Holy Spy (48 page)

All had been at the meetings in his rooms and at the tavern feasts. All had heard at least part of the plans. All had agreed that the Queen of Scotland must be set free, but few had spoken of assassination. Indeed, he knew that even Tom Salisbury had great reservations about such a course of action.

He cursed. There were simply not enough committed men. Where was Gifford? Where was Poley and why had he not come home from Richmond? Chidiock was wounded. Edward Windsor was gone to the country. During their meetings, it had seemed there were so many like-minded men willing to lay down their lives for the Holy Father. But now, looking at this scrap of paper, the total seemed paltry.

There was a soft knocking at the door. Babington tensed, then relaxed. Pursuivants did not tap at doors. They hammered them down with battering logs and announced their arrival with shouts and stamping and the clatter of arms.

‘Come in. Whoever you are, come in.’

There were two of them. Goodfellow Savage and young Dominic de Warre.

‘Thank God. I feared . . .’

‘Anthony, we have just heard about Father Ballard.’

‘Oh, Goodfellow, Dominic, this is a bad day. Robin has gone to court to find a way to have him released. And yet he has been gone a long time. Perhaps he, too, has been taken.’

‘We must act now.’ It was de Warre who spoke. ‘If we do not take the initiative, we will all die – and for nothing. At least let us bring down the tyrants first.’

‘He is right,’ Savage said.

‘Then we are all agreed.’ Babington handed a flagon of brandy to his two visitors. ‘Be seated, take the warming spirit, let us discuss our plan.’

‘It must be now,’ Savage said. ‘I will go to Richmond and find her. I am told by our Irish friend, Barnwell, how easily she might be surprised there – that she walks alone and unguarded in the gardens. I will do it though I die in the doing.’

‘Will Barnwell join you in the enterprise?’

‘He is with his master, the Earl of Kildare. I do not know if we will find him in time.’

‘I will go with you,’ de Warre said.

Savage gazed at him without expression. ‘What use will you be?’

The slender young man shrugged. ‘Whatever you wish. You are my captain, so I will do what I am told. I will fire the bullet if you desire, or hold the horses in preparation for your escape.

Command me and I will obey.’

‘He has courage, Goodfellow. You may need assistance.’

‘Very well. Come with me. But first I need weapons; and I need court attire.’ He held wide his arms to indicate his poor costume, a tattered remnant of a black suit of clothes begged from a lawyer at the inns of court. ‘I will never be allowed near the Queen in this.’

‘Is that truly all the apparel you own?’

‘I am destitute, Anthony.’ All the money from Shakespeare had gone in settling debts.

Babington drank his brandy. ‘Stand up, sir.’

Savage stood from the settle and raised himself to his full height. Babington shook his head in despair. ‘Clearly, you will fit no clothes of mine.’ He wrenched a gold ring from his finger and found a purse, emptying the few gold and silver coins into his palm. ‘This is all I have. Take it. Go to Tredger’s in Cheapside. He will have something, I am certain. If he demands more than I have given you, charge it to me. What weapons do you need?’

‘Two wheel-lock pistols. As small and as finely wrought as possible, for I must needs hide them within a bag or sleeve. They must be of the highest quality, for I will have to be sure that both will fire. If it is to be done, the end must be certain.’

‘And do you know where to acquire these dags?’

‘Yes, indeed. But the gunsmith will charge a great deal.’

‘Then use all the money and my ring to pay for them. Charge the whole of the apparel to my account, though it cost you fifty pounds. It matters not, for if God grants us success, then we will be repaid a thousandfold, both in this world and the next.’ He had a sudden thought. ‘What of John Charnock? What of Edward Abingdon and Roarer Tilney? Will they join you? It was always supposed to be six, but five will surely suffice. Edward and Charles are members of the Queen’s
Guard – they must have access to her person.’

Savage looked doubtful.

‘Goodfellow?’

‘Abingdon and Tilney do not have the mettle for it. If John Charnock can be found, I think he would strike the blow with me, for he is a soldier. Can we find him?’

‘He keeps company by St Paul’s.’

‘I will go,’ de Warre said.

‘No,’ Babington said. ‘I will find him. Do you have horses?’

Savage grinned. ‘Dominic has a fine mount and I have an old gelding. Long of tooth but he has served me well. In truth he is all my wealth. When he is gone to the knackers, I will have nothing left in the world.’

‘Take one of mine for Charnock. If I find him I will send him to you at St Paul’s. If he is there, ride with him to Richmond. If not, then do not wait. Go alone. Dispatch her.’

Shakespeare and Scudamore watched Goodfellow Savage and Dominic de Warre depart from The Garden. They now had another horse. That must mean they were expecting a third man to join them or they needed a sumpter to carry equipment.

Within the past hour, word had reached Shakespeare by messenger that it was finally considered that there was no hope Babington would reply to the forged postscript to Mary’s letter demanding the names of the would-be assassins. It was almost time to proceed with the arrests.

‘I will follow Savage and de Warre,’ Scudamore said. ‘They know you well. I think there is less chance of them spotting me.’

‘No. I will follow them. You stay here with Babington. I think you know what must be done.’

‘You are well armed? Savage is dangerous.’

‘Well enough.’ He felt the weight of a heavy petronel slung along his horse’s flank.

Without another word, Shakespeare wheeled his mount and kicked it into a slow walk, following his quarries at a suitable distance as they rode back into the city.

