“But would Babington be so foolish as to put such a thing plainly in writing?” asked Sir Amyas.
Gifford and Poley exchanged significant glances. “Oh, yes,” sneered Poley. “Babington is indeed a fool. I believe he would. The letters are in code, after all, and the brewer’s services are trusted by both the Stuart and Sir Anthony. But that which convinces me of Babington’s folly is his intention to commission a portrait, for posterity he says, of himself and his fellow conspirators.”
“We must know,” said Sir Amyas, “with absolute certainty, who these men are. And we need to know now. We cannot wait for a painting! The queen and Council must be warned. Her Grace’s life is precious to us all.”
There were many of them who were Queen’s men. But none was blind to the fact that if Elizabeth were deposed and murdered, their days would also be numbered. Sir Amyas could think of many, among them Cecil and Walsingham. They were Elizabeth’s tools and without her, it was doubtful how much longer they would live.
All was silence for a few moments, and then Gifford said, “We must proceed with the utmost caution, or the rabbit will run. Babington is a fool and, before long, will prove himself a coward as well, I trow. But fear not. We will find out who these men are and then we shall be ready.”
He looked around the circle of men, careful to make eye contact with each one. Again, no one spoke a word.
“Then it is settled,” said Gifford. “Sir Amyas will bring me to the queen, as Chateauneuf’s amanuensis. I will see the Queen of Scots and inform Her Grace of our plan. I shall describe a two-pronged scheme to place Her Grace upon the thrones of both Scotland and England. The death of Elizabeth would certainly cause strife in England about the succession. How can it not? The Catholics, whether they are willing to rise or not, would naturally support the Queen of Scotland, who is, after all, the rightful heir. The Protestants should support James, who is already King of Scotland, and showing fine mettle there. The deciding factor in my opinion, is likely to be outside influences. The plan for King Philip to invade England is well-known; but up until now, His Grace has lacked impetus. The only inducement for the king to act early would be a succession crisis in England. We shall marry Babington’s plot to rescue Queen Mary and despatch Elizabeth to Philip’s plan to invade England and depose her. But alas, His Grace will not be expecting the Queen of Scots to be foiled and tried for treason.”
Gifford sat his horse calmly as the others assimilated all that he had said. It was a good plan; and in the chaos that would follow the arrest of the Scottish queen and the conspirators, Gilbert Gifford would slip quietly away. For what earthly good would his own death for treason do? The answer was, none. He would live to see another plot, another plan, to gather England back to Rome. Surely that was more useful than his head on a pike.
Sir Amyas nodded. “Let us proceed, then.” He turned to Gifford. “You may present yourself at the manor house on the morrow, sir.”
The sun was low in the sky when Gifford and Poley made their way back across the heath to town. April was an unpredictable month; the day had been fine, but as the sun set, a chill filled the air. But Gifford knew that the cold finger that touched his spine had little to do with the cold wind that blew across the valley.
Chartley Manor, Staffordshire, July 1586
Mary held the letter in her shaking hands and read it through once more. She had no choice but to trust the translation; every letter she read and every one she wrote was in code. Her secretaries, Curle and Nau, were expert at ciphers; there could be no mistaking that what she read was what Anthony had written. But ought she to answer such a letter? Every fiber of her being shouted, yes! Was this not the very thing that she had been waiting for, for nigh on twenty years?
Good Gilbert had intimated that there were plans afoot to free her, but their meeting had been brief; he had been able to do little more than hint at what was going on, for fear of discovery. She appreciated his caution. Gifford had said she would receive further information from Anthony, and she had; here in her shaking hands was that which would change her life. For in his letter, Anthony had at last described the details of the various plots which, when woven together, would result in her freedom and her ascension to the thrones of both Scotland and England. It was not too late; these terrible years had aged her, but she was still young. At last, her unjust imprisonment would be at an end.
