The young man was ushered into Mary's presence, where she was seated on
her makeshift throne minus its canopy, and immediately fell to his
knees.
"Oh, Madam," he said, "to behold your glorious visage is something all
true knights long to do!" The words rushed out like a spring
torrent.
"You need not garble your words, nor speak at such a gallop," said
Paulet, "for I understand French well enough, having served Her
Glorious Majesty Queen Elizabeth as ambassador there."
"It was an honour to have you, sir," said Cherelles.
"And how are His Majesty King Henri III and his royal mother?" asked
Paulet.
"Fighting against their cousin Henri of Navarre, and the Duc de Guise,"
he replied. "They call it the War of the Three Henris."
"Always wars," said Mary. It saddened her. France had fought itself
almost continuously since she had left. This Cherelles a handsome,
blond young man probably had no memory of anything else.
He handed her the letters and she opened them, exclaiming how delighted
she was to receive a letter, and thanking Paulet for allowing it. While
she read, Paulet suddenly was called out, leaving them alone.
"Madam," whispered Cherelles, "my master the ambassador bids me ask you
to please send him another copy of the cipher. He has lost his! Never
fear, it was not stolen, merely an accident. His Excellency's dog I
see you have dogs also, so you will understand made a ... an accident
of nature on it, rendering it illegible."
Mary began laughing. By her side, Geddon barked. "Yes, Geddon, we
know what he means. Certainly. He shall have it forthwith."
Paulet stepped back into the room, muttering. Cherelles took his
leave, and after he was gone, Paulet sniffed, "Henri III, so I hear,
prefers women's clothes and men's company, and carries about little
dogs in his bosom." He looked at her sadly, as if it were her fault.
TWENTY-ONE
Walsingham reached across his desk and took a small stoppered medicine
bottle, and, after removing the top, drank directly from it. The
bitter taste of the physic made with sorrel from Cecil's own medicinal
garden hurt his throat, but it was supposed to be good for those
suffering from a "feeble stomach," and Walsingham's was decidedly
feeble. He was minded to settle his stomach before Phelippes
arrived.
Not only his stomach, but his leg was acting up these days. It always
did, just before the full warmth of spring came. But now, in the
luxury of blooming mid-May, he would soon be on the mend.
May. He had the casement windows open wide to let in the sweet, soft
air. Petals were falling from the apple tree just outside. Why, it
was on just such a May morning that Anne Boleyn had walked to the
scaffold and paid the price for her treason. He had always thought
that the date made it all the harder to die.
This time next year, will the Bosom Serpent still be alive? he
thought. Or will she be going to her execution? Or God forbid! will
we still be intercepting her letters and hoping for a means of undoing
her?
Phelippes knocked, and Walsingham admitted him. After offering him
some fresh mead, Walsingham reluctantly got up to close the windows. It
was sad to have to shut out the May, but spies might rely on just such
carelessness and human weakness as a wish to smell the spring.
He looked at the man with the peculiar narrow eyes, seated before him.
He was pleased with him, and with the arrangements he had made.
"Today's letters, sir," said Phelippes, handing them over. "I think
you'll find them of considerable interest."
"Hmmm." Walsingham took out his reading glasses and flipped the letter
or rather Phelippes's deciphered copy of it open. "From Mary to her
agent Paget her agent and ours and another to Mendoza, the Spanish
ambassador." His eyebrows shot up as he read. "So. She has committed
herself, in writing, to a plan for Philip to invade England on her
behalf. She not only permits it, she strongly encourages it. She
makes suggestions about how to go about it. How helpful. I am sure
General Parma will treasure these instructions from her, with all her
vast experience in battle."
"We've got her!" said Phelippes. "We've got her! When do we notify
Elizabeth, and strike?"
"No, we haven't got her," said Walsingham.
"What?" Phelippes sounded disgusted. "Why do you hold back?"
"Because we need something more irrefutable than this. What does this
tell us that we did not already know? That Mary is in complete
sympathy with the enemies of England? That should an invasion come,
she will side with them? Who did not know that?"
"But the evidence! And in writing!"
"It will never convince Elizabeth that Mary should be done away with.
There is no invasion, so the entire thing is an exercise in words.
Elizabeth will never consent to the removal of Mary on such a flimsy
charge as a nonexistent invasion. Ah, Phelippes ... it must be
something more compelling." He sighed. "And, having set up such a
perfect trap, we should never betray it unless we are absolutely sure
we have what we want."
He fingered a leaf from a huge potted plant that was sitting on the
floor. The leaves were long and floppy, like a hound's ears. "Do you
know what this is?" he asked Phelippes. "Tobacco. I mind to plant it
out at Barn Elms in the country. From the New World. One of the
voyages I put a little into has brought back such exotica. Not that I
would smoke it, not I ..." His voice trailed off as he suffered a
stomach pain. Some people said it was good for cramps. Well, perhaps
.. .
