James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

He sighed heavily. And wondered why Rebecca had come to see him.

Late that evening, Francis Walsingham was riding through the city, looking up at the open windows of some nearby houses. He wondered who might be watching him. It made him think about spies, and how many there were hidden behind the opaque routines of everyday life. Men who watched their servants for signs of theft of goods or money. Those who watched their neighbors. Servants who listened through thin, plaster-covered partitions to their masters’ words in the next room. Clergymen who observed their flocks for signs of sin. Later there would be the night watchmen patrolling the city for strangers out after curfew. The more one looked at a city, the more it seemed that everyone was on the alert. The business of mankind was increasingly that of watching itself, listening to its own sins, weaknesses, and betrayals.

And then there was him, Walsingham, the eyes and ears of her majesty’s Principal Secretary. He was the one who felt the pulse of society for signs of rebellions and revolutions, dissent and disservice. His role was to gather all the knowledge that others heard and saw, and to advise accordingly. And when knowledge was not enough, he acted on instinct. That was perhaps the most important part. He had to use a measure of instinct to know when someone was withholding information. Or to know where a plot was likely to emerge, and to be there, listening, to preempt it. As Sir William so often reminded him, if they were to foil nineteen plots out of twenty against the queen, they would have failed.

He turned a corner near his house in the east of the city and saw the high walls of the Tower of London ahead of him. Shielded in that great fortification, he would hear nothing. The queen in her palace heard nothing. Sir William himself heard little. It was essential for him, Walsingham, to be the listener that the queen and Sir William so desperately needed. He had to be in the streets, amid the smells, in order to understand what people told him. But what they really needed was for all these people with their shutters open, listening, to be the queen’s agents. A truly loyal people would report dissent and subversive conversations as a matter of course. Their love of their monarch and their spiritual duty to protect her majesty required it of them. Yes, that was what he should be planning: how to make the whole population his agents. How to make them betray one another. Each one could report to the constable of their ward or manor. And those constables could report to the hundredal officers or, better still, the lord lieutenant.

As he approached his house, he saw a horse tethered outside. He did not recognize it. That meant little; he was a poor judge of horses. But even he could see this one was exhausted and covered in sweat.

Walsingham rode through to his stable and dismounted. He shouted for a boy to attend to his mount and went through a passageway to the main hall, a large room open to the roof beams. The walls were relatively plain, decorated only with a pair of rather unflattering family portraits and two faded tapestries. A man was talking to one of his servants. They turned toward him when they heard his footsteps approaching across the flagstones.

“Good day, Mr. Walsingham,” said his servant with a small bow.

The other man said nothing. Walsingham looked at him. “George Latham, is it not? I sent you to Sheffield with your friend, Philip French-”

“ France , sir,” said Latham. “His name was Philip France.”

“Was?”

Latham held out a piece of paper. It was covered in blood. “He gave his life in your service, sir. The blood you see is that of the man who killed him.”

Thursday, May 4

Mrs. Barker, kneeling in a black silk and velvet dress, made the sign of the cross over her breast. She watched her priest, Father John Tucker, as he folded away the portable altarpiece that graced the table in the chamber that she used as a chapel. He was tall and thin, in his early forties, with a neat brown beard and sharp, concentrated features. He looked shrewd and serious.

She was much older-more than sixty years of age. She rose to her feet somewhat awkwardly. “Have you spoken to the others?”

“I have, my lady. They are all with us.”

“And Widow Machyn herself-she is still willing to cooperate?”

Father Tucker hesitated. “Yes.”

“You sound unsure. Do you think she will regret betraying Mr. Clarenceux?”

“The way she spoke, I think she truly believes in our cause. She knows that he should have acted by now. She too feels guilty. Her late husband died in the hope that that manuscript would be used, and that Parliament would act to set Elizabeth aside as illegitimate and proclaim Mary. Our patience and pressure over the last few months will pay off; she will do as we ask.”

“Good. The arrangement to switch her to a French ship-is that settled?”

Father Tucker lifted the missal that he had been using and placed it in a concealed cupboard built into the paneling. “Everything is in order. Rebecca Machyn will soon be far away from London.” He closed the panel door and turned to her. “And so will the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement.”

Friday, May 5

It was late morning. Sunlight poured in through the window of the study of Cecil House, on the north side of the Strand, and gleamed on the gilt frame of the portrait above the fireplace. Sir Wyllyam Sessylle, aetatis suae xxxii was painted in gold in the top right-hand corner. Francis Walsingham saw Cecil’s judicious face staring down at him from a quite different time, twelve years earlier. He reflected that he was now the same age as Cecil had been when that picture had been painted: thirty-two. Would he be in Cecil’s place in twelve years? Or still dependent on the sly political genius of his mentor and patron?

He turned away and walked slowly across the chamber. Dust shifted in the sunlight. He took a book from a shelf, turned it over in his hands, and opened it. His eyes focused on the words but he could not concentrate on their meaning. He replaced it and sat down at Cecil’s empty writing table, facing the door.

After a minute or two he got up again. Words drifted up the grand staircase outside, too indistinct for him to understand. Something was happening downstairs. He adjusted the close-fitting black cap that covered his receding hair and made sure his ruff was fluffed out and smart. He pulled the sleeves of his black doublet down to their full length and waited. Finally, after another five minutes, he heard footsteps and voices on the stairs as several men ascended.

Sir William Cecil entered the study, carrying a large pile of folded papers, followed by six attendants. His bright eyes were his most distinctive feature, even more noticeable than his reddish-brown beard, which was rapidly turning gray. His hair was thinning a little. The deep-blue velvet of his doublet contrasted strikingly with the pristine white of his ruff. “And remember, for everybody’s sake, don’t allow the ambassador to see the docks too closely,” he was saying to a clerk. “A glimpse is fine-it will reassure him that we are not hiding anything-but the rebuilding of five galleasses will have the opposite effect.” He turned to another clerk. “I need further details on the nature of the dispute between the Merchant Adventurers and the Company of Hanse Merchants at Antwerp. This impasse is most unsatisfactory. If they need an ambassador, I will send them one.” He saw Walsingham. “Ah, Francis, I was told you were here.” Cecil gestured for the other men to leave. “Go, all of you. I will deal with any further matters at one of the bell, in the great hall.”