by Jane Feather
The queen’s ladies were at liberty and had all gravitated to the Long Gallery, where they had broken into intimate groups, the younger ones with a circle of gallants in attendance. Rosamund had hovered for a while, hoping to be acknowledged by her fellow maids of honor, but they had studiously ignored her. Even Joan had defected from Rosamund upon receiving a cool nod of inclusion.
The queen’s unusual attention had done nothing to improve Rosamund’s acceptance by her peers. She looked for a familiar friendly face, but could see no sign of Lady Leinster or the Chevalier de Vaugiras. She debated leaving the gallery altogether, then decided to stay and draw whatever in the crowded scene interested her. Sir Francis had given her carte blanche, and some interesting faces were in the crowd. There were a lot of profoundly uninteresting countenances too, bland-faced gentlemen and simpering ladies with vacuous expressions.
Will had promised to find her the afternoon after his visit to the theatre, to tell her the result of his efforts to show his play to Alleyn or Burbage, but he had not appeared at court since their meeting in the privy garden, and she didn’t know what to make of his two-day absence. Was he ill? Or had he been summoned away on family business? There were any number of plausible reasons, so she tried to quash her disappointment and the slight resentment to which she had no right. Maybe this afternoon he would come.
She looked around for a suitable subject for her pen. Her eye fell on a young man standing with a small group of men deep in a low-voiced conversation that seemed to absorb them completely. He was strikingly handsome, and his ivory doublet embroidered with gold and jet was as rich as any she had seen in this dazzling court. His cartwheel ruff was at the most extravagant height of fashion, and the hilt of his sword glowed with rubies. A very wealthy young man, obviously. At one point he seemed to look directly at her, as if aware of her interest. He had very fine eyes, dark and glowing with a deep light.
Rosamund began to sketch in an outline, as usual forgetting her surroundings as she became absorbed in her work, and she had been drawing for more than ten minutes when Will Creighton joined the group around her subject. She paused, watching covertly, willing him to look over at her, but he appeared too deeply engaged with his present companions for distraction. She could hear nothing of what was said, but their facial expressions were what interested her as she fleshed out the outlines.
“I give you good day, gentlemen.” Will smiled easily around the circle. He nodded to the gentleman in the ivory doublet. “Anthony, well met. I have been in search of you all morning. I owe you a noble for last even’s entertainment.” He reached into his doublet for a leather pouch of coins.
“My thanks.” Anthony Babington caught the coin deftly as Will flicked it over with his thumb. “If you are at liberty, I would have speech with you.”
“By all means.” Will nodded at their companions, who took the hint and drifted away. Will was still triumphant at the success of his meeting with Thomas Walsingham two days ago at the theatre. He had wanted the opportunity to bring up his play, but instead Wal-singham had sought him out to tell him that Sir Francis had a task for him if he was still willing to be of service.
Will had stammered that he thought his letter had been lost, and Thomas had merely laughed and told him that Master Secretary never lost anything, merely waited until the right tool appeared for the right job. Will’s job in this instance was to befriend Anthony Babington, a courtier he knew hitherto only slightly. He was to let it be known that he shared Babington’s Catholic sympathies. Anthony Babington’s passionate championship of Mary Stuart was a significant tool in Francis Walsingham’s armory, and Will’s task was to keep the flame alight.
Babington had welcomed Will as another Catholic sympathizer into his friendship and his own circle with an almost desperate hunger, and an innocent trust that Will found sadly pathetic. And when Will had realized what fanatical passion drove this group of men, he had almost run from it. It was impossible and could only lead to a bloody end on Tyburn Tree, but he had been instructed to listen, to encourage, to offer his own passionate support. And he was following his instructions to the letter.
Now Anthony moved closer to Will, lowering his voice and speaking rapidly. “There’s to be a meeting in the next day or so. Father Ballard is to go into France to discuss the matter with the Spanish ambassador and Mary’s agent, Morgan. Will you attend?”
