Gifford nodded, but said nothing.
Walsingham turned to the others and continued his instructions. ‘Her Majesty also demands that our name be kept from the warrants of arrest when at last they are issued, and so you will use the name of the High Admiral, Howard of Effingham, in all such matters. And remember, there is but one plot, the plot of Babington and the Queen of Scots to destroy this realm. There must be no confusion about this.’ He folded the paper.
One plot. Would the world believe that? There were clearly two plots here: one by Babington and Mary to usurp Elizabeth, the other by Walsingham and his men to have Mary’s head. They were like two briar stems, intertwined and sharp with thorns. But that was not for John Shakespeare to say. Let others deduce what they may.
‘Well, gentlemen, I think we have succeeded,’ Walsingham concluded. ‘All that we now await is a reply to the postscript, with the names of the assassins. And then we round them up and allow the courts and the headsmen to deal with the rest. God speed your efforts. You have done well.’
And so saying, he swept from the room, with Scudamore in his wake, leaving Shakespeare no time to beg for a decision on a warrant to enter Giltspur House.
‘I think a night with the Smith sisters is called for, Mr Gilbert, to celebrate your remarkable success in bringing this episode to a satisfactory conclusion.’
‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. My loins cry out for their tender ministrations.’
‘Then I shall see you at the Holborn house at seven o’clock.’
Shakespeare gripped Gifford’s pink hand and noted that it was sweating. It occurred to him that it would be well to stay with the man.
‘I have had another thought, Mr Gifford. Come to Westminster with me. We will seek out the sisters together.’
‘You led me to believe that such a thing was impossible.’
‘Times change.’
‘You think me most wondrous gullible! I know you, Shakespeare – and I know Mr Secretary. No, no, I will not come with you. Let us stay with the system we have used thus far. It has worked well, has it not? I will prepare myself for the delight of their company. You go to them alone, and I will see you at the Holborn house at seven.’
Shakespeare was still clutching the sweaty pink hand, as though by holding it he would keep Gilbert Gifford from fleeing. Of a sudden, he let it go and it flopped like a falling bird. ‘Until later, Mr Gifford.’
‘Indeed. Farewell, sir.’
Shakespeare knew that he had lost him and there was nothing he could do. The gallows on the letter had sealed his decision. Yes, he could use one of Mr Mills’s hired men to follow him, but what was the point? If Gifford had to be stopped from fleeing forcibly then he would not cooperate anyway. Nor did Shakespeare altogether blame the man. He had done good service, but he was afraid. He knew that the culmination of this enterprise was going to be a storm of blood, and that no one could tell who would be washed away in the cataract.
Chapter 39
Anthony Babington was at The Garden, the London home of his good friend Robin Poley, just by Bishopsgate. They had dined at the Castle tavern, by the Royal Exchange, with Ballard and others. There had been arguments; none of them was clear what to do, what step to take next.
The letter from Mary had been delivered to Babington at his Hern’s Rents lodgings by a blue-coated serving man. When questioned as to who he was and who had sent him, he made no reply. He merely bowed his head and departed.
What were they to do about the letter? The first thing after it was deciphered and read was to burn it. The flames had leapt and they seemed to see their hopes fade and die in its black smoke. Now what? How were they to proceed? How do you set a date for an assassination?
The Queen of Scots had asked for the names of the assassins. It was a strange, worrying request.
Babington had conveyed the contents of her letter to Ballard, Savage and the others. He had hoped for a decision from Ballard; he, after all, was the priest, the prime mover in their great endeavour. But Ballard had merely suggested that he say a mass and that they seek divine guidance.
And so the men at the Castle all looked to Babington for leadership. In its absence, the arguments raged: to kill the Queen or abduct her? To support the foreign invaders or to resist? None could agree on anything.
Dominic de Warre was most vocal and fervent. He raged against the tyranny and demanded they all lay their lives on the line to do for ‘the wicked few who bring our land to pain and ruin’.
Babington had tried to bring order to the motley band. He said it was quite clear what was required – and what was promised. The case for the killing of Elizabeth was made; the greatest doctors in the Church had agreed to its legality. And now, most important of all, Mary had given her seal of approval. She was their true Queen; they must obey her. As for the planned invasion by France and Spain, he could understand why some men had doubts, yet without such assistance their uprising was doomed.
Now here he was at Robin Poley’s beautiful house. The Garden. It was well named; the walled garden was large and rich with the scents of thyme and lavender. Apricots and apples made their slow journey towards ripeness. Bees and butterflies sucked the nectar from the flowers.
Here, for a while at least, he could find peace and comfort.
Babington would be happy to stay here for ever with this man, his boon friend. He was more of a companion than Margaret, his wife of six years, had ever been or could ever be. If only sweet Robin had been a woman, how happy they would have been.
The blue-coated serving man had come again last night. Here, to Robin Poley’s home, without explanation of how he knew where Babington might be.
‘I am instructed to ask whether you have a reply, Mr Babington?’
‘Who has sent you?’
‘Those are my instructions, sir.’ He had bowed.
Babington had hesitated. This was certainly the same man who had brought the letter from Mary. It must follow that he was equipped to deliver a letter to her.
‘I . . . I have not finished writing my reply.’
‘Shall I return in the morning?’
‘No . . . yes. Yes, I have something for you.’ He had written a reply. Not finished, perhaps, but the salient points were there. ‘But I must date and sign it.’
‘Very good, sir. Then I shall wait.’
Babington had left the bluecoat at the door and disappeared into the house. Poley had looked at him questioningly, but he said nothing. He took the incomplete letter from its hiding place and scrawled the date upon it. London this third of August 1586.
The letter told of Maude’s treachery while in the company of Ballard, it spoke of the grave danger the conspirators now faced, but then it mellowed into soft, reassuring words that all would, indeed, be well, for God was on their side.
We have vowed and we will perform or die. There, it was said. He had made a vow, just as Goodfellow Savage had made a vow. Vows that could not be undone.
Did he believe any of these words? He folded the paper and sealed it, then returned to the front door. The bluecoat stood, impassive, and took the proffered letter. Without another word, he bowed again and departed into the night.
It was morning now. A glorious summer’s morning; soon the August winds would come. How fleeting brief were these golden days.
He reclined in Poley’s feather bed. Robin had already thrown open the shutters so that sunlight spread across the linen sheets.
Perhaps he and Robin could still leave the country. Slip aboard a fisher’s boat for a sovereign or two. They would be able to take little money, but they could seek out a monastery and live out their days together in the chapel and the gardens. This place of Robin’s had the feel of a monastery garden. Through the bedchamber window, he imbibed its scents and heard the song of the thrush and the blackbird. And then another sound – footsteps on the path, followed by voices, ones that he knew: John Ballard talking with Robin Poley.