He forced himself to find something to eat. There was bread and cold beef, both of which were so old and dry he could not swallow them. Instead he subsisted on brandy and ale. He was alone in the house for he had already sent Job away, telling him to return to his parents in Surrey and to stay there until he was sent for.
Job was a Catholic boy who might have been happy to join the Pope’s White Sons. For his own safety, however, he had never been taken into Babington’s confidence. And yet he must have harboured suspicions. Indeed, he must have overheard certain conversations, as must other servants in the employment of Babington’s friends.
This was not work for such lowly men. This was work for courtiers and gentlemen. Men born to lead and rule.
There was a tapping at the door. Was Robin back at last? He threw open the door and his heart sank. It was not Poley but one of Mr Secretary’s men.
The man bowed. ‘John Scudamore, sir.’
‘I recognise you, Mr Scudamore. Why are you here?’
‘I had hoped to find you, sir.’
‘Why here? This is not my home.’
Scudamore did not answer the question. ‘I have been sent by Mr Secretary. He fears you might be under a misapprehension concerning the priest Ballard. I have brought a letter from him.’
‘What of Mr Poley? Has he been arrested, too? Was it he who told you I was here?’
‘I know nothing of Mr Poley,’ Scudamore lied. Indeed, he knew all too well that Poley himself had been put in the Tower; Mr Secretary simply did not trust him enough to be at liberty at this most crucial of times. ‘As for Ballard, Mr Secretary wishes to make it clear that the man’s arrest was none of his doing, that it was effected by Justice Young on a warrant from the Lord High Admiral. Mr Secretary has thus asked me to stay with you, so that you will not be molested by Mr Young. My master is certain that you and he can still trade intelligence to your mutual advantage if you are still of a mind to travel into foreign lands, and if you have information concerning certain men in London.’
Babington smiled through tired eyes. Was there still time to escape to a monastery in the Low Countries or France? Did he believe this man? Not for a moment, but what was he to do, short of killing him? And that might not be so easy; Mr Scudamore, for all his good manners and pleasant smile, was a brutishly powerful fellow, strong-armed and squat, an unquestioning servant and clerk to Walsingham.
It occurred to Babington that he was in a trap and that he must make a move. He was sweating like a frying onion, though the morning was cool. This man Scudamore was not here to save him from Justice Young, but to keep him close-watched. Babington was nothing but a magpie in a cage, kept out in the open to draw others of the flock in to their doom.
‘Come, Mr Scudamore, have you eaten? Let us repair to the tavern where I shall buy you the finest links and eggs with plenty of buttered bread and ale.’
‘Thank you, Mr Babington. Yes, that seems a fine idea.’
‘Then allow me a few minutes to write a letter.’ In his heart, he knew he would never return to this house of Robin Poley’s. What he did not know was Robin’s own heart. It was a matter of unutterable sadness, for he was beginning to suspect the worst.
Shakespeare followed the two riders, lagging behind them at a distance of about a hundred yards. Occasionally, Goodfellow Savage looked around but did not seem to note his pursuer. Suddenly, it occurred to Shakespeare that Savage’s eyesight might be a little feeble. Was that, perhaps, the reason he had given up soldiering? Was that the reason he bent so close to the paper while at his law studies?
The highway out of Southwark heading south-west was busy as far as Lambeth, so they had no reason to pick him out from the throng, but then the traffic of horses and wagons grew sparser and he had to take care to remain out of view. His intention was to move in on them on a remote stretch of the path where no innocent passers-by would be injured if it came to gunfire. It was important, too, that they should be going in the direction of Richmond so that he could testify as to their intended destination.
They were close to the Thames, a mile or two before Barn Elms, on the long arc of the river before it angled to the north. In the far distance, an ox-dray lumbered slowly into the haze. This was the moment; there would be none better.
Shakespeare unstrapped the petronel from his horse’s flank and loaded it with black powder and a single bullet. He drew a wheel-lock pistol from his belt and loaded that, too, then tucked it back. With the petronel resting across his right thigh, he kicked his horse into a trot.
