Mary Queen of Scotland & the Isles (191 page)

He felt intoxicated. Perhaps it was the lulling, perfumed air that had
wrapped itself about him as he strolled, a basket of roses under his
arm, to the tavern. Perhaps it was the intimate sounds he heard all
about him on the London streets, as desires and secrets spilled out
into the open after a winter of confinement. Perhaps it was the
promise of a great adventure and service before him. Or perhaps it was
just that it was June, and he was twenty-five, and rich.

"These wear a most delicate scent," said Charles Tilney. He shut his
eyes and inhaled.

"As delicate as the scent of the Queen's perfumed gloves?" asked
Babington. Tilney was at court as one of Elizabeth's gentlemen
pensioners.

"Which queen?" asked Tilney. "Our true Queen, or the usurping
competitor?"

"Hush!" said Babington, laughing. "There may be spies about! So let
us refer to her as 'the UC," for safety's sake." He flourished his
wine goblet. The wine, fresh from France, was rosy red and tasted of
the sun and soft rain. "Drink all you wish, it's my pleasure!" he
said, passing the flagon around.

"The UC's gloves are most delicately perfumed. She cannot stand strong
odours. As for our Queen, I cannot know," admitted Tilney.

"Well, I do! I can tell you, there's no creature quite like her," said
Babington. "Her own aroma is like the fragrance of a dream." He
sighed and closed his eyes, remembering.

Around him at the table were his best friends here in London, men as
eager as he to try the great adventure: rescuing a captive queen. And
more than that, putting her on the throne she deserved. Babington
laughed softly and said, "I have something to show you. It is done!"
He pulled a portrait out of a leather bag and stood back from the
table, displaying it.

In it, the company with Babington at the centre had all been painted in
their best attire. Above them, in bold letters, was Hi mihi sum
comites, quos ipsa pericula dicunt: "They are allied to me in a
dangerous enterprise."

"Is it not a good likeness?" Babington asked.

"Indeed yes, but " Chidiock Tichborne glanced over his shoulder at the
crowded tavern. "Is it advisable to show it thus in public?"

"Why, man, what harm can it do? No one here will know what it
means!"

"Let's sing the Cobbler's Song," said Tilney. "I'll begin: We cobblers
lead a merry life, dan, dan, dan, dan, dan!"

"Void of all envy and of strife," sang the next man, Jerome Bellamy,
"dan diddle dan."

"Our ease is great, our labour small," continued Robert Gage, "dan,
dan, dan, dan."

"And yet our gains be much withal," cried John Travers, "dan diddle
dan."

"Tell me more particulars," Tichborne whispered under cover of the
chorus.

"On the way home," said Babington. "Oh, is it my turn? For merry
pastime and joyful glee, dan, dan, dan, dan."

Late that night, when the tavern had almost emptied, Babington and his
group at last drank their final round and then reeled out into the
soft, beckoning dark. In threes and fours they went their ways, and
Chidiock, who lived near Babington, walked with him back to his house.
The streets were anything but empty; London never slept. And on a warm
night like this, people were drawn outside like moths toward flickering
candles. The two men walked purposefully, to avoid having to respond
to any of the murmured remarks as they passed, and they kept their
moneybags about their necks and inside their shirts. But the
temptation was great to slow down and savour the delicious feeling of
the night.

They passed down Bishopsgate Street, through a parish churchyard, and
past a hospital for "distracted people," called St. Mary of
Bethlehem.

"Sometimes I feel I could be put there," said Babington, glancing at
the brick wall surrounding it.

"Why, are your wits unhinged?" asked Chidiock. "Sometimes you do talk
wildly. Ever since I have known you, you have been nervous. But not
illogical!"

"I do not know," said Babington, all jest gone from his voice.
"Sometimes I get thoughts that pursue me, take hold of me, I don't know
exactly where they come from. Then I say, "Get thee behind me, Satan!"
" He gave a weak laugh.

"Satan now you sound like a Puritan. They are always talking about
him."

They had passed beyond the brick wall surrounding the hospital and now
came to a traveller's inn, the Dolphin. Most of the patrons had gone
to bed, but there was a faint noise from the attached tavern.

"I am very much aware of his presence," said Babington. "They say he
can take a pleasing shape. Sometimes I hear his voice...." He broke
off as he saw Chidiock staring at him. "In my imagination, I mean."

Now they were passing a water conduit, and even at this late hour,
people were clustered about, filling their jugs. The sound of the
splashing water was playful and inviting. The men went over and,
filling their hands with water, rubbed their faces and let the water
drip down their necks.

"Do you think this venture is ... of him?" Chidiock asked. "For I
must admit, I am confused by my own feelings."

They walked on in silence, passing more traveller's inns, then
merchant's houses, and came at last to Babington's beautiful house,
with its pleasure garden and bowling alley. Suddenly they were aware
that there were footsteps behind them that seemed to echo theirs,
stopping when they did, hurrying when they did, and yet when they
looked, there was no one there.

