The Queen's Spy

by Clare Marchant

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Your aunt. I know she’s been an absolute cow since you arrived. She managed a few choice words just now. And your uncle’s gesture.’ Mathilde nodded; the two-fingered salute was the same in her own language. She hoped Oliver hadn’t realised her response meant something similar.

  ‘They’re both miserable old people,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t ask for this house or their house.’

  ‘But don’t you see, that’s the problem. You’ve appeared from nowhere after almost thirty years and now you own where they live. They’re frightened. Two scared pensioners who think they’re about to lose their home. Rachel told me they’ve lived there since they got married and now they face losing it they’re quite naturally lashing out at you. Not because they hate you but because you have the means to take away their security. They can’t jump into a converted ambulance and disappear over the horizon.’ He got to his feet and after giving her shoulder a squeeze he started to walk back to the house leaving Mathilde where she was.

  Of course she wasn’t going to throw them out, she had no intention of doing so. She’d been so involved with her own emotions, the triptych and the dreams that she hadn’t stopped to properly consider their feelings. She knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  July 1586

  Tom could feel his clothes starting to tighten as he continued his surveillance over the next couple of weeks from the inn opposite Hernes Rent; the pies he consumed affecting his waistline. Isabel had laughed at him, grabbing at the excess flesh as they lay in bed together, their bodies slick with the perspiration of their lovemaking. He kissed quick butterfly kisses down the dip of her neckline, the taste of salt making his lips sting.

  Increasingly Babington was being visited by different men and after one such meeting, Tom watched as a letter was handed over to a young boy who hurried away down a nearby alley. As soon as the door to the house was closed again Tom dashed after the boy, his long legs easily able to catch up with the child even though he was running. Leaning forward Tom reached out and grabbed the back of the boy’s dirty shirt, lifting him completely off the ground. His feet in worn-out boots, the sole hanging off and his toes poking out, continued to wheel in the air for a few seconds. As soon as he realised he’d been apprehended he began to writhe in an attempt to shake himself free. Tom placed him back on the floor but held on to him firmly. The boy’s face was red and Tom could tell he was shouting, his mouth wide and his eyebrows drawn down. Thankfully in the area they were now in nobody paid any attention to a child yelling and waving his arms around. Anyone watching would assume the lad had been dipping into Tom’s pockets.

  Gripping the boy’s upper arm tightly he knew he couldn’t haggle with him to hand over the letter, so instead he removed it from where it had been tucked away and taking a quarter angel from his pocket he placed it in the boy’s hand. He knew it was probably more money than the lad had ever seen and instantly the boy’s mouth closed as he stared down at it. Tom let go of his arm and put his finger to his mouth to indicate that there wasn’t to be any talk of this transaction. The lad looked him in the eye and nodded several times and then he was gone, skipping around people on his bare feet as he disappeared into the underworld, the harsh city existence of the very poor. Tom slipped the letter inside his jerkin and after looking around to ensure he wasn’t being watched he strolled away towards the busy Leadenhall Market and Phelippes’ home.

  The letter was immediately spread out on the desk as Tom helped to decode it. It was addressed to Queen Mary and explained in considerable detail how their plot was to be realised. Tom’s eyes widened. This was the culmination of all the months he’d spent watching various people as they moved about London in the shadowed corners and the rough back street taverns. This was a threat to his Queen’s life; thank goodness he’d been watching and had managed to intercept this vital link in the plot.

  Phelippes grabbed a scrap of parchment and started writing questions on it. He was scribbling as if he didn’t have time to say the words slowly enough for Tom to read what he was saying. He asked who’d given the letter to the boy and who else was in the house at the time. There was only one answer to both questions: Anthony Babington. Although Tom silently considered that Babington was probably a pawn, instructed by men clever enough to stay hidden; not just Ballard but also the men who moved the pieces in France, fully committed to the plot to move their papist queen across the chess board and remove his own. Tom knew he himself was only a minor player in Walsingham’s game but he considered he was a useful one. At least at present. The big players, the knights and the bishops would sacrifice him with no consideration if necessary and he must never forget that.

