Suddenly, Anthony Babington was there.
Tousle-haired, his clothes dishevelled and torn in places as though ripped by briars, Babington crouched in the entrance to the makeshift shelter. A dagger in his hand, he stared up at Goodluck as though he could not believe his eyes.
‘Brother Weatherley,’ he managed at last, his voice hoarse. ‘Are you alone?’
Goodluck nodded, but did not move any nearer. It was vital he did not frighten these men, who must already be at their wits’ ends.
Babington crawled out of the shelter on his hands and knees, followed by Robert Gage and Henry Dunne, two other conspirators who had occasionally frequented Babington’s house while Goodluck was there. All three stood and looked at him suspiciously, then Babington nodded to Gage, who searched him with deliberately rough hands, so that Goodluck had to bite his lip not to cry out in pain. The burns Master Topcliffe had inflicted were barely scabbed over and still agonizing when touched.
There was nothing on his person to alert them to any danger. Goodluck had seen to that.
Gage shrugged, turning back to the others with Goodluck’s dagger. ‘Only this.’
‘Give it back to him.’ Babington’s eyes narrowed on Goodluck’s face. ‘You will forgive us if we are impolite, Brother Weatherley, but our necks are at risk now because we have trusted too simply in the past. There can be no other explanation for our arrests than that one of our number betrayed us to Walsingham. I’m glad to see you at least escaped from the Tower, though. Are Ballard and Pooley still there?’
‘Pooley has been freed without charge. Ballard remains under lock and key.’
‘Then God have mercy on his soul.’ Babington crossed himself. ‘But both you and Pooley free? How did you manage such a feat? We heard you were taken straight to Master Topcliffe.’ Warily, Babington looked Goodluck up and down. ‘Even the strongest of men would find it hard to walk away from an interrogation by that vicious bastard.’
‘And how did you find us here in the woods, so far from London?’ demanded Gage abruptly, handing back his dagger with a reluctant expression. The man would much rather, Goodluck guessed, have plunged the blade in his heart. ‘Is there a sign out on the road, saying “Fugitives here”?’
‘There is no mystery, my friends, I assure you. I have been walking for days to find your camp. Pooley and I left London together, hoping to meet up with you. We traced you from Westminster to St John’s Woods, and then kept walking. But Pooley got himself arrested again in Harrow while I was asking directions in a wayside tavern. I hid, and since then I have been alone. Asking only at those places where I knew there to be staunch Catholics, I followed your trail from Harrow to this idyllic spot.’
Goodluck indicated his bruised face, then dragged open his shirt to show the still raw, oozing wounds on his chest and belly. The conspirators recoiled. Now for the story he had prepared. Luckily most of it was true. It was always easier when the lie was half-truth.
‘And I did not walk away from the Tower so much as was carried on a cart. I almost died that night. I was questioned for hours, and put to the rack and the hot irons, but nothing could be proved and they let me go.’
Was that the best he could come up with? Even to his ears it sounded thin.
Babington hesitated. ‘You were lucky, then.’
Was that suspicion in the traitor’s face? Goodluck turned the tables on him as a distraction, his eyes narrowed. ‘If I had been lucky, friend, I would have escaped capture altogether. As you appear to have done.’
Now for it. Babington had stiffened angrily, sensing everyone’s gaze on his face and no doubt feeling himself under suspicion. ‘Do you accuse me of being a traitor to our cause because I was not arrested with you?’
‘If I accuse you of anything, it’s of being a lucky bastard.’ The danger was past. Or would be in a moment if he could play it right. Goodluck grinned, seizing Babington’s hand in a strong grip. ‘Yes, it’s a miracle your name was not on the warrant that day at Pooley’s house. But I am glad to see you whole and hale, nonetheless.’
Henry Dunne looked at Goodluck with dark, sullen eyes. ‘Did you bring food, Brother?’
That one was not so easily convinced. But all he seemed able to think about was his stomach. Soft-bellied gentlemen traitors. No doubt they had never guessed their grand rebellion would come to this, a hard bed under the stars and nothing to eat.