“Readily,” Will said in the same undertone, concealing the prickle of excitement. This was a nugget Sir Francis would appreciate. “You are a most faithful friend to Queen Mary.”
Anthony shook his head. “I have been her devoted servant since I first saw her all those years ago, when I was a page in Shrewsbury’s household and he was her first guardian. She was so beautiful, so lively, and with the most wonderful smile. Ah, you should have seen her then, Will.”
Anthony sighed. “Shrewsbury cared for her gently, so different from the treatment meted out to her in these dark days by Amyas Paulet. She has been ill unto death with agues and stomach pains. We must gain her release. There is no time to be lost.”
Will nodded and laid a sympathetic hand on the other man’s arm. “We will succeed, Anthony. Father Ballard will bring the help we need.”
“Aye, ’tis to be hoped for. The meeting is to be held at the Plough in Temple Bar. There will be others there . . .” Anthony moved closer in, his voice little more than a whisper.
Rosamund couldn’t help but wonder what topic could so absorb Will and his companion that neither of them spared a glance for the throng around them. Surely Will ought to be able to sense her presence just a few feet away. But he didn’t look once in her direction. Her pen moved quickly, and when she had finished, she had both Will and the gentleman to life on the paper. She regarded it critically, before tucking it out of sight and taking a fresh sheet, looking for a new subject.
“Mistress Walsingham?”
She looked up startled to find a servant at her elbow. “Sir Francis Walsingham requests your company.”
Rather nervously, Rosamund gathered up her belongings and followed the servant out of the gallery into a small antechamber where Sir Francis and her brother were standing together at a rain-washed window.
“Ah, Rosamund, good. You are here.” Master Secretary’s nod of greeting was curt as she approached and curtsied to them both.
Her brother kissed her cheek. “How are you enjoying court life, little sister?” His tone was hearty, a little too hearty she thought.
“Diverting for the most part,” she replied cautiously. She didn’t think her cousin or her brother would care to know of her burgeoning education in the court’s less visible and less conventional life.
Sir Francis looked at her sharply, almost as if he could read her mind. “Be careful, child. If you are to find a decent future for yourself, it is here you will find it, and you should be thinking of nothing else.”
She curtsied meekly and in silence. After a moment Sir Francis said, “Do you have anything to show me?”
“A few sketches only. I have not seen very much, sir. There is little change of scene or of company in the queen’s chambers.” She hoped that didn’t sound too much like a complaint as she handed over the sheaf of papers, including her most recent drawing.
Sir Francis took them to the window and examined them closely. “Mmm . . . you have indeed a most detailed eye. Ah, why did this gentleman catch your eye?” He tapped her afternoon’s work with a fingertip.
“There was something about him . . . I don’t know exactly. His dress, his eyes . . .” She shrugged.
“What think you, Thomas?” Francis passed the sheet to the other man. “She has our friend Babington to the life.”
“And Creighton too. He seems to be applying himself to the task.” Thomas glanced at his sister, who appeared not to be listening.
Rosamund’s ears however were pricked. It sounded as if Will had managed to enter Sir Francis’s service in the two days since they had last talked and was now at w
ork. Perhaps that explained his absence from court.
Francis said, “This man, Rosamund . . . his name is Anthony Babington. I would have you take note of him, sketch him and his companions whenever the opportunity arises. I am particularly interested in the company he keeps.” He folded the sheets and tucked them inside his doublet. “You have plenty of time for drawing, I trust?”
“Yes, Sir Francis. Her majesty has been most kind in permitting me to draw as much as I wish when we are at leisure.”
He nodded. “Good . . . good.” He touched his neat beard as if searching for words, then coughed and said, “My lady wife is most anxious to know how you are getting on. I will ask Lady Shrewsbury to give you leave to visit us one evening.”
Rosamund’s face split in a smile of pleasure as she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Oh, I should like that of all things, Sir Francis. I am at Lady Walsingham’s service always.”
He nodded, murmured another “Good . . . good,” and turned from her.