So why hesitate? She looked out the window at the ruined castle. The day was wet and gloomy; the black clouds lowered. The brooding castle, had one chosen to view it in such a manner, should have seemed formidable indeed. Suddenly, she realized why the tumble-down castle, derelict and abandoned, appealed to her so very much. It was a metaphor of her own condition. Since her arrival at Chartley, she had observed, from time to time, the local men stealing onto the grounds and taking away the bricks and stones. She never saw what the men made from them, but she imagined stout new buildings, or sturdy repairs to existing ones. From ruin and devastation, then, could come great things, needful things.
With new resolve, she reached down and slipped the hidden quill from the hem of her skirt. She drew a piece of parchment from its hiding place, and retrieved the sticky black poppy syrup from her dressing table. But still she hesitated.
“Janet!” she called.
Janet appeared in the doorway of her privy chamber, her embroidery frame in her hands. “Yes, Your Grace?”
Mary smiled. It was not much of a life, serving a captive queen; Janet had been very young when they escaped from Loch Leven, but the girl had steadfastly refused to leave her all these years. Janet was no longer a girl, but she was not yet too old for childbearing. A husband for Janet, then, good, faithful Janet, would be a priority for her once she was free and back on her throne.
“Stand vigil, if you please,” she said. Janet nodded knowingly, bobbed a curtsey, and retreated back to the outer chamber of her apartments.
Mary took a candle and sat by the window, to take advantage of the last of the light on this dark day. She inked her quill in the poppy syrup, and held it poised above the paper. The creamy vellum seemed to glow in the light of the candle flame. But still she hesitated. It had been the same for the past ten days. What did she fear that kept her from answering Anthony’s letter? Discovery, of course; the consequences of that would be dire for all involved. No names were ever mentioned in their letters, only symbols that represented each person were used. Without the key, the letters could not be deciphered. But one must expect that eventually, the conspirators would be run to ground, and the punishment would be unthinkable for the men who were risking their lives to see her onto the thrones of Scotland and England. For herself, she had little fear; Elizabeth had had ample opportunity over the years to do away with her. She deemed it unlikely that her cousin would consent to her death.
But what if she were wrong? Again, she laid the quill aside.
Finally, she realized that she could hesitate no longer. If she did, she feared that Anthony and Gilbert might conclude she had changed her mind, or worse, that she lacked courage and resolve. She was not blind to the fact that without her, there could be no plotting. She was the hope of every repressed Catholic in both realms. Many already viewed her as a living martyr to the Catholic faith. But if she were caught, she might become a martyr in very truth. Well, what of that? How much longer could she endure this living death as a prisoner? Either way, she won. If the plan succeeded, she would take the thrones of England and Scotland, and save countless souls from error, to God’s glory. If she did not succeed, she would die a martyr to the faith. Either way, she could not lose.
She took up the quill. And then her doubts and fears assailed her once again. For the plan to work, three elements were required. There must be meticulous coordination of these three things if they were to succeed. Elizabeth must die; Philip must invade England; and she must be rescued from her captivity. The timing of these events was crucial. For if she were not rescued before news of either the assassination or the
invasion reached Chartley, she had no doubt whatsoever that she would herself be murdered. Men, staunchly Protestant men such as Walsingham and Paulet, would kill her with their bare hands before they would allow her to ascend the throne of England. For when she did, such men would be the first, in their turn, to be clapped in irons and tried for their crimes against the Catholic state that she would effect upon her ascension.
She arose and walked to her dressing table. On it lay the glass mirror that had been the wedding gift of her brother James all those years ago, when she had married Darnley. The subtle meaning of the gift was not lost on her. James had never approved of her vanity. The mirror had been more of a rebuke than a gift to celebrate the joyful occasion of her marriage. She lifted the heavy silver object and looked into it. What she needed was to look into her own eyes and decide what to do.
“Humph,” she said softly. Yes, it was time. She laid the mirror aside and walked back to the window. She lifted the quill once more.
This time, she did not hesitate.
###
Phelippes was fair breathless as he sped along the dimly lit corridor; in his hand he clutched a scroll.
