A Column of Fire (94 page)

Rollo said: ‘Queen Mary is being held at Chartley Manor, in Staffordshire. You must go there and reconnoitre – but do not attract attention to yourself by attempting to speak to her. When your plans are made, you will write to her, giving the details, and entrust the letter to me. I have a way of getting papers to her secretly.’

The light of destiny shone in Babington’s eyes. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘And gladly.’

In the ring the horse fell down, and the dogs seized the monkey and tore it apart.

Rollo shook Babington’s hand.

Babington said: ‘How do I get in touch with you?’

‘You don’t,’ said Rollo. ‘I’ll contact you.’

*

N
ED TOOK
G
IFFORD
to the Tower of London, his right arm roped to the left wrist of a guard. ‘This is where traitors are tortured,’ Ned said conversationally as they ascended the stone staircase. Gifford looked terrified. They went to a room with a writing table and a fireplace, cold in summer. They sat down on opposite sides of the table, Gifford still tied to the guard, who stood beside him.

In the next room, a man screamed.

Gifford paled. ‘Who is that?’ he said.

‘A traitor called Launcelot,’ said Ned. ‘He dreamed up a scheme to shoot Queen Elizabeth while she rode in St James’s Park. He proposed this murderous plan to another Catholic who happened to be a loyal subject of the queen.’ The second man also happened to be an agent of Ned’s. ‘We think Launcelot is probably a lunatic working alone, but Sir Francis Walsingham needs to be sure.’

Gifford’s smooth boyish face was deathly white, and his hands were shaking.

Ned said: ‘If you don’t want to suffer what Launcelot is going through, you just have to cooperate with me. Nothing difficult.’

‘Never,’ said Gifford, but his voice shook.

‘After you collect the letters from the French embassy, you will bring them to me, so that I can make copies, before you take them to Chartley.’

‘You can’t read them,’ Gifford said. ‘Nor can I. They’re written in code.’

‘Let me worry about that.’ Ned had a genius codebreaker called Phelippes.

‘Queen Mary will see the broken seals on the letters and know what I’ve done.’

‘The seals will be restored.’ Phelippes was also a skilled forger. ‘No one will be able to tell the difference.’

Gifford was taken aback by these revelations. He had not guessed how elaborate and professional Queen Elizabeth’s secret service was. As Ned had suspected from the start, Gifford had no idea what he was up against.

Ned went on: ‘You will do the same when you pick up the letters from Chartley. You will bring them to me, and I will have them copied before you deliver them to the French embassy.’

‘I will never betray Queen Mary.’

Launcelot screamed again, and then the scream died away and the man began to sob and plead for mercy.

Ned said to Gifford: ‘You are a lucky man.’

Gifford gave a snort of incredulity.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ned. ‘You see, you don’t know much. You don’t even know the name of the Englishman who recruited you in Paris.’

Gifford said nothing, but Ned guessed from his expression that he did have a name.

Ned said: ‘He called himself Jean Langlais.’

Gifford was not good at hiding his feelings, and he let his surprise show.

‘That is obviously a pseudonym, but it’s the only one he gave you.’

Once again Gifford appeared disheartened by how much Ned knew.

‘You’re lucky, because I have a use for you, and if you do as you’re told, you won’t be racked.’

‘I won’t do it.’

Launcelot screamed like a man in hell.

Gifford turned away and threw up on the stone floor. The sour smell of vomit filled the little room.

Ned stood up. ‘I’ve arranged for them to torture you this afternoon. I’ll come and see you tomorrow. You’ll have changed your mind by then.’

Launcelot sobbed: ‘No, no, please, stop.’

Gifford wiped his mouth and whispered: ‘I’ll do it.’

‘I need to hear you better,’ Ned said.

Gifford spoke louder. ‘I’ll do it, God damn you!’

‘Good,’ said Ned. He spoke to the guard. ‘Untie the rope,’ he said. ‘Let him go.’

Gifford could hardly believe it. ‘I can go?’

‘As long as you do what I’ve told you. You will be watched, so don’t imagine you can cheat me.’

Launcelot began to cry for his mother.

Ned said: ‘And the next time you come back here there will be no escape.’

‘I understand.’

‘Go.’

