Salvation (9 page)

When he slept, he dreamt of St Bartholomew’s Day and woke shaking. Moonlight illuminated the room and naked, he sat on the edge of the bed. He was stocky in build with muscular arms and legs, but there was a slackening of the belly that had not been there a few years ago.
He grimaced and sucked in his stomach. At least he had kept plenty of thatch on his head.

He rubbed his thighs and got up to fetch his old night wrap. His knees cracked and he scowled; he felt more like sixty than forty-five. Pulling the night wrap around him, he returned to his bed. He wished Amélie were there to warm it for him. It was because of Catholics like Babington she was dead. No matter how charming he was, the sooner he and his kind were destroyed, the better.

He woke again at dawn but before he had the chance to leave the house, a message came from Walsingham. With a frown, Lamotte read it then struck a spark from his tinder box, set the paper alight and dropped it in the fireplace. He watched the paper’s crimson glow fade to grey.

Sometimes it was impossible to fathom how Walsingham’s mind worked. One minute he wanted you to fasten onto Babington like a tick on a dog’s belly, the next to stay away from him.
Lamotte sighed and went to his study. Well, at least he was free to devote his attention to the Unicorn now, and there was plenty of work to be done before he was due there.

*

Three days passed before another summons came, this time to attend Walsingham at Richmond where he was engaged on Court business. Once again, Lamotte made the journey upriver. The stench of the water seemed even more noxious than before. Passing Putney, Mortlake and Kew, he disembarked at the landing stage for the vast royal palace. It reared up before him, its awe-inspiring bulk bristling with forbidding battlements and towers.

The Royal Standard was not among the pennants fluttering from the flagpoles. He was glad to see it; the guards would let him through without too many officious questions if the queen was not in residence. It looked as if she soon would be, though. On the road to the gatehouse, packhorses, mules and carts jostled in the hot sun, their drivers cursing and grumbling. Their loads included sides of venison and beef, squawking crates of poultry, braces of game birds, exotic fruits, French wines and barrels of beer.

Lamotte slipped unnoticed past the guards at the gatehouse as they held up a belligerent carter and demanded to see his permit. With a confident stride, he then made his way through the throng in the main courtyard and found the staircase Walsingham had told him to use. A few minutes later, he was in his presence.

‘I appreciate I owe you an explanation, Alexandre,’ Walsingham motioned him to sit down. ‘When I ordered you to stop following Babington, it was because I had decided to arrange a meeting with him. It was my intention to explore how malleable he was and whether an appeal to his love of his country and his sovereign, matched of course with a promise of pardon for any treasonable acts he has committed, would persuade him to change his allegiance.’ Walsingham leant back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. ‘He stubbornly refused to understand me.’

‘So he has been arrested?’

‘No, I do not want him seized yet.’

Lamotte frowned. He wouldn’t risk questioning Walsingham’s judgement again, but the old spymaster did seem alarmingly willing to let the plot come close to fruition. Was he really so determined to frighten Elizabeth into dealing once and for all with Queen Mary? It was a very dangerous course to take.

‘On my orders, Richard Young, the London Magistrate, has sent his men to arrest John Ballard, but I want you, Alexandre, to find Babington again and stay with him until you hear from me. Give him this letter. In it I have assured him Ballard’s arrest is nothing to do with him and told him to keep close to you to avoid being taken by Young’s men. You look dismayed, b
ut I promise you, I know what I am doing. I return to London in the morning. If you have a message for me, I’ll be at Seething Lane.’

*

The house where Lamotte had seen Babington go that night was shut up. As he searched the areas and taverns he used to frequent, Lamotte felt his irritation rise. The task might take days and Babington might not even be in the city now. The whole business began to resemble a bungling comedy rather than a treasonable plot. He found his part in it increasingly frustrating and obscure. Eventually he recalled that in the old days, Babington had often spent time at St Paul’s. The nave of the great cathedral was a popular place for picking up gossip and exchanging news.

