Salvation (8 page)

Lamotte paused again. His pipe lay smouldering and forgotten on the table. Tom had never seen him so serious before. His usual jocular tone was quite gone.

‘Two days later, at midnight, the bells of St Germain rang out. It was the signal the Catholics were waiting for to begin the killing. De Coligny was one of the first to die, stabbed as he lay convalescing in his own bed. The killers flung his body out of the window into the street where men waited to hack off his head and drag his body away. They hung it in chains on the public gibbet at Montfaucon.’

Tom r
emembered the cruel scene he had witnessed at Tower Hill and shuddered. ‘But didn’t you say that the king’s sister was to marry a Huguenot prince?’ he asked. ‘Did the king do nothing?’

Lamotte grimaced. ‘As I said, he is terrified of the Catholics. Royal guards were supposed to protect de Coligny but they stood aside and watched him die. After that, the Catholic mob was mad for blood. Henry of Navarre escaped, but many of the other leaders lost their lives.

‘Then the mob turned its attention to lesser folk like my family. White crosses were daubed on the doors of Huguenot houses to make sure the mob knew where to go. The bloodshed went on for three days and by the end of it, more than three thousand lay dead in the streets: men and women, young and old, slaughtered without mercy. Even children were not spared. The Catholic butchers laughed and joked as they went about their work, stopping to refresh themselves at taverns when they tired. The streets were crimson with blood; it was as if the rivers of Hell ran through them and their banks were heaps of corpses, blackened by flies. The stench of death was unbearable.’

‘Were your wife and son spared?’ Tom asked quietly, fearful of the answer.

‘On that first morning, we did not expect the horrors to come, so I went as usual to my work at the Palais de Justice, but by midday, everyone left and hurried home. I ran to mine. There was a man I believed would help us if we could just reach him, but our door was kicked in and the house had been ransacked. My wife and son were nowhere to be seen.’ Tears gleamed in Lamotte’s eyes. ‘I searched for hours, hiding from the soldiers when I had to, sickened when I witnessed them cutting down their victims, and sickened too by my own powerlessness to help those tormented souls.’

Tom waited for him to go on.

‘When it was over, I clung to the hope I might still find Amélie and Jean, but I never did.’ His head drooped. ‘Once I loved Paris, she seemed to me the greatest city on earth, but after that night, I hated her for taking away the family I loved.’

For a few moments, they sat in silence. Tom tried without success to think of words of comfort then Lamotte picked up his pipe and reached for another taper. Suddenly, he was brisk as if he wished he had not said so much.

‘So I came to England,’ he remarked, in between drawing on his pipe, ‘and she is my country now.’ He shrugged. ‘I started a new life in the theatre. People say lawyers and actors are not so far apart. It was hard at first, I won’t deny it. The English don’t always welcome foreigners, but I have tried to make myself into an Englishman to pacify them. Forgive me, it’s better not to dwell on the past, we can’t change it although perhaps we can learn from it.’

He caught the elbow of the serving girl who passed. ‘Bring us more ale.’

She nodded.

Lamotte l
eant back in his chair and blew out a puff of smoke. ‘After that we should be on our way. I want to be up early tomorrow to make sure those lazy carpenters hurry up with the new seating. I’m losing money every day it is not ready.’

They parted outside the tavern and Lamotte walked home to
Throgmorton Street. A sleepy servant unbolted the heavy oak door. ‘A message came for you, master,’ he said as he shot back the bolts.

Lamotte took off his cloak and hat. ‘Where is it?’

‘In your study, master.’

As he mounted the creaking stairs, Lamotte noticed the dust at the back of the treads. For the second time that day, he thought sadly of his wife. Amélie had never allowed anything to remain dusty or unpolished. The house in
Paris had smelt of beeswax and lavender. This house was a bachelor’s abode, the furniture dulled by neglect, the rugs frayed and the walls scuffed. Was it a wonder when the place had no mistress?

He shook his head with a sigh. Occasionally he had come across a woman who might have changed that, but nothing ever came of it – perhaps he had not really wanted it to.