Savage and de Warre did not turn and spot him until the very last moment, by which time it was too late for them. He had the butt of the petronel against his chest and was pointing it straight at Dominic de Warre’s body.
‘Rein in, Goodfellow. Do nothing foolish. A movement of my finger will blow Mr de Warre to his death.’
Savage smiled. If he was surprised, he did not show it. They might have been old friends meeting by chance on the highway. ‘John Shakespeare. I am pleased it is you. I see you have a fine Spanish petronel. I saw some like it when I served in the Low Countries with Parma. They are reliable and accurate, but inclined to go off. So I beg you, point it at me rather than my friend. If it please you, end my sorrows here and now, for I am sure you will save me much pain.’
‘I have not come to kill you, but to prevent you murdering the Queen.’
‘She is a tyrant!’ The words were shouted by Dominic de Warre. ‘You cannot kill both of us, Shakespeare. One will survive and do for her.’ He was reaching for a pistol.
‘Tell him to stay his hand, Goodfellow. I have no wish to kill a boy.’
Savage nodded to de Warre. ‘Hand him the pistol, Dominic.’
‘No! I am man enough to kill – and die if necessary.’
Savage reached over and, without ceremony, wrenched the pistol from de Warre’s hand as he pulled it from his belt. He turned it around in his hand so that he was clasping the muzzle, and proffered the handle to Shakespeare. ‘It is not even loaded, John. My young friend is a little too eager for martyrdom.’
Shakespeare took the weapon. ‘Wheel your horses. I am taking you back to London.’
‘I say again, shoot me here. It will be a kindness, for you know what is stored up for me. You would do as much for a dog.’
‘I cannot shoot you. In the name of the Father – both of Catholic and Protestant alike – I swear I do not want this. I would let you go, if you would only let me. I would even give your horse a slap, point it southwards and send it galloping for the coast so that you could take boat to France. I would do this with a glad heart if only you would pledge to me that you will desist from your wicked design.’
‘Wicked design?’ Savage emitted a despairing sigh. ‘The greatest doctors of the Church have told me that her death would be God’s work. I cannot make such a pledge to you, John. A vow to God cannot be undone by a pledge to man.’
‘Then I have one more offer for you.’
‘Name it.’
Shakespeare jabbed the petronel in the direction of de Warre. ‘I will allow him to go free. But you must come with me, Goodfellow. Come without dissent or fight. Ride with me unbound. Do this and the boy goes free. He is no Pope’s White Son. We both know it. He fights injustice, nothing
more. And I confess that in many ways I am as one with him.’
Savage turned to the boy. ‘Dominic?’
‘Where you go, I go.’
‘No, if you love me you will stay alive. You say you are obedient, in which case do as I say.’
‘Go to your home in the country,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Far from London – and do not stir from there for a year.’
‘They will find me.’
‘Will they, John?’
Shakespeare was not at all certain how this would work. Other men had seen Dominic with the Pope’s White Sons. Yet somehow he would have to be protected, even if he had to go down on his knees and kiss Mr Secretary’s feet in supplication. He nodded. ‘I
give you my word. If Dominic turns now and rides north, he will be safe. This is my vow to you, Goodfellow.’
‘Is this well with you, Mr de Warre?’
‘No.’
‘And if I say you must do it?’
‘I entreat you not to say it.’
‘I say it: you must go.’
‘You are a cruel master, Goodfellow Savage.’
‘Kiss me farewell.’
‘It cuts me to the heart to leave you.’
‘It would cut me deeper if you were to stay.’
De Warre looked longingly at Savage, like a puppy turned out from the warmth of the kitchen on a bitter winter’s day. At last he leant across and embraced Savage. ‘You are a man among men, Goodfellow. I will pray for you and remember you always.’
‘This is my journey, not yours.’ He pulled at his reins to create distance between his horse and de Warre’s.
