by Ann Swinfen
‘God preserve me from amateur conspirators!’ Phelippes spat out, then threw open the door and shouted, ‘Find Berden for me!’
Cassie and I looked at each other. He shrugged and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
Phelippes came back to his desk. ‘It’s Tuesday today. Sir Francis wants them all in custody by Friday. How can we accomplish that if they’ve gone off to Lichfield? Is it just Babington, or the others as well? Where is Ballard? Where is Savage? That man Poley, has he played us false again? He is supposed to keep us informed.’
‘Wasn’t he to go to Sir Francis at Barn Elms today?’ I said. ‘Perhaps Babington seized his chance to slip away. Could he suspect Poley?’
How, I wondered, could anyone, even someone as naïve as Babington, ever trust Poley?
When Berden came in, Phelippes gave him his instructions. ‘I want you to check all of Babington’s known lodgings in London, and follow any other leads you may encounter. We must know where he is. We cannot lose him now.’
‘If Babington goes to Lichfield,’ said Phelippes when Berden had left, ‘he will discover that the letter from Mary was not posted at Chartley and everything will fall apart. He must be stopped.’ He turned to Cassie. ‘You must go at once to Sir Francis. Tell him I want a lusty fellow from his staff to act as armed guard, and two lusty geldings to carry us. We will set off at one o’clock tomorrow.’
Cassie left and Phelippes and I tried to resume our normal work, but it was impossible. One of the servants brought us food as night fell, though Phelippes had not sent for it. I suspected that Sir Francis had left instructions for us to be cared for by his staff. Neither of us had much appetite. Then later a man I did not know arrived with a message for Phelippes. If Phelippes went at once to Poley’s lodgings, he could take Babington and a whole group of his friends. Cassie had returned, so the three of us set out at once, but found Poley’s lodgings deserted. Was this some kind of trick? Or were Poley and Babington merely laughing up their sleeves at us?
Wearily, we trudged back to Seething Lane. Before we were halfway there it began to rain, a malicious, penetrating drizzle that left us all in gloomy spirits. Even Phelippes did not know the man who had brought the message and wondered whether it was some kind of trap by the conspirators, set to test their suspicions that Phelippes was ready to make arrests. It was not a cheering thought.
However, better news came with the morning. It was now Wednesday, just two days before Sir Francis wanted the arrests to take place. Berden sent word that he had found Babington in his new lodgings out Shoreditch way, near where he himself lived in the precincts of Bedlam hospital. Appropriate, I thought, for the whole dance of conspirators and pursuers had become a revel of madmen.
By eight o’clock that morning Phelippes had sent word of Babington’s new whereabouts to both Mylles and Sir Francis. Mylles joined us at Seething Lane soon afterwards.
‘Well, this is better news,’ he said as he came in. ‘What says Sir Francis? When do we proceed?’
‘There has not been time for an answer yet,’ Phelippes said. ‘He may want us to arrest Ballard before he gives us the slip again. Do you have the warrant?’
Mylles tapped the front of his doublet, which made a rustling sound. ‘I carry it with me at all times, lest it is needed. It is signed by Lord Admiral Howard. We want to keep Sir Francis’s name out of this. Ballard must be arrested as a Catholic priest, for all he calls himself Captain Fortescue. There will be no hint that he has any connection with this plot to overthrow the country and murder the Queen. That way we may hope to lull the suspicions of the other conspirators.’
‘We must devise the best way to carry it out, to make that quite clear,’ Phelippes said.
‘How is that possible?’ I asked.
‘It must seem to be an arrest by the city authorities. They are busy pursuing known Catholics. We had trouble enough earlier this year stopping them arresting Gifford by mistake. They were a little over zealous.’
Sir Francis’s answer to the news that Babington had been found came in a letter to Phelippes later that day. He was clearly troubled that Babington had not yet produced an answer to Mary’s letter, but action could not be delayed much longer.
Phelippes read parts of the letter out to us. ‘This is what Sir Francis says: “It is a hard matter to resolve. Only this I conclude: it were better to lack the answer than to lack the man.” So we go after Ballard tomorrow, the others on Friday.’