In his study, he sat down at his desk. This room at least was cosy, with its dark oak panelling, its shelves crammed with papers and books and a chair that welcomed his weary bones like an old friend.

The message was from Sir Francis Walsingham. Folding the paper, Lamotte leant back in his chair and stroked his chin. Walsingham rarely summoned him at short notice unless it was urgent but it was too late to set out for Barn Elms tonight. There would be no boats going upriver. He would leave at daybreak.

7

The tide was turning as the ferry slipped from its moorings and set off upriver. The air was humid and oppressive and the stench of the murky, rubbish-strewn water was strong. Lamotte pulled his cloak over his nose to shut it out. He hoped this visit would be worth leaving his bed for.

As he always did when the Unicorn’s company travelled into the country, he had kept his ears open for any information Walsingham might find useful, but he had made his report weeks ago and there had been nothing the old spymaster seemed to find important, although it was always hard to read his mind. Presumably something new had arisen. He hoped it would not involve too much work. With business flagging, he needed to devote as much time as possible to the theatre.

He sighed. In truth, he had no right to resent Walsingham’s demands. Where would he be now if Walsingham had not helped him to get out of Paris after St Bartholomew’s Day and given him money to set up a new life? Nothing came without a price.

Of course by that time, he had already been in thrall to Walsingham for several years. He remembered the first approach from one of the spymaster’s agents, an affable fellow who had struck up an acquaintance with him in a tavern one hot July evening over a bottle of good burgundy. He had been smarting at the insults one of the local gangs of Catholic youths had hurled at him. The agent had stopped him doing anything foolish – there were five of them and only one of him.

Lamotte remembered how subtly matters had progressed from there: the exploration of his loyalties; the discreet questions about what work he did at the Palais de Justice; what knowledge his job made him privy to and what else he might be able to ascertain by stealth. Like a moth to the flame, he went a little further and a little further until the information he was passing on would have hanged him if it had come to light.

He had to admit, his motives were not entirely pure. Yes, he was serving the Huguenot cause, but he also enjoyed the spice of danger and excitement. Now, he thought, in my soberer years, spying seems a grubbier trade than it did when I was young.

The river was already busy with other craft and noisy with the shouts of boatmen. Frequently, the rowers were forced to slow in order to avoid ramming or being rammed. Soon, the massive bulk of St Paul’s came into view, towering over the spires of the city churches at its feet. Further on, the grand houses of the rich and powerful sprawled along the north bank, imposing edifices with many courtyards and fine gardens running down to the river.

At the bend by the
village of Wandsworth, the rowers veered towards the north bank to avoid the mud flats thrown up by the annual floods. The stench of river mud was even worse here but when they drew level with the wharves at Putney the air sweetened. On the bank, lightermen jostled to load boxes and bales of goods onto the boats going down to the city. The boat docked and Lamotte scrambled out onto the quayside. The last part of the journey to Barn Elms provided a pleasant walk and he would be glad to stretch his legs.

When he reached the gates, he paused for a moment to look at the house before him. It was old fashioned and modest compared with the palatial residences of m
en like Lord Treasurer Burghley and Chancellor Hatton. Lamotte suspected Walsingham had made less money out of his office than most of his peers, but his tastes were also more frugal. On occasion too, he had hinted that Queen Elizabeth’s notorious parsimony often forced him to spend his own money on maintaining his network of spies.

Lamotte
skirted the sheep-cropped lawn, taking advantage of the cover of a narrow belt of trees to reach a side entrance. In his study, Walsingham sat at a desk piled high with papers.

Bowing, Lamotte doffed his black velvet cap. ‘Forgive me, Sir Francis, I did not receive your message yesterday until it was too late to set off.’

‘It is no matter, sit down. May I offer you refreshment?’

Lamotte shook his head. He noticed the slight tremor in Walsingham’s right hand and the shadows around his eyes. Clearly, something was amiss.

‘Very well, to business: I wish to talk to you about Antony Babington.’