Shakespeare handed the boy his unloaded pistol. ‘Take this – and go. And when next you see your stepfather, take him in your arms. For he loves you as though you were his flesh and blood. One day you will know how much.’
Shakespeare and Savage watched as the boy rode off into the distance, northwards, away from Richmond and London.
‘Thank you. You are a fine friend, John.’ He patted his horse’s neck. ‘Here. It would please me if you were to have my horse. I bequeath it to you.’
‘Do you have no kin?’
‘None.’
‘You should have stayed a soldier, Goodfellow.’ Shakespeare tilted his chin towards Savage’s garish and ill-fitting court clothes of blue and yellow. ‘I am certain steel armour suits you better than satin.’
‘This? It was acquired in great haste.’
‘Come, let us ride.’
As he spoke, they both turned and saw a rising mantle of dust along the highway to the east. A large band of riders was coming their way, at speed. And at their head was Richard Topcliffe, his white hair billowing in the wind.
Chapter 41
The pursuivants came to a juddering halt on the highway. There were twenty men, all attired in black leather jerkins, complete with the Queen’s escutcheon, just as Walsingham had ordered. Their horses were flecked with foaming sweat, their faces coated with dust.
Topcliffe drew his sword, rested it across his lap and urged his horse forward until its head was beside the head of Shakespeare’s mount, their breaths mingling. He gazed first at Savage, then at Shakespeare.
‘Hand over your weapons or die here like dogs.’ He wiped his sleeve across his besmirched face, turning his head sharply.
‘I do not need you, Topcliffe. This man is arrested and is now under my charge. I have his pistols already.’
Topcliffe raised his arm as a signal to the men behind him. They all drew their own weapons, swords and pistols. ‘Your weapons, Shakespeare.’
‘What is this?’
‘Your weapons. All of them. I will not ask again.’
Shakespeare suddenly understood. ‘This is madness. You will not get away with it.’
Topcliffe laughed with scorn. ‘When you are pacing your cell, waiting to die a traitor’s death, I will be safely abed, sleeping as sound as a newborn, knowing that I have done my duty by God and Her Majesty.’ He raised his hand again and the pursuivants began to move forward, waiting for the hand to drop as a signal to fire their pistols.
Shakespeare realised all too clearly that Topcliffe would do it. He could kill both men here and now and he would get away with it. To survive, Shakespeare could neither fight these men, nor defy them. He threw the petronel and the pistols to the ground, and then the swords.
‘There, grovel for them.’
Topcliffe gestured to five of his men, who immediately dismounted. One of them began gathering up the array of firearms and blades while the others wrenched both Shakespeare and Savage from their saddles and forced them to their knees, with their hands on their heads.
‘Where’s the other one, Shakespeare?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Savage was with another – a young one. You followed them. Did you think you were not watched? Did you think we would not discover your foul plan to murder the Queen?’
‘There was no one. Savage alone had the plan and I captured him. He is my prisoner.’
‘Bind them across their horses,’ Topcliffe ordered, then waved two men forward. ‘Tom, Jacob, you carry on along the highway towards Richmond. Go at speed. If the young one is there, arrest him or kill him. I care not which. It is these two I most want for questioning.’ He pointed his sword at Shakespeare and Savage. ‘Let us see how they enjoy my entertainment in the Tower. I am sure we shall have them dancing like bears for our pleasure.’
‘Mr Secretary will not let you get away with this.’ Even as he said the words, his hands were being tied with thin cord that bit into his wrists, as were Savage’s.
‘And how, pray, will he know of it?’
‘God damn your stinking hide to hell, Topcliffe.’
Topcliffe laughed again, then leant from the saddle so that his mouth was close to Shakespeare and his fetid breath assailed his nostrils. ‘I have fine news for you. Your murdering whore is in custody, awaiting the hangman in short order.’
Shakespeare’s blood ran cold. He tried to get up, but was instantly tripped and his captors set to work binding his feet.
‘Indeed, I am led to believe she gave herself up. Walked all alone to Richard Young’s house and turned herself over to his mercy. But that will not save her; no soft womanly entreaties or feigned remorse will save her neck.’
