But what Mary Stuart did not know was that the drayman was paid over again by the English authorities, and that Sir Amyas Paulet knew all that was going on. It was not Mary Stuart's friends who had excogitated this method of communication, but Gifford, one of Walsingham's spies, who had presented himself to Morgan and to the French ambassador as Mary's confidential agent. Thus Mary's secret correspondence could be fully supervised by her political enemies. Every letter to or from Mary was, on its way, inspected by Gifford (whom Morgan regarded as his most trustworthy henchman), was deciphered by Thomas Phelippes, who was also in Walsingham's employ and was clever at ciphers. When the missive had been decoded, a copy was promptly sent to London. This work was done with so much dispatch that the correspondence between Mary Stuart and the French embassy went on briskly without the parties at either end suspecting that it had been tampered with.
Mary Stuart congratulated herself. At length she had outwitted Sir Amyas Paulet, the stiff Puritan, who examined the laundry on its way to and from the wash, had shoe soles inspected, kept her under close observation as if she were a criminal. She smiled as she thought what a rage her jailer would be in if he knew that, despite all his sentries, despite locks and bars, she was week after week exchanging letters with Paris, Madrid and Rome; that her agents were working busily on her behalf; that armies and navies were making ready in support of her cause; that daggers were being sharpened to pierce the hearts of her enemies. Sometimes, maybe, she showed her delight too plainly, thus giving herself away beneath Sir Amyas Paulet's watchful eyes, now that she was stimulated by the cordial of renewed hope. Paulet, on his side, was much better justified in smiling coldly to himself when, week after week, he saw the fresh supply of beer being brought by the “honest man” (the only name by which this worthy is known), when he noted the haste with which Queen Mary's butler went down to the cellar to secure the precious letter. Paulet knew that what his prisoner was about to read had long since been deciphered by the English agent, and that copies were on their way to Walsingham and Cecil. These ministers of state would learn from the decoded letters that Mary Stuart had offered the crown of Scotland and the right of succession to the crown of England to Philip of Spain if he would help her to escape. Such a letter, they knew, might be useful in appeasing James VI if he should take it into his head that his mother was being too harshly treated. They read that Mary Stuart, in her holograph dispatches to Paris, was urging the invasion of England by Spanish troops. This would be useful, too, when the Scottish Queen was brought to trial. Unfortunately for their scheme, however, they could not for a long time discover anything in the letters to show that Mary Stuart sanctioned a plan for the assassination of Elizabeth Tudor. The prisoner had not made herself as guilty as Queen Elizabeth's advisers wished; she had not yet done enough for them to set their murder machine in motion by demanding a public trial of the prisoner; they wanted definite proof of Mary Stuart's “consent” to the killing of Elizabeth Tudor. To secure this last turn of the screw, Walsingham now devoted his best energies. Therewith began one of the most incredible though documentarily attested acts of perfidy known to historyâthe “frame-up” by which Walsingham made Mary Stuart privy to a plot of his own manufacture, the so-called Babington conspiracy, which was in reality a Walsingham conspiracy.
Walsingham's plan was masterly, and was, in a sense, justified by results. What made it so repulsive that, after the lapse of centuries, one's gorge rises when one contemplates the details, was that Walsingham, to further it, appealed to one of the finest of human qualities, the touching faith of youthful romanticists. Anthony Babington, whom the authorities in London chose as their unwitting tool, merits our sympathy and admiration, for he threw away his life under stress of a noble impulse. A young country gentleman, married and well-to-do, scion of an ancient Northumberland family that later settled in Derbyshire, he lived for the most part on his estate, which was close to Chartley. The reader will readily understand why Walsingham selected Chartley as Mary Stuart's latest residence. Walsingham had long since known that Babington, a devout Catholic, greatly attached to Mary Stuart, was instrumental in furthering her secret correspondence with foreign parts. It is one of the privileges of youth to be profoundly moved by sympathy for the victims of a tragical destiny. Such an unsuspicious idealist, a “pure fool”, would suit Walsingham's purposes far better than a hired spy, for the imprisoned Queen would be only too eager to put her trust in young Babington. She knew that he was not moved by pursuit of gain, or by personal fondness for her, but by chivalric sentiment, which in him was accentuated almost beyond the verge of sanity. It is most probably a posthumous and romantic invention, the assertion that Babington had been page to Mary Stuart for a time when she was under Shrewsbury's custody, and had then fallen to her charms. Presumably he never met her, and served her only from delight in service, from Catholic fervour, from adventurous enthusiasm, all these combining to make him devote himself to the woman whom he regarded as the rightful Queen of England. Heedless, unwary and loquacious, as emotional young people are prone to be, he recruited adherents from among his friends, inducing various individuals of his own creed and station to join him. A strange circle of conspirators was formed, including a fanatical priest named Ballard, a desperado aptly called “Savage” and various young gentlemen with more money than brains, who had read Plutarch's
Lives
and entertained cloudy dreams of heroism. Soon, however, their ranks were swelled by clearer-headed and more resolute persons than Babington and his intimates; above all by a certain Gifford, whom Elizabeth was subsequently to reward for his services with a pension of one hundred pounds per annum. The hotheads among them decided that it would not be enough to set the imprisoned Queen at liberty. Impetuously they determined upon a far more dangerous deedâupon the assassination of Elizabeth, the “usurper”.