Lamotte nodded. A few years ago Walsingham had asked him to befriend the young aristocrat and report on his movements. Babington had been an attractive, intelligent young man whose personable qualities had recommended him to Mary, Queen of Scots, when he was a page in a house where she was imprisoned. Walsingham had suspected him of carrying secret letters for her. Not long afterwards, Queen Mary was removed to Chartley, a manor house in Staffordshire, where security was better enforced.

‘Do you have reason to suspect him again?’

‘Yes. I have my doubts he is particularly dangerous acting alone, but he may be part of a group that poses a serious threat.
Five years ago, a priest named John Ballard landed in England. He was swiftly discovered and arrested but after a few months in prison, he escaped with another priest and fled the country. Nothing was heard of him for a while then in March this year he was seen supping with Babington at an inn near Temple Bar. In May, they left England together and I have since learnt that they visited Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris. When they returned to England, Ballard was overheard boasting he had persuaded Spain to provide sixty thousand troops to support an uprising.’

‘A formidable threat.’

‘As I say, it may well not be true, but a lie can be as dangerous as the truth if it has the effect of attracting more men to Mary’s cause.’

‘So Queen Elizabeth would be in greater danger than before?’

‘Indubitably.’

‘Did you have Babington and Ballard arrested?’

‘I wanted to know more first. Since Mary has been in the charge of Sir Amyas Paulet at Chartley, everyone who comes and goes there is searched, even the laundresses, although initially Paulet’s scruples made him loath to order it. It was a necessary precaution but it meant that the flow of correspondence between Mary and her supporters dried up and their suspicions were aroused. I wanted that to change so there would be letters we could intercept.’

‘Was that possible?’

‘By a stroke of good fortune, it was. A young Catholic called Gifford, who is an agent for Mary’s supporters in France, was apprehended at Rye and brought to me. I perceived him to be a weak, irresolute character. It was not hard to alter his loyalties.’

Lamotte felt a chill go through him. It was only too easy to imagine the effect a few meetings with the grim-faced spymaster might have on a frightened young man.

‘I arranged for Gifford to tell Mary and her friends that he could deliver their letters safely. Before taking them to Chartley, Gifford brings them to me. They are deciphered and resealed to look as if they have never been tampered with. Gifford then takes them to the brewer who supplies Chartley. He encloses them in waterproof canisters and hides them in the barrels. Mary’s replies are brought out in the same way.’

‘You are sure the brewer can be trusted?’

Walsingham raised an eyebrow. ‘He has put his prices up, knowing Paulet can’t obtain supplies from anyone else. I think money will ensure his support.’

‘And the letters?’

‘At first, the volume was considerable but most of them were old and of no great importance. Then we intercepted a letter from Babington. In the clearest terms, he set out a plan to rescue Mary and rally her supporters. At the same time, some of the conspirators were to go to Court and murder the queen.’

‘But how would they get near her?’

‘You know as well as I do that the queen has never been sufficiently concerned for her own safety; she refuses to be properly guarded. Provided the conspirators were appropriately dressed and appeared confident, it would not be hard.’

‘But surely the plot changed her mind?’

Walsingham shook his head. ‘I had good reasons for keeping it from her.’

Lamotte started. ‘But the danger to Her Majesty - would it not be wiser to arrest Babington?’

‘Hear me out,’ Walsingham snapped. ‘I needed to hold back for Mary’s reply. It was everything I could have hoped for. She embraced the plan and analysed it with remarkable perspicacity. If I had not known otherwise, I would have thought a seasoned military commander had written the letter. Where Babington had been imprecise and optimistic, she was exact, recognising every flaw and danger. After all the years I had waited, I knew her fate was sealed.’

For a moment, Lamotte felt a twinge of pity. A man had to be hard of heart not to feel sorry for the tragic queen, her health and beauty fading as she endured interminable years of lonely imprisonment in a succession of damp, draughty castles.