Rosamund took her dismissal and turned to leave, glancing once over her shoulder at her brother, who had resumed his conversation with the secretary. Thomas caught her look and gave her a short nod that she had no idea how to interpret. She returned without much enthusiasm to the Long Gallery.
“Mistress Walsingham, I thought you had abandoned us.” Will, arm in arm with the handsome gentleman she now knew to be Anthony Babington, approached her as she entered the gallery. Will’s smile was full of hidden meaning, and Rosamund felt the last shreds of her resentment at his absence vanish. He indicated his companion. “My friend Master Babington asks to be made known to you.”
“Sir.” Rosamund curtsied, wondering what it was about this man that interested her majesty’s spymaster.
“Mistress Walsingham.” He bowed. “I have not seen you at court before.”
“I have been at court less than a week, sir. It is still very unfamiliar to me, Master Babington. I daresay for one who has frequented the court for some time, that is hard to understand.”
“I am here infrequently myself, mistress. I am but a humble law student at Lincoln’s Inn.” His smile was as charming as his countenance.
“You may be a student at the Inns of Court, sir, but I doubt you are humble.” She didn’t add that no man whose garments were so stiff with jewels they could stand alone could possibly claim humble status.
“I protest, Mistress Walsingham. I can claim to be a mere squire’s son. No more, no less.” Anthony Babington’s eyes twinkled and Rosamund realized that she was being invited to flirt. It really did seem to be the most popular pastime, but she had no wish to accept the invitation this afternoon, she was too interested in Will to give anyone else her attention.
Will Creighton said swiftly, “We were at the play yesterday, Mistress Walsingham, and were lucky enough afterwards to hear Master Marlowe read some further lines of his Tamburlaine. It is most moving verse.”
Rosamund was instantly consumed with envious longing. It was ridiculous, she knew, but she felt as if she had a proprietorial interest in Kit Marlowe and his play, and the idea that anyone else should be becoming a familiar of Kit’s in her absence made her green. She changed the subject. “Have you traveled abroad much, Master Babington?”
“To Paris. I spent some months there. It is a most godly city.”
Something about his voice struck Rosamund as strange. She frowned. “Godly. I would hardly think that a suitable word, sir. The massacre of the Huguenots . . . one could hardly call that a godly act.”
Anthony Babington shook his head. “God works in mysterious ways, Mistress Walsingham.”
Rosamund remembered Kit’s saying how men used God’s name to establish their own power over other men. It was heresy, she knew. But it still made sense to her. She glanced around. No one was within earshot except Will. Softly, she explained to Anthony Babington Christopher Marlowe’s views on God and power. And when she’d finished, she wished she had not opened her mouth.
“That is heresy, Mistress Walsingham. The blackest heresy,” Anthony declared, mercifully keeping his voice low despite his outrage. “You would propound such atheistical views . . . they will drag you on a hurdle to Tyburn Tree . . . to the stake.” He turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Rosamund, has no one ever told you to watch your tongue?” Will inquired in a fierce undertone. “You are at court. You cannot say such things, there are ears everywhere.”
“But it is only what Kit says. It is the subject of his play.”
“Then let Master Marlowe go to Tyburn Tree,” Will said forcefully. “And keep your distance from Anthony Babington.”
Rosamund looked at him with interest. “Why? Is there something about him that I should know?”
“What makes you think that?”
Oh, just something the queen’s spymaster said. But she kept that to herself. If Will wanted to confide in her about his service with Sir Francis, he would do so in his own good time. Maybe he was supposed to keep it a secret. “Just a feeling.”
Will chewed his lip, then said, “Master Babington is a Catholic. It is unwise to cultivate him, and dangerous to talk religion openly with a recusant.”
Because they draw the attention of the spymaster? “Believe me, Will, I have no particular interest in Catholics,” she said easily. “And I’ve no desire to cause trouble. But if it’s unwise, why do you cultivate him?” She waited to see if he would tell her the true reason.
