"I won't do it."
Launcelot screamed like a man in hell.
Gifford turned away and threw up on the stone floor. The sour smell of vomit filled the little room.
Ned stood up. "I've arranged for them to torture you this afternoon. I'll come and see you tomorrow. You'll have changed your mind by then."
Launcelot sobbed: "No, no, please, stop."
Gifford wiped his mouth and whispered: "I'll do it."
"I need to hear you better," Ned said.
Gifford spoke louder. "I'll do it, God damn you!"
"Good," said Ned. He spoke to the guard. "Untie the rope," he said. "Let him go."
Gifford could hardly believe it. "I can go?"
"As long as you do what I've told you. You will be watched, so don't imagine you can cheat me."
Launcelot began to cry for his mother.
Ned said: "And the next time you come back here there will be no escape."
"I understand."
"Go."
Gifford left the room, and Ned heard his hurried footsteps clatter down the stone stairs. Ned nodded to the guard, who also went out. Ned sat back in his chair, drained. He closed his eyes, but after a minute Launcelot screamed again, and Ned had to leave.
He went out of the Tower and walked along the bank of the river. A fresh breeze off the water blew away the smell of puke that had lingered in his nostrils. He looked around him, at boatmen, fishermen, street hawkers, busy people, and idlers, hundreds of faces talking, shouting, laughing, yawning, singing--but not screaming in agony or sweating in terror. Normal life.
He crossed London Bridge to the south bank. This was where most of the Huguenots lived. They had brought sophisticated textile technology with them from the Netherlands and France, and they had quickly prospered in London. They were good customers for Sylvie.
Her shop was the ground floor of a timber-framed building in a row, a typical London house, with each story jutting out over the one below. The front door was open, and he stepped inside. He was soothed by the rows of books and the smell of paper and ink.
Sylvie was unpacking a box from Geneva. She straightened up when she heard his step. He looked into her blue eyes and kissed her soft mouth.
She held him at a distance and spoke English with a soft French accent. "What on earth has happened?"
"I had to perform an unpleasant duty. I'll tell you, but I want to wash." He went out to the backyard. He dipped a bowl in a rain barrel for water. He washed his face and hands in the cold water.
Back in the house, he went upstairs to the living quarters and threw himself into his favorite chair. He closed his eyes and heard Launcelot crying for his mother.
Sylvie came upstairs. She went to the pantry, got a bottle of wine, and poured two goblets. She handed him a glass, kissed his forehead, and sat close to him, knee to knee. He sipped his wine and took her hand.
She said: "Tell me."
"A man was tortured in the Tower today. He had threatened the life of the queen. I didn't torture him--I can't do it, I don't have the stomach for that work. But I arranged to conduct an interrogation in the next room, so that my suspect could hear the screams."
"How dreadful."
"It worked. I turned an enemy agent into a double agent. He serves me now. But I can still hear those screams." Sylvie squeezed his hand and said nothing. After a while he said: "Sometimes I hate my work."
"Because of you, men like the duke of Guise and Pierre Aumande can't do in England what they do in France--burn people to death for their beliefs."
"But in order to defeat them I have become like them."
"No, you haven't," she said. "You don't fight for compulsory Protestantism the way they fight for compulsory Catholicism. You stand for tolerance."
"We did, at the start. But now, when we catch secret priests, we execute them, regardless of whether they threaten the queen. Do you know what we did to Margaret Clitherow?"
"Is she the woman who was executed in York for harboring a Catholic priest?"
"Yes. She was stripped naked, tied up, and laid on the ground; then her own front door was placed on top of her and loaded with rocks until she was crushed to death."
"Oh, God, I didn't know that."
"Sickening."
"But you never wanted it to be this way! You wanted people with different beliefs to be good neighbors."
"I did, but perhaps it's impossible."
"Roger told me something you once said to him. I wonder if you remember the time he asked you why the queen hated Catholics."
Ned smiled. "I remember."
