‘Good morrow, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘And to you, sir.’ He extended his hand to indicate his companion. ‘This is Anthony Babington. Shall we step outside, gentlemen? I think it a fine day to stroll in the gardens.’
As they walked from the palace into the southern gardens, away from the river, Shakespeare observed his two companions with a little inner smile. Babington had fallen in love at first sight. Poley was as perfectly formed as a Roman statue; not tall, but lean and muscular with long fair hair and an aspect of innocence that would have won an abbot to his cause. Shakespeare stood back and watched as Poley drew Babington into an arbour of roses. It made a pretty picture. With fortune on their side, Babington would not notice the thorns until it was too late.
‘It will be my great pleasure to help you, Mr Babington,’ Poley said. ‘I believe I can judge a man at first meeting, and I know that we will be the firmest of friends.’
‘Thank you, Mr Poley. My hopes accord with yours.’
‘Then let us get straight to business, for we have little time before you are called in to see Mr Secretary. I am so well acquainted with his daughter and wife that I flatter myself I know the innermost workings of his mind. He is a secretive man, but not beyond knowing, as some would have it.’
Shakespeare laughed. ‘He is beyond my knowing, Mr Poley.’
Poley dismissed Shakespeare with a playful flick of the hand. ‘Do not listen to him, Mr Babington. What you must realise is that while Sir Francis scorns the Pope and Catholicism, he does not bear antagonism towards those Catholics whom he sees as loyal to Her Majesty. He does, however, see them as misguided. And so you must be open and honest with him and declare your faith. He will tell you that you are a fool and may try to convert you to his interpretation of the scriptures, but that is all. Merely endure his barbs and all will be well. And then you need a story – a tale to convince him that you are not fleeing England into the embrace of the Jesuits. You need, too, to offer your assistance. Do you understand?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Then let us rehearse. Come, sit here at my side’
Anthony Babington had always looked down on men such as Walsingham. They were dour creatures, mere functionaries, men of poor family. A gentleman of great family did not spend his time dealing with papers and administrative duties unless they related to his own estates. And yet he smiled at him, bowed extravagantly and put out his hand as though he were his dearest and most respected friend.
‘Sir Francis, such a pleasure and honour to meet you.’
‘Come in, Mr Babington, come into my humble office. The pleasure is all mine. I am sure I have seen your face at court. I know you have attended on Her Majesty, for she has often mentioned you with affection and some disappointment that she does not see more of you.’
‘You flatter me, sir.’
‘No, indeed not. She has an abiding fondness for young men of dash and character. And she knows your history as grandson to bold Lord Darcy. And how is your aunt, Lady Darcy, whom I know of old?’
‘She is well. I take my dinner with her at noon almost every day.’
‘Ah yes, now that you have moved from Temple Bar to Hern’s Rents, she must be close to you. Does she not have a house close by Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’
‘She does, sir.’
‘Well, I would be honoured if you would convey my very good regards to her. Now then, sir, sit down if you please. I have just poured myself a small cup of sweet Rhenish. Would you care for some?’ Without awaiting an answer, the Principal Secretary began to pour the wine into a small silver goblet, a match for his own.
Babington took a seat at the table opposite Walsingham. ‘Thank you, Sir Francis.’ He put the cup to his lips, then gave a little nod in warm appreciation of the wine’s quality.
Smiling serenely, Walsingham looked at him and waited.
At last Babington spoke. He had already decided it would be best to get straight to the matter in hand. ‘Has Mr Poley given you some inkling of why I am here?’
‘Indeed he has, Mr Babington. He tells me you wish to have licence to travel out of England. And before you say more, let me put your mind at ease; I know that you are of the Roman persuasion. But this is no concern of mine if you are a true Englishman and if your loyalty is to Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth. This is so, is it not?’
‘I am always happy to proclaim my loyalty, my fealty indeed, to the Queen of England, Sir Francis,’ Babington replied.
Walsingham was not so easily won. ‘The Queen of England being Elizabeth Tudor, Mr Babington? Not, as some would have it, some foreign-born princess.’
‘As you say, Sir Francis.’
‘No, Mr Babington, as you must say it. Say: I am always happy to proclaim my loyalty to the true Queen of England, Elizabeth Tudor, anointed by God.’
Though a dagger stabbed at his heart Babington repeated the words. He had no choice if he was to gain anything but a noose from this meeting.
Walsingham smiled again. ‘Good man. Now we know exactly where we stand. Let me reassure you, it is the Pope and his acolytes who are my enemies, not good English Catholics. I have many friends who are Catholic, both in my office and at court. Their religion is no concern of mine, only their loyalty. Why, Robin Poley himself has heard mass at my own house, though he thinks I don’t know! A man’s faith is his own concern; his loyalty is mine.’
Babington ran a sleeve across his damp brow, then drank the remainder of his wine in one swallow. He was not sure that he believed a word Walsingham was saying. ‘Loyalty means as much to me, Sir Francis. Rest assured you have mine.’
‘Good, then you can be sure of my love and assistance, as I am certain that I can be sure of yours. Fear not, Mr Babington, there will be no problem issuing you with a passport, for travel does wonders for a young man’s mind. I still recall my own time in France, as ambassador. I believe it showed me the true nature of England’s foes and informed the work I now do for my country. When first you are in a foreign land, you see things that others do not see. So, yes, the passport will be there for you. But before I sign it, I must be able to convince Her Majesty of the justness of your suit.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then tell me, what precisely are your plans, so that I may make out a good case to Her Royal Majesty?’
Babington swallowed hard. He had had the story all worked out, but now he found the words bubbling in his head like water in a kettle. ‘I wish to travel through the lands of France and Burgundy.’
‘You have travelled there before, have you not?’
How did Walsingham know that? Did he truly know everything that every man and woman in England had ever done? Some said he conjured and knew the innermost thoughts of the lowliest subject in the land. Babington nodded; denial seemed useless.
‘What was it, four or five years ago? Within a few months of your marriage, I believe?’
Babington stiffened. This was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment. ‘It was something I had been planning before ever I thought to wed Margaret. Indeed, it was our marriage that stayed me longer than I intended.’
‘And so you travelled to Rouen and Paris. A man of your good family must have had introductions to some of the great men of that beautiful land.’
‘I was a young man, not yet twenty. And though my mother’s father was titled, I was not and so I attracted no attention from the French court.’
‘What of the English exiles? The treacherous Morgan – did he not seek you out? Or Beaton, the so-called Archbishop of Glasgow, who styles himself the Queen of Scots’ ambassador?’
Babington was silent. He had both met them and been pressed by them to work for Mary. Clearly Walsingham knew all about it. He could not gainsay the Principal Secretary, and so he said nothing, but smiled like a loon.
Walsingham picked up the silver pitcher and refilled Babington’s goblet. ‘Forgive me, I am discomfiting you. You were young when you went before and, anyway, these things are not important in themselves. Thomas Morgan and James Beaton and Charles Paget seek out all young Englishmen as they travel through France. It means nothing as long as you understand this time that you must report back all such encounters to me, and all that is said to you. No secrets must be kept from me.’