Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (196 page)

By nightfall Phelippes had deciphered it. He sat grinning. It was all
over. He drew a gallows mark on the outside of his translation.
Walsingham would appreciate the humour.

Suddenly he had an idea. It would be convenient to have the names of
all the conspirators spelled out by the unfortunate Babington. An
expert forger, he had no difficulty in adding a postscript to the
original letter:

I would be glad to know the names and qualities of the six gentlemen to
accomplish the design, for it may be that, upon knowledge of the
parties, I shall be able to give you some further advice necessary to
be followed therein; as also, from time to time particularly how you
proceed; and as soon as you may, for the same purpose, who be ready,
and how far every one privy hereunto.

He handed it over to Arthur Gregory, his accomplice; Gregory was a
genius at breaking open sealed letters and resealing them without
trace.

Phelippes leaned back in his chair. Time to start rounding up the
conspirators; they had served their purpose. They only had to wait for
Babington to reply, and even that was not really necessary, just an
extra touch.

Walsingham had known it would be difficult, but not this difficult. He
had presented his evidence to the Queen, deferentially. He had
expected her to be sad; he himself was depressed by his own success.
Just once he wished that when he thought the worst of someone, he would
be proved wrong. But it never worked that way.

Still, the Queen took it hard. She read and reread the letter,
silently. She put it down and paced.

"Dearest sovereign," Walsingham finally said, "do we have your
permission to arrest her?"

"No!" Elizabeth snapped.

"We must have access to her papers," insisted Walsingham. "She has
stacks of them in her quarters at Chartley, zealously guarded. Now it
is necessary, for your own safety, that we take them, so we know the
extent of the plots."

Elizabeth kept scratching her neck, leaving red welts. "This letter
..." she finally said, faintly. It had clearly disturbed her greatly.
Her face looked as if it had been slapped: it showed shock and profound
disillusionment. "This letter ... I would she had never written it."

"She will soon feel the same way. But what was it Pilate said? "What
I have written, I have written." It must stand as it is. And she must
be arrested."

Elizabeth laughed, a thin little laugh. "How can a prisoner be
arrested?"

"And formally charged with her crime," Walsingham insisted.

" "At last," she would say. "After eighteen years, I am formally
charged with something." Perhaps that is why she did it. Perhaps "

"There can be no excuses. Treason is treason. The law is the law."

"What I have written, I have written. Very well. Do it." Her voice
was gruff.

After Walsingham had left, she sat for a long time, unmoving, hoping
the pain would subside.

The extent of the pain was astounding. A ruler must come to accept
walking with death every day, accept the hatred that would always come
from a disgruntled few.

But my own flesh and blood, a woman like myself, also an anointed
queen, to plan my murder! The words kept repeating themselves in her
mind, marching proudly in succession like a parade of knights: .. .
then shall it be time to set the six gentlemen to work, taking order,
upon the accomplishment of the said design .... She shuddered, feeling
the knife. Who were these courtiers? Who were these people who
served, unsuspected, in her very presence?

And lest she misconstrue the reference, Walsingham had supplied the
letter to which this was an answer, which was more explicit: .. . who
for the zeal they bear unto the Catholic cause and Your Majesty's
service will undertake that tragic execution.. ..

Thank you, Walsingham, she thought.

Yet at the same time she was deeply grateful for such a clever and
faithful servant. What if he were working for the other side?

It has ever been my blessing that the Queen of Scots has never had a
competent and loyal servant. Those that are competent have proved
disloyal, and those that are loyal have proved incompetent.

She dreaded what was now to come, what must now come.

On July twentieth, Gilbert Gifford crossed over to Europe, to avoid any
questioning. Two weeks later, Ballard was arrested; at the news,
Babington fled from his home into the depths of St. John's Wood.
Hiding by day, he cut his hair, stained his face with walnut juice, and
moved only by night in the forest. He had never obtained the precious
passport, and had no hopes of leaving England. At length, hunger drove
him to the house of another of the conspirators, Jerome Bellamy.

Walsingham's agents were waiting, and arrested him on the spot. The
wild-eyed young man was dragged away, his face gaunt and gypsy like in
its darkness.

"No! No!" he screamed. "Mercy!"

While Babington's wife waited in the gardens of their great house in
the Barbicon, the rest of the little band of conspirators were rounded
up and herded into captivity. The plot was over, easily dismantled and
quickly ended, gone like a sigh.

