‘I understand, Sir Francis. Of course, I will be happy to report every word I hear.’
‘Good. I knew you were a fine man, for only the best of men have Her Majesty’s love. And so to your plans . . .’
Babington breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Walsingham seemed to have no knowledge of the secret work he had done for Mary on his return to England – the long rides across country carrying letters, escorting priests, providing horses and carriages and money. Work that would have cost him his head had it been uncovered and that he had eventually given up through fear of discovery. He had made a momentous decision: he would eschew such dangerous pursuits. Let others hazard their lives.
But in the early months of this year letters had arrived from Paris via the French embassy in London. Babington had handed them back, unread. He would have nothing to do with such things. And then in May, Father Ballard had arrived from France with persuasive arguments. Catholics were suffering under the yoke of tyranny. No true Catholic could stand aside and do nothing. More than that, he was a man trusted and loved by Mary of Scots and was uniquely placed to further her cause, with many young friends at court and beyond. Babington was flattered. Yes, he had said at last, he would help in whatever way he could.
But that was then. Now, everything had changed. Now it seemed that Ballard’s constant companion, Bernard Maude, was a Walsingham spy. The cause was lost – and so he must go into exile, like so many young Catholics of good family.
He sipped the wine and tried to appear relaxed.
‘Will you travel to Rome, Mr Babington?’
‘It is my intention . . .’
‘Then you must go to the English college. Send me details of every young man presently there, for I know some of them will return to England secretly, to sow dissent and treason.’
‘I will consider it my duty.’ I will consider it my duty to cut my own throat before ever I do such a thing as betray my fellows.
‘Then I am sure we can do business, Mr Babington, and the passport will be yours. Robin Poley will deliver it to you as soon as the papers are prepared. Now if you will excuse me, I must attend upon Her Majesty.’ The dour spymaster rose from his plain chair, gathered his grim features into something akin to a smile, and extended a hand to his guest. ‘Good day to you, sir.’
‘Has he granted you a passport?’ Robin Poley had been waiting
outside the chamber.
‘I believe he has, Mr Poley.’
‘But he demanded much in return, yes? You look as though you have run a mile through a rainstorm, Mr Babington! Come, let us find you a towel, and then I would be delighted to escort you back to London where we shall dine together at my expense.’
Babington looked at Poley’s soft skin and exquisite features. Perhaps the meeting with Walsingham had not gone so badly; he was still alive, at least, and not imprisoned. Perhaps he had truly gulled Walsingham into believing that he would spy for him. His spirits lifted. He looked around. ‘What of Mr Shakespeare?’
‘He has business to attend to here at court. Come, let us drink wine together and discuss what is to be done to heal the rotten heart of this state.’ Poley lowered his voice. ‘I would do all I can to assist you in your endeavours, both at home and abroad.’ He put out a slender hand to touch Babington’s arm. It was almost a caress, and Babington did nothing to move away. And then he allowed the arm to encircle his shoulders. ‘You know, Mr Babington,’ Poley said, drawing him away from Walsingham’s quarters, ‘it would be my greatest joy to come with you to foreign lands, away from these persecutors of the true faith.’
‘Then why not come with me?’
‘Is it possible you would truly accept me as your companion, sir?’
‘I would.’
‘Then I must find a way. In the meantime, let us to London, for I know you have had a most trying morning. We must look after you well, Mr Babington, for all our hopes rest on these fine shoulders of yours.’
Chapter 28
Walsingham stroked his coarse dark beard in thought. ‘I wonder whether I pushed him too hard. Do you think he might take fright and flee, John?’ Shakespeare shrugged non-committally. ‘That all depends on Robin Poley.’
‘He is slippery, is he not? I would not trust him.’
‘Not to all men’s taste, certainly. But those who are drawn to him cannot resist him. Mr Babington’s eyes lit like a beacon at the sight of Poley. Am I permitted to know more of his background?’
‘Robin? He was born a gentleman but penniless and had to go up to Cambridge as a Clare’s sizar, a time he clearly resents, waiting on his betters. He claims kinship to the Blounts by marriage and I know from Tom Phelippes that he once carried letters to the Catholic exiles in Paris on behalf of the damnable Christopher Blount. Blount even offered him money to kill my lord of Leicester. That is how far the Catholics trust him.’
‘But not all of them.’
‘No. But we only need the one – Mr Babington. And you say he is smitten.’
Shakespeare was silent.
‘Once again I see that you are squeamish, John.’
‘Perhaps my conscience is too fine. But these men are going to the scaffold and I struggle with their guilt. I know that Ballard and Savage are assassins and must be put down; I understand that well enough. But for the others, like the vain Babington, sometimes it seems to me that they are happily imbibing a summer cordial of youthful indiscretion, not knowing the poison it contains.’
‘They are not children. I grant you they are fools – but not such fools that they are unaware of the line between idle talk and treason.These men crossed that line long ago. Do you not think that I too have a conscience? I promise you this: if Babington balks at the final hurdle, I will allow him to slip away to exile. I will not have innocent blood on my hands.’
Shakespeare nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘Remember, John, this is war. On the eve of battle, you may dine with your enemy in his camp. You may drink with him and enjoy his company. But come morning, you must kill him, for if you do not, he will surely kill you.’
Shakespeare knew it to be true. It was, indeed, the nature of war, and this was war. England’s enemies had made that plain enough.
‘And so, let us proceed. When you see Poley next tell him I want Babington to return to me in three days’ time. He is to bring him to me at Barn Elms. Soon after that, I will have Mary’s letter delivered to him. His reply – if he writes one – will tell us all we need to know.’
Shakespeare bowed and walked down to the quay to hail a boat for London. Gilbert Gifford should be waiting for him at Seething Lane, and he had a plan to put to him; the exposing of Harry Slide had left a dangerous hole in their surveillance of Ballard. He needed to take matters into his own hands, to push forward the plans of the conspirators.
As he was stepping into his craft, something made Shakespeare turn back and look up. At a leaded window, he saw the face of Sir Robert Huckerbee. Their eyes locked for a second, and then Huckerbee moved away.
One thing puzzled him: if Sir Robert Huckerbee had reported his so-called misuse of Treasury funds to Walsingham, as threatened, why had Sir Francis made no mention of it? And what was it about Huckerbee that enraged him so?
As Shakespeare walked up Seething Lane he saw six or seven men gathered outside his house. They were standing beside a handcart, laughing. One of them spotted him and pointed, then they all looked his way.