Pamphleteers and beggars jostled for his attention as he crossed
St Paul’s Churchyard and hurried into the cool interior of the cathedral. His pulse quickened as he pushed through the crowds. Tall enough to be seen over the sea of heads, Babington stood to one side of the nave with a rough-looking, bearded man. He was talking volubly, his hands chopping the air, while the bearded man stared at the ground, his shoulders hunched.

All at once, Babington took a ring from his finger and a purse off his belt and tossed them at the bearded man, who let them fall to the floor before turning on his heel and walking away. Staring after him, Babington stood with his hands hanging limp at his sides; to Lamotte he looked like a lost child.

Babington gave a start when Lamotte put a hand on his shoulder. ‘What are you doing here?’ he exclaimed.

‘I’ve come to help you.’

Lamotte took his elbow and steered him to a side chapel. Wearily, Babington allowed himself to be guided and collapsed onto one of the front pews, gazing distractedly at the bare walls. ‘How can you do that?’ he mumbled.

‘I have a letter for you from Sir Francis Walsingham.’ At the name, Babington’s face went from pale to red and back again. He shrank away, his eyes wide. If fear has a scent, Lamotte thought, I can smell it now.

‘You are Walsingham’s man?’

‘It’s not what you think. He wants me to tell you he knows you have no part in the conspiracy to take the queen’s life. Here,’ he put the letter in Babington’s hand, ‘read for yourself.’

Babington fumbled with the letter then handed it back unopened. ‘I can’t do it.’

Lamotte unsealed the paper and gave it to him. He waited while Babington scanned the words.

‘If Ballard is taken,’ he said at last, ‘why should I be spared?’

‘Because Walsingham understands you were led astray and in your heart, you are the queen’s loyal subject.’

Wordlessly, Babington turned his face away.

‘Come along,’ Lamotte said briskly, ‘you must eat and regain your strength then we’ll decide what to do.’

‘I don’t want to go where anyone knows me.’ Babington shot him a wary glance.

‘Don’t be afraid. I’ll find somewhere we won’t be disturbed.’

Outside, they left the churchyard, eventually stopping at a tavern in one of the alleys off Eastcheap. Babington ducked his head under the lintel of the low door and Lamotte followed him in.

The place was deserted except for half a dozen drinkers and a group of old men playing cards at the table in the window. Lamotte left Babington to sit down and went to the counter.

‘Send one of your potboys to Seething Lane, by St Olave’s Church,’ he said in an undertone. He slipped a shilling into the landlord’s hand. ‘Tell him to take a message to Sir Francis Walsingham’s house.’

The landlord nodded. ‘What message?’

‘Just say Alexandre waits here with the goods he asked for.’ He raised his voice. ‘If you say your beef is good then bring us some of it, and a flagon of wine.’

When the food arrived, Babington spurned it but swiftly drained a glass of wine and poured another. Apart from the low murmur of conversation from the other drinkers and the shuffle of cards, the tavern was quiet and sounds from the alley drifted distinctly through the open windows. Whenever footsteps approached, Babington’s eyes swivelled to the door, fixing on it until the sound died away.

The candle holder in the centre of the table held a stump surrounded by a heap of dead flies. A few live ones buzzed over the plate of discarded bones. Lamotte swatted them away and took out his pipe. ‘The beef was tolerable,’ he remarked, ‘a pity you wouldn’t try it.’

Babington was not listening to him. He was staring at a man who had just come into the tavern.
At the counter, the man spoke briefly to the landlord then approached their table.

‘Master Lamotte? I have a message for you.’

Lamotte took the note and scanned it. It was from Walsingham. The arrests had begun.

Babington’s fingers beat an agitated tattoo on the table top. He jumped to his feet. ‘I’ll pay our shot,’ he said abruptly. Leaving his cloak and sword on the settle, he hurried off in the direction of the counter.