‘Do not grieve for her, Alexandre. Mary is not the heroine of one of your plays. She’s a scheming vixen who would drag England back to the old religion and into the arms of Spain. Both of us know what that means.’

‘Forgive me: you’re right, of course. So what is my part in all this?’

‘I want you to stay close to Babington and try to find out who, other than Ballard, is involved in the plot.’

‘But is further secrecy not ill advised?’

Walsingham’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s not for you to question my decisions. Will you accept the charge, or not?’

T
he back of Lamotte’s neck prickled. He should have known when to keep his mouth shut. ‘I shall do as you command, Sir Francis.’

‘Good.’

As he walked back to the river, Lamotte contemplated this unexpected interruption, potentially a dangerous one, to his peaceful life. The bald fact had to be faced too that whatever Walsingham said, in the last resort he would put country above everything else. If it was necessary to achieve his ends, Lamotte thought, he would drive the dagger between my ribs himself.

Back at the Putney quay, a boat waited by the landing stage.
He gave a coin to the ferryman then sat down in the bow. The rhythmic creak of the oars and the slap of water on the hull helped to compose his thoughts. From the sun, he guessed it was past twelve. There was no time to begin his search for Babington before he needed to be at the theatre, but after the day’s performance he would start with some of the old haunts. Sadness clouded his mind, for Babington had been an engaging companion. However mistaken the lad’s beliefs, he wished he did not have to contribute to his downfall.

*

‘Babington!’

When the young man swung round, Lamotte saw with relief that he had identified him correctly. The search had not taken as long as he had feared it would. He glimpsed the apprehension in Babington’s eyes before his expression turned to one of recognition.

‘Lamotte! Well met.’

‘I thought you must have left
London.’

‘I did for a while, but as you see, I have returned.’ Babington smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive me for keeping myself apart for so long. Family business has occupied me a great deal.’

Lamotte waved a hand. ‘We’re all too busy these days. Your wife and daughter are in good health, I hope?’

‘They’ve gone to Margaret’s family in the country.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t join them. I would avoid London in this heat if I could.’

Babington stared at the ground and mumbled something indistinct.

‘Well, at least take a drink with me for old times’ sake.’

For a moment, Lamotte thought Babington would demur but then he nodded. As they walked to a nearby tavern, however, conversation was stilted. It was clearly too soon to extract any confidences from him. Perhaps wine would loosen his tongue a little.

Sat at a small table in the hot, noisy room, Lamotte pulled out his pipe and filled it. ‘You’ve not adopted the new habit yet?’

‘What? Oh, no.’

‘You should try it, very soothing. All one’s troubles seem to dissolve in the smoke.’

A startled look flitted across Babington’s face. Had he touched a nerve?

‘So are you busy at the Unicorn?’ Babington asked abstractedly.

‘Trade’s brisk enough, although it could be better. You should come and visit us.’

Covertly, Lamotte noticed how Babington’s hand shook as he raised his wine to his lips. Draining it in one gulp, he suddenly jumped to his feet, bumping the table and making the wine bottle and glasses rattle.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t stay.’

Lamotte knocked out his pipe. ‘I’ll come with you.’ But Babington was already halfway across the crowded, smoky room. Lamotte followed, keeping far enough back to be out of sight.

After half an hour of walking through the darkening streets, he saw his quarry stop and look back. Quickly, Lamotte merged into the shadows but it was likely Babington had not noticed him for, seemingly reassured, he dived into a nearby alley bordered with terraces of tall, narrow houses. Lamotte was just in time to see him enter one of them. It was not where he remembered him living. Had he come to meet someone? After a few moments, restless shapes moved backwards and forwards in the yellow light of a first-floor window.

Lamotte settled down to watch and wait. Time dragged and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. His back ached and he had not had time to eat since morning. The air had cooled a little but the reek of the open drain running along one side of the alley was powerful. Once, a noise made his hand fly to the hilt of his sword, but it was only a rat that scuttled away squeaking. At last, the light in the window went out. Lamotte waited another half hour then returned home. He would have to take the chance Babington was going nowhere until tomorrow.