It had been nightmarish enough when the Sweet Promise was blown off course in the storm and finally swallowed by seas like hungry mountains, to leave her last survivors huddled in an open boat with no means of knowing where they were, let alone where they were going.
It had been nightmarish to find himself cast away and dependent on the hospitality of a savage New World tribe, nightmarish when Sir Richard Grenville made up his mind to attack the Santa Maria, not because Stephen himself was averse to the venture, but because Philippa was there and he feared for her if the Spaniards won.
But this…
The parlour at Sir Anthony Babington’s London lodgings in Holborn looked civilised enough. It was panelled and painted, with a Turkish carpet patterned in red and black and slate-blue hanging on one wall by way of decoration. There were cushioned settles and a spinet and a shelf of books, and in the centre of the room stood a polished table whose surface reflected the flames of numerous candles, burning in an array of chased silver candlesticks. A set of upholstered chairs stood around it. This was a place for friendly gatherings, for conversation and games of cards and backgammon, accompanied by tasty snacks and flagons of good wine.
This evening, despite the cultured atmosphere and the sparkle of candlelight on the company’s jewellery, the parlour was the scene of the deadliest conspiracy.
One of the most dreadful things was the naïveté of the participants. Since Stephen and the Allerbrooks had only just reached London, this was the first meeting they had so far attended and it was Stephen’s first glimpse of Sir Anthony Babington. Babington was twenty-five years old, with a wife and small daughter, who were at his country home. He looked younger than twenty-five, however, and his mind, too, was youthful. He was delicately made and refined, fair-haired, with manicured hands and innocent grey eyes. His expensive sky-blue doublet and starched ruff were in the latest fashion, his faith in his cause as ardent and simple as the faith of a child.
“If God is with us, how can we fail?” he had said, twice, in the first ten minutes of the meeting. Stephen, who had in his time heard men and women pray to quite an assortment of deities and not be heard, wondered on which remote mountain or lonely island Anthony had spent most of his life.
At Anthony’s side was a priest, John Ballard. He had the eyes of a fanatic. Stephen had seen such fanaticism before. His own father, Andrew Shearer, had had eyes like that, and so had Danny Clay and their companions when they burst into Allerbrook on the day Harry Hudd died. Looking at Ballard now, he even found himself wondering if his father had not rushed headlong to his own death. Not that that excused his executioners. No doubt their eyes had looked the same.
Ballard had spoken with joy of the day when the old faith would be restored, and of the sixty thousand Spanish troops who were being gathered and made ready to land in England in September to support the gallant heroes, Sir Anthony and the six noble young Catholic gentlemen, who were to undertake the task of destroying the heretic queen, to make way for Catholic Mary Stuart. The gigantic difficulties were to him no more than molehills. He was innocent as well as fanatical, and doubly alarming because of it.
Restoration of the old faith would assuredly need the help of the Spanish Inquisition, if it were to take place at all. Stephen smiled with false approval and longed to thrust a dagger through Ballard’s pitiless heart and empty a musket into his simpleton’s brain.
The six noble young Catholic gentlemen were not present, because Anthony was still recruiting them from among Catholic friends at court. Her Majesty, Stephen thought, had displayed a remarkable degree of tolerance. According to Mistress Stannard, this was not the first Catholic conspiracy.
Tobias and Robert were seated opposite Stephen, their faces both serious and eager. Beside Tobias was another young Catholic gentleman, Bernard Maude. He was not a prospective assassin but was assisting John Ballard, who had been living abroad, as companion and guide through England. He had come to take notes and had writing materials in front of him. He had a round, unlined face and innocent blue eyes. There wasn’t a morsel of common sense, thought Stephen despairingly, among the lot of them.
“The outlines of the plan are clear,” Anthony was saying, “and I should have my six volunteers sworn in within a week. Then I will gather them to discuss details. Meanwhile, you, Father Ballard, intend to alert the Catholics in the north, is that not so? We should find ample support there.”
“I shall tell them to be ready to rise when the beacons are lit on the death of Elizabeth,” Ballard said.