That Walsingham possessed some uncanny sixth sense was a thought that Thomas Phelippes had often entertained. Therefore, it did not surprise him when, fist poised to rap upon the great oaken door, he was forestalled by Sir Francis’ silky voice, saying, “Come in, Thomas.”
Walsingham turned his dark, piercing stare upon Phelippes.
“We have her,” said Phelippes quietly. “At last, we have her!” He proffered the scroll to Sir Francis.
Walsingham unfurled the scroll and eyed the words. He lifted his eyes to Phelippes, and in a droning voice, began to read aloud.
“ ‘When all is ready,’ ” he read, “ ‘the six gentlemen must be set to work, and you will provide that on their design being accomplished, I may myself be rescued from this place’ ” Walsingham looked up in triumph. “These are the words I have been waiting to hear for many years. But what is this?” Sir Francis pointed to a small symbol in the margin of the parchment.
Thomas laughed grimly. “Well might you ask,” he replied. “It is a gallows.”
Walsingham stared at the little drawing for several moments in silence and then he said, “I wish to add a postscript of my own to the original letter. Ask for the names of the ‘Six Gentlemen.’ Then we shall have them all.”
“There is also this,” said Phelippes. He drew a flat, folded paper from his doublet. “I have not yet copied this one. This is the original.”
Walsingham took the paper and unfolded it. Not a man given to making spontaneous oaths, Phelippes was startled when Walsingham cried, “Christ’s wounds!”
“Quite,” said Phelippes. For the letter bequeathed the thrones of England and Scotland to King Philip of Spain, if James did not convert to Catholicism. Not only was this the height of insolence; it was further proof of treason.
Walsingham shrugged. “Ah, well,” he said. “The Bond of Association and the Act for the Queen’s Safety have doomed Her Grace in any wise. She need not have conspired herself, but only be conspired on behalf of, to be culpable. Either way, we have her. But having proof of the Scottish queen’s treachery is much better.”
Thomas hesitated. And then he said, “These men, and Her Grace as well, profess a certain piety.”
“Yes,” agreed Walsingham. “You are puzzled. Forget not that Elizabeth is excommunicated and to any Catholic, it is not only not a sin to murder her, it should be considered a pious and worthy act.”
“Jesu,” whispered Phelippes.
“Men can always justify their actions,” shrugged Walsingham. “So it is now, and so it has always been.” The two men sat in silence for a few moments and then Walsingham said, apropos of nothing, “And where the devil has Gifford got to?”
St. John’s Wood, London, August 1586
It was so hot and still that Sir Anthony longed to throw off his cloak and hood, but he dared not, lest he be recognized. The raucous sound of the cicadas in the trees was so persistent that he thought it might drive him mad. And where the devil were the others? Had something happened? It had all been so carefully planned! He heard a stirring back up the path and instinctively darted into the shrubs. His sudden movement must have frightened the wildlife; all went silent for a few moments, and then gradually the noise resumed until it was deafening once more.
John Savage counted ten strides from the wood’s edge, and then he hissed, “Sir Anthony! How now! Are you there?”
Sir Anthony stood up from his crouch behind the bush. “Savage, hoy! I am here!”
“Ballard is arrested and in the Tower,” blurted Savage.
Sir Anthony felt the world rock under him. Exactly what he had feared! The shock rendered him speechless; his mouth worked but nothing came out.
“We must delay no longer,” said Savage. “I have vowed to kill the heretic usurper, and that I mean to do.”
Sir Anthony looked at Savage in astonishment. Was the man daft after all? They must run, run fast, leave England, flee for their very lives!
“Do you hear, man?” he cried. “Our mission is sacred of God. Many souls are at stake. The deed must be done now, today. I would not be permitted into the queen’s presence in this garb,” he said. “I need money to buy clothing.” Anthony said nothing; Savage mused silently for a moment, and then he said, “There is no time to obtain a pistol. It must needs be the dagger, then. Look lively, man!”
Sir Anthony’s thoughts were racing in quite another direction; he must leave, get out, at once. If Savage was bent on carrying through with the execution of the Tudor, then let him. The rest would be up to God. His feet itched to be gone.