"There's another letter, coming the other way, from Paget to Mary. The
usual plotting and planning." Phelippes put it in front of Walsingham
and looked bored.
Walsingham read it and, to Phelippes's surprise, seemed to take it
seriously. "So that crazy priest, Ballard, is still running about," he
said. "And has just returned from a conference with Paget. I am
beginning to doubt Paget. He may not be ours after all; he has not
reported this to us. So Ballard claims that the English Catholics are
ready to rise on the instant that Spanish troops land? And Paget has
put him in contact with Mendoza. And Ballard has been talking to John
Savage, the soldier who swore to kill Elizabeth last summer. Ballard
himself went to Rome two years ago, and possibly pledged himself to
kill Elizabeth. What does this add up to, Phelippes?" Walsingham
drummed his fingers on the desk. "Two plots to kill Elizabeth are
joining forces, so it would seem. Where is Ballard now?"
"According to our agent Bernard Maude, he has just returned to England.
He landed at Dover two days ago. He seems to have a passport that
permits him to come and go as he will."
"And where has he gone?"
"To London. He's here now. I took the liberty of having him
followed."
Walsingham leaned back and smiled. "Good, Phelippes. Good. Now
perhaps, if we are very lucky, someone will inform the Scottish Queen
about this Ballard-and-Savage plot, and she'll be foolhardy enough to
join it."
"Sir, Ballard has a friend in London, an Anthony Babington "
"Ah!" Walsingham sat bolt upright and smashed his fist against his
palm. "Ah!"
Phelippes was puzzled. "Sir?"
"I have it here, I have it here " Walsingham had jumped up and was
yanking open the "Serpent England" drawer. "Yes, yes, here it is!" He
thrust the letter into Phelippes's hand.
"Oh, yes, that letter Paget wrote in late April suggesting that the
Scots
Queen get in touch with Babington. He even sent a draft. You didn't
send it on to Chartley?"
"No. I was waiting. Now I know why." He shook his head. "This is
why. If Babington can be brought into the plot, and if Mary then
somehow becomes involved in it ! Oh, it would be exactly what we have
sought! This Babington, tell me what you know about him."
Phelippes cocked one eyebrow. "Sir, I am only a lowly decipherer, not
actually an intelligence agent. I do not know much about him, other
than that he lives in a fashionable part of London and has court
connections. You must know about him; you tell me." He folded his
arms and waited.
"Right gladly. I was just testing you. By the way, Phelippes, I am
impressed with your work in this whole operation. And it was truly a
stroke of genius to be bold enough to send the French secretary
directly to Mary to obtain those ciphers, since we were having trouble
with some of the letters. Boldness, boldness! How admirable!" He
suddenly laid hold of a dispatch on his desk. "Here's more boldness,
from one of our agents in the Netherlands. Now that's a spy's dream,
to be there."
Phelippes took the lengthy dispatch and skimmed it. There was a lot of
information about cannons and horses and stores of ammunition. Then
followed a page of poetry. "Poetry?" he snorted. "Why should an
agent send poetry?"
"Poetry can lead to interesting ideas, Phelippes. Do not despise it."
He held out the paper and began quoting, " "I hold the Fates bound fast
in iron chains, and with my hand turn Fortune's wheel about." Is that
not what we do, or hope to do? Young Christopher Marlowe here writes
about Tam-burlaine, but of course he is really writing about Elizabeth
and Philip."
"Why are all the soldiers poets these days, and all the poets soldiers?
They should stick to one trade. What if spies thought themselves
poets, and filed all their reports in blank verse?"
" "And 'tis a pretty toy to be a poet," Marlowe admits. You must learn
to understand them, the way the young people think, if you are to use
them. Now this Anthony Babington thinks himself a wit, and consorts
with poetry-making courtiers like Chidiock Tichborne and Charles
Tilney, all Catholics, of course. He comes from an old Catholic family
and was once a page in Shrewsbury's household, where he formed a
worshipful attachment to the Scottish Queen. He left six years ago,
went to London, got married, joined Catholic secret societies, made the
usual journeys back and forth to France to the plotters' nests. He has
even, in the past, acted on her behalf, forwarding and delivering
letters. The point is this, Phelippes: she knows him. Better yet, she
trusts him. Now if he will just urge this plot on her .. ."
"Do you think he will entangle himself in Ballard's line?"
"Most likely. He is a firebrand, and six months ago was urging a
foolish plot to 'kill all the councillors at once in Star Chamber."
Yes, he'll bite."
"And then we'll bite."
"Like the steel jaws of a trap, Phelippes." He leaned forward and took
another draught of the medicine to ease his gnawing stomach pains. He
felt as though a steel trap were inside him.
TWENTY-TWO
Roses, roses for all!" Anthony Babington dipped his hand in the silver
bowl and drew out a dozen roses, which he began passing ) around the
table to his companions. He took a deep red one and stuck it behind
his ear, getting it tangled in dark curls. "These are from my own
garden, just gathered this dusk. Is there anything more intoxicating
than roses in June?"