Each communicant muttered, ‘Amen,’ and crossed himself with unusual fervour. The days of summer would soon be running into autumn. Their long wait was nearly over. Letters of confirmation had been sent and received. They had been informed that King Philip’s army waited only for their instruction.
Plans for the Queen’s assassination could no longer be put off.
Goodluck hid his smile, knowing how each man secretly feared his own part in the conspiracy while boldly crying, ‘Death to Elizabeth!’ among each other. Nor were they even competent conspirators. They had not been brought up to spy and plot. They trusted too easily and spoke too openly. A friend was not a potential threat to them, but someone to be confided in, to carry treasonous letters for them without question. The only reason they had not yet been taken by the London magistrates was that Walsingham wished to play Babington along a little further, in the hope he might reveal the names of any courtiers who had involved themselves in this, though Goodluck suspected that to delay much longer might endanger the life of the Queen.
Their prayers continued as the priest moved softly to extinguish the candles on the altar, until the only light was from the torch illuminating the stairs back up to the house.
Ballard’s new friend, Pooley, had arranged for them to take Mass that evening in the cellar of his home. Goodluck could have wished for a more comfortable few hours, but these Catholics seemed to delight in mortifying their flesh. The air of the cellar was chill and damp, and despite the padded cloth he had been handed on descending the stairs, to be used as a kneeler during Mass, the stony mud floor still pressed painfully into his knees. He could hardly wait to return to the tiny scented garden above, a few yards of formal greenery at the back of Pooley’s town house, but drenched in hot sunshine when he had arrived earlier that day. It felt, he thought bitterly, as though they had been buried alive down here.
But Babington was taking full precautions against discovery. Each of them had been asked to arrive separately, disguised and using different routes into the city, and even Pooley’s servants had been excluded from their initial meeting, the outer door guarded by a ferocious-looking wolfhound.
In the smoky, incense-thick gloom, the priest threw back his hood and came to shake hands with them all as the service came to an end.
He was a young man with watery grey eyes, but his handshake was firm enough. ‘May the Lord be with you,’ he said to each in turn, ‘and guide you on your mission.’
Ballard bowed his head over the priest’s hand. ‘God be with you too, Father,’ he replied fervently.
Ballard had proved a difficult quarry to hunt, Goodluck thought, watching him covertly. Stubborn, passionate, a man of great faith and determination, the priest was no fool when it came to the constant danger of conspiracy. He took few chances. It had taken Goodluck a long time to get Ballard to trust him. Even now he knew the Catholic priest was ready to sink a dagger in his belly at the merest hint that he might be a Protestant and a traitor to their cause. He was still not sure which of those two sins was worse in Ballard’s eyes.
‘You need not fear damnation for the deed you must do, Father Ballard,’ the priest muttered, and passed him a ring. ‘By token of this ring, the Holy Father sends his blessing from Rome. He prays that you may be delivered from all enemies of the True Church.’
Ballard flushed and stared down at the crested papal ring. He seemed genuinely moved by this gift from Rome. Then he slipped it into the leather pocket hanging from his belt.
‘You must bear our thanks to His Holiness,’ he replied, his voice shaking with intensity, ‘and reassure him that we think nothing of our souls when set against the great good we do in ridding England of Elizabeth Tudor.’
The priest nodded, shaking all their hands again with solemn significance. ‘Now if you will forgive me, gentlemen, I must return to Whitehall before I am missed.’
Goodluck watched him go, a frown on his face. When the priest had disappeared through the low door at the top, he turned to Anthony Babington.
‘Whitehall?’
Babington smiled grimly. ‘This city is riddled with loyal Papists, my friend. When the Queen is finally dead, you will see them rise up to ring the bells and rejoice, for Elizabeth Tudor is a blight on our land, a vile disease that must be cut out before we can be healthy again.’
‘Amen,’ Goodluck replied, and the others echoed him. ‘The smoke is choking here. Shall we go up to the garden?’