‘You fool,’ Lamotte hissed at the waiting messenger.

The man bridled. ‘I’ve only done as I was bid.’

‘I’m sure you were not told to speak to me directly. Tell your master I’ll send word again when I am able to, now go away.’

His eyes turned to the counter. The card players had finished their game and were arguing about the reckoning. With a jolt, he realised Babington had gone.
He jumped up, pushed past the startled messenger, and rushed out to the privy in the backyard but there was no sign of his quarry. Back in the tavern, the landlord stood in his way. ‘Your friend’s already left. Don’t think you can too without paying the bill.’

Lamotte dug out a handful of coins and tossed them at him. Outside, the alley was deserted. With a sinking heart, Lamotte checked the adjoining streets but Babington was nowhere to be seen. If he wanted to elude pursuit, it would be hard to find him. Unless I have some luck soon, Lamotte thought, I shall have to face Walsingham and admit I have failed him.

*

Lamotte’s mouth was dry as he finished his tale. Across the desk, Walsingham’s face remained impassive.

‘I’ll continue my search, of course,’ Lamotte concluded lamely. To his surprise, Walsingham gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘You may leave that to others. Ballard has given me all the information I need to secure a conviction. The man you saw at St Paul’s was probably John Savage. He was the man eventually chosen to carry out the vile murder of Her Majesty. He has failed but at last the queen understands that her cousin Mary must die.’ He gave a chilly smile. ‘You are at liberty to go, Alexandre.’

Uncertain whether to be relieved or not, Lamotte got to his feet. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

In the days that followed, the humid weather continued. In the city streets, rotting piles of discarded fruit and vegetables crawled with flies. The Fleet and the Tyburn shrank, exposing clayey mud littered with rubbish and the bloated carcasses of cats and dogs. No longer sluiced by the rivers, the city’s ditches became tepid, brown puddles, reeking of excrement. In the shambles, meat crawled with maggots and flies; milk curdled in the dairies.

The rich went about with clove-studded oranges clamped to their noses to keep out the gamut of stenches.
Due to the fear of the sweating sickness spreading, the Lord Chamberlain closed the theatres and Lamotte occupied the sweltering days working on his accounts and future plans. Included in these was the first performance of Tom’s play.

Ten days after Babington’s flight from the tavern, Lamotte received a summons from Barn Elms. Walsingham was in an affable mood as his servant poured them goblets of yellow-green Rhenish wine then left the room. ‘Babington and his friends were sighted in
Westminster,’ he said. ‘They eluded Richard Young’s men but later some huntsmen out after wild boar and deer in St John’s Wood reported a suspicious group of men wandering there. They had no hounds with them and were not dressed for hunting.’

He paused and poured them both more wine. ‘After that, men of their description, recognisable even though their faces had been blackened by walnut juice, were sighted in the
village of Harrow. Young’s men finally tracked them to the nearby home of a recusant family we have had our eye on for some time.’

‘What will happen to them?’

‘They have all been arraigned on a charge of high treason. The trials are set for the first week of September.’

Lamotte shut his mind to the thought of how they would be faring in their captivity.

*

A few weeks later, when the verdicts of guilty were brought in, in every case, the sentence was death.

Lamotte did not join the thousands who flocked to the scaffold at St Giles in the Fields to see justice carried out. On the first day, Babington, Ballard and five others were executed. Afterwards, hearing that the butchery had been performed with far more savagery than usual, Lamotte was glad he had not witnessed it. Even the London crowd, hardened to cruelty, was shocked by the way Richard Topcliffe and his henchmen employed all their skills in inflicting agony on their helpless victims.

When the turn of the remaining conspirators came the following day, they were allowed to hang until they were dead. It was put about in the streets that the queen had so detested the previous day’s cruelty that she had ordered clemency. But Lamotte was more inclined to believe that Walsingham had advised her to show it to keep her people’s love.