So it was really happening. Savage had steeled himself to carry out his vow. Shakespeare watched Goodfellow and de Warre with increasing dismay as they visited various shops in Cheapside and bartered for fine clothes and weapons. Two small wheel-lock pistols. Shakespeare saw them both, for Savage had them in his hands as he emerged from the shop, before looking around with suspicious, squinting eyes and concealing the weapons beneath his cape.

And then they mounted up and rode for St Paul’s, leading the third horse on a long rein. Whoever they were hoping to see was not there. They waited no more than ten minutes before they rode back eastwards, turning south towards London Bridge. He felt certain of their destination; they intended to go south of the river, then take the highway west towards Richmond Castle and a deadly appointment.

Anthony Babington was more scared than he had ever been. The vision of the scaffold and the rope and the knife were too real in his mind. If he closed his eyes, he knew the rope would twist about his neck and the knife would begin its horrible work. He was gasping for air and breathing in blood.

He forced himself to find something to eat. There was bread and cold beef, both of which were so old and dry he could not swallow them. Instead he subsisted on brandy and ale. He was alone in the house for he had already sent Job away, telling him to return to his parents in Surrey and to stay there until he was sent for.

Job was a Catholic boy who might have been happy to join the Pope’s White Sons. For his own safety, however, he had never been taken into Babington’s confidence. And yet he must have harboured suspicions. Indeed, he must have overheard certain conversations, as must other servants in the employment of Babington’s friends.

This was not work for such lowly men. This was work for courtiers and gentlemen. Men born to lead and rule.

There was a tapping at the door. Was Robin back at last? He threw open the door and his heart sank. It was not Poley but one of Mr Secretary’s men.

The man bowed. ‘John Scudamore, sir.’

‘I recognise you, Mr Scudamore. Why are you here?’

‘I had hoped to find you, sir.’

‘Why here? This is not my home.’

Scudamore did not answer the question. ‘I have been sent by Mr Secretary. He fears you might be under a misapprehension concerning the priest Ballard. I have brought a letter from him.’

‘What of Mr Poley? Has he been arrested, too? Was it he who told you I was here?’

‘I know nothing of Mr Poley,’ Scudamore lied. Indeed, he knew all too well that Poley himself had been put in the Tower; Mr Secretary simply did not trust him enough to be at liberty at this most crucial of times. ‘As for Ballard, Mr Secretary wishes to make it clear that the man’s arrest was none of his doing, that it was effected by Justice Young on a warrant from the Lord High Admiral. Mr Secretary has thus asked me to stay with you, so that you will not be molested by Mr Young. My master is certain that you and he can still trade intelligence to your mutual advantage if you are still of a mind to travel into foreign lands, and if you have information concerning certain men in London.’

Babington smiled through tired eyes. Was there still time to escape to a monastery in the Low Countries or France? Did he believe this man? Not for a moment, but what was he to do, short of killing him? And that might not be so easy; Mr Scudamore, for all his good manners and pleasant smile, was a brutishly powerful fellow, strong-armed and squat, an unquestioning servant and clerk to Walsingham.

It occurred to Babington that he was in a trap and that he must make a move. He was sweating like a frying onion, though the morning was cool. This man Scudamore was not here to save him from Justice Young, but to keep him close-watched. Babington was nothing but a magpie in a cage, kept out in the open to draw others of the flock in to their doom.

‘Come, Mr Scudamore, have you eaten? Let us repair to the tavern where I shall buy you the finest links and eggs with plenty of buttered bread and ale.’

‘Thank you, Mr Babington. Yes, that seems a fine idea.’

‘Then allow me a few minutes to write a letter.’ In his heart, he knew he would never return to this house of Robin Poley’s. What he did not know was Robin’s own heart. It was a matter of unutterable sadness, for he was beginning to suspect the worst.

Shakespeare followed the two riders, lagging behind them at a distance of about a hundred yards. Occasionally, Goodfellow Savage looked around but did not seem to note his pursuer. Suddenly, it occurred to Shakespeare that Savage’s eyesight might be a little feeble. Was that, perhaps, the reason he had given up soldiering? Was that the reason he bent so close to the paper while at his law studies?

The highway out of Southwark heading south-west was busy as far as Lambeth, so they had no reason to pick him out from the throng, but then the traffic of horses and wagons grew sparser and he had to take care to remain out of view. His intention was to move in on them on a remote stretch of the path where no innocent passers-by would be injured if it came to gunfire. It was important, too, that they should be going in the direction of Richmond so that he could testify as to their intended destination.

They were close to the Thames, a mile or two before Barn Elms, on the long arc of the river before it angled to the north. In the far distance, an ox-dray lumbered slowly into the haze. This was the moment; there would be none better.

Shakespeare unstrapped the petronel from his horse’s flank and loaded it with black powder and a single bullet. He drew a wheel-lock pistol from his belt and loaded that, too, then tucked it back. With the petronel resting across his right thigh, he kicked his horse into a trot.

Savage and de Warre did not turn and spot him until the very last moment, by which time it was too late for them. He had the butt of the petronel against his chest and was pointing it straight at Dominic de Warre’s body.

‘Rein in, Goodfellow. Do nothing foolish. A movement of my finger will blow Mr de Warre to his death.’

Savage smiled. If he was surprised, he did not show it. They might have been old friends meeting by chance on the highway. ‘John Shakespeare. I am pleased it is you. I see you have a fine Spanish petronel. I saw some like it when I served in the Low Countries with Parma. They are reliable and accurate, but inclined to go off. So I beg you, point it at me rather than my friend. If it please you, end my sorrows here and now, for I am sure you will save me much pain.’