‘And if she is innocent?’
‘Innocent? She is as guilty as you, and you will both die. You are an accessory to murder and a traitor. The company you keep is all the evidence needed. Indeed, the judge may have to invent a new form of execution to reflect the depravity of your crimes.’ Topcliffe had his silver-tipped blackthorn stick strapped to the horse’s flank. He pulled it out and jabbed at the silent figure of Goodfellow Savage. ‘Your friend is very quiet, Shakespeare. He won’t be so quiet when I burn him with irons.’
Anthony Babington scraped his knife across the trencher, pushing his food to the side. He had eaten almost nothing. John Scudamore, meanwhile was eating with great relish. He cut an enormous chunk of pork, wrapped it in a hunk of buttered bread, then dunked it into the middle of a fried duck’s egg, so that the yolk burst forth like a golden sun and covered the bread. He forced the whole into his mouth and chewed with enthusiasm.
‘This is fine fare,’ he tried to say, then took a sup of ale to wash the mouthful down. ‘I say this is fine fare, Mr Babington.’
‘I have no appetite.’
‘So I see. Perhaps you would allow me to finish your food for you.’ He was sitting opposite Babington in a small booth and pulled the trencher towards him and piled the food on top of his own. ‘It would be a crime to waste such fare, for it will only go as fodder for pigs or dogs if I do not eat it.’
The tavern was almost empty. This was a working day. Scudamore tucked into Babington’s meal, looking at him occasionally with what he clearly intended as a reassuring smile, but saying little.
The reassuring smiles did nothing for Babington, who was as tense as a line with a trout on the hook. He was horribly aware that he was the catch. He leant back. His sword-belt and cape were slung casually over the back of his chair.
The terror was worse here, in this mundane place in the company of this pleasant, ravenous man. The visions of blood were more real now; he saw his own blood washing into the earth but also that of his friends – Tom Salisbury, Chidiock Tichbourne and the rest.
What had he done? Oh dear God, what had he done to them? Neither man had been a willing accomplice when first he mooted Ballard’s deadly schemes. Tom would never have become involved in such things without his insistent urgings. And now poor Tom was to die, as were they all.
And yet, surely there must still be hope of escape.
The tavern door opened and Scudamore looked up and nodded. Babington turned. He thought he recognised the newcomer from court, but he was not sure. He was tall and bent and dressed in the sober attire of one of Walsingham’s men. Without a word or other acknowledgement of Babington’s presence he walked up to Scudamore and handed him a sealed note.
‘Thank you, Mr Mills.’
‘My pleasure, Mr Scudamore.’
‘Will you have some ale with us?’
‘Indeed not, I must be away. Good day to you.’ He departed without another word.
Babington watched as Scudamore took his dagger and sliced open the seal on the note. Trying not to make himself obvious, he strained to read the words upside down. He had to stifle a gasp. There was his own name. And another word: arrest. Scudamore had been ordered to arrest him.
Babington stood up. ‘This was my idea, Mr Scudamore, so I shall pay the shot.’
Scudamore merely grunted. He was reading the note.
Without touching either his sword or cape, which he left slung across the back of his chair, Babington strolled towards the counter to pay the reckoning. He asked the sum, then handed over a half-crown. He noted that his hands were shaking. ‘Keep the small coins, Master landlord.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Babington glanced back at Scudamore. He was still engrossed in the note. As silently as possible he opened the door, stepped outside, and began to run, harder and faster than he had ever run before.
The journey to the Tower was long and exhausting. Strapped face down over the barrel of his horse, the pressure of the constant movement of the animal along the bumpy highway continually knocked the breath from Shakespeare’s lungs.
He was desperately fearful for Kat. If she was now in custody, he knew there would be little delay before her trial and execution. Somehow he needed to find the proof of her innocence at great speed. And he could not do that incarcerated in a cell. Even a day’s delay could prove fatal to her.
John Shakespeare 07 - Holy Spy Page 33