‘Too many ears to hear us outside in the air,’ Ballard muttered, shaking his head. ‘First, let us open our hearts to each other. I have news from the north.’
‘Speak,’ Babington encouraged him. ‘Tell us first what happened to Maude. You said he left you in Yorkshire.’
They stood together in the dark cellar, four men shoulder to shoulder, almost whispering now.
‘I fear that Maude was never one of us,’ Ballard admitted shortly. ‘While we were travelling in the north, I received an anonymous note warning me that my companion was not a Catholic. I had meant to keep Maude close until we returned to London, so we could have a chance to question him in a secure place.’ He grimaced. ‘But Maude must have realized my suspicions. One evening, he went out for a walk, claiming some discomfort after his meal, and did not return.’
Goodluck frowned, uncomfortable at the turn this conversation was taking. Could sharp-eyed Maude also have been working for Walsingham? It would not surprise him to learn that his wily master had placed more than one spy undercover in this business. ‘You are sure Maude was not arrested?’ he asked. Ballard’s eyes narrowed on his face, and Goodluck shrugged and added, ‘I am told the north is as riddled with the Queen’s spies as London is with the faithful.’
‘Maude was not loyal to the cause.’ Ballard’s gaze was cold. ‘I had suspected for some time that one of our number had been feeding information about us back to the Queen’s men. I knew we were being watched up in the north, and I’m sure our rooms were searched when we stopped in York. And Maude was always asking questions: wanting to know the names of my contacts in Paris and Rome, with whom I had studied at Rheims, and how our secret letters were able to reach Her Majesty, Queen Mary, when she is still so closely guarded.’ Babington’s eyes widened at this last, and Ballard laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Luckily, I was sparing with the information I gave him. When Maude disappeared, I knew we had been wrong to take him into our confidence so trustingly. From now on, we must be sure of any newcomer’s loyalty before we speak of our plans before him, even in the most private chamber.’
Babington looked alarmed. ‘But Maude knows where I live. He has been at my house several times.’
‘Yes, I wished to warn you, but did not want to place such secret information in a letter. Who knows who we can trust?’ Ballard hesitated. ‘I fear none of us can return home until after the deed is done and the country saved for God. But we are not wholly betrayed. Pooley can accommodate us instead. His name was not known to Maude. There can be no danger of discovery here.’
They all looked at their host, Pooley, who had been telling over his rosary beads while he listened to this exchange.
Surprised by their scrutiny, Pooley nodded and muttered, ‘You are all most welcome to sleep here, of course,’ then returned to his prayers. ‘Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum …’
Babington turned back to Ballard, frowning. ‘And our plan to kill the Queen?’
‘I do not see that Maude’s betrayal can hurt us, if indeed he has betrayed us. The Queen is always well-guarded. Foreknowledge of our attempt will not change that. But one man can still have at her with a dagger if he is brave enough, perhaps while she is with her ladies in her bedchamber or walking in her palace gardens. As long as there are times when she is not guarded on all sides, one of us alone should be able to come upon her and kill her face to face.’
Babington seemed convinced by this dubious argument. ‘But despite Maude’s disappearance, your mission was successful? We have been so e
ager for news here. How many men did you raise for the Catholic cause in the north?’
‘Very few,’ Ballard admitted.
‘What?’
‘It would appear the northern Catholics have lost their taste for rebellion, though many there still follow the true faith.’ Ballard smiled bitterly. ‘I said Mass in many rich houses in the north, with little fear of discovery by the authorities. I was told they turn a blind eye to the Catholics there, so long as certain dues are paid. But when talk turned to the possibility of the Queen’s death, I was met with silence and refusal.’
Pooley looked astonished. ‘They will not aid us?’
‘Not even if the Queen were to die tomorrow,’ Ballard told them. ‘I found a small handful of nobles who were willing to fight, and could raise an army of maybe a few hundred common soldiers between them. But they have neither armour nor good weaponry, and would need to be supplied out of France or Spain. The rest claim to be happy with the way things are in England, and will not risk an uprising even for the chance of a return to the true faith. The exiled Scottish Queen is not much regarded there, I fear.’