The latest adherents to the plot, and the most ardent among the conspirators, were, it need hardly be said, Walsingham's spies, insinuated among the young idealists as provocative agents; for Walsingham designed, not only to keep himself fully informed as to what was going on, but also, and above all, to jog the elbow of Babington the enthusiast. For Babington, as the documents clearly show, had, with his friends, originally designed nothing more than, from his country house as base, to effect Mary Stuart's rescue from prison. The thought of murder was foreign to his nature.
But a mere scheme for the carrying-off of Mary Stuart would not suffice Walsingham, would not enable him to send the troublesome prisoner to the block. He needed a full-dress conspiracy for assassination. His agents, therefore, kept up their work of incitation until Babington and the latter's friends finally agreed to take action along the line desired by Walsingham. On 12th May 1586, the Spanish ambassador, who was throughout in touch with the conspirators, was able to report to King Philip the agreeable tidings that four Catholic gentlemen who were granted the entry to Elizabeth's court had solemnly sworn to make an end of the Queen with poison or dagger. The provocative agents had done their work satisfactorily; at length Walsingham's murder-conspiracy was well on the way. But this only fulfilled the first part of Walsingham's plans. The snare was fastened at one end. The other end needed to be firmly attached. The plot for the murder of Queen Elizabeth had been successfully instigated. Now came the harder part of the business, the securing of the unsuspicious prisoner's “consent” to the “removal” of her rival. Once more Walsingham whistled up his gang of spies. He sent some of his emissaries to Paris, the headquarters of the Catholic conspiracy, with instructions to complain to Morgan, agent of Philip II and of Mary Stuart, that Babington and company were lukewarm in the cause. They could not make up their minds to the assassination, but hesitated and procrastinated. It was urgently necessary to stimulate their fervour, and nothing could do this so effectually as a word from Mary Stuart. Were Babington once convinced that the Queen he honoured and admired approved the murder, he would be prepared to take action. It was essential, therefore, so the spies assured Morgan, for him to induce Queen Mary to write something that would enhance Babington's zeal.
Morgan hesitated. One may guess that his suspicions were aroused, that he had glimpsed Walsingham's game. However, the English minister's agents persisted in assuring him that nothing more was needed than a few formal lines. At length Morgan gave way; but, to guard against any lack of caution, he sent to Mary a draft of the letter he wanted her to write to Babington. The Queen, who had full confidence in Morgan, copied this missive word for word.
