The Huntress (9 page)

The page left Martin waiting in a small antechamber while he announced Martin’s arrival to Sir Francis. The small room was occupied by a clerk with a yellow beard and a face pitted from a bout of smallpox. He labored wearily with quill and ink over some parchment. Glancing up with tired, red-rimmed eyes, Thomas Phelippes acknowledged Martin’s presence with a curt nod before returning to his work.

Phelippes’s taciturnity left Martin nothing to do but pace and wish himself elsewhere, back home with his daughter. Once, the kind of furtive dealings he had embarked upon with Walsingham would have been like a heady wine to Martin, but his taste for such intrigue had begun to pall.

“
We are respectable folk now,
” Martin had told Meg, but that was not true and never would be while he continued in Walsingham’s secret employ. He hoped that the information he had recently acquired might suffice to bring his service to an end.

The page returned to inform Martin that Sir Francis would receive him now. Martin followed the young man into a study crammed with books. Sir Francis was said to be fluent in at least five other tongues besides his own, and the volumes lining the shelves represented a diversity of languages as well as interests.

There were books on history, law, politics, castles and fortifications, as well as treatises on training militia and tactics of war and ledgers of the expenses for the queen’s many households and estates.

It made Martin’s head throb just to contemplate it all. He often wondered how Sir Francis coped with such a staggering array of detail and information, to say nothing of the locked cabinet containing more-secret matters, to which only Walsingham had the key.

One could hardly see the man seated behind his desk, the surface was piled so high with copies of treaties, correspondence from ambassadors, maps, and haphazardly stacked paperwork.

Somewhere in the midst of this avalanche, Walsingham set his seal to a letter he had just completed. Absorbed by his task, he barely looked up as Martin entered.

Sir Francis was a man of lean stature and long narrow countenance. His pointed black beard and sallow complexion had led the queen to dub him “the Moor.” Attired in simple dark clothing, he could have easily been mistaken for a clerk himself instead of what he was, Elizabeth’s principal secretary and a powerful member of her privy council.

He handed the letter off to the page, commanding, “See that this is dispatched at once.”

As the young man hurried off on his errand, Walsingham beckoned to Martin, indicating he should be seated. “Your pardon for the delay, Master Wolfe.”

“I am entirely at your disposal, Mr. Secretary.” Martin sketched a bow, reflecting that that was far truer than he liked. “I would hardly expect to take precedence over some urgent matter of state.”

“Matters of state,” Walsingham grimaced. “Yes, there is always an endless supply of those. I have been besieged of late by letters from justices throughout the country, complaining of riots owing to that infernal comet.”

“The comet?” Martin arched one brow as he settled himself into a chair opposite the desk.

“That fiery object that has been hovering in the sky this past month,” the secretary replied dryly. “I trust you have noticed it.”

“It would be impossible not to, but I can find enough trouble right here on earth without concerning myself with a celestial disturbance a million miles away.”

“Regrettably, you are one of the few with the sense to realize that. I vow that the rest of the country seems to have run a bit mad, panicked citizens paying out good coin to mountebanks for protective charms, preachers ranting on street corners about the end of days. Most recently, I had this letter from a justice of the peace regarding an agitator in Surrey who has been spreading untold alarm.”

Walsingham picked up a sheet of parchment and read,

“This wild-eyed vagrant hath stirred up much unrest in my district by preaching that the comet is a manifestation of the wrath of the Almighty, the fiery orb forged of the sins of mankind rising like a noxious gas into the heavens.”

Martin laughed. “Good Lord. If that were the case, we’d be plagued by comets every day of every year.”

“Precisely. Unfortunately, this madman has managed to stir up a great deal of hysteria. The justice planned to hang him. I, however, recommended the poor fool be confined to St. Bethlehem’s Hospital for the insane. That will just as effectively put an end to his agitation.”

Locked up in Bedlam, likely never again to see the light of day. Martin repressed a shudder, thinking he would have by far preferred the rope.

Walsingham tossed the letter from the justice atop a stack of other papers and rubbed his eyes. There were some who referred to the secretary as the man who never slept and Martin could almost believe it.