Goodluck nodded. ‘This is just as I anticipated it would be. I expect the landowners fear an influx of the Scottish over the northern border if Queen Mary takes the English throne. Land is poor there, and they would not wish to give any of it up to families who have been their natural enemies for centuries.’
‘When Queen Mary takes the throne,’ Ballard corrected him quietly, ‘not if.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Goodluck said formally, and bowed his head.
Babington sighed. ‘Come, friends, let us not lose hope or fall out over this blow. We have had bad news from the north, but it cannot deter us in our task. Even if we are the only true Catholics left in the kingdom, our fellowship in Christ must be enough to sustain us.’
‘Amen, and bravely said,’ Pooley commented, having finished his prayers, and tucked his rosary away inside his robe. ‘I am new to at least one of your number,’ he continued, looking pointedly at Goodluck, ‘and I know this marks me out as a man not to be trusted. But I came to you from the start with credentials and letters from trusted friends and Catholics both here in England and on the Continent, and I am as true a man as any who ever worshipped the Holy Virgin. You are very welcome to use this house as your own until the Queen is dead. Which must be soon, I fear, from what we have heard here today.’
Babington gripped Pooley’s hand, smiling. ‘I trust you, Pooley. You speak so much good sense.’
‘May that always be the case, my good friend.’ Pooley smiled back at him. ‘Now, much has been said here that must be dwelt upon in silence and solitude. Shall we each take to our rooms, and pray alone until supper time?’
They agreed to meet again at supper, and each man went his separate way for prayer and private reflection. Goodluck visited the room he was sharing with Ballard for a few moments, to write a quick note and change his priest’s robe – badly in need of a wash, for it reeked of smoke and incense – for a clean shirt and a russet-brown doublet. Then he walked about Pooley’s now shady garden in the cool of the late afternoon, listening to the passing traffic in the street behind the high garden wall and muttering over his rosary beads in case he was observed from the house.
After half an hour’s restless pacing, Goodluck heard the sound he had been waiting for, a street hawker’s cry selling oranges.
He paused by the studded door in the garden wall and surreptitiously drew back the bolt.
The street was still busy, though the sun would soon be setting. He watched a young dark-skinned girl hurry past, her white cap concealing an unruly mop of hair, and his heart jerked, remembering Lucy. His ward must be certain he was dead by now, it had been so long since Walsingham had insisted that he infiltrate the plotters. He only hoped Lucy’s privileged position at court would be enough to keep her from harm. Then, just as suddenly, his mind returned to the business at hand, for he had seen a possible contact.
A young boy stood with his back to the gate, calling out his wares to every passer-by while a man nearby – his father or uncle, perhaps – tried to interest the busy shopkeeper opposite in taking a box of oranges for his shop.
‘Fresh oranges, you say?’ Goodluck asked.
‘Aye, master,’ the hawker’s boy said, turning eagerly at his voice, and coming to the gate with a tray of fragrant fruit hanging from a rope about his neck. ‘Fresh off the boat this morning. A penny each, they are, and you will not find any oranges so fine this side of the Spanish main.’
Goodluck smiled, hearing the password ‘Spanish main’, and accepted an orange from the boy. He sniffed and squeezed the large, dimpled fruit, then tossed it in the air like a ball.
‘Yes, that will quench my thirst,’ he agreed. As though satisfied by its freshness, he felt in his purse for a penny. There was a narrow rolled-up slip of parchment inside, and both this and the coin he dropped on to the tray. ‘For our master, and quickly. It must reach him tonight at Richmond, or tomorrow at the earliest.’
The boy showed no sign of having heard these muttered words, but turned away without even looking at Goodluck again.