At length the connexion Walsingham desired between Mary Stuart and the conspiracy had been brought about. Morgan's caution, however, stood him and the Queen in good stead, for Mary's first letter to the conspirators, though cordial enough, was noncommittal. What Walsingham needed was the Queen's plain “consent” to the proposed attempt upon Elizabeth's life. Acting on his instructions, therefore, his agents set to work once more upon the other end of the snare. Gifford made it plain to the unhappy Babington that, now Mary had shown her confidence in him, he must respond by giving the captive Queen a full account of his plan. A thing so dangerous as an attempt upon Elizabeth's life must not be undertaken without the express approval of Mary Stuart, and, thanks to the weekly visits of the “honest man”, there was a safe way of conveying all necessary information to Queen Mary and of getting her royal instructions in return. Babington, the “pure fool”, with more courage than wit, walked into the trap. He sent a long missive addressed to his “
très chère souveraine
”
â
very dear sovereign
â
disclosing every detail of the plot. Why should not the unhappy Queen be consoled in her captivity by knowing what was afoot? Why should she not be informed that the hour of her liberation was at hand? As unsuspiciously as if his words were to be conveyed to Queen Mary by heavenly messengers, absolutely unaware that whatever he wrote would be read by Walsingham's emissaries before it would be read by Mary, the poor wretch blabbed the whole plan of campaign. “Myself with ten gentlemen and a hundred of followers will undertake the delivery of your royal person from the hands of your enemies. For the dispatch of the usurper, from the obedience of whom we are by the excommunication of her made free, there be six noble gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear to the Catholic cause and Your Majesty's service will undertake that tragical execution.” Ardent resolution, and a clear understanding of the risk that was being run, are made plain by this foolish though candid letter, which cannot but touch the hearts of those who read it after the lapse of centuries. Surely it would touch Queen Mary's heart too? She was not likely to be so cautious or sober-minded as, from cowardice, to refuse answer and encouragement to those who were chivalrously ready to devote themselves to her service.
It was upon Mary Stuart's ardour and heedlessness, the qualities she had so often shown, that Walsingham was counting. If Mary approved Babington's scheme for “the dispatch of the usurper”, Walsingham would have gained his end. Mary would have relieved him from the unpleasant need for compassing the secret murder. She would have walked into the open trap.
The disastrous letter was sent. Phelippes, as usual, deciphered it and sent a copy to Walsingham. The unaltered original, scrupulously resealed, was dispatched to the unsuspecting recipient by way of the beer barrel. On 10th July 1586, it was in Mary Stuart's hands, when two notables in London, Cecil and Walsingham, the prime movers in this perfidious plot, were eagerly waiting to know how she would reply to it. The moment of greatest tension had come. The fish was nibbling at the bait. Would the tempting morsel be swallowed hook and all, or would it be left uneaten? Well, we must look at the affair for a moment from Cecil's and Walsingham's point of view, for some will admire though others will condemn their political methods. However abominable the means Cecil used for the destruction of Mary Stuart, we must remember that this statesman was throughout working for an ideal. He believed that by ridding the world of the hereditary enemy of Protestantism he was merely acting in accordance with an inexorable necessity. As for Walsingham, whose business it was to frustrate plots against his sovereign, we could hardly expect him to be more scrupulous than his adversaries, to renounce espionage and to countenance nothing which persons with more exalted standards would regard as immoral.
What about Elizabeth? Throughout life she gave ample evidence of concern for her reputation before the tribunal of posterity. Are we to suppose that on this occasion she knew how, behind the scenes, a murderous machine was being constructed, more sinister and dangerous than any of the accepted means of public execution? Were these repulsive practices undertaken by her chief advisers with her knowledge and consent? Mary Stuart's biographer is forced to enquire what part the Queen of England played in this sinister plot against her adversary.
The answer is that Elizabeth played a double role. We have plain evidence that she knew about Walsingham's machinations; that from first to last she tolerated, approved and perhaps actively furthered the provocative agency of Cecil and Walsingham. History can never acquit her from the charge of looking on and perhaps assisting while the prisoner under her care was being lured to destruction. Still I must reiterate that Elizabeth would not have been Elizabeth if she had acted unambiguously. Capable of any falsehood, any misrepresentation, any form of deception, this extraordinary woman was, nevertheless, not without a conscience, and was never wholly immoral or ungenerous. In decisive moments, her finer impulses were always stirred. Even now she felt uneasy at the prospect of deriving advantage from such base practices. For suddenly, when her ministrants were getting ready to garnish the sacrifice, she made a strange movement in favour of the victim. She sent for the French ambassador, who had been instrumental in conveying Mary Stuart's correspondence from and to Chartley, without a notion that those whom he employed as messengers were creatures of Walsingham. “Sir,” she said to him roundly, “you are in frequent communication with the Queen of Scotland. I would give you to know that I am aware of all that goes on in my kingdom. I have myself been a prisoner, in the days when my sister Mary ruled this land as Queen, and am therefore familiar with the strange expedients used by prisoners to corrupt servants and effect secret communications.” With these words Elizabeth appeased her conscience. She had conveyed a clear warning to the French ambassador, and therewith to Mary Stuart. She had said as much as she could without betraying her servants. If Mary did not desist from the enterprise, Elizabeth could wash her innocent hands and say proudly: “At any rate I gave full warning at the last moment.”