TWENTY-SIX

With the dispatching of the letter, Mary felt a panic overtake her that
quickly replaced her calmness. How could she have done it? She
remembered all the reasons clearly, but now they receded before the one
great fact: she had yielded to the temptation. And while it was true
that if this came to light and she was punished, it would be less a
punishment than a release from an afflicted existence, she was ashamed.
Her only consolation came in the fact that undoubtedly the plot would
come to nothing, as all the others had. Ironically, her body had
responded stirringly to the prospect of battle: the swelling of her
knees subsided; her spine straightened and her fingers tingled with
newfound suppleness.

From out of the windows she watched as the thick, dull green of July
fields turned to hints of gold in early August. Sometimes she trembled
as she laid her head against the window frame and looked down the road
and across the fields. She had no idea from what direction Babington's
men would come, or whether she would even see them approach. It did
not matter; that was the mysterious thing. Her part in it was over,
just by sending the reply. There were no daydreams about crossing to
France to live out her days, no fantasies about seeing James
face-to-face at last and coming to an understanding, undoing all the
damage that had been done between them. She did not imagine visiting
her mother's grave in Reims, or seeing her aunt Renee. The future was
a blank, and did not concern her; for the first time in her life, she
was free of both its menace and its promises. She had made her last
decision.

Paulet had taken to looking at her quizzically, observing her movements
as if he were inspecting a racehorse. He himself had not been well,
and was limping slightly. Mary's servants reported that he had been
seen walking in the fields, talking earnestly to someone from court,
far out of earshot. Was she to be moved? Transferred to another
keeper? It was all the same to her now.

On August eighth, Mary had just finished her morning prayers when
Paulet himself appeared on her threshold. He was leaning on his stick,
and his smile looked painted on.

"Madam," he rasped, "an invitation has been received from one of our
neighbours, Sir Walter Aston, to hunt the deer in his estate at Tixall.
Would you care to try it? I notice your health has improved mightily
in the last month."

"Hunt?" she said. It had been so long since she had been hunting, and
Paulet had never allowed her out beyond the grounds. "But, my friend,
what of you? You seem as uncomfortable in your legs as I was of
late."

He allowed himself a slight smile. Was this her celebrated charm to
notice and care about the little things around her? Even though he
knew it was false, it was strangely warming. "I can manage well
enough. Would you like it?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Then make yourself ready. You may take a few attendants with you. Who
knows whom you might meet? I understand Sir Walter may join us; if not
on the hunt itself, he will certainly entertain us at his home
afterward."

"Is not Tixall a new mansion?"

"Indeed, yes. It is completed but recently, and is the most luxurious
in the county, for comforts at least. Perhaps he will give us a tour,
show us the new inventions he has installed. I have heard that there
are some .. . sanitary arrangements .. . ahem ..." His face grew red.
"And he has had the house built facing south, most daring, what with
the evil winds from that direction .. . nonetheless, he uses less wood
and coal in winter for heating."

"I do look forward to seeing it, and thank him for the invitation,"
said Mary.

"Can you be ready to leave in an hour?" asked Paulet. "We can picnic
in the fields for dinner." He bowed stiffly, and took his leave.

"Nau, Curie! Did you hear?" said Mary. "Would you care to join us?
And Jane? Elizabeth?"

"Nay, we have work to do," said the women.

"So do we, but we can lay it aside," said the men.

"Your main work is done," said Mary to the secretaries. "Now you can
take your ease. Come, let us make ready!"

She threw open her trunk and pulled out a green riding habit. She had
never had an opportunity to wear it, since old Balthazzar had made it
for her with shaking hands two years earlier. There was even a little
feathered bonnet go to with it. They had designed it based on sketches
that had come from France just before her letters had ceased, so it was
not so terribly out of style.

Jane dressed her hair, putting on her best wig. She never went without
her wigs, as her real hair had been kept short the better to enable the
preferred treatment for headaches medicinal poultices to be
administered.

"You look lovely," said Jane, studying Mary's face. The colour had
come back into it, the lines softened, for no apparent reason. Nothing
had happened, no easing of the conditions of confinement, and yet this
noticeable change.

"Thank you." Mary wondered if they would be met by any of the
neighbours, if not on the hunt itself, then at the reception at Tixall.
It would be heaven, to see some new faces.

The day was hot and fair, and by ten o'clock they were riding out
beyond the moat Mary and her two secretaries and faithful physician.
Not that she expected to be taken ill, but she was glad to be able to
give him an outing, something pleasant in his long days of serving
her.

The guard contingent was heavier than usual, but it was of no moment.
They descended from the hill, leaving Chartley behind. Mary turned to
look at it, able to see it in its setting for the first time. Her own
quarters looked so tiny.

The hazy August air, the thick smell of heated earth, enveloped her
like a mantle.