His Dark Lady (36 page)

Elizabeth closed her eyes. The pain in her stomach had begun to abate. She thought fleetingly of her mother’s trial and execution at the hands of her father, and shook her head.

‘Put a queen on trial, you mean?’

‘An exiled queen without a throne,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘Nor should you allow such considerations to sway your judgement. Once your cousin’s perfidy is made public, no one in Europe will blame you for ordering her execution.’

‘King Philip will blame me,’ Elizabeth said bitterly, looking up at him. ‘As he blamed me when my sister died, and then when I would not marry him myself. Why, even the Pope will no doubt let it be known that whomsoever brings him my severed head on a platter, a golden seat will be reserved for that murderer in heaven.’

Walsingham’s smile was grim. ‘I believe His Holiness has already issued just such a bloody invitation to English Catholics, Your Majesty.’

‘Damn him,’ she muttered. But again she shook her head. ‘I shall not order Mary’s execution. That is my final word on the matter, Walsingham, so do not test my patience with it again. However, it is clear that this conspiracy has gone on undisturbed long enough. It cannot be allowed to continue to its natural end, which would be my death. Arrest the men involved and rack them to see what names they spill. No man has ever worked against my throne alone; there has always been a greater name behind.’

Tired, she gestured him to leave. ‘Go now, I am far from well and must rest.’

Still her spymaster hovered on the other side of the table, frowning.

‘Well, what is it now?’ she demanded impatiently.

‘Was your food properly tasted today, Your Majesty?’

Elizabeth stared, suddenly cold. ‘The same as every day since this latest business began. You fear poison?’

‘While your cousin lives, I fear every shadow.’

‘You feared poison before Mary even came to England,’ she reminded him in a testy voice, though she knew it would not be beyond the conspirators to have poison slipped into her food or drink. ‘But it is true I feel unwell. I dislike being so close to London during the summer months. Why will you not allow me to remove to the country?’

‘If it will comfort you, Your Majesty, I will tell Lord Burghley that he may accommodate you in Kent. His house is not too far from London and is well enough defended. His lordship would be honoured by a royal visit, I am sure, and with his daughter expecting a child it will be a comfort for him to return home.’

‘Yes,’ Elizabeth managed, struggling against the cramps in her belly. ‘I shall travel into Kent with the court, and return to London once the worst of the summer heat has passed. I always enjoy my visits to Lord Burghley’s exquisite gardens at Theobalds.’

Her ladies had come to her side unbidden. Now they picked up her toppled chair and eased her back into it. Helena poured fresh wine into her glass and placed a tempting dish of sweetmeats in front of her. Elizabeth closed her eyes and allowed the women to tend to her, rather than upsetting herself further by dwelling on her many disappointments. She sighed as they cooled her flushed cheeks with lace-trimmed fans and wafted scented pomanders under her nose. But her calm did not last long.

‘Enough, enough. This is a bellyache, that is all. I did not sleep well last night, and now I must suffer for my hours of wakefulness.’ A sudden rage seized hold of Elizabeth as she considered how often she was ill these days, and why. She raised a ring-swollen finger and pointed at her secretary in open accusation. ‘And is it any surprise I cannot sleep when you have made me so afraid for my life, trapped in this palace with all my protectors gone off to the war? Where is Robert when I need him? Where is Sir Philip Sidney? My court holds nothing but boys and old men leaning on sticks. If the Spanish were to send a party of invaders up the Thames tomorrow, who would beat them off from the doors of Richmond Palace? You, Sir Francis?
My
women? Or must I take up a sword and protect this country myself?’

Walsingham bowed and rolled the letters up again. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, I must send out arrest warrants to my agents in London,’ he murmured, discreetly ignoring her outburst. ‘They will supervise the apprehension of Anthony Babington and his fellow conspirators in my absence. Though we must tread carefully and be sure we can bring each man safely to trial on the evidence thus far. If we move too quickly, some may yet escape justice and attempt to carry out their plans.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘I shall give orders for the court to remove to Kent as soon as Lord Burghley can ride ahead to prepare for your visit. Meanwhile, will you undertake not to wander about the estate unguarded, Your Majesty?’

‘Yes, very well.’

Her temples throbbing with a headache, Elizabeth watched him leave the chamber. Why must she always do as others bid her rather than her own will? Was she not Queen?

She sucked gloomily on a sweetmeat, then called for a quill, ink and new parchment.

Drawing the sheet towards her, she wrote the date with a bold flourish.

Robert, I am afraid you will suppose by my wandering writings that a midsummer moon has taken possession of my brains this month, but you must take things as they come into my head
.

Elizabeth smiled, dipping her quill in the ink and continuing to write. Already the cramping pain in her belly had eased and she felt able to sip her wine without sickness. She would not reply to her dearest Robert in the same cross, abrupt vein in which he had written to her from abroad, demanding yet more money from the royal coffers and all but accusing her of withholding her support. Instead, she would soothe him with soft and flattering words.

It was the first time in many years that the two of them had been apart for so long and under such trying circumstances.

She wrote Robert an intimate letter over several pages, reassuring him of the full support of the English court and of her own affection for him. Yes, he had hurt her feelings. But poor Rob was a long way from home, she reminded herself compassionately, and had more
reason
to be afraid in the filth and screaming frenzy of a battlefield than she could ever have in England.

I pray God keep you from all harm and save you from all foes, with my million and legion of thanks, for all your pains and cares. As you know, ever the same, Elizabeth R
.

Ten

‘
CORPUS CHRISTI
,’ THE
priest announced solemnly, turning from his makeshift altar with the Blessed Host still held aloft on its silver platter.