  He was summoned to see Walsingham the following day where he received thanks for apprehending the letter; Phelippes was now on his way to Chartley with it. Now they understood the plan to overthrow Queen Elizabeth it was merely a matter of time before the conspirators were all caught. The spymaster had laid the trap and now he just needed to wait for the rats to run into it. As he handed over a heavy purse of gold as a thank you, Walsingham explained that he would doubtless need Tom’s assistance again before the end of summer, when hopefully this particular plot would be laid to rest.

  In the stillroom Hugh had barely been able to keep up with demand for the usual medications the court residents requested. Her Majesty may eat small portions but that didn’t stop everyone else from gorging on rich fatty foods which later disagreed with them, and he was very pleased to have Tom back where he belonged.

  As the long summer days wound on Tom managed to spend a few weeks helping replenish supplies during the quieter warmer weather; once it turned and became colder their services would be called upon more frequently. Now was the time to start stockpiling the ointments for chapped hands and chilblains. He realised how much he’d missed the quiet, serene work of the stillroom, the underlying scents of herbs being dried or crushed in the mortar bowl, and he hoped that now he could be left to do the work he was employed for. He was weary of watching.

  But on the twenty-ninth of July he was despatched by Walsingham to deliver a letter to Babington. Shrugging on his blue coat he set off once again across the city. As he’d previously been introduced to the man there was no need to be furtive so he knocked on the door of the house Babington was currently occupying and handed the letter over. He knew how important and eagerly anticipated it was being the letter from Queen Mary agreeing in writing to the bloody plot to kill Elizabeth: an instruction for Babington to go ahead with the assassinment – the assassination. The letter that implicated Queen Mary in the conspiracy was what Walsingham had waited for. Tom was also well aware the letter had been doctored by Thomas Phelippes before being handed on.

  Then, just when he thought his work was done, to his dismay within the week Tom was sent to follow Babington yet again. Walsingham had received word their prey was at his home and Tom spent an uncomfortable night in the doorway of a house opposite trying not to fall asleep, hoping the occupants wouldn’t spot him there. At four o’clock as the sun started to push away the dark, filtering down through the tall buildings above his head, he got to his feet stretching his cramped limbs, and moved to lean in the entrance of a nearby alley, trying not to let his clothes brush against the sooty walls. The ground was beginning to steam as the sunshine warmed it, the stench it gave off making Tom’s stomach turn.

  Grimacing, Tom decided to take his chances and wait at the end of the lane, hoping that if anyone moved they’d come that way. The street was wider there and Tom was less conspicuous if he mingled with the early morning hawkers. The air was easier to breathe and was filled with the scent of fresh bread baking in the local communal ovens. What he wouldn’t give to be at home with his wife and son in Cordwainer Street, eating cheese and fruit with the white manchet bread that cook baked. With that thought in mind he bought a loaf and waited until his surveillance was rewarded when the door to Bab
ington’s house opened and he slipped out, immediately blending in with the constant moving crowd of city people. Looking up and down the street for a moment Tom felt Babington’s eyes fall on him and hesitate but Tom subtly bit into his bread and turned slightly, hiding his face and acting as though he was part of a conversation between two merchants stood beside him. He hoped it was just coincidence Babington had paused to look at him.

  Thankfully as the others momentarily parted, Tom saw his prey disappearing down the end of the street and out into the wider thoroughfare of Cheapside. He hurried behind, keeping close to the buildings, ready to dart into a shop or behind a market stall at any moment. He needed to keep Babington in his sights or he’d lose him in the throng which continuously shifted and swayed like the flow of the Thames, the backbone of London.

  Darting along beneath the cantilevered upper storeys and keeping to the shadows as he skipped around potholes, he was able to follow until eventually he realised they had reached the home of Robert Pooley. A quick knock at the door was immediately answered. Babington gave one final cursory look around him before slipping inside. This time Tom ensured he was standing inside a shop opposite, supposedly looking at a range of mousetraps. He ran his fingertips over the cold steel as he kept his eyes on the movements across the street.