There was something preternatural about this dark, gaunt man who tended to keep his own counsel in a court noted for its wit and gossip. Martin often reflected how Sir Francis must stand out in his somber clothing amongst the bright silks, jewels, and furs of the courtiers, like a raven amongst peacocks.

Or perhaps, and far more likely, he simply faded into the background, a silent shadow, ever watchful. Watching and waiting—it was what Walsingham did best.

Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands across the front of his dark robes and trained his penetrating gaze upon Martin.

“The hour grows late, Master Wolfe, and I have many more matters that require my attention. So let us get down to business. What have you to report to me? Some good information at last, I trust.”

“I have information. I don’t know how good you will find it,” Martin replied. “The man who has been frequenting the Plough Inn near the Temple bar and styling himself Captain Fortescue is an imposter, just as you suspected. He is really a priest by the name of John Ballard.”

“Indeed.” Walsingham leaned forward eagerly. “You are sure of this?”

“I attended a mass celebrated by Ballard at the house of Sir Anthony Babington.” A forbidden rite that could get a man clapped into prison or worse. Martin made haste to add, “I did so purely for the purpose of establishing my bona fides as a fellow recusant. It was not all that difficult. I—”

Martin checked himself on the verge of revealing that he had spent part of his youth in Paris amongst friars after he had been abandoned on the steps of Notre Dame by his mother.

Walsingham was only familiar with Martin as a former agent for Henry of Navarre. Martin had first crossed paths with the secretary two years earlier when Martin had journeyed to London in an effort to raise much-needed funds for the beleaguered Protestant king.

That was all that Walsingham knew of Martin and he preferred to keep it that way. He had no desire to have the secretary looking too closely into his past, especially not the parts regarding his daughter.

“I am familiar enough with the forms of the old faith to pass myself off as a Catholic.”

“Indeed.” Walsingham’s countenance was impassive, his voice noncommittal, but his shrewd gaze never left Martin’s face. “Another fine performance by you, I have no doubt.”

“Passable.” Martin hunched his shoulders in a modest gesture. “But not good enough to convince Babington and Father Ballard to take me fully into their confidence.

“I have been able to learn more by lurking about the Plough Inn of an evening. Young Babington and his friends often repair there for supper and are not always cautious when deep in their cups.”

Martin paused and went on grimly, “There is definitely some plot afoot to get rid of Queen Elizabeth and place her cousin, Mary of Scots, on the throne. I overheard Babington asking Father Ballard if it would be wrong to kill Elizabeth.”

“An assassin with a conscience. How admirable.” Walsingham sneered.

“Ballard assured him it would be no sin. The Pope has declared Elizabeth a heretic and would absolve Babington. And yet he still sounded loath to act. Truly, for all of his bold talk, Babington does not strike me as much of a threat. He’s an indecisive and dream-ridden young fellow. I believe he has resolved to write to the Queen of Scots herself, asking for her blessing before he proceeds any further.”

Martin’s lip curled contemptuously. “How the young fool thinks he will manage that, I know not. Everyone knows the Scottish queen is guarded too closely at Chartley to receive any communication from the outside world.

“Oh, the lady shall receive his letter.” Walsingham gave a rare smile, so cold it chilled Martin’s blood. “I will relax the guard and see that she does.”

Martin regarded Sir Francis in astonishment. “Your pardon, sir, but hadn’t you better arrest Babington and this priest at once? Wouldn’t it be dangerous to let Elizabeth’s enemies correspond and plot against her?”

“Dangerous, but necessary.” Walsingham was not a forthcoming man, seldom explaining himself fully to anyone, even his queen.

He surprised Martin when he steepled his fingers together and continued gravely, “I have dealt with many of these Catholic conspiracies against Her Majesty. In the past I always moved too swiftly, never rooting out the dark heart of the matter. But this time I mean to end these plots once and for all. To do that I must entrap the Scottish Jezebel herself and offer Queen Elizabeth incontrovertible proof of her cousin’s guilt.”