“The actual date for her death must wait on news from France about the readiness of the troops and, of course, on acceptance of the scheme from Queen Mary. A means of communicating with her has been found,” Sir Anthony said, beaming. “A man called Gil Gifford, who has wormed his way into Walsingham’s favour, is acting as a courier between Walsingham and Chartley mansion in south Derbyshire, where Queen Mary now is. He says that Chartley gets its ale from an outside brewer. If we pay him, the brewer will arrange for letters to go in and out in ale barrels. Gifford will see that the letters get to their proper destinations.”
“When the time draws near,” said Ballard, “bid your young men to attend court regularly, with weapons concealed about them, so that when the day is declared, one or more may seize whatever chance presents itself to shoot or stab the usurper. I can provide an extra helper for them, a man called John Savage. He will also attend court and can count as a seventh assistant. But when the task is done, Babington, you and your men will have the further task of riding to Chartley—or wherever our sovereign lady then is—gathering as you go those supporters who live along your route, to rescue the queen from her imprisonment. And now we come to a very important matter. Whoever kills the usurper queen must be able to escape afterward.”
“It will be a moment of great danger.” Stephen felt that it was time he made a contribution. “She will have people with her. They will fall on anyone who attacks her.”
“You are right,” Ballard said. “Our men must pick a time when she is out walking in some open place and they must have horses nearby. More than one may be involved in the actual killing. We need men who are apparently not connected with any of them, to cover their flight. This is where you three, our good friends from Allerbrook, come in.”
“We will do our part,” said Tobias. “Rest assured of that.”
“You will be introduced to our men so that you can recognize them, but you must not appear to know them. Stay close to them, however, because your part will be to appear to give chase but in reality to hinder their capture, by whatever means you can.”
Tobias smiled. “Clutch at a flying cloak and miss and fall over in the path of those coming behind. Start a hue and cry after the wrong man—that would be a good trick to play. We will confer and think of many plans.”
“We are so very privileged!” Robert was excited. “To be chosen from so many for a task so vital!”
“You have the entrée at court,” Anthony pointed out. “That is valuable. I must write to Charles Dupont and congratulate him on the work he did in drawing you Allerbrooks into our scheme. It cannot fail. Before Christmas, the English crown will be on our sweet Mary’s head. She was in the care of the Earl of Shrewsbury for a time,” he added. “As a boy, I was one of his pages. That was when I first met her and gave her my heart and my allegiance. She has such enchantment. Her faith in her God was an inspiration to me. And her smile! I would die for that smile, gladly! What an adventure this will be, and what a triumph!”
He looked around at the gathering, bestowing on them a delightful smile of his own. His charm and his devotion to Mary Stuart, his passionate belief in his religion and his joy in sheer adventure came at them all as if a wave had broken over them. For a moment Stephen felt the undertow, almost understood. Indeed, he understood the urge to adventure, all too well.
But he had also become a realist, with loyalties of his own—to the memory of the father who had kindled his life, however
casually, to Aunt Jane, to Philippa. He saw Tobias and Robert nodding eagerly back at Sir Anthony and hopelessness overwhelmed him. Just what, he asked himself, had he achieved by joining them? He had wanted to know if the conspiracy were serious, and if so, to learn the details. Well, learned them he had, and it could hardly be more serious, but what chance did he have of dragging his kinsmen out of this mess in time to save them? Look at them—all aglow with fervour! Must he choose between their lives and betraying England by keeping silence? He could not keep silence in the face of this. The danger was too great. He had hoped, and Aunt Jane had begged him, to find a way of keeping faith with both sides, but…
Stephen sat there, his face expressionless, and wished the Sweet Promise had taken him with her to the bottom of the sea.
“The timing is important,” said Maude. “We must have a date on which the Spanish troops—they’ll be coming from the Netherlands—will move, given fair winds. We shall have to say that from a certain date onward, the first day when the wind is right, will be the day to strike. Do you agree, Sir Anthony?”
“Yes. Word must be got to the Spanish ambassador in France, Bernardino Mendoza, since he is preparing the force. He must name the date for us. Note that, if you will.”