‘Good day to you, master,’ he said idly. He continued to cry out, ‘Oranges for sale! Fresh oranges for sale!’ as he threaded his way through a group of passing youths.
Goodluck closed the garden gate, hoping that his urgent message would indeed reach Sir Francis Walsingham that same night, and turned to find their host, Robert Pooley, watching from an upper window.
As soon as he realized he had been seen, Pooley raised a hand in friendly greeting. Then he took several moments over closing the shutters, as though to explain why he had been at the window in the first place.
Goodluck threw his orange up in the air – as a way of giving Pooley an innocent reason for his venture into the street – and recommenced walking about the garden, his head bent once more in assiduous prayer. Yet whenever he passed the shut gate, he could not help glancing at it with a frown for his own clumsiness.
Had Robert Pooley seen and understood the exchange between him and the boy? Was he no longer safe here?
Eleven
‘LUCY! LUCY!’
Lucy groped under her pillow for the dagger which was always kept there, then slipped out of bed and hurried to the window. She threw the shutters open and leaned over the wooden sill, peering down into the reeking warmth of a summer night. She had not seen Will Shakespeare for some time, and had sent his letters back unopened, but it seemed he was still unwilling to let her go.
‘Will?’
Like a ghost, Will Shakespeare came out of the shadows of the houses opposite and into the moonlight. His face was pale and haggard as he stared up at her, his clothing dishevelled, no cap on his head, his dark hair tumbled and wild.
‘Lucy,’ was all he seemed able to say, his voice hoarse.
‘You can’t come here in the middle of the night,’ she told him, forcing herself to sound angry, though the sight of his anguished face struck at her heart. ‘My neighbours will make a complaint to the magistrate and I will be fined. Go away, I don’t want to see you any more.’
Lucy glanced anxiously about the dark street. No one was stirring yet. She was afraid of what might happen if one of her neighbours did as they had threatened at his last visit and set the Watch on him.
Will did not obey her command but stayed to plead with her, his words slurred and disjointed.
‘Lucy, Lucy. Your eyes are like …’ He tailed off, confused. ‘Please open the door and let me in. I need you. Can’t you see I’m in agony?’
‘I only see that you are drunk.’
‘My letters! Did you not read any of my letters to you? I sent you sonnets too. I must have written them in my own blood, for I’m so weak now I can hardly stand.’ His gaze seemed to devour her. ‘Oh, Lucy, I’ve missed you so badly.’
She averted her gaze. ‘Go home to bed, Will.’
‘What, home to my cold bed? Let me into
yours instead and we shall burn there together. Is your friend still there? I shall be civil to her, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’
‘Cathy’s gone. Her child began to sicken in the foul air, so she took him home to Norfolk.’ She realized her mistake when Will’s face brightened and he staggered to the foot of the house, staring up at her window. ‘No, Will. You must stop this. What we had before … It’s not enough for me. Don’t you understand?’
‘Lucy, my love, my sweetest.’ He took a misstep, falling awkwardly against the wall. ‘Words …’
‘Go home, Will,’ she repeated, though she desperately wanted to run down the stairs and unbolt the door to him. Yet how could she let him in again? Had he not done enough damage here?
She had known for some days that the worst had occurred. Her monthly course of blood had failed to arrive. Her breasts tingled and were fuller than before, and she felt nauseous on waking. Every woman at court knew what this meant, for these were the signs most avidly watched for by those set to safeguard the honour of the Queen’s maids.
Like a fool, Lucy had given herself to Will Shakespeare in blind desire. Now she was with child.
She could not bear to demand that he marry her. He had already shown beyond all doubt that he would no more think of marrying her than he would wed one of the tavern whores who gave themselves for a few shillings to any stranger. To tell him that was what she wanted would merely invite further humiliation, and make it more shameful when she had to slip away into the country before she grew too large to hide her condition.
Her good friend Cathy would shelter her until the child was born, she felt sure of it. Though after that, Lucy could not see what path would support both her and a child, except one that led to ruin.
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