“He’s pleasant company, and he has a fat purse.” Will laughed, seeming to cast off the gravity of a moment before. “My purse on the other hand is lean, and our friend is generous. And we never discuss religion.”
It was a convincing enough reason, even though she knew it wasn’t true. But if he had been sworn to secrecy, she wouldn’t press him.
“I have missed you these last two days,” she said instead. “Did you show your play to Master Alleyn or Master Burbage?”
“Not as yet. Some other business arose and the moment passed, but next time I visit the theatre I am determined to do so.”
“Maybe next time I’ll come with you.” Her eyebrows lifted in faint question mark.
He looked at her with his customary glimmer of mischief. “As I said, Rosamund, if you have the courage, I will provide the costume.” It sounded like a challenge, and for a moment she was tempted to take it up, but caution prevailed. “Maybe . . . one of these days.”
He laughed. “I didn’t think you had the courage.”
“Oh, just you wait and see, Master Creighton.” She tossed her head in a fair imitation of Lady Leinster and with a flutter of her eyelashes turned away, leaving him chuckling.
Chapter Thirteen
“SO CREIGHTON IS keeping an eye on Babington,” Robin Poley said. “And Barnard Maude is stuck close to Ballard, and Kit Marlowe is to work with Gilbert Gifford to encourage Savage. What am I to do, sir?”
Sir Francis smiled a slow smile. “You and Phelippes will work together. You will return to Chartley together and you will impart to Mary Stuart the details of a secret means of communication between herself and her loyal subjects. She must be convinced that this corridor of information is impregnable so that she has no need watch her words. My cousin Thomas has an ingenious plan involving brewery kegs entering and leaving the castle. He will explain it in detail before you go north.
“Christopher Marlowe and Gifford will ensure that Babington and his little league understand that the corridor of communication cannot be discovered, so that they too will feel free to write openly. And then we will intercept. Phelippes will decipher both sides of the correspondence and, where we deem it necessary, add a few details of encouragement. And then we shall wait to see what springs the trap.”
“We are to encourage Scots Mary to believe that an invasion is planned and supported on our shores, and that Queen Elizabeth will be removed to give her a straight path to the throne? Do I have it right?”
“You do. Barnard Maude tells me there’s to be a me
eting just outside Temple Bar. An inn called the Plough. Ostensibly it’s to bid farewell to Captain Fortescue, otherwise known as our old friend Father John Ballard. The captain is off on military business, apparently, but of course we know better. Creighton and Maude will be there as friends and supporters.”
“As inciters?”
“If you choose to call it that.”
“And Thomas Walsingham?”
“He is running the operation. They report to him and he will keep me informed.”
Poley accepted his dismissal with a bow. Outside, he found Ingram Frizer hovering as only he could do. Picking filthy fingernails with the tip of his dagger, whistling through blackened teeth, eyes as sharp as files, he nodded as Robin came out of the house on Seething Lane.
“Anything to be done?”
“Aye. Arrange a meeting with the young Walsingham as soon as possible. I’ll await him in my lodgings.”
Frizer spat into the gutter. “Any notion where I’ll find Walsingham?”
“No, but you don’t usually have trouble nosing people out.” Robin looked at him in distaste. Frizer had his uses, but he always left Robin feeling as if he needed to wash his hands with lye after an encounter.
Frizer grinned, as if he understood exactly what the elegant Poley was thinking, thrust the dagger into his belt, and sidled off down the street.
“There’s to be a hunting party and picnic at Richmond tomorrow.” Joan bounced into the dorter, eyes shining. “Her majesty has decided, and the whole court is to go.”
Rosamund, who was sitting on the bed dolefully examining the fallen hem of her green gown, discarded the mending project with relief as a new issue took precedence. “I need my horse. I wonder if she’s still stabled at Seething Lane.” She jumped up with renewed energy. “I must send a message to Sir Francis. How does one do that, Joan?”
Joan was delving in the armoire for her second-best gown, and her voice was muffled. “Write a note and give it to one of the heralds. You can always find one in the corridors. They’ll take it for you.”