Berden kept watch on the conspirators the rest of that day, following them to the Royal Exchange in the evening, where he said they walked about in earnest discussion, then back by the alleyway that led to the Castle for supper. It was after midnight when he came to Seething Lane to report that he had followed them home. Ballard had gone to Poley’s lodgings for the night.
The next morning Berden reported that Babington and Savage had met at Poley’s lodgings. It was urgent that Babington should not be alarmed, but the arrangements for the arrest of Ballard were now out of Phelippes’s hands.
‘It should be very neat, Kit,’ he explained, though he looked worried. ‘Provided Babington leaves before the city authorities arrive. Mylles has had two city pursuivants lodging with him for some time, ready for just such an operation. They will act under the jurisdiction of a city official, who happens to be Thomas Cassie’s father. The warrant is signed by Lord Admiral Howard. Berden’s brother-in-law makes up the official party and will search the lodgings for anything incriminating.’
He smiled. ‘So you see, there is nothing about their actions to connect them either to Sir Francis or to me, although our invisible hand is everywhere. It is merely the arrest of another Catholic priest who has entered the country illegally.’
The arrest went smoothly. Between eleven and noon that Thursday morning, Poley’s lodgings were raided, Ballard was arrested on the grounds of being a Catholic priest and taken immediately to the Counter prison in Wood Street. Berden’s brother-in-law searched the premises and reported back to Mylles, who wrote to Sir Francis about his strong suspicions of Poley, whom he believed to be a traitor who had been passing secret information to Ballard and Babington, and should also be arrested.
There was just one problem.
Babington had still been at Poley’s lodgings when the arrest party arrived. Although they paid no attention to him, as they had been instructed, Babington was not that much of a fool. He took to his heels and fled London.
Later, we found that he had left a final letter for Robert Poley. Like most of us, it seemed that he did not altogether trust Poley, for his letter concluded: ‘Farewell sweet Robyn, if as I take thee, true to me. If not, adieu, omnius bipedum nequissimus.’
In this I agreed heartily with Babington. Poley was, of all two-footed creatures, the vilest.
The next day, the Friday that was to have seen the arrest of Babington and the other conspirators, Sir Francis went to the Queen to inform her of the latest situation. He must have been furious and frustrated that he could only report the arrest of Ballard. If Ballard refused to speak, he would be moved to the Tower and tortured.
The whole of London was in an uproar. Lord Burghley issued a royal proclamation, demanding that all citizens turn out to search for Anthony Babington and Chidioke Tycheborne. The general hue and cry was raised throughout London. All the city pursuivants were mustered and began a house-to-house search for the conspirators. All roads out of town were watched and the watchmen in nearby towns and villages in all directions were ordered to carry out searches in case the wanted men had already slipped through the net which had been thrown around the city.
With this much public activity going on, the people in the streets were soon talking of nothing else, and a sense of panic began to spread. Shopkeepers boarded up their shops. Women and children were hustled away indoors, for fear that armed traitors were on the loose. The rumour soon started that a French army had landed in Sussex and was even now marching toward us. Gangs of eager apprentices, armed with hea
vy cudgels, roamed the streets, with their usual cry to arms: ‘Clubs! Clubs!’ They were the only ones enjoying the situation.
I had not been home for days and could only hope that my father was safe. Probably he was busy in the hospital, for it was certain that in the chaos and uncertainty there would be fights and violent attacks on innocent people. The citizens of London have always enjoyed an excuse for a good brawl.
The assassin Savage was arrested quite quickly and questioned by Sir Francis and Sir Christopher Hatton, the Queen’s vice-chamberlain. Phelippes gave me his notes of the interrogation to write up in a fair copy. It was clear from what Savage said that to the very end the conspirators believed that Gifford was a loyal follower of Mary and the means of conveying letters by beer barrel was their own secret and secure method.
About ten days after Babington and the other conspirators disappeared, a message arrived for Phelippes from one of the watchmen in Harrow, one John Lakely.