"He hasn't forgotten what you told him."
"Perhaps I did something right. What did I say to Roger?"
"You said that there are no saints in politics, but imperfect people can make the world a better place."
"Did I say that?"
"That's what Roger told me."
"Good," said Ned. "I hope it's true."
Summer brought new hope to Alison, who brightened with the weather. Only the inner circle at Chartley Manor knew of the secret correspondence with Anthony Babington, but Mary's revived spirits heartened everyone.
Alison was optimistic, but not blindly so. She wished she knew more about Babington. He came from a good Catholic family, but that was about all that could be said for him. He was only twenty-four. Would he really be able to lead a rebellion against the queen who had held on firmly to power for twenty-seven years? Alison wanted to know the plan.
The details came in July of 1586.
After the initial exchange of letters that served to establish contact and assure both parties that the channel of communication was open, Babington sent a full outline of what he proposed. The letter came in a beer barrel, and was decoded by Mary's secretary, Claude Nau. Alison sat with Mary and Nau, in Mary's bedroom at Chartley Manor, and pored over the paper.
It was exhilarating.
"Babington writes of 'this great and honorable action' and 'the last hope ever to recover the faith of our forefathers,' but he says more," said Nau, looking at his decrypt. "He outlines six separate actions necessary for a successful uprising. The first is the invasion of England by a foreign force. Second, that force must be large enough to guarantee military victory."
Mary said: "The duke of Guise has sixty thousand men, we're told."
Alison hoped it was true.
"Third, ports must be chosen where the armies can land and be resupplied."
"Settled long ago, I think, and maps sent to my cousin Duke Henri," said Mary. "Though Babington may not know about that."
"Fourth, when they arrive they must be met by a substantial local force to protect their landing against immediate counterattack."
"The people will rise up spontaneously," Mary said.
Alison thought they might need prompting, but that could be arranged.
"Babington has given this some thought," Nau said. "He has selected men he describes as 'your lieutenants' in the west, the north, South Wales, North Wales, and the counties of Lancaster, Derby, and Stafford."
Alison thought that sounded impressively well organized.
"'Fifth, Queen Mary must be freed,'" Nau read aloud. "'Myself, with ten gentlemen and a hundred of our followers, will undertake the delivery of your royal person from the hands of your enemies.'"
"Good," said Mary. "Sir Amias Paulet has nowhere near a hundred guards here, and anyway most of them are lodged in the surrounding neighborhood, not at the manor. Before they can be mustered, we'll be long gone."
Alison was feeling increasingly energized.
"And sixth, of course, Elizabeth must be killed. Babington writes: 'For the dispatch of the usurper, from the obedience of whom we are by excommunication made free, there be six gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear to the Catholic cause and Your Majesty's service will undertake that tragic execution.' I think that's about as clear as it could be."
It certainly was, thought Alison, and for a momen
t she was chilled to think of the murder of a queen.
"I must reply to this quickly," said Mary.
Nau looked anxious. "We should be careful what we say."
"There is only one thing I can say, and that is yes."
"If your letter should fall into the wrong hands . . ."
"It will be placed in safe hands, and written in code."
"But if things should go wrong . . ."
Mary reddened, and Alison knew that the anger and frustration of the last twenty years were showing. "I have to seize this opportunity. Otherwise there is no hope for me."
"Your reply to Babington will be evidence of treason."
"So be it," said Mary.
The business of espionage required a lot of patience, Ned reflected in July of 1586.
He had hoped, back in 1583, that Francis Throckmorton would lead him to hard evidence of the treachery of Mary Stuart. That hope had been disappointed when the malice of the earl of Leicester had forced Ned to arrest Throckmorton prematurely. Then in 1585 he had found a new Throckmorton in Gilbert Gifford. This time the earl of Leicester was not in England to make trouble: Queen Elizabeth had sent him to the Spanish Netherlands at the head of an army to fight for the Dutch Protestant rebels against their Catholic Spanish overlords. Leicester was making a hash of the job--his talents were for flirting and charming, not fighting and killing--but it kept him from undermining Walsingham.