Walsingham sighed. “While Her Majesty can be as astute as any man I have ever known, she is very much a woman in this respect. She has no stomach for execution, especially when it concerns another anointed queen.”

“Mayhap the queen has good reason for her reluctance,” Martin ventured to suggest, “considering the tragic way her own mother died.”

“I wouldn’t know. The queen never speaks of the Boleyn woman and there is great wisdom in that. She has had her legitimacy challenged too many times to remind the world that she is the daughter of a woman beheaded for treason and adultery. But regardless of what ghosts haunt her, the queen must set aside her private feelings.

“While Mary lives, neither this realm nor Elizabeth will ever be safe. If I can get a letter from Mary’s own hand, endorsing Babington’s plot, Elizabeth will have no choice this time. She will have to have her cousin tried and executed.”

“But will Mary really be foolhardy enough to answer a letter from Babington?” Martin asked.

“Oh, I rather think she might. She believes herself safe, writing her messages in code, but I have a cryptographer capable of deciphering anything. The woman has never been noted for her wisdom.”

“And so the Queen of Scots will lose her head for indiscretion.” Martin nearly added, “Poor foolish woman.” But he thought better of it.

It was just as well because Walsingham eyed him sternly. “She will lose her head for treason and plotting the murder of our sovereign queen.”

“Er—amen to that,” Martin said. Elizabeth was a clever and able ruler, but he felt a certain pang of sympathy for the deposed Scottish queen. Part French herself, Mary had once been wed to the king of France, made a young widow the year Martin was born.

He had grown up hearing many of the romantic legends of
la petite Marie.
They still drank toasts in the taverns of Paris to
la belle reine,
although it had been a long time since Mary had sat on any throne. She had been a prisoner of the English for the past twelve years. It was understandable she would plot to regain her freedom.

Martin tapped his fingers restively upon his knee, frowning over his own thoughts. He might have suppressed his accent and anglicized his name, but he feared that at heart he was still a Frenchman. Elizabeth’s conflict with her Catholic subjects struck him as an English problem, little to do with him.

As for Walsingham, the secretary was playing a dangerous game in more ways than one. Queen Elizabeth possessed a formidable temper and Martin doubted she would thank Walsingham for forcing her to deal harshly with her cousin, or favor anyone who aided the secretary in his maneuverings.

All this plotting could only end in blood and tears. More heads than one were going to roll and Martin wished himself well out of the business.

He was therefore greatly relieved when Walsingham said, “You have done very well, Master Wolfe, but I have in my employ a man who actually once studied at the Jesuit seminary in Douai. I think him better suited to wangle his way into the confidence of both Babington and the Scottish queen and act as conduit for their letters.”

“Excellent,” Martin agreed heartily, rising from his chair. “If you have no further need of my services, I shall—”

“Not so hasty, sir. Sit down.”

When Martin hesitated, Walsingham repeated in a firmer tone. “
Sit down.
I find your report to me incomplete.”

“I know not what you mean.” Martin settled uneasily back into his chair, fearing that he knew what was coming, questions he had hoped to avoid.

Walsingham studied Martin through narrowed eyes. “In your discussion of all these treasonable activities, I notice you make no mention of your young friend, Edward Lambert, Lord Oxbridge.

“That is because there is nothing to tell,” Martin replied coolly.

Walsingham frowned, his brows knit with displeasure. “I didn’t go to the expense of setting you up in your own household and furnishing you a more respectable veneer merely to have you lurk about in taverns. Your main assignment, in case you have forgotten, was to insinuate yourself into the baron’s graces and discover how far gone he might be in this treason against the queen.”

“And I have done so,” Martin said with a trace of asperity. “I will admit that Ned—I mean Lord Oxbridge—is at times reckless and foolish as any young man of twenty may be. But even though he is a Catholic, I have found nothing to suggest he is anything other than loyal to the queen. Certainly I have uncovered no connection between him and this Babington plot.”

“Perhaps you haven’t looked hard enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you might find it inconvenient for the man who helped fund your precious theater to be guilty of treason.”

“Actually, it was not Oxbridge’s money that paid for building the Crown, but his sister’s.”