Rory Clements - Holy Spy

He had spoken the thing that all men knew but refrained from saying. This was Walsingham’s ambition: the death of Mary Stuart.

The Principal Secretary paused to allow the enormity of the mission to sink in, then resumed his address. ‘Every man here must know that the Scots devil has conspired ceaselessly to snatch the throne of England. She would murder our Queen – her own cousin – to achieve her aim. This is fact; there can be no argument.’

Shakespeare felt Walsingham’s eyes alighting on him once more.

‘John, do you believe this?’

The sweat dripped at Shakespeare’s neck. Yes, he knew it well enough. Mary’s conspiracies had plagued the country these past decades. Any one of these plots could have cost the Scots Queen her head, deservedly. She had tried to murder Elizabeth Tudor and would do so again given the chance.

And so he nodded. ‘Yes, Mr Secretary, I believe this to be true.’

‘Then we may proceed. For over a year now, I have been striving to gather the proof that will do for this Scots devil once and for all. Unlike other countries, unlike this Queen of Scots herself, we do not murder our enemies in their beds or in dark alleys, but bring them to trial and punish them when their guilt is proven. And so it will be with her.

‘We must do this because only her death will end her plotting. Only her death will protect us. Were she monarch, she would have every man in this room hanged, and she would bring back the Inquisition first introduced here by that other Mary – Mary Tudor – with its burnings and horror. So we must find evidence strong enough to bring the Queen of Scots to justice – evidence that will convince Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of her cousin’s guilt. Evidence that will satisfy every royal court in the known world.’

Four men murmured their assent. Only Shakespeare was silent. Yes, he believed the Scots Queen guilty. And yet . . . and yet he wavered. There was a difference between catching a felon after a crime has been committed and using artifice to provoke a man or woman to commit such a felony. The word was entrapment . Could it ever be justified?

Walsingham continued. ‘Everything we do in the coming days has but one objective: to bring down Mary Stuart. All other matters are to be subsumed to this one end: the Scots devil’s head on the block. Nothing less. There are other guilty players who will also lose their heads, but none of them must take precedence over her.’

Again, the murmuring. The assent.

‘Good. Then all is understood. And so, gentlemen, I can now reveal to you that we have a way to secure the proof we need. Mr Thomas Phelippes is this very day at Chartley, organising what may soon lead to the final act of this tragical tale.’

Every man in the room was aware that Mary Stuart had been moved to a new place of confinement, the moated manor house of Chartley in Staffordshire. She had been conveyed there from Tutbury on Christmas Eve and was now utterly cut off from all but her immediate courtiers and secretaries. The days of open correspondence with her supporters in England and abroad were gone. Now not a letter was allowed in or out.

Her keeper, Amyas Paulet, was a Puritan who would not be moved by pleading or tears. When she complained to him, he turned his shoulder and walked away. She, in her turn, was said to be more defiant than ever, openly insisting that she would have back the crown of Scotland and would inherit the throne of England. But such words were a long way from implicating her in conspiracy. How could she conspire when she was held in such isolation?

Walsingham explained. ‘Tom Phelippes has devised a secret method of delivering letters to Chartley – yet the Scots Queen has been led to believe it was devised by her friends at the French embassy and among the English exiles in Paris. At the heart of it is Gilbert Gifford, a man believed by Mary to be trustworthy. And so she has confidence in the method, as do her courtiers. She can now receive and send letters certain that they are not read by Mr Paulet or Tom Phelippes.’ He laughed, a hissing sound through the teeth.

‘This means,’ Walsingham added, ‘that she now has the means to incriminate herself . All she needs is to find a conspiracy and she will assuredly fix herself to it. This is her nature. And it is our good fortune to have discovered a band of conspirators for her; a group of young men who plan to instigate an invasion, an uprising and an assassination. With a little nudge, she will reveal her heart to them. She will condemn herself by her own hand.

‘So who are these conspirators? Some of the names will be familiar. They cluster around Anthony Babington in the taverns and inns of Fleet Street, Temple Bar and Holborn. They are known as the Pope’s White Sons, such is their devotion to papism. They spend their nights talking treachery. Some might think them a brainless, worthless bunch of sluggards with no hope of ever doing harm, but they would be wrong, for they have made a covenant of treachery and death. For all their gentle birth, they deserve no pity, no mercy. Do not forget this.

‘Their numbers are swelled by two men whose intent is yet more significant. Their names are John Ballard, a priest who goes by the alias of Captain Fortescue, and John Savage, known as Goodfellow, a soldier turned lawyer who has sworn before the cross to assassinate the Queen. The plot now has purpose and becomes plausible. Ballard is presently in the north, seeking assurances among the Catholic gentry that they will rise up against us. He is under the control of my man Harry Slide. Savage, meanwhile, is at Barnard’s Inn, and is controlled by Mr Shakespeare, who has befriended him. As they gather momentum Babington will put their foul plan to the Scots devil and beg her assent. She will then hazard her hand in writing – and we will have her.’

He scanned the room. ‘It is your task, gentlemen, to keep control of this conspiracy. Discover men’s weaknesses and use them. Make them play their part.’ His eyes met Shakespeare’s again. ‘You, John, have one of the most difficult missions of all

– to so infiltrate the Pope’s White Sons that they believe you

are one of their number. Can you make them trust you?’

‘I hear mass with them. They believe me to be a papist.’

‘But they know you work for me.’

‘They think me a big catch. They hope to use me to discover your secrets.’

‘But I ask again – do they trust you?’

‘I think Babington does. Why would he not? All his fellows are well-born gentlemen, all connected to the court and the Queen’s Councillors. There is no reason that my link to your office should alarm them. I would say I fit in well. But do they all trust me? I think not. They never discuss their conspiracies openly.’ He paused. ‘And yet I see and hear enough.’

‘Well, play it their way. Keep close to Goodfellow Savage. If at any time you fear he has actually devised a method to kill Her Majesty, do not act with undue haste. Consult me before interceding. Give him rope. Soothe his fears. Nothing must be allowed to divert the plotters from their course. They will be allowed to remain at liberty until Mary Stuart’s death warrant is certain. We may never have another chance.

‘This means you must keep these people happy. Supply them with wine, weapons and women to suit their weaknesses. You all have your several roles, gentlemen, and money will be no object. Sir Robert Huckerbee here will ensure that whatever funds are necessary will be available from the Treasury coffers.’

Huckerbee stiffened, as though the prospect of laying Burghley’s purse wide open were a personal affront. ‘All out-goings will be accounted for,’ he said. ‘Waste and extravagance will not be tolerated.’