The Captive Queen of Scots

XVII Chartley

SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM, whose great pleasure it was to serve his Queen, had for some time sought for a means to rid himself of one whom he considered to be an enemy.

Sir Francis understood his Queen; while Mary Queen of Scots lived Elizabeth was uneasy; willingly would she have given the order for her death, yet she held back; and the reason was that she knew Mary to be innocent of conspiring against her life; and Elizabeth, a Queen herself, could not happily condemn one who, she was pleased to say, was as royal as herself—although she secretly feared Mary was more so. It was necessary for the security of Elizabeth, for the peace of England, that Mary should be brought to the scaffold; what was equally necessary was that a strong case be made out against her. Sir Francis had long been seeking to prepare that case.

When Mary had been under the care of the Shrewsbury he had had to more cautiously. He believed that the Earl and the Countess—until the latter had brought those ridiculous accusations—had been Mary’s friends. It would not have been easy to work against her while she was guarded by such jailors. But now he had Amyas Paulet with whom to deal, and that was different.

The moment had come, Walsingham decided; and when he considered that wide network of spies which it had been his joy to build up, he believed he knew how to bring the Queen of Scots to her doom.

WALSINGHAM LOOKED AT THE PRIEST who had been brought to his presence.

He said: “Pray be seated, father. I have work for you.”

Gilbert Gifford obeyed and, as he looked across the table which separated them, he knew that the work he was going to be called upon to do was more important than anything he had done before.

Walsingham gazed down at his own hands which rested idly on the table. Gifford, who had worked for him before, guessed that behind that calm expression Walsingham was excited.

“I am ready to obey my lord’s commands,” answered Gifford.

“You are to leave at once for France.”

Gifford nodded. He had become accustomed to such orders since he had entered Walsingham’s spy ring, and he knew that he was one of his master’s most valuable agents, chiefly because he was a Roman Catholic priest and therefore accepted as a friend by many of Walsingham’s enemies.

“Do you know a man named Thomas Morgan,” went on Walsingham, “a fiery Welshman who, with a certain Parry, once worked hard to raise a rebellion for the sake of the Queen of Scots?”

“I do, my lord.”

“He is a prisoner in the Bastille. Her Majesty has asked for him to be sent to England, but the King of France, while making him a prisoner, shelters him there.”

“You wish me to seek him out?”

“I fancy he still conspires against Her Majesty. I would make certain of this. I want you to go to Paris, to see Morgan. It will not be difficult, I am sure, although he is in the Bastille, because he is not ill-treated and doubtless allowed to receive visitors. The King of France does not wish to punish the friends of the Queen of Scots—only to shield them from their just deserts.”

Gifford bowed his head.

“You will go to him,” went on Walsingham, “and tell him that you are in a position to carry letters from him to the Queen of Scots. Tell him that as a Catholic you wish to see her on the throne. He will have no reason to doubt you.” Walsingham smiled grimly. “Your cloth inspires such respect. I wish to discover what manner of letters the Queen of Scots is writing to her friends.”

“I will leave at once,” said Gifford.

Walsingham went on: “I know that Morgan was once involved in an attempt to assassinate our good Queen Elizabeth and set up Mary in her place, and that the King of Spain, the Pope and the Duke of Guise were anxious to help in this endeavor. It is part of the policy of that organization which they call the Holy League to remove all Protestant rulers, and set up Catholics in their places. You understand we live in dangerous times, Gifford.”

The priest’s eyes glowed. This was a mission which greatly appealed to him, although he knew that he was playing only one small part in it.

“And the letters which I receive I bring to you?” he asked.

Walsingham nodded. “And when I have examined their contents you will take them to the Queen of Scots with a letter from Morgan recommending you to her.”

“I shall win her confidence with the greatest ease,” Gifford added. “I have an uncle living not ten miles from Chartley where I understand the Scottish woman is now imprisoned.”

“I am sure you will act with your usual good sense. It is important that none should guess that you work for me, but there is one however whom we must take into our confidence. That is Sir Amyas Paulet. I shall write to him to tell him that you will be coming to Chartley in due course. Together you and he must devise a way for the Queen to smuggle letters out of Chartley which will seem plausible to her. She will think they are being taken to Morgan and her friends abroad. Some may reach them, but first they will pass through my hands.”

“I understand,” said Gifford.

“Then be on your way. Our work may be of long duration and I fear there is danger in delay.”

When Gifford had gone, Walsingham sat alone for some time deep in thought. He was setting the snare which he believed would soon be closing about his prey.