  There was no way of informing Walsingham about where he was. He’d been told not to let Babington out of his sight and who knew where he may go next. The man was emanating suspicion, Tom could almost smell it. And so once again, he resumed his waiting game.

  Day turned to night. Tom was frustrated he couldn’t leave his post for a minute to find a boy to take a message to Isabel, explaining his absence, and he hoped she wouldn’t be angry about his disappearance. For all he knew, his quarry may have left via a back entrance but he needed to sit it out.

  Finally, his surveillance was rewarded when late the following morning a city official and two royal guards arrived at the house and began thumping on the door with their fists. All around him the city folk stopped what they were doing to watch. Tom, his senses ever alert, saw the momentary flicker of a face at a window high up at the top of the house and was relieved to see that Babington was still inside. His wait hadn’t been in vain.

  Further along the wall from the house a small wooden gate opened slowly and to his surprise John Ballard’s face peeped round. Tom hadn’t realised he was also in the house. The guards also noticed him and gave chase across the garden behind the house, before he was caught. They dragged him between them as they marched away down the street, heading towards the river. Tom was confident they’d be entering the Tower through the dreaded Traitors’ Gate.

  He wandered further down the street, keeping the house in view while he wondered what to do next. His instructions were to follow Babington and he now knew the man was still in Pooley’s house. How the guards had missed him Tom couldn’t fathom but now he had no option except to continue watching and waiting. How long would this go on for?

  By mid-afternoon Babington appeared to consider it safe to make his move. With Tom hot on his heels they traversed Carter Lane until they reached St Paul’s Walk beside the great Cathedral. Here it was easy for Tom to hide himself amongst the jostling crowds trying to read the pamphlets nailed onto boards or stop to listen to the preachers who stood on boxes to levitate themselves, telling their stories to the public: they were wasted on Tom.

  It was now some time since he’d eaten his breakfast and he dived into a tavern to buy a tankard of ale which he downed in one draught. He couldn’t afford to take his eye off his target for a moment; he wouldn’t like to face Walsingham if he lost Babington now.

  Buying a loaf, cheese and plums he alternated mouthfuls of all three as he stood beside a print house and watched. Babington appeared to be waiting for someone as he paced up and down, bobbing his head about and looking through the throng of people. Tom was far enough away that although he could see what was going on he wouldn’t be noticed if Babington turned his way. He couldn’t risk that twice; he wasn’t sure if he’d been recognised before but having been formally introduced by Berden that one time he needed to be extremely careful. He didn’t want to uncover them both as not being who they pretended to be, not when they were so close to exposing the conspiracy.

  Slowly Babington was joined by several friends, some of whom Tom recognised as visitors to his rooms. He had no idea how they’d arranged it but Babington must have got word to them somehow. Or this was a pre-arranged meeting. Tom crept closer until he could see what was being said.

  ‘Ballard is caught,’ Babington told them, twisting his hands as if washing them in non-existent soap, ‘we are all betrayed. What should we do?’

  ‘Nothing at present, in due course our plot will come to fruition,’ came the reply. There then followed a heated argument of who would be able to present themselves to the Queen and be close enough to deliver the fatal shot. Tom could hardly believe his eyes. He was certain he now had enough evidence and decided to make his way back to Walsingham and tell all.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  August 1586

  Although Walsingham was pleased with what Tom had discovered, he scowled and pushed the end of his quill right through the piece of parchment beneath it when Tom mimed the fact that Ballard had been arrested whilst Babington was upstairs in bed at the same house. Tom was thankful he wasn’t one of those soldiers. After writing down the names and descriptions of other people he recognised outside St Paul’s, Tom was finally able to make his way home.

  Standing in the yard outside the stillroom he sluiced himself off with a bucket of cold water and put on a clean shirt. He smiled as he realised that the grimace on Walsingham’s face earlier was probably due to the horrible smell emanating from him. Perhaps he’d be called up to the apartment less often in future.

