Holy Spy (37 page)

‘Was there anything in these helpful trips by the Giltspur ships that might have led to him being a target?’

Walsingham shrugged. ‘I know not. But we both know this, John: the getting of intelligence is a deadly business.’

Chapter 31

Anthony Babington had never felt so low. He sat alone in his rooms at Hern’s Rents, as the day began to fade, obsessively going over the events of that afternoon.

He had left the audience with Walsingham in a sweat, yet certain that he had convinced the Principal Secretary of his loyalty and willingness to help. But at the mooring where a pair of Walsingham’s boatmen waited to convey him back to London, Robin Poley had been less sure.

‘I must warn you, Anthony, that I have learnt much since I came here to live in this household. Walsingham will say one thing and mean the opposite. If he says he trusts you, it may well mean he distrusts you.’

The change in Babington’s spirits had been as sudden as a thunderstorm out of a blue sky.

‘Then do you think I should go now? Flee England with all that entails? Give up my estates and live as a pauper in a monastery?’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Perhaps. I would never see my wife or daughter again, nor my aunt. But if you would come with me, Robin, it would be bearable. Tell me true what you believe.’

They were standing beneath the tall elms, a little distance from the river, too far from the house to be seen. Poley had clutched Babington’s damp hand in his. ‘A monastery? I cannot believe that that is God’s calling for you. I think the opposite. I think you should stand and fight for your true mission; the raising up of Mary to her rightful place as Queen of England. I will follow you, Anthony, wherever you lead. I will follow you though we hazard our very lives. But I tell you this: I would rather a thousand times follow you into the glory of battle than to the oblivion of the monk’s cloister.’

‘Come to London with me now,’ Babington had pleaded. ‘Stay with me tonight. We will talk until dawn if need be, for I cannot do this alone. I am scared.’

But Poley had been adamant. ‘This is the one night I cannot. I must stay here for my mistress, Lady Frances, demands my presence. If I am not here, Walsingham’s suspicions will be roused. That is the last thing we need.’

Babington thought of the long kiss that had followed and his heart ached. He would not see Poley until the next day. He considered venturing out to meet Salisbury and Tichbourne, but they both seemed angry with him, jealous of the time he was spending with Robin. Well, he had no time for such things. If they envied Robin, it spoke to their detriment, not his.

He downed another cup of wine and immediately refilled it. Never, he thought, was a man so torn as he was now. Go abroad and live; stay and die? The coward’s way, or the lionheart’s? The bells chimed nine hours. It was dusk and his shutters were thrown open, letting in the warm night air along with the din of laughter and argument. He paced his parlour, irritated by the sounds of revellers in the street below. Men and women should be abed, for come dawn it would be a day of work.

He stared down into his cup of wine. He had been drinking all afternoon since leaving Barn Elms.

Perhaps he should call on his aunt. She lived only five minutes away and would still be awake. And yet he rather thought he knew what her advice would be: do not betray your faith, do what God asks of you, life is short, eternity is for ever. He knew all this, so why ask her? He did not wish to hear her say it.

There was a knock at the door. He downed his wine and walked across the room.

‘Yes?’ he demanded.

‘Mr Babington, sir?’

It was his young valet, Job.

‘There is a man here to see you, master.’

‘Who is it?’

‘He says his name is Gilbert Gifford.’

Gifford. He had heard of him. Ballard and Savage had spoken of him often enough. Both had known him at the English College in Rheims, where he had reached the level of deacon but failed to stay the course in his studies for the priesthood. They did not, however, speak of him as a failure but as one who had found other ways to serve God. Indeed it was said that he had the ear of the seniors of the Church of Rome and the English exiles and carried secret messages for them.

Babington pulled open the door. Beside Job, another youth stood before him, his chin hairless, his face unlined and pink.

‘Who are you?’

‘Mr Gilbert Gifford, sir, at your service.’

‘Gifford is a man. You are a boy.’

‘No, sir, I am Gilbert Gifford. Twenty-five years old. In fact I am probably a little older than you, Mr Babington. Nor are you the first person to remark upon my youthful aspect.’

‘Why are you here?’

‘I wish to speak to you. I bring messages concerning a friend of mutual acquaintance.’

‘Well, you had better come in.’ He nodded to his boy. ‘You may go, Job. Do not wake me before ten.’

‘Yes, master.’ The boy bowed low and scurried away.

‘Do you drink wine, Mr Gifford? You look as though you should still be suckling at your mother’s teat.’ Certainly he did not look old enough for the responsibilities laid upon him by their masters.

Gifford ignored the barb. ‘A cup of wine would be most welcome.’

Babington looked around for a cup and found a used one on the floor by the settle. With unsteady hands, he poured the wine, spilling half of it onto the rush matting. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Drink this – and tell me why you are here.’

‘It concerns John Savage. I have recently come from Mr Morgan in Paris. He is most concerned that Goodfellow Savage appears to have forsworn a certain vow he made at Rheims. You know of this, I think.’

Despite the effects of the wine, Babington had the sense to proceed with some caution. ‘I know Mr Savage. What vow is this?’

Gifford tore the cup of wine from Babington’s hand and flung it to the floor. ‘Do not play games with me, sir! You well know the vow of which I speak. The vow to kill the usurper.’ He spat the sentence through his teeth.