Pulling a fresh-baked loaf and a pouch of tobacco from under his jacket, Goodluck winked. This would do the trick. Food in their bellies and something to smoke. In another moment he would be one of them again, a trusted ally and not a suspect spy in their midst. ‘The Lord looks after his own. Here, eat it in good health. No, I insist. I have already breakfasted today. Share this loaf amongst yourselves and then join me in a pipeful of tobacco.’
‘I have been dreaming of a pipe these two weeks,’ Babington breathed, and shook Goodluck’s hand again in youthful thanks. ‘Forgive my suspicions. You are welcome indeed to our little band.’
Gage looked fearfully at Babington. ‘But the smoke. Will it not give us away?’
‘Come, man, surely it’s safe enough to smoke a pipe here in the woods?’ Goodluck countered him. ‘What, are we not allowed a few puffs of tobacco between long-lost friends? But let us sit inside here if you are afraid we may be seen.’
Goodluck ducked his head to enter their makeshift shelter. The others followed him after a moment’s hesitation. It was cool and dry inside, everything cast in a dappled green light, their cloaks spread over the dirt and leaves to make it more habitable.
‘I saw no one on the road today,’ he continued blithely, ‘and the woods seemed quiet enough as I came through them. Though you are right to be careful and avoid lighting a fire. If I was able to track you all the way from London, Walsingham’s men may be able to as well. We should travel on soon, and keep moving so they cannot find us.’
As the men tore at the loaf with dirty fingers, Goodluck stuffed a few wads of fresh tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe and rummaged for his tinderbox.
Dunne cast him a few doubtful looks, but Goodluck ignored him. He lit the pipe and puffed on it, enjoying the pleasant fragrance of the tobacco as it burned. He only needed Babington’s trust for this mission. Three men here, two missing. All he lacked was the whereabouts of the other men on Walsingham’s list, and the names of any new men in the plot about whom he knew nothing.
‘So, my friends,’ he murmured, passing the pipe to Anthony Babington, ‘where are the others who would have supported us in this push against the Queen? For we are only four here. Ballard is in the Tower. Pooley is under arrest again, poor fellow. But what of Robert Barnwell, and John Charnock, and the rest of our brave crew? Where are they? Never tell me we are all that’s left to fight for Mary’s throne?’
‘Charnock and Barnwell are safely with us here,’ Babington told him, closing his eyes as he drew rapidly on the pipe. ‘Barnwell tried to kill the Queen, did you hear that? He went to Richmond Palace armed with a dagger. But Elizabeth was too well-guarded and he could not come near her. He said he was pursued and bitten badly by one of the Queen’s hounds, then escaped over the wall. A brave man indeed. As for the others, I cannot tell you their fate. They may be taken already, or on the run as we are.’
Goodluck frowned, glancing around their cramped shelter. ‘Surely Charnock and Barnwell do not sleep here too? There seems hardly room for one man here, let alone five. Where do they lay their heads at night?’
Henry Dunne seized Babington’s arm, whispering hoarsely, ‘Do not tell him too much. We do not know yet if we can trust him!’
With undisguised disdain, Babington shook Dunne’s hand off his shirt sleeve. ‘Father Weatherley is an honest priest,’ he told him stiffly, ‘and as loyal as we are to our future queen, Mary. I trust him implicitly.’
‘I thank you,’ Goodluck said gravely, inclining his head.
‘We are all in the pot together. Not to trust each other is to ensure Mar
y will never reign in her cousin’s place.’ Reluctantly, Babington handed the pipe to Robert Gage. ‘Charnock and Barnwell are safely quartered up at Uxendon Hall, never fear. Charnock could not stand the damp of the woods at night and Barnwell’s wound was irking him, so both have been given a hiding-place in the big house. I know nothing more, but Barnwell’s friend comes down every day or so with food and ale from the kitchens.’
‘The family know they are hiding in the house, I take it?’
‘Uxendon is the home of the Bellamys, as staunch a Catholic family as ever breathed. They do not have room for us all, for that would excite comment. But we’re told they will arrange horses to take us further north in a day or two. There, we can meet others true to the cause and discuss what’s next to be done. King Philip’s army still waits for our signal. All is not lost.’ Babington hesitated, looking across at him. There was a shy friendship in his face. It almost hurt to see it. ‘You will come with us when we leave, Weatherley?’