Maude dipped his quill pen and began to write. A moment later he paused as if to consider a word, looked up and let his eyes meet Stephen’s fleetingly before dropping his gaze to Stephen’s hands. Then he shifted the paper in front of him nearer to a candle and once more resumed his notations. As his right hand moved, guiding the pen, the light from the candle flashed on a ring. Stephen glanced at it and a shock went through him. It was a wide gold band with a stone of faceted amber set in elaborate claws. It was the exact twin of the one he wore on the middle finger of his own left hand. The ring that Mistress Stannard had given him.
He had been wrong to think that Maude’s sky-blue eyes were innocent. They were not. They were merely plausible. There was a spy already in the heart of the conspiracy.
As they were leaving at the end of the meeting and going down the steps from the main door a little way behind Ballard, he found Bernard Maude at his side.
“Two of the clock. Tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have horses. This end of the Strand. Don’t fail.” The words were breathed rather than spoken and Maude looked straight ahead all the time. Then he brushed past Stephen and rejoined Ballard, leaving Stephen to wonder if he had really heard Maude speak at all.
The time had come to do some speaking of his own. He knew now as much as he needed to know and it was worse than his worst imaginings, and if his kinsmen would not abandon this madness now, they were doomed. He could not think of a way to lead into the subject smoothly. He must simply say what must be said, and hope for a response.
On the way back to the Green Dragon inn in Bishopsgate, where the three of them were staying, he suddenly said, “This is a very elaborate scheme. We have to put together our own strike with promises of support from abroad, yet what proof have we that the support will come? I don’t like it. Do you? We could back out now and go home. I don’t mean betray anyone—just withdraw ourselves.”
It was the best he could do. Bernard Maude’s presence was evidence that Walsingham almost certainly already knew all about the plan and who was in it, but he dared not tell them that.
If there is indeed a plot, it must be allowed to ripen…until Mary’s head is off, there will be no safety in this realm…. Fail in this and you yourself would become a traitor. He must not warn his cousins, or they would warn their fellow conspirators and the chance of removing Mary, the head of the serpent, would be lost.
But if Toby and Robert simply backed out now, at once, it was just possible that Walsingham might not pursue them. It was worth trying.
They were looking at him, however, with scorn. “We never thought you would turn craven,” Tobias said.
“And of course the scheme will work!” Robert was alight with the excitement of it all. “Why should it not? God will see to that.”
“I think,” said Stephen, “that we should not trust too much to God. God,” he added grimly, “seems to have a liking for martyrs. Do you want to be martyrs? Because I do not.”
“We might have known you’d fail us,” said Tobias contemptuously. “Why did we ever let you in on our plans? Are you going to go running to Sir Francis Walsingham now?” His hand was on his dagger hilt.
“No, I am not,” said Stephen, privately blessing the existence of Bernard Maude, who had freed him from the hideous choice between kinsfolk and country. Maude would do all the betraying that was necessary. “You can leave your dagger alone. What do you take me for?” he demanded, hoping his indignation sounded real. “I shan’t run to anyone. I am simply saying that this is a highly perilous plan. I am reconsidering and I urge you to do the same. Have you thought what you’ll do if it goes wrong?”
“It won’t!” said Robert.
“I have,” said Stephen, ignoring this. “I shall make for home. The authorities will think first of Dover, or a ship down the Thames. I shall ride for Somerset. Nicholas Lanyon might help. He has a ship.”
“Why do you expect things to go wrong?” Tobias said. “When Babington’s men strike the usurper queen down, will you be with us to help them escape? Or not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Stephen, vigorously and mendaciously. The Queen’s Players, he thought, that band of actors now dedicated to entertaining Her Majesty, had not only missed a good playwright in him; they’d missed a good performer, as well. “If you mean to go through with this, then I stay with you. If the day comes and nothing has gone amiss, I will do my part.”
“Good,” said Tobias pugnaciously. “God will be with us. You’ll see.”
“I pray it may be so,” said Stephen piously.
