The Spymaster's Daughter (43 page)

S
EETHING
L
ANE AND
W
HITEHALL
P
ALACE

B
abington's handsome face held a smirk. “Enjoying the dusty charms of your pretty young maidservant, Master Pauley?”

Pulling Frances behind him, Robert bowed. “Whilst waiting for you, Sir Anthony, a man must take his pleasures as he can.”

“Ah, I see a practical man before me, and you have our priest. However did you get him from the Tower and yourself as well? Topcliffe is not renowned for his mercy.”

“A hundred gold nobles always serves to inspire clemency.”

“I have heard so.” Babington nodded, though he continued to swing his pistola about, his gaze darting to the darker corners. “Where would you gain such fortune…more than my yearly estate income?”

Robert leered. “There are many ways to gain wealth in the
Tudor court, as you yourself must know, especially in the service of the spymaster's daughter.”

Babington lowered the pistola. “So you are a rogue whose loyalty can be bought for gold.”

“Every man must set a price on his worth and work, Sir Babington, or be no man.”

Losing his bravado in the face of Robert's boldness, Babington nodded, since this was his truth as well.

Robert spoke slowly and earnestly. “I beg you, call your men, sir. There is much to plan if we are to free Queen Mary from Chartley before Walsingham finds a way to persuade the heretic Elizabeth to sign the rightful queen's death warrant.” Robert took a step forward and lowered his voice. “I have heard the same from Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, who has promised sixty thousand troops if we free Mary.”

Babington nodded. “You are unusually well informed, Pauley.”

“That is my business, sir.”

Babington stepped closer. “All the English Catholics must rise up in Mary Stuart's favor or the Spaniards will not risk their own men and ships from the armada.”

Pauley nodded and baited his trap. “Englishmen of the true faith will not rise unless Elizabeth is taken down.”

“Her death is our mission, blessed by the Holy Father in Rome.”

Frances's breath trembled in her throat, as she busied herself playing the slovenly maidservant, sweeping about the hearth while Robert gave Babington much-needed surety as to where his loyalty lay.

Not totally convinced, Sir Anthony raised his pistola once more. “I would not have taken you for having Catholic sympathies, Pauley…for being one of us.”

“We must all hide our true allegiance.”

“Aye, by Protestant law we must,” the man agreed, finally
placing the pistola in his belt, though his stance was not completely relaxed. “Indeed, your wound proclaims your allegiance.”

Robert, perfectly at ease in appearance, thrust out his hand in welcome.

Yet Frances, moving aside, saw he was wound as tight as a crossbow, the pulse in his neck pounding.

He stepped forward. “Catholic, Puritan…I have no quarrel with either, Sir Babington. I have another, more personal reason to champion the Scots queen.”

Babington pulled his pistola from his breeches and pointed it at Robert once more.

“Now you get to the truth.”

Robert waved a placating hand. “Have a care, Sir Anthony. Truly, I hear Queen Mary is most generous to those who serve her well, not as the Tudor bastard, who never opens her purse. I would not stay in this station doing an ungrateful woman's bidding for all my life.”

Babington smiled broadly, finally and fully understanding the persuasion of greed for advancement, and was convinced. He walked to the door and signaled.

The first man to enter was the Jesuit priest John Ballard in disguise, and it was a good one. A tall, dark man, Ballard was dressed as a swashbuckling soldier, in a fine cape edged in gold and a satin doublet with silver buttons. He bowed in a mocking way to Frances and she curtsied, keeping her mouth slack and her gaze dull. Three other men followed close, their hands on their swords.

“Sit, sirs; Pauley is just from the Tower and now known to me as a friend to Queen Mary's cause, having paid a price to that fiend Topcliffe.”

Ballard went to the sleeping Garnet and lifted his eyelids. Satisfied, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead. The disguised priest then went to the long table, calling for drink.

The men sat to hear Robert's story, which he repeated, careful not to add new details, knowing he could be too clever only to be confounded later. Less was better in many things.

Far into the night, Frances served wine and ale from the cellars while they plotted how best to assassinate Elizabeth.

As they began to draw lots, Ballard, his dark eyes glassy, struck his sword and his crucifix on the table. “I demand the right to gut the petticoat bastard in the garden of her own court. Pope Sixtus sent me forth to rid England of this usurping queen, and I will do so or die.”

He looked to Babington, who nodded his assent.

The priest's hands were clasped in a pious manner, which chilled Frances, all the more because there was no hatred in his face, only devout right. Her hands shaking, she was just able to fill the ale cups before happily escaping to the kitchen when the men called for food. To her amazement, she was able to start a fire under the kitchen spit and heat the cold pease pottage. There was bread, no longer fresh but not yet gone to mold, the same of a little cheese, just enough for so many men who favored their ale over food. They gloated over the opportunity to plan treason freely with a man so closely associated with the hated Sir Francis Walsingham. Her father had been right: They could not resist the idea of a double agent. Finally, they called only for drink.

As she served more and more ale, Frances saw the men ask, one by one, for Ballard's blessing. Then they all raised their cups. “To the death of the usurper!”

Babington added, “And so to hell with her!” and downed his ale.

Murdering traitors, everyone! Frances dared not appear too interested, making a quick exit to the kitchen, yawning.

“To your bed, girl,” Robert called after her, his tone a warning.

“Can she be trusted?” Babington asked, as Ballard looked after her.

“A dull-witted girl,” Robert answered, “she cannot remember a thing from one minute to the next.”