As a result, Ned was in a strong position. Mary thought she was sending and receiving secret letters, but Ned was reading everything.
However, it was now July and he had not yet found what he was looking for, despite six months of surveillance.
Treachery was implied in every letter Mary received or wrote, of course, whether she was corresponding with Pierre Aumande or the king of Spain; but Ned needed something no one could argue with. The letter Babington sent to Mary early in July was explicit, and he would undoubtedly hang for it; Ned waited in suspense to see how Mary would reply. Surely now she would have to make her intentions clear in writing? The exact wording of her response might finally condemn her.
Her reply came into Ned's hands on July 19. It was seven pages long.
It was written by her secretary, Claude Nau, as always, and encoded. Ned gave it to Phelippes for deciphering and waited in a fever of impatience. He found he could not concentrate on anything else. He had a long letter from Jeronima Ruiz in Madrid about the internal politics of the Spanish court, which he read three times without understanding a word. He gave up and left Walsingham's house in Seething Lane to walk across the bridge to his own home in Southwark for midday dinner. Being with Sylvie always soothed his soul.
She closed the shop and cooked some salmon in wine with rosemary. As they ate, in the dining room over the shop, he told her about Babington's letter and Mary's response. He had no secrets from Sylvie: they were spies together.
As they were finishing the fish, one of Ned's assistants arrived with the decrypt.
It was in French. Ned could not read French as effortlessly as he could speak it, but he went through it with Sylvie.
Mary began by praising Babington's intentions in general terms. "That's already enough to convict her of treason," Ned said with satisfaction.
Sylvie said: "It's very sad."
Ned looked at her with raised eyebrows. Sylvie was a crusading Protestant who had risked her life for her beliefs many times, yet she felt pity for Mary Stuart.
She caught his look. "I remember her wedding. She was just a girl, but beautiful, with a wonderful future in prospect. She was going to be the queen of France. She seemed the luckiest young woman in the world. And look what has become of her."
"She's brought all her troubles on herself."
"Did you make good decisions when you were seventeen?"
"I suppose not."
"When I was nineteen I married Pierre Aumande. How's that for bringing trouble on oneself?"
"I see your point."
Ned read on. Mary went further than general praise. She responded to each element of Babington's plan, urging him to make more detailed preparations to welcome the invaders, muster local rebels in support, and arm and supply everyone. She asked for a more precise outline of the scheme to free her from Chartley Manor.
"Better and better," said Ned.
Most importantly, she urged Babington to give careful thought to exactly how the assassins of Queen Elizabeth would proceed with their murderous task.
When Ned read that sentence he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his aching back. It was incontrovertible proof. Mary was active in the planning of regicide. She was as guilty as if she wielded the knife herself.
One way or another, Mary Stuart was finished.
Rollo found Anthony Babington celebrating.
Babington was at the grand London home of Robert Pooley with several fellow conspirators, sitting around a table laden with roasted chickens, bowls of hot buttered onions, loaves of new bread, and jugs of sherry wine.
Rollo was disturbed by their levity. Men who were plotting to overthrow the monarch should not get drunk in the middle of the day. However, unlike Rollo they were not hardened conspirators but idealistic amateurs embarked on a grand adventure. The supreme confidence of youth and nobility made them careless of their lives.
Rollo was breaking his own rule in coming to Pooley's house. He normally stayed away from the Catholics' regular haunts. Such places were watched by Ned Willard. But Rollo had not seen Babington for a week and he needed to know what was happening.
He looked into the room, caught Babington's eye, and beckoned him. Uncomfortable in the home of a known Catholic, he led Babington out. Alongside the house was a spacious garden, shaded from the August sun by a small orchard of mulberry and fig trees. Even this was not secure enough for Rollo, for only a low wall separated it from the busy street, noisy with cartwheels and vendors and the banging and shouting of a building site on the other side of the road. He insisted they leave the garden and step into the shady porch of the church next door. Then at last he said: "What's happening? Everything seems to have gone quiet."