‘It seems,’ Phelippes said, ‘that certain unfamiliar vagrants have been seen in the town, begging for food. Lakely himself has not seen them, but their clothes and manner alerted one of the townsmen, who passed on the information.’
He tapped the letter against his lips. ‘It could be worth investigating. The appearance of these men corresponds to that of a group spotted briefly in St John’s Wood a few days ago. Not quite your usual rogues, but gentlemen in hiding and desperate want. Send for Berden, Kit. I think we will ride out to Harrow.’
When Berden arrived, the three of us took horse, accompanied by half a dozen armed pursuivants. It was a lovely summer’s day, the sky unmarked by any cloud, a soft southern wind caressing our faces as we rode toward the hilltop town. Phelippes had chosen Berden and me to go with him as we had seen all the conspirators when they had dined at the Castle Inn. In addition Berden had encountered several while engaged in spying on them, while I had met Babington face to face. I went unwillingly. The beauty of the day seemed a cruel mockery of our grim errand.
‘They was skulking about my yard,’ the townsman told us. He was a plump, self-important fellow called Howard Gardiner, a saddler and leatherworker. ‘My wife keeps a flock of hens at the back there.’
We were standing under the archway from the street and he jerked his head toward a chicken run at the far end of the plot which stretched away behind his shop. Beyond a ragged hedge which marked its boundary there was a copse of spindly trees, then the land fell away.
‘After our hens, they was,’ he went on. ‘As soon as they sees me, they come whining round, begging for bread, four o’ them, all together.’
‘And why did you think they were the wanted men?’ Phelippes asked.
‘Most beggars go about solitary, not in a group.’ Gardiner cast a contemptuous look at him. ‘And these fellows talked like gentlemen. Besides, they was dressed like gentlemen, though their fine clothes had had rough treatment, torn and dirty. They was starving, I could see that. Near despair, I’d say.’
‘Did you give them bread?’ I asked, curious.
He looked at me scornfully, up and down.
‘Not I! Do you take me for a fool? Give one beggar bread and they mark your doorpost. You’re never rid of them, after.’
I had a sudden sharp remembrance of Anthony Babington’s kindness and generosity to a poor messenger boy, and had to bite my lips to stop myself answering him back.
‘If they are starving,’ Berden said, ‘they’ll not be far off. They need to stay near a supply of food. They stole eggs and a chicken from a farm in St John’s Wood.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Gardiner smiled complacently.
‘Not that they know how to look after themselves,’ Berden added, ‘being gentlemen. The chicken was found barely plucked. It’s sure they didn’t know what to do with it. We think they ate the eggs raw, for there was no sign of a fire. They can have had barely bite or sup for ten days.’
The men were clearly long gone from Gardiner’s yard and Phelippes was considering what to do next when a boy ran up, red in the face and gasping for breath.
‘Master Lakely sent me, sir,’ he said. ‘He has the men cornered in a back alley. There’s no way out the far end.’
Mounting quickly, we followed the boy across the town to a huddle of poor streets, where John Lakely had posted two local constables at the mouth of a narrow, stinking alley.
‘They are down there,’ Lakely said. ‘Four of them. The alley turns to the left and they must have thought there was a way through, but it ends in a blank wall. Shall I send the men in?’
One of the constables held a savage-looking dog on a chain, like one of those beasts bred for bear-baiting. I began to feel sick.
‘Surely the dog isn’t necessary,’ I said to Phelippes, ‘if the men are as weak as it seems.’
He gave me an odd look.
‘We can take no chances.’
The armed pursuivants who had accompanied us dismounted and joined the two local constables. They formed a solid body, blocking the entire width of the alley, and began to move forward. Apart from distant sounds of the town going about its daily business, there was nothing to be heard where we stood, until a burst of vicious barking and a cry of pain, suddenly cut off.
The minutes dragged out, but at last we heard the returning footsteps and a few sharp commands, then the whole group came into view.
They were a terrible sight, their faces haggard, hair and beards wild and untrimmed, their once fine clothes torn and filthy, as though they had been sleeping in a midden.