CHARTLEY WAS A PLEASANT CHANGE from Tutbury. Situated on a hill rising from a fertile plain, it was about six miles from the town of Stafford, and from its windows Mary had views of magnificent scenery.

She had liked the circular keep and round towers as soon as she had set eyes on them; but perhaps almost anything would have pleased her after Tutbury.

Her spirits were high and to some extent this helped her to forget her pains; and the fact that Sir Amyas was also complaining of his rheumatism made her feel that, suffering in similar fashion, he would be more inclined to have sympathy for her. This was not the case however, and he displayed a malignant pleasure because she was more affected by this disease than he was.

But almost as soon as the royal party arrived at Chartley, life seemed to become more exciting.

The first pleasant happening was when Barbara Curle confided to Mary that she was pregnant. Mary was delighted in the happiness of the young people and immediately began making plans for the birth of the child. The sullenness of Bessie though was becoming more apparent, and this disturbed Mary; she made up her mind that she must not allow Bessie to think that Barbara, a newcomer, had usurped her place in the Queen’s affections.

Another of her ladies, Elizabeth Curle, sister of Gilbert, became engaged to Andrew Melville, her Master of the household; and it was a great pleasure to Mary to see the happiness of those about her.

The third excitement was the arrival at Chartley of a priest whose uncle lived some ten miles away.

Sir Amyas, after what seemed like a good deal of deliberation, allowed the priest to visit her. It was always a comfort to talk with a Catholic priest, and Mary welcomed the man with great warmth; but when they were alone together and she heard what he had to say, her pleasure intensified.

“Your Majesty,” Gifford told her, “I have been recently in France and while there had conversation with a certain Thomas Morgan who is lodged in the Bastille.”

“I know of him,” replied Mary, and she was trembling a little.

“He gave me this letter to give to you.”

Mary took the letter he held out to her, and read that the bearer was one Gilbert Gifford, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, a man in whom she could place her complete trust.

The color had come into Mary’s cheeks; all the excitement of the old days was returning. This was as it had been when she had been young and full of hope, and had believed she had many friends eager to help her. So she still had friends. This was the most wonderful news she had had for a long time, and she was intoxicated with dreams of freedom.

“I will see that any letters you wish to write to your friends are delivered,” he told her.

She shook her head. “I am indeed a prisoner now as I never was before. Since Sir Amyas Paulet has been my jailor I have no means of sending letters to my friends; and if you come here often you would quickly fall under suspicion. Even now you may be searched before you are allowed to leave. The very fact that you are of my faith will arouse suspicions against you.”

“Your Majesty, I have thought of this and talked of it with your friends. You have rich and powerful friends, but you have humble ones also. There is a brewer in the nearby town of Burton—an honest man—who sends you your beer . . . he is your friend.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I have long sought means of helping you. Cautiously I made my discoveries. This brewer has promised to conceal a box in one of the barrels. It will contain letters from those who wish to see you free. This box can be taken from the barrel when it arrives at the castle. And when you write your replies, you will place them in the box and put it in the empty barrel which will be taken away by the brewer when he comes to collect them. He will pass these letters to me.”

“That is a clever notion.”

“I agree with Your Majesty and I shall see that they reach the persons for whom they are intended. To whom would Your Majesty wish to write?”

Mary considered. “To the Duke of Guise who will have heard rumors of my life here, and mayhap none of them true. To Archbishop Beaton, and of course to Morgan to thank him for sending you to me.”

Gifford nodded. “Have no fear. Paulet will never suspect. The next time the barrels are delivered you will find the box and I doubt not that Your Majesty will soon be putting it to good use.”

Thus Mary felt that in coming to Chartley she had begun to live again.

WALSINGHAM WAS RESTIVE. The plan was a good one, he was ready to admit, but it was moving too slowly. Mary was writing her letters which were passing by means of the brewer into Gifford’s hands; they were then conveyed to Walsingham and opened by one of his men who was skilled in the art of breaking seals and resealing in such a manner that it was impossible to discover they had ever been broken. However, many of the letters were in ciphers and the Queen did not always use the same one. Walsingham employed one of the best decipherers in the country, a man named Phillips, but even he found difficulty in decoding some of the letters.

This it was which slowed down the progress, and Walsingham decided that he could not get very far until he was in possession of all the Queen’s ciphers. He had for some time been watching an attaché in the service of the French embassy, for he believed a time would come when he could use this man. Walsingham prided himself that he could pick a bribe-taker at a glance, and Cherelles he believed to be one.