Gifford left the room, and Ned heard his hurried footsteps clatter down the stone stairs. Ned nodded to the guard, who also went out. Ned sat back in his chair, drained. He closed his eyes, but after a minute Launcelot screamed again, and Ned had to leave.

He went out of the Tower and walked along the bank of the river. A fresh breeze off the water blew away the smell of puke that had lingered in his nostrils. He looked around him, at boatmen, fishermen, street hawkers, busy people and idlers, hundreds of faces talking, shouting, laughing, yawning, singing – but not screaming in agony or sweating in terror. Normal life.

He crossed London Bridge to the south bank. This was where most of the Huguenots lived. They had brought sophisticated textile technology with them from the Netherlands and France, and they had quickly prospered in London. They were good customers for Sylvie.

Her shop was the ground floor of a timber-framed building in a row, a typical London house, with each storey jutting out over the one below. The front door was open, and he stepped inside. He was soothed by the rows of books and the smell of paper and ink.

Sylvie was unpacking a box from Geneva. She straightened up when she heard his step. He looked into her blue eyes and kissed her soft mouth.

She held him at a distance and spoke English with a soft French accent. ‘What on earth has happened?’

‘I had to perform an unpleasant duty. I’ll tell you, but I want to wash.’ He went out to the backyard, and dipped a bowl in a rain barrel, and washed his face and hands in the cold water.

Back in the house, he went upstairs to the living quarters and threw himself into his favourite chair. He closed his eyes and heard Launcelot crying for his mother.

Sylvie came upstairs. She went to the pantry, got a bottle of wine, and poured two goblets. She handed him a glass, kissed his forehead and sat close to him, knee to knee. He sipped his wine and took her hand.

She said: ‘Tell me.’

‘A man was tortured in the Tower today. He had threatened the life of the queen. I didn’t torture him – I can’t do it, I don’t have the stomach for that work. But I arranged to conduct an interrogation in the next room, so that my suspect could hear the screams.’

‘How dreadful.’

‘It worked. I turned an enemy agent into a double agent. He serves me now. But I can still hear those screams.’ Sylvie squeezed his hand and said nothing. After a while he said: ‘Sometimes I hate my work.’

‘Because of you, men like the duke of Guise and Pierre Aumande can’t do in England what they do in France – burn people to death for their beliefs.’

‘But in order to defeat them I have become like them.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t fight for compulsory Protestantism the way they fight for compulsory Catholicism. You stand for tolerance.’

‘We did, at the start. But now, when we catch secret priests, we execute them, regardless of whether they threaten the queen. Do you know what we did to Margaret Clitherow?’

‘Is she the woman who was executed in York for harbouring a Catholic priest?’

‘Yes. She was stripped naked, tied up, and laid on the ground; then her own front door was placed on top of her and loaded with rocks until she was crushed to death.’

‘Oh, God, I didn’t know that.’

‘Sickening.’

‘But you never wanted it to be this way! You wanted people with different beliefs to be good neighbours.’

‘I did, but perhaps it’s impossible.’

‘Roger told me something you once said to him. I wonder if you remember the time he asked you why the queen hated Catholics.’

Ned smiled. ‘I remember.’

‘He’s hasn’t forgotten what you told him.’

‘Perhaps I did something right. What did I say to Roger?’

‘You said that there are no saints in politics, but imperfect people can make the world a better place.’

‘Did I say that?’

‘That’s what Roger told me.’

‘Good,’ said Ned. ‘I hope it’s true.’

*

S
UMMER BROUGHT NEW
hope to Alison, who brightened with the weather. Only the inner circle at Chartley Manor knew of the secret correspondence with Anthony Babington, but Mary’s revived spirits heartened everyone.

Alison was optimistic, but not blindly so. She wished she knew more about Babington. He came from a good Catholic family, but that was about all that could be said for him. He was only twenty-four. Would he really be able to lead a rebellion against the queen who had held on firmly to power for twenty-seven years? Alison wanted to know the plan.

The details came in July of 1586.

After the initial exchange of letters that served to establish contact and assure both parties that the channel of communication was open, Babington sent a full outline of what he proposed. The letter came in a beer barrel, and was decoded by Mary’s secretary, Claude Nau. Alison sat with Mary and Nau, in Mary’s bedroom at Chartley Manor, and pored over the paper.