"Wipe that frown away, Monsieur Langlais," said Babington gaily. "Here's good news." He took a sheaf of papers from his pocket and handed it over with a flourish.
It was a coded letter together with a decrypt written out by Babington. Rollo moved to the archway and read it in the sunlight. In French, it was from Mary Stuart to Babington. She approved all his plans and urged him to make more detailed arrangements.
Rollo's anxiety melted away. The letter was everything he had hoped for, the final and decisive element in the plan. Rollo would take it to the duke of Guise, who would immediately muster his army of invasion. The godless twenty-eight-year tyranny of Elizabeth was almost over.
"Well done," Rollo said. He pocketed the letter. "I leave for France tomorrow. When I return I will be with God's army of liberation."
Babington clapped him on the back. "Good man," he said. "Now come and dine with us."
Rollo was about to refuse but, before he could speak, his instincts sounded an alarm. He frowned. Something was wrong. The street had gone quiet. The cart wheels had stopped, the vendors were no longer crying their wares, and the building site was silent. What had happened?
He grabbed Babington's elbow. "We have to get away from here," he said.
Babington laughed. "What on earth for? In Pooley's dining room there's a keg of the best wine only half drunk!"
"Shut up, you fool, and follow me, if you value your life." Rollo stepped into the church, which was hushed and dim, and quickly crossed the nave to a small entrance in the far wall. He cracked the door: it opened onto the street. He peeped out.
As he had feared, Pooley's house was being raided.
Men-at-arms were taking up positions along the street, watched in nervous silence by the builders and the vendors and the passersby. A few yards from Rollo, two burly men with swords stood at the garden gate, clearly placed to cat
ch anyone trying to flee. As Rollo looked, Ned Willard appeared and banged on Pooley's front door.
"Hell," said Rollo. One of the men-at-arms began to turn toward him and he quickly closed the door. "We're discovered."
Babington looked scared. "Who by?"
"Willard. He's Walsingham's right-hand man."
"We can hide here."
"Not for long. Willard is thorough. He'll find us if we stay here."
"What are we going to do?"
"I don't know." Rollo looked out again. Pooley's front door now stood open, and Willard had vanished, presumably inside. The men-at-arms were tense, waiting for action, looking around them warily. Rollo closed the door again. "How fast can you run?"
Babington belched and looked green. "I shall stand and fight," he said unconvincingly. He felt for his sword, but he was not wearing one: Rollo guessed it was hanging on a hook in Pooley's entrance hall.
Then Rollo heard a sheep.
He frowned. As he listened, he realized it was not one but a flock of sheep. He remembered that there was a slaughterhouse along the street. A farmer was driving the flock to be butchered, a daily occurrence in every town in the world.
The sound came nearer.
Rollo looked out a third time. He could see the flock now, and smell them. There were about a hundred, and they filled the street from side to side. Pedestrians cursed them and stepped into doorways to get out of their way. The leaders drew level with Pooley's front door, and suddenly Rollo saw how the sheep might save him.
"Get ready," he said to Babington.
The men-at-arms were angry about being shouldered aside by sheep, but they could do nothing. If humans had shoved them they would have brandished their weapons, but already-terrified sheep could not be bullied into doing anything other than follow each other to their death. Rollo would have laughed if he had not been afraid for his own life.
When the leaders of the flock passed the two men standing by the garden gate, all the men-at-arms were trapped by sheep. At that point Rollo said: "Now!" and flung open the door.
He stepped out, with Babington on his heels. Two seconds later their way would have been blocked by sheep. He ran along the street, hearing Babington's footsteps behind him.
A shout of "Stop! Stop!" went up from the men-at-arms. Rollo glanced back to see some of them struggling to push through the sheep and give chase.