  Rubbing himself dry with a piece of sacking he put on the clean shirt, enjoying the feel of the clean linen against his skin and the smell of lavender where it had been stored. The sun was now high in the sky, the heat pressing down on his head and drying his hair so it crinkled up into the soft curls which Isabel loved. He needed to visit the barber but not today. Right now, he just wanted his comfortable bed with his wife laid beside him and to sleep for a day and a night. Or several.

  The worry was etched on Isabel’s face as he walked into the parlour. His heart gave a thump of regret that he’d had to put her through the ordeal of him going missing for three days. She must have wondered if he was still alive and he cursed Walsingham as she flew across the room, the embroidery on her lap falling to the floor as she wrapped her arms around him, holding on so tightly he could barely breathe. Pulling his arms free from her clasp he hugged her to him. The room smelled of warm meadowsweet from the rushes underfoot and the rosewater she washed her hair in.

  Eventually she let him go, stepping backwards and looking up at him. Now that her initial relief had left her he could see exactly how furious she was. Holding her arms out to the side, palms up, she raised her eyebrows before mouthing ‘where have you been?’ In case he hadn’t realised how angry she was she slapped his arm as well. He looked around the room for his wax tablet. This would take far too long to explain by mime and he was desperate to go to bed.

  By the time he’d finished writing, erasing and writing more, Isabel looked confused with everything that had taken place. She shrugged, accepting there was nothing he could have done. Having been one of the Queen’s ladies she well understood the chess game of the royal court. She followed Tom upstairs and sat on the top of the coverlet stroking his hair as he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Tom had barely any respite in his spying assignments. The next day his heart dropped yet again as Walsingham’s now familiar page arrived in the stillroom to summon him. He had hoped that his success in tailing and reporting back on Babington would have led to the appropriate arrests and finally earnt him a quiet, undisturbed life with Isabel and Richard. But it was not to be. These days he and the page n
eeded neither notes nor signing and Tom didn’t even bother with his blue coat which looked the worse for wear after sleeping in it for two nights.

  In Walsingham’s apartment the windows were open for a change and a soft breeze blew in. Tom wondered if this was due to the unpleasant smell which had accompanied him to their last meeting. It was different from the heat in the stillroom where the fire was constantly lit even in the height of summer. There was another man in the room who was introduced as a runner for Walsingham.

  ‘My man is going to deliver a letter to Babington, informing him that the arrest of Ballard was nothing to do with the current conspiracy and the plotters should stay close beside him in order to be safe. I am hoping he will lead us to his accomplices so that they may all be arrested together. Then they can all be executed together. You are to keep watch to ensure nobody tries to slip away. Are you certain nobody saw or recognised you when you were watching last time?’

  Tom nodded in reassurance that his cover was still intact, whilst hoping this wouldn’t mean another three nights gone. He couldn’t imagine Isabel being so accepting a second time, it had taken several days of his mute apologies before.

  They were soon on a wherry and making their way to Babington’s home where Berden had first introduced Tom to the plotters. Assuming his usual position, hiding in plain sight amongst the people milling about in the narrow street, Tom began his watch. He needed to ensure that if needed he could follow without being seen: one final time. He shuddered as his mind went back to watching Throckmorton’s bloody execution. The information he was relaying to Walsingham would result in these men meeting a similar grisly end and he was uncomfortable with his part in the inevitable outcome.

  Within seconds of Walsingham’s man knocking on the door it was opened by their target. Tom could see lines etched across his face; he was a worried man. Standing on the doorstep and breaking the seal he didn’t notice anyone watching him. His face fell as he scanned the coded words Walsingham had written. Without a word to anyone who may have been inside Babington let the letter fall to the ground as he pulled the door closed behind him and began to half walk, half run towards St Paul’s. Tom paused just long enough to pick up the letter and push the pages into his pocket, before following behind, breaking into a jog to keep up. He hardly cared by that point if he was seen, these were the actions of a fleeing man and he doubted whether he’d look behind to see who was in pursuit. At St Paul’s Babington stopped for a rest, speaking with a small scruffy boy who held his hand out for a payment before scurrying away. Surely the man wasn’t thinking about eating at a time like this? He must know that the hangman’s rope was tightening around his neck with every passing minute.