’s. The nave of the great cathedral was a popular place for picking up gossip and exchanging news.

  Pamphleteers and beggars jostled for his attention as he crossed St Paul’s Churchyard and hurried into the cool interior of the cathedral. His pulse quickened as he pushed through the crowds. Tall enough to be seen over the sea of heads, Babington stood to one side of the nave with a rough-looking, bearded man. He was talking volubly, his hands chopping the air, while the bearded man stared at the ground, his shoulders hunched.