Berden quickly identified them so that my own evidence was not needed. I drew away to the edge of the group, wishing myself anywhere but here, when Anthony Babington suddenly looked in my direction. I saw a flash of recognition cross his face as his sunken and reddened eyes caught mine, recognition changing swiftly to a kind of resigned sorrow. I avoided his eyes, feeling deeply ashamed, and saw that blood was dripping from a deep gash in his arm. The dog had been used, it seemed.
‘Master Phelippes,’ I said, ‘Sir Anthony is hurt. Will you permit me to bind up his arm?’
He turned aside from his discussion with Lakely and glanced at Babington.
‘Very well, Kit. We wouldn’t want to cheat the hangman.’
I held back my response to this cruel remark with difficulty, but walked over to Babington.
‘Sir Anthony, I am a trained physician. I always carry a few salves with me. I am going to treat that wound as best I can here in the street.’
He looked at me curiously, but said nothing and held out his arm. I took a small pot of salve from the scrip at my belt, and smeared it over the wound as gently as I could.
‘You must have this stitched as soon as possible,’ I said. ‘Keep the rest of the salve. I’ll use this torn part of your shirt to bind it.’
He took the pot and watched as I ripped off the trailing strip of his shirt and wound it round his arm.
‘You are a strangely accomplished messenger boy, young Simon,’ he said softly.
I felt the colour rising in my cheeks.
‘My name is Kit,’ I murmured, ‘and I am a physician at Barts. I am sorry to have deceived you. But the safety of the Queen and England must come before all else.’
‘Aye,’ he said, with the ghost of a sigh. ‘We meddle with the affairs of kings and queens to our peril.’
Soon after, the bedraggled conspirators were led away to return to London, and within the next few weeks the remainder were rounded up.
Imprisonment, torture, trial and death were all that awaited them now.
The mood in London swung to the other extreme. Panic turned to fevered relief. Amid the sound of joyous church bells, bonfires were lit in the streets and the citizens gathered about them to sing psalms and give thanks for deliverance from terrible catastrophe.
Phelippes had kept me on at his office to help with the paperwork, but after the arrests I begged to be allowed to go home. He sent me to Sir Francis, who was again at Greenwich.
There I sought out Sir Francis in that same small office near the Queen’s quarters and asked whether I might now be free to go home.
‘Thomas tells me you have worked well during this difficult time,’ he said. ‘Here’s gold for you.’ He drew a sovereign out of his purse and gave it to me. ‘We may have need of you in the future. Or you may be of service to Dr Nuñez or Dr Lopez. I will send for you when you are wanted, but for now you may regard yourself as on holiday.’
I was angry and resentful at his words, as if he supposed their dark and dirty work were everything to me.
‘I have my patients at the hospital, Sir Francis. My father has lacked my help in recent weeks.’ I glared at him, forgetting for a moment his high office and my need for caution. ‘That is my true calling, not this. . .’ I could find no word that was not insulting. ‘This. . .work I do for you.’
‘Of course, of course.’ He patted my shoulder, which surprised me, for he usually kept himself physically distant from those who worked for him. ‘Go back to your patients. I am sorry it has been necessary to keep you from them.’
For a moment I glimpsed again the kindly man behind the stern façade, the man I had known at Barn Elms and once or twice in private conversation. I gave him a hesitant smile.
With a sense of light-headed relief, like a condemned man at the last moment set free, I ran down the stairs, across the palace courtyard, and along the bank, where the glitter of the summer sun, cast in abundance across the river, shone more precious to me than all the ranked jewels of the courtiers whispering in palace corners. I was glad to go, taking a wherry back up-river to Blackfriars Stairs, then walking through to Duck Lane. Despite the stench of the animal pens and the slaughterhouse, it felt like a true home-coming. I wondered what Sir Francis had meant by being of service to Dr Nuñez or Dr Lopez, though I recalled what Phelippes had once told me about the usefulness of their trade in spices. I hoped that none of them – Walsingham, Phelippes, Lopez, Nuñez – would find me useful in their dark business again.