Babington ordered the gates of his house opened, and they entered the
grounds. "Let's go to the garden!" said Babington. They could hear a
clock somewhere striking two.

"It's so late," said Chidiock.

"Does it feel late?" asked Babington. Somehow, on this night, time
seemed to be playing tricks. "Come! You can stay here tonight!"

Laughing, he ran toward the dark shapes of the cypress trees, and down
the marble steps into the elaborate garden. Far down at one end, a
fountain was splashing, like a mountain spring. Babington began
running in circles, throwing his arms out and swooping up and down.
Chidiock followed him, watching the silent marble statues of Greek gods
and goddesses emerging from their little alcoves of yew, observing the
antics of the two men. The moonlight was bright and friendly.

Chidiock caught Babington's arm. "Why?" he said. "Why do you want to
do this? Look at what you have." He gestured down the long avenue of
the garden and toward the magnificent house. "You are young, rich,
have a lovely wife. Why do you not rest content? Why do you gamble it
away? I cannot think that you are so religious. If you were, you
would have gone to be a priest. You like this life too much. Why
squander it?"

"It won't be squandered. You write too much poetry. You think always
of loss and sorrow. That poem of yours the one about dying young "

"My "Elegy'?" said Chidiock. " "My youth is spent and yet I am not
old, I saw the world and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut and yet
it is not spun, And now I live, and now my life is done." "

"Gloomy stuff," said Babington.

"You should think on it. Why are you doing it? Is it for her? Or is
it for him?"

"For her, of course. You know I have always loved her." He held his
breath and waited. It was absolutely still. "I have received a letter
from her, herself, just yesterday. She bids know how I am, and so on.
And at the same time, I have talked with Ballard, the priest. He is
ready to perform the deed to dispatch the Usurping Competitor. He and
six others. I assume you will want to be one of them? You can get
near her person."

"One of them?" Chidiock's voice grew faint.

"I am going to reveal to her our plan. Without her blessing, it can
only come to naught. But with her blessing it cannot fail!"

"I beg you, don't put it in writing!" cried Chidiock. "And as for her
blessing man, everything she touches seems to fail. Almost as if she
and he were one!"

"You seek colouration for your cowardice! I'll find another to take
your place!"

"Nay, I'll come, only .. he paused. "Please move with caution."

Alone in his spacious workroom, fashionably appointed with an inlaid
Italian desk, ebony-trimmed chairs, gold candle sconces, and a marble
bust of Marcus Aurelius, Anthony Babington sat down to write to his
chosen sovereign. On the desk was an ivory Virgin, looking imploringly
over at Marcus Aurelius. Anthony's grandfather had treasured this
Virgin, and she was very old; family legend said she had been carved in
thanksgiving for their family's having been spared the Black Death.

But now there's another Black Death stalking the land, Babington
thought. The Black Death of heresy, or the loss of the soul.... He
shook his head to clear it. He was tired; the wine and the late hour
had finally caught up with him. But he must write the letter now,
while he had privacy and complete quiet.

He lit a candle on his desk and sat for a moment watching how the light
brought out the beauty of the delicate face of the Virgin. Such
beauty, all trampled underfoot nowadays, desecrated .. . surely it must
pain Christ and His Blessed Mother.

Yes, that is why I am doing this. That is why it must be done.

He spread out the fine-quality paper and began his letter to Mary,
Queen of Scots, unjustly imprisoned, true Queen of England.

He set out the plans, as Ballard and Savage had described them. There
would be an invasion from abroad, courtesy of the King of Spain, with
sufficient force to ensure that it would be successful. These would be
joined by all the loyal Catholics throughout the land, a mighty force.
Elizabeth must be captured and assassinated, else all was pointless.

O mighty and virtuous Queen,

I salute you, to whom I have ever, as you know, been loyal. Now it is
the determination of myself and my friends to effect, at the risk of
our lives and fortunes, your deliverance from prison, and the dispatch
of the Usurping Competitor. We await your approbation; when we have
received it, immediately we will engage to succeed or die. I humbly
beg your authorization to act in your royal name, and ask that you
direct our proceedings.

For the dispatch of the Usurper, from obedience to whom we are by the
excommunication of her made free, there are six noble gentlemen,

all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear unto the Catholic
cause and Your Majesty's service will undertake that tragic execution.
It rests that according to their good deserts and Your Majesty's bounty
their heroic attempt may be honourably rewarded in them if they escape
alive, or given to their heirs. I ask that I may be able by Your
Majesty's authority to assure them of this promise.

Yes, he hoped that she would agree. This was indeed a solemn and risky
venture.

I myself, at the head of ten gentlemen, will take you from your prison.
We will be part of a larger force of at least a hundred men who can
forthwith overwhelm the garrison that holds you, and spirit you away.