Goodluck raised his head as the priest approached. ‘Amen,’ he murmured, opening his mouth for the Host. A year ago, he had undertaken this part of the Mass with the greatest reluctance, fearing for his immortal soul. But he had spoken and acted and worshipped as a Catholic for so long now, it felt almost natural to close his mouth on the blessed body of Christ, bowing his head again in a muttered Latin prayer.

The priest moved along the row to the new man, Robert Pooley, whose London house they were visiting, and then on to Babington and Ballard. A row of traitors, lined up together as though for the gallows. Goodluck hid his expression of grim satisfaction. It had taken many months of hard work to bring them together like this. Now at last the end was in sight. And not too soon, for every day brought him closer to danger and discovery as a spy in their midst.

Each communicant muttered, ‘Amen,’ and crossed himself with unusual fervour. The days of summer would soon be running into autumn. Their long wait was nearly over. Letters of confirmation had been sent and received. They had been informed that King Philip’s army waited only for their instruction.

Plans for the Queen’s assassination could no longer be put off.

Goodluck hid his smile, knowing how each man secretly feared
his
own part in the conspiracy while boldly crying, ‘Death to Elizabeth!’ among each other. Nor were they even competent conspirators. They had not been brought up to spy and plot. They trusted too easily and spoke too openly. A friend was not a potential threat to them, but someone to be confided in, to carry treasonous letters for them without question. The only reason they had not yet been taken by the London magistrates was that Walsingham wished to play Babington along a little further, in the hope he might reveal the names of any courtiers who had involved themselves in this, though Goodluck suspected that to delay much longer might endanger the life of the Queen.

Their prayers continued as the priest moved softly to extinguish the candles on the altar, until the only light was from the torch illuminating the stairs back up to the house.

Ballard’s new friend, Pooley, had arranged for them to take Mass that evening in the cellar of his home. Goodluck could have wished for a more comfortable few hours, but these Catholics seemed to delight in mortifying their flesh. The air of the cellar was chill and damp, and despite the padded cloth he had been handed on descending the stairs, to be used as a kneeler during Mass, the stony mud floor still pressed painfully into his knees. He could hardly wait to return to the tiny scented garden above, a few yards of formal greenery at the back of Pooley’s town house, but drenched in hot sunshine when he had arrived earlier that day. It felt, he thought bitterly, as though they had been buried alive down here.

But Babington was taking full precautions against discovery. Each of them had been asked to arrive separately, disguised and using different routes into the city, and even Pooley’s servants had been excluded from their initial meeting, the outer door guarded by a ferocious-looking wolfhound.

In the smoky, incense-thick gloom, the priest threw back his hood and came to shake hands with them all as the service came to an end.

He was a young man with watery grey eyes, but his handshake was firm enough. ‘May the Lord be with you,’ he said to each in turn, ‘and guide you on your mission.’

Ballard bowed his head over the priest’s hand. ‘God be with you too, Father,’ he replied fervently.

Ballard had proved a difficult quarry to hunt, Goodluck thought, watching him covertly. Stubborn, passionate, a man of great faith and determination, the priest was no fool when it came to the constant danger of conspiracy. He took few chances. It had taken Goodluck a long time to get Ballard to trust him. Even now he knew the Catholic priest was ready to sink a dagger in his belly at the merest hint that he might be a Protestant and a traitor to their cause. He was still not sure which of those two sins was worse in Ballard’s eyes.

‘You need not fear damnation for the deed you must do, Father Ballard,’ the priest muttered, and passed him a ring. ‘By token of this ring, the Holy Father sends his blessing from Rome. He prays that you may be delivered from all enemies of the True Church.’

Ballard flushed and stared down at the crested papal ring. He seemed genuinely moved by this gift from Rome. Then he slipped it into the leather pocket hanging from his belt.

‘You must bear our thanks to His Holiness,’ he replied, his voice shaking with intensity, ‘and reassure him that we think nothing of our souls when set against the great good we do in ridding England of Elizabeth Tudor.’

The priest nodded, shaking all their hands again with solemn significance. ‘Now if you will forgive me, gentlemen, I must return to Whitehall before I am missed.’

Goodluck watched him go, a frown on his face. When the priest had disappeared through the low door at the top, he turned to Anthony Babington.

‘Whitehall?’

Babington smiled grimly. ‘This city is riddled with loyal Papists, my friend. When the Queen is finally dead, you will see them rise up to ring the bells and rejoice, for Elizabeth Tudor is a blight on our land, a vile disease that must be cut out before we can be healthy again.’

‘Amen,’ Goodluck replied, and the others echoed him. ‘The smoke is choking here. Shall we go up to the garden?’

‘Too many ears to hear us outside in the air,’ Ballard muttered, shaking his head. ‘First, let us open our hearts to each other. I have news from the north.’

‘Speak,’ Babington encouraged him. ‘Tell us first what happened to Maude. You said he left you in Yorkshire.’

They stood together in the dark cellar, four men shoulder to shoulder, almost whispering now.

‘I fear that Maude was never one of us,’ Ballard admitted shortly. ‘While we were travelling in the north, I received an anonymous note warning me that my companion was not a Catholic. I had meant to keep Maude close until we returned to London, so we could have a chance to question him in a secure place.’ He grimaced. ‘But Maude must have realized my suspicions. One evening, he went out for a walk, claiming some discomfort after his meal, and did not return.’

Goodluck frowned, uncomfortable at the turn this conversation was taking. Could sharp-eyed Maude also have been working for Walsingham? It would not surprise him to learn that his wily master had placed more than one spy undercover in this business. ‘You are sure Maude was not arrested?’ he asked. Ballard’s eyes narrowed on his face, and Goodluck shrugged and added, ‘I am told the north is as riddled with the Queen’s spies as London is with the faithful.’