Babington shook at the starkness of the words and the sudden violence of his visitor’s action. ‘I think you should go, Mr Gifford.’

‘Go? I will not go. I have not yet begun.’

‘You have no power over me. Go, I say, go.’

Suddenly Gifford’s dagger was at his throat. ‘I do not have time for this. We both know the truth and we are both on the same side, and of one mind. We are both working for the overthrow of this heretical regime, so let us speak plain.’

Babington backed off from the blade and Gifford replaced it in his belt.

‘Now, Mr Babington, we will begin again – and there will be no secrets between us. I know it all from Father Ballard. What is needed is the final plan.’

‘May I pour myself another cup of wine?’

Gifford picked up the spilt cup. ‘I’ll do it. You keep your strength for talking, Mr Babington.’

Babington took a deep draught. ‘It is true that Father Ballard approached me to lead his enterprise and that I have sought the support of my friends, whom I know to be of a similar mind. But we have now decided to leave the plan alone, for it has become clear that Ballard was betrayed by a man he trusted.’

‘You mean Bernard Maude?’

‘You know him?’

‘I met him in France. I tried to persuade Ballard not to trust him. Now he wishes that he had listened to me. Men would always do well to heed my words.’

‘If only Father Ballard had seen as clearly as you,’ Babington said sardonically.

‘If you think to mock me, Babington, you have chosen the wrong man. Men tend to rue the day they cross me.’

‘Forgive me, Mr Gifford. It was not merely the question of Maude. It was also Goodfellow Savage’s vow. Most of those amongst us doubted the legality and morality of what he proposed. I also had grave doubts about the practicality. A man alone could never get to her to carry out the deed; I believe it would need four to six men.’

Gifford’s voice softened. ‘But surely you have more men: what of Abingdon and Tilney? Also Tichbourne – and Charnock. Was he not a soldier like Savage? Ballard tells me these men all have access to court and are to be trusted with the deed. You must not –
you will not –
abandon the enterprise, sir.’

‘The arguments ring around my head like church bells. I have even considered leaving the country.’

‘Then I will get straight to the point,’ Gifford said. ‘I have just come from Paris and I can reveal to you this: the Holy League princes have given their pledge that they will invade England by September. That is less than two months away. Two months to save our souls, Mr Babington. Parma’s menat-arms are prepared, as are the fleets of Spain and France. Their force will be overwhelming and this attack will take place whatever the Catholics of England do, whether they rise up in support of the liberating army or no. And so for you to talk of leaving England when you are most needed is to shirk your responsibility to God. You would lose all honour.’

Shirk responsibility. Lose honour.
The very words his aunt would have used, and ones that cut to the heart.

‘If we were to proceed,’ Babington began tentatively, ‘then we would need assurances from the highest authorities that our actions were directly lawful in every part.’

For the first time, Gifford smiled. ‘That is easy. I have the written authority of Cardinal Allen that the excommunication wholly justifies the action against the heretic usurper. And this is agreed by all the doctors of Rheims and the divines of Rome. None expresses even the merest shade of doubt. The only authority I have
not
seen is that of the Queen of Scots herself. And this we must have – for she is the heart of the enterprise.’ He poured another cup for Babington. ‘Have you had word of such authority, Mr Babington?’

Babington sat down on the settle. His legs were becoming wobbly. ‘I must tell you in all sadness, Mr Gifford, that I have had no correspondence from her.’

‘Have you not then received her recent letter? I know for certain fact that she has written to you lately and that the letter

has come from her by a secret network of supporters.’

‘How is this possible?’

‘Through the offices of an honest man. A courageous Catholic brewer in the town of Burton has the contract for supplying Chartley with beer and ale. Each week he takes in new kegs – with letters concealed in a waterproof bung. And Mary’s replies come out the same way. That is how your letter will come to you.’

‘It has been so long that I heard from her, I can scarce believe it.’

‘Her silence has not been of her doing. Trust me, you will know the truth when you see it.’ Gifford suddenly hammered his fist on the table. ‘I have it! Indeed, I do have it, sir. It is the opportunity you have been waiting for.’

Babington, heavy-lidded, looked at his visitor and waited for his revelation.

‘You have a cipher, Mr Babington; the one the Scots Queen will use to write to you?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Good, then we can use it. You must write to Mary, laying forth your plans on her behalf. Your letter must be encrypted, for there are spies everywhere. This must be done without delay, so that you will be ready to hand it direct to the messenger who brings her letter to you.’

‘When will that be?’

‘It could be at any time. Perhaps tomorrow. We have no time to lose.’

‘But what must I say, Mr Gifford? You must help me with this.’ All Babington’s doubts had been washed away. He was to hear from Mary herself ! The blessed Mary, queen of all true Catholic hearts. He was consumed by excitement. ‘Shall I fetch paper and quills?’

‘Yes, do so. We must give her the glad news that her cousins in France and Spain are to send armies into England on her behalf. Tell her what ports are designated for the landings and reveal the hopes that sixty thousand or more true Englishmen will rise up and join with the armies of France and Spain to bring down the heretics. That is the figure given me by Father Ballard following his trip to the north country. It is said, too, that the invading armies will be of a similar strength.’