‘Of course.’
‘I knew you would.’ Babington smiled. ‘With you, we will be seven. That seems a propitious number to overthrow a corrupt state.’
Goodluck agreed with this, looking round at their faces, then asked casually, ‘This friend of Barnwell’s, do we know him? Is he trustworthy?’
‘Barnwell trusts him and that must be enough for us.’ Babington shrugged. ‘He is a commoner. But at a time like this, we may need such a man. He speaks stoutly of killing Queen Elizabeth if he can get close enough, and looks to be a handy man in a fight. Barnwell claims this fellow has carried messages between Mary Stuart and King Philip over the years, and has even spoken to Mary face to face.’
‘His name?’
Henry Dunne looked at Goodluck suspiciously again. ‘His name is Master John Twist. And he told us to beware of you.’
‘John Twist?’
Goodluck repeated the name as levelly as he knew how, forcing himself not to betray the fierce surge of hatred inside as his lips formed the words. His heart beat violently and a red haze of fury dimmed his eyes. So Twist was up to his neck in this plot too? And had done his best to betray Goodluck as a Queen’s man, it seemed, without also revealing himself as having been in Walsingham’s pay, too. He wondered how much money Twist would earn from the Catholics for his treachery. More than Walsingham had ever paid, presumably.
‘Told you to beware of me?’ He pretended confusion. It seemed his only hope. ‘For what reason? I do not even know this man’s name.’
‘Weatherley, pay this vicious accusation no heed,’ Babington told him urgently. ‘Master Twist merely said he had heard a rumour that a Father Weatherley was no priest, but a spy in Walsingham’s pay. But none of us believed it. Why should we, when you have travelled all over Europe with Ballard and been such a good friend to us? Let us not distrust each other when our numbers are so mean.’
A wood pigeon’s low coo sounded outside the shelter, only a few hundred feet away. The men stopped talking and listened intently. The signal came again, then silence.
Dunne’s dark eyes narrowed on Goodluck’s face. His smile was unpleasant. ‘This will be John Twist now, down from the big house with our food. You want to know why he maligned you? Come outside, big man, and you can ask him yourself.’
So the time had come to see this comedy to its end. Well, there could be no hesitating now.
Goodluck nodded. ‘So I shall.’
Crawling out after the conspirators through the narrow opening of stripped beech twigs and willow wands budding with leaves, Goodluck straightened in the dappled woodland sunshine and found himself face to face with John Twist.
Twist’s opening words died on his lips at the sight of Goodluck. His sword was out in an instant, the blade pointed unwaveringly at Goodluck’s heart.
‘I did not think to find you here,’ Twist snarled. He looked at the other three men, standing nonplussed, and urged them to run. ‘Go, get as far away from here as possible!’
For the first time Goodluck realized that John Twist was in truth a Catholic conspirator. He was not playing this game for money, and never had been. The revelation shocked him, though it made sense. Twist had always seemed to have more up his sleeve than he let on, though Goodluck had thought him merely close-mouthed. The kind of man who likes to keep secrets for their own sake. Instead, Twist had been on the side of the Catholics all along, hiding his plans and allegiances even from those who knew him best – Goodluck, Ned, Sos, and the other theatrical spies in London – while pretending to be a stout Protestant. No wonder their attempts to uncover Catholic plotters had so often been thwarted or sidetracked. Twist must have been feeding both sides information, but ensuring he kept his friends one step ahead of Walsingham’s men.
‘We heard up at the big house that soldiers had been spotted searching the woods. Now I see why. This creature,’ Twist spat vehemently, indicating Goodluck with his blade, ‘is a Queen’s man, and has brought ruin upon us.’
‘No!’ Babington exclaimed. He came to stand firm at Goodluck’s right side. ‘You are mistaken. Brother Weatherley is a priest and a true friend to our cause.’
‘Is he indeed?’ Twist asked, taunting Goodluck with an insolent stare. ‘I fear you have been taken in by a master player. His name is not Weatherley, but Goodluck. Nor is he a priest, but a spy and an adventurer in Walsingham’s pay.’