Well, he had planted the seed. He could do no more. Force was hardly practicable. The final decision must be theirs. There was a chance that the seed would grow. He would wait a few days, to nurture any promising shoots, before he betook himself to safety.
At two of the clock the next day, having slipped out of the lodging unnoticed, he was at the Strand, the long row of fine riverside houses between the City and Whitehall. Maude was awaiting him, with the promised horses.
“Where are we going?” Stephen asked as he mounted the nag whose reins Maude had handed him. “If it weren’t for that amber ring on your hand, I wouldn’t have come.”
“I daresay. We’re going to Richmond, to see Walsingham.”
“What for?” demanded Stephen.
“You’ll find out. Don’t even think of arguing, if you value your life. Come on. It’s a long way and horses are the quickest method. It’s miles and miles by river even when the tide is right. The old Thames winds so much,” said Maude. “It’ll still take us about two hours.”
“As a matter of interest,” said Stephen as they rode, “where does John Ballard think you are now?”
“Wenching,” said Maude succinctly. “He believes I have a girl—a maidservant in one of the houses along the Strand. It’s a useful pretence when I want to get to Richmond.”
Stephen had not seen Richmond Palace since his educational sojourn in London, but he remembered it as beautiful, with graceful turrets, ample windows, ornamental fountains and weather vanes that chimed in the wind. Today he hardly noticed its charm. He felt like a poor swimmer out of his depth and caught in a current. He wished he were back among the Algonquin.
Once in the palace, their horses were taken by royal grooms, and at the sight of their amber rings they were shown without delay, first into a room where secretaries were working, and then into an inner office.
It was graciously proportioned but its beauty had mostly disappeared behind furnishings which declared that it was used by someone who had no time for frivolities. Shelves laden with ledgers and books obscured the panelling; tables were strewn with documents and writing sets; a blackboard on the wall had curious symbols chalked on it.
The man in charge matched
the scenery. His hair was black, except for some silvering at the temples, his skin nearly as brown as Philippa’s, and his gown was of black velvet. He was as dark eyed as any Algonquin. So this was Walsingham, the famed and in some minds infamous Sir Francis. He was seated at the largest table, writing, but raised his head as the secretary showed the new arrivals in. When those eyes looked at him, Stephen felt as if they had impaled him.
“Master Bernard Maude and Master Stephen Sweetwater, Sir Francis,” said the secretary, and withdrew, bowing.
“Ah,” said Walsingham. “Thank you, Maude, for bringing Master Sweetwater. You have the amber ring, sir? May I inspect it?”
Mutely Stephen took off the ring and held it out. Walsingham examined the engraving inside and returned it with a nod. “Good. So much for your bona fides. Be seated. Master Sweetwater, through Maude here I knew in advance who would attend yesterday’s meeting in Holborn. I had been disquieted to learn from him that you would be there, without official sanction. And that you were in the company of relatives who are sunk to their eyebrows in the conspiracy. I ordered him to make contact with you and bring you to me. Explain yourself!”
One did not lie to those eyes. They belonged to a man whose mind was acute and who had the Tower of London and the royal rackmaster at his command.
“I came with my cousin and his son, who is my own son-in-law,” Stephen said. “I did so to find out exactly what they were about. I hoped to persuade them—without warning them—to back out before I brought my report to you.”
“You intended to bring it, then?”
“I first wanted to find out exactly what I was dealing with. Having done so, then, yes, I saw that I must report what I knew.”
“I see.” Walsingham looked as though he really did see. “Yes, that makes sense. No doubt it was distressing to find yourself investigating your own family.”
“Yes, sir.”
“A case of divided loyalties.” Walsingham steepled his long fingers and rested his chin on the tips of them. “You have been in a dilemma. Trouble yourself no longer, Master Sweetwater. Through Master Maude, I know already what is being planned, and by whom. Also, a Jesuit priest named Charles Dupont was arrested in Salisbury and has spilled some names, including those of Tobias and Robert Allerbrook. You need not put yourself on the rack, wondering if you should betray your relations or warn them. There is no need for the one and no point in the other. They are doomed.”
The House of Allerbrook Page 39