It was exhilarating.

‘Babington writes of “this great and honourable action” and “the last hope ever to recover the faith of our forefathers”, but he says more,’ said Nau, looking at his decrypt. ‘He outlines six separate actions necessary for a successful uprising. The first is the invasion of England by a foreign force. Second, that force to be large enough to guarantee military victory.’

Mary said: ‘The duke of Guise has sixty thousand men, we’re told.’

Alison hoped it was true.

‘Third, ports must be chosen where the armies can land and be resupplied.’

‘Settled long ago, I think, and maps sent to my cousin Duke Henri,’ said Mary. ‘Though Babington may not know about that.’

‘Fourth, when they arrive they must be met by a substantial local force to protect their landing against immediate counterattack.’

‘The people will rise up spontaneously,’ Mary said.

Alison thought they might need prompting, but that could be arranged.

‘Babington has given this some thought,’ Nau said. ‘He has selected men he describes as “your lieutenants” in the west, the north, South Wales, North Wales, and the counties of Lancaster, Derby and Stafford.’

Alison thought that sounded impressively well organized.

‘ “Fifth, Queen Mary must be freed”,’ Nau read aloud. ‘ “Myself, with ten gentlemen and a hundred of our followers, will undertake the delivery of your royal person from the hands of your enemies.” ’

‘Good,’ said Mary. ‘Sir Amias Paulet has nowhere near a hundred guards here, and anyway, most of them are lodged in the surrounding neighbourhood, not at the Manor. Before they can be mustered, we’ll be long gone.’

Alison was feeling increasingly energized.

‘And sixth, of course, Elizabeth must be killed. Babington writes: “For the dispatch of the usurper, from the obedience of whom we are by excommunication made free, there be six gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear to the Catholic cause and your majesty’s service, will undertake that tragic execution.” I think that’s about as clear as it could be.’

It certainly was, thought Alison, and for a moment she was chilled to think of the murder of a queen.

‘I must reply to this quickly,’ said Mary.

Nau looked anxious. ‘We should be careful what we say.’

‘There is only one thing I can say, and that is yes.’

‘If your letter should fall into the wrong hands . . .’

‘It will be placed in safe hands, and written in code.’

‘But if things should go wrong . . .’

Mary reddened, and Alison knew that the anger and frustration of the last twenty years were showing. ‘I have to seize this opportunity. Otherwise there is no hope for me.’

‘Your reply to Babington will be evidence of treason.’

‘So be it,’ said Mary.

*

T
HE BUSINESS OF
espionage required a lot of patience, Ned reflected in July of 1586.

He had hoped, back in 1583, that Francis Throckmorton would lead him to hard evidence of the treachery of Mary Stuart. That hope had been disappointed when the malice of the earl of Leicester had forced Ned to arrest Throckmorton prematurely. Then, in 1585, he had found a new Throckmorton in Gilbert Gifford. This time the earl of Leicester was not in England to make trouble: Queen Elizabeth had sent him to the Spanish Netherlands at the head of an army to fight for the Dutch Protestant rebels against their Catholic Spanish overlords. Leicester was making a hash of the job – his talents were for flirting and charming, not fighting and killing – but it kept him from undermining Walsingham.

As a result, Ned was in a strong position. Mary thought she was sending and receiving secret letters, but Ned was reading everything.

However, it was now July and he had not yet found what he was looking for, despite six months of surveillance.

Treachery was
implied
in every letter Mary received or wrote, of course, whether she was corresponding with Pierre Aumande or the king of Spain; but Ned needed something no one could argue with. The letter Babington sent to Mary early in July was explicit, and he would undoubtedly hang for it. Ned waited in suspense to see how Mary would reply. Surely now she would have to make her intentions clear in writing? The exact wording of her response might finally condemn her.

Her reply came into Ned’s hands on 19 July. It was seven pages long.

It was written by her secretary, Claude Nau, as always, and encoded. Ned gave it to Phelippes for deciphering and waited in a fever of impatience. He found he could not concentrate on anything else. He had a long letter from Jerónima Ruiz in Madrid about the internal politics of the Spanish court which he read three times without understanding a word. He gave up and left Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane to walk across the bridge to his own home in Southwark for midday dinner. Being with Sylvie always soothed his soul.