Shaking his head, Babington looked bewildered. It was too late now, though. The cat would not be put back into the bag. ‘I cannot believe he would betray us,’ he insisted. Nonetheless, he was already backing away from Goodluck, his hand on his dagger hilt. ‘Brother Weatherley, tell him it is not so.’
The charade was at its end. Goodluck stood back, put his fingers to his lips, and gave the piercing whistle that was the captain’s signal to move in.
‘I’m sorry, Anthony,’ Goodluck told him, with genuine pity for the young man. A dire fate lay ahead for Anthony Babington if proven guilty of treason. Not that every one of the conspirators did not deserve death for plotting to kill the Queen and put her cousin Mary on the throne instead. But he had grown close to them all in recent months, and to contemplate their torture and death was no pleasant thing. ‘For once Master Twist is speaking the truth. My name is not Weatherley but Goodluck. I do indeed work for Sir Francis Walsingham in the Queen’s service. And you are all under arrest for treason.’
The other two had begun to run at his first words, tripping over in their hurry to escape the trap. Now a pale-faced Babington turned and fled after them.
‘This is not finished!’ Twist told Goodluck. But it seemed Twist was taking no chances over his own arrest, for he did not stay to fight it out but turned and followed his young friends into the woodlands.
Goodluck set off after them. He was already starting to feel feverish and dizzy, but even so he called over his shoulder to the guards he knew must be behind them, ‘To me! To me! They are heading for the big house!’
He caught up with Twist only a few moments later. The scheming bastard had taken a tumble down a short ravine in the woods and was now clambering out the other side, panting and cursing as he climbed, for he was hampered by his sword and his feet kept slipping on the loose soil. There was no sign of the other three men, but ahead of them through the trees could be heard muffled shouts and the clash of steel. Presumably the soldiers sent by the captain to cut off their escape route had found them.
Goodluck drew his dagger and crept up the slope after Twist, taking care not to make a sound.
Coming level with Twist a few yards from the top of the ravine, Goodluck seized him by the cloak and whirled him round.
‘Stand and fight, traitor!’
Goodluck found that he was trembling with a rage so powerful that it even dimmed the pain of his wounds. When he had first heard Twist’s name, he had intended to be controlled, to bring him to justice impartially, show that he was here for Walsingham and the Queen, not for himself. But when he saw Twist’s face again, the mocking smile he da
red to show at his capture, instinct took over. And Goodluck’s instinct was to kill the man who had laid hands on Lucy.
He considered the odds in the time it took him to leap back out of the reach of that searching blade. Twist had a good sword, and it was unsheathed too, ready in his hand. Goodluck had only a short stabbing dagger to defend himself, and whatever else was to hand in the woodlands: soil, stones, tearing briars, a gnarled branch fallen from a beech.
By way of reply, Twist lunged at him with the Spanish blade. ‘As you wish.’
Ducking to avoid the lunge, Goodluck snatched up a gritty handful of soil and leaves. This he threw full into Twist’s face as he passed, then turned on his heel, hearing his opponent swear, momentarily blinded. Goodluck made a stab for Twist’s throat, but he had underestimated him. The sword flashed up blindly, catching his left arm, and Goodluck felt the steel sear him.
He jumped back with an oath, blood dripping down his sleeve, and half-crouched as Twist ran at him. He rolled head over heels at the last second. The blade missed, but Goodluck knew he was in a poor position. He had to get back on his feet before Twist pinned him down.
Teeth gritted at the hideous pain from his oozing burns, he scrambled to his feet just in time to see Twist’s sword descend. He parried it with his dagger, but the force of the blow carried Twist’s weight through to Goodluck’s shoulder.
Goodluck roared, feeling the blade cut into his flesh. ‘Damn you!’
In a white-hot fury now, Goodluck stabbed again at close quarters and saw Twist’s eyes widen. His knife stuck in something. He pushed hard but could go no further. Had he struck the man in the belly or only torn his cloak?
Goodluck jerked the dagger back with a grunt. Twist’s sword arm was crushed between them, helpless. His left hand clawed at Goodluck instead, gripping his throat and trying unsuccessfully to throttle him with one hand. For a few seconds they were joined together by a dagger’s length, face to face, both staring the other down.
His Dark Lady Page 33