Frances grinned as she hurried to the kitchen. Dull-witted, was she? Then he was twice a dullard for loving her.

Frances found a dirty pallet in the corner of the kitchen, but dared not lie on it for fear of fleas. She was fair to exhausted by the evil she had witnessed. She longed for Robert, but knew he would not come until he could.

Atop the scarred kitchen table, her head cradled on her arms, she slept until at last Robert woke her, a hand upon her mouth.

“Quiet,” he said. “They are drunk or sleeping, gathering strength for tomorrow. Quickly,” he said, reaching for her, “you must to Whitehall and tell your father to warn Her Majesty.”

Her eyes opened wide and her hand flew to her breast, all thought of sleep gone. “Robert, how can I tell my father where I have been…what we have done here?”

“You must. Her Majesty's life is at stake! Ballard's blood is up and he can wait no longer.”

She straightened her bodice, shaking her head to clear it. “Then I will do what I must, although it will mean Barn Elms for me…far from you.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Barn Elms, the New World, the desert of Araby…sweetest, know you not that I will come to you where'er you lie?”

She nestled her head against his shoulder for a moment only, but it was a complete rest.

“Get your cloak. I will tell you their plans along our way…and we must leave with all haste.”

“The priests?”

“Ballard prepares himself with prayer to kill a queen, and Garnet sleeps on from the draft you gave him. He is blessed to escape pain. He may wake only to sleep again.” Robert's hand went to his
face. The salted onion had fallen away, exposing a deep, reddening wound.

His voice faltered. “Do you find my face prevents you from—”

She ran her fingers lightly along his jaw. “Yours is the dearest face in all my world…always.”

He grinned. “But, little maid, your world is the ashes on the hearth.”

“Ssssh,” she said, not for jesting. “My world is complete with you in it.”

For a brief moment, his eyes shut against the reality that Frances fought so hard to ignore, though he knew she could push truth away for only a little longer, until Sir Sidney returned. “Come,” he said, “we must away.”

“What if Babington wakes and finds you gone?”

“If they wake, they wake. I will not have you in London's night streets alone again. Luck does not last forever. Get your cloak.” His tone, even in little above a whisper, was commanding.

There was no denying him, as Frances knew, and truth be told, she wanted the comfort and safety of the palace. She loved acting as an intelligencer, but must she always be uncomfortable, dirty, and hungry while doing so?

Frances and Robert went quickly through the garden and into the alley, moving always west toward Whitehall.

It was misting again, early chimney smoke hanging low over the three-story houses and shops leaning one against another. He took her hand, kissed it, and pulled her along faster still.

They moved swiftly down Eastcheap and around St. Paul's, where early book stalls were being put in place by sleepy-eyed apprentices. They soon arrived at a place where the city wall was down for repair and thence beyond the Ludgate, always guarded.

Frances closed her eyes and shivered at sight of the quarter of a headless body hanging above the gate as a warning to traitors.

Gathering Frances closer, his gaze never ceasing to sweep the
way ahead, Robert spoke in her ear. “The city gate guards would surely question our purpose to be abroad at this hour, but now we are without the walls and their protection. I will go first, and you hang to my cloak.”

“I am not afraid.”

“Aye, but I have this.” He pulled aside his cloak to show a sword.

Frances pulled aside her cloak to reveal the small cleaver from the Seething Lane kitchen.

He threw back his head and laughed without sound. “You will always amaze me, my lady.”

On to Fleet Street and past the Middle Temple they went, clinging to each other and the shadows, though even those often held menace. The night lanterns on each house mandated by the lord mayor had burned low or gone out, and Robert and Frances were engulfed in rain and darkness.

“We will soon come to King Street, where we'll have a clear path to Whitehall,” Robert whispered, making a cautious way forward.

Yet from the next corner, several shadows moved, and shivering men in rags blocked their path, one menacing them with a sword.

Without thinking to be brave, only of escape, Frances pulled the cleaver from inside her cloak, ready to stand against them, but Robert stepped forward in front of her, sword at the attack. She was shivering, but from cold, she swore, not fear.

First light was just beginning to show in the fields beyond Barnard's Inn to the north when Robert sought the eyes of his opponent to see their every shift before the attack began. The thief seemed to have little sword skill, counting on the weapon itself to intimidate any so rash as to be on the dark streets outside the city gate.

The thief growled. “Throw yer purse, man, and spare yersel' and the maid.”

Robert laughed. “We will be spared by your ill swordsmanship.”
He probed through one of the man's many weaknesses and drew blood from his hand.

One of the others hobbled around and ran at Frances, who held the cleaver at a menacing angle.

The men backed away, and the swordsman who was sucking on his wound whined, “So cruel ye be, sir. Can ye not spare a groat for a poor man's bread?”

Robert laughed, mostly in relief. “Poor thief is more like it. Perhaps if you had asked without such ill and threatening manners…”

Frances threw some coins in the gutter, and the men quickly left all thought of battle behind them to scramble for the money. “They need go to the thieves' school in Southwark to better learn their trade,” she said, relieved to be beyond the rogues, who were now beginning to menace one another for the groats and pennies.

Holding hands, they hurried on down King's Road, which divided Whitehall into two parts. They soon came to a dark, unguarded doorway and quickly stepped inside.

“I must leave you, sweetest,” Robert whispered against her cheek. “Go to your father and tell him what we've learned. The queen
must
be warned.”

She looked up into his dear face. “You ask a hard thing, Robert, and you would do a hard thing.” Her hands tightened on his doublet. “I beg you, do not go back to Seething Lane.”