“Are you listening to me?” hissed Savage. “This is God’s business that we are about, and we must not fail Him. Have you any money?”
Sir Anthony stared at Savage as if he had never seen him before. He had only the ready money he had fled his London home with. He might have enough to get him onto a swift boat; he needed all he had. He lifted his eyes to Savage’s face; the light of fanaticism in his eyes reflected the dappled light of the afternoon sun. He had assumed they would all meet up and flee together; but Poley and Gifford were late and Savage, apparently, had no intention of doing anything except carrying out the assassination of the queen. Suddenly, inspiration struck him.
“Here,” he said, tugging impatiently at his finger. ‘Take this ring and sell it. It should fetch you enough to buy what is needful.”
Savage said nothing; he had not the time for either fear or hesitation. He snatched the ring and was gone.
All was silent again for a moment and then the cautious birds and insects resumed their cries. He did not realize at first that he was weeping until the scene before him blurred into a medley of colors. He longed to take foot, to flee, but found that he was so frightened that he was rooted to the spot. But it was all right; where he was no one could see him, and the others were coming. Or were they? What if Poley had been arrested, too? The sun was sinking in the sky. He was seized with a panic of indecision. Should he wait? Should he go? And where the devil were Gifford and Poley?
###
He must have dozed, for when he awoke with a jerk and a start at the sound of a snapping twig, the woods were in twilight and the sun was low on the horizon, barely visible through the trees. He heard the dull thud of rapid footsteps on the leaves of a thousand autumns. Someone was coming! He arose from his hiding place and looked cautiously out onto the path. Poley!
“Robyn!” he managed to croak. “Oh, Robyn! I am here!” he hissed.
Poley looked behind him; he hoped he had not been followed, but he could not be certain. It was a risk he must take. His fate was sealed; but Babington might still be able to get away. He darted into the thicket. At the sight of Sir Anthony, he was taken aback. He had never seen him in such a state; he was usually so meticulous in his dress, in the care of his person. Now his hair was disheveled and hung lank
with sweat. His cloak was torn and his face was smeared with what looked to be wood ash. Tears swam in his eyes.
Anthony grasped Poley’s arms and looked into his eyes. “Oh, Robyn,” he said in a whisper. “B-Ballard is t-taken. He is sure to b-betray us. And Savage has gone to do the deed; I could not dissuade him from such folly. He is sure to be caught, and then if Ballard does not betray us all, then Savage will! Oh! Whatever shall we do?”
It was a good question, but Poley knew what he must do. As a double agent, he must allow himself to be arrested and taken to the Tower. It was all part of the plan. His cover as a Catholic sympathizer must be preserved; the only way was to appear culpable. In the Tower he would not be free, but he would live well. He was to have luxurious rooms, good food, women if he wanted them. It would not be so bad; he could use the respite from the plotting, the maneuvering, the intrigue. He was tired. But poor Anthony was babbling; he must attend.
“W-we c-can g-go away,” begged Anthony, who was stuttering in his fright and terror. “I have f-funds in P-Paris and R-Rome, against such a day as this. You see, I did plan; I did l-look ahead.” The tears spilled and fell down his cheeks unheeded. Their rivulets made pale tracks on his dirty face. “P-please,” he said. “G-go with me.”
It was a tempting offer; Anthony was wealthy. They would live well on the Continent. But he would be living on sufferance. He knew what Anthony was; he knew what Anthony wanted from him. And he knew in his heart that he could never give it. Gilbert had been right; Anthony was smitten with him. Had he not felt a similar attraction, he might even have been tempted to go, to leave all of this behind. He cared little for who sat upon the throne, or which version of God the people worshiped. He had never been able to understand why it all mattered so much. He loved the adventure, the exhilaration of manipulating others, of maneuvering events, the excitement and thrill of the life he led. He had never married because women meant little to him beyond the easing of an occasional urge. He regarded Anthony with new eyes. Was this another thing that really did not matter so very much? Skin was skin; what difference did it make?
In High Places Page 100