Now if Cherelles could be persuaded to visit Mary with letters from the King of France say, and asked her for the keys to the ciphers, she would not hesitate to give them. And for such a service what would Cherelles want? Say two hundred crowns? It would be money well spent.

MARY WAS DELIGHTED TO RECEIVE A VISIT from Cherelles. He brought with him letters from the King of France which were always a comfort to her. He listened sympathetically to an account of her sufferings and promised to do all he could to bring them to the notice of those who could help to alleviate them.

“There is one matter which has grieved some of your friends,” he told her. “They have been unable to decipher certain of your letters.”

“Is that so?” asked Mary surprised. “I must speak to my secretaries. I am sure they have introduced nothing new into the ciphers.”

“There is no need to do that. If Your Majesty will let me have the keys to all the ciphers in use, I will see that this difficulty is removed.”

“I will indeed do so, but I do not understand why my friends should suddenly fail to decipher my letters. However I will give you the keys.”

“And I shall lose no time in placing them in the right hands.”

“You must take great care that they do not pass into the wrong hands!” said Mary with a smile.

“Your Majesty can trust me.”

“I know. I wish I could show my gratitude in some way, but I am so poor now. Do you know, one of my greatest sorrows is that I can no longer give presents to my friends.” She looked down at her hand and drew off a diamond ring. “But take this,” she said. “I should be so happy if you would accept it.” Then she went to her table and opening a drawer took out a book which was bound in crimson velvet, and the corners of which were edged with gold.

“The embroidery was done by myself,” she said, laying her hand on the embossed velvet, “and I have written in it those thoughts which pleased me. Pray take it with my blessing. It is a small reward for all you have done for me.”

Cherelles was conscious of a sense of shame as he took the gifts, so graciously and generously given.

He was rather relieved to ride away from Chartley, but when he had placed the keys to the ciphers in Walsingham’s hands and had been complimented by that important man, the shame lingered.

JACQUES NAU WAS WRITING A LETTER from the Queen’s notes. It seemed that he and Gilbert Curle were constantly employed in this task now that they had the means of sending and receiving letters through the services of that honest man, the brewer.

Life was so frustrating. He and Bessie were no nearer marriage now than they had been when they had first talked of their desire for that state; and it was particularly galling to sit with Curle, listening to his conversation, and learn of his contentment with the married state. It was so unfair. Jacques had loved Bessie before Curle had known of the existence of Barbara Mowbray, and yet here they were, not only married but expecting to become parents. He could not go on in this way. He must do something.

Then, as he was writing the Queen’s letter, he remembered that Sir Henry Pierpont was at the Court of Elizabeth and that it might be possible to write a letter to him by way of Gifford and the box in the barrel.

No sooner had this idea occurred to him than he wrote to Sir Henry telling of the devotion he had felt for Bessie over many years, and that Bessie herself returned his affection. He implored Sir Henry to grant him permission to marry his daughter.

Having written and dispatched the letter, Jacques told Bessie what he had done. They could scarcely contain their impatience for Sir Henry’s reply.

MARY HAD READ THE LETTER before she realized that it was not intended for her but for her secretary. She was deeply shocked. Sir Henry Pierpont was giving his consent for the marriage of his daughter with Jacques Nau, although the girl had been promised to Lord Percy and it was the will of Queen Elizabeth, as well as the Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, that this marriage with Percy should take place.

Mary saw the danger in this situation. Bess of Hardwick had been forced to stop spreading her scandals against Mary, but if her granddaughter were allowed to marry Mary’s secretary, Bess would seek means of revenging herself on Mary whom she would almost certainly blame. Moreover although Jacques Nau was of good family, he would not be considered worthy to mate with the Shrewsburys’ granddaughter. What hurt Mary more than anything else was that Bessie, whom she had brought up since the girl was four, had not confided in her.

She immediately sent for Jacques and Bessie.

“This letter has come to my notice,” she said coldly. “And I must confess I am deeply shocked.”

When Jacques saw what it was he turned pale.

“It is an answer to one which you wrote to Sir Henry Pierpont,” Mary told him. “You are not going to deny you wrote such a letter?”

“I do not deny it,” answered Jacques with dignity. “Bessie and I wish to marry. It was natural that I should ask her father’s permission.”

“I should have thought it would have been more natural if you had asked mine.”

“I did not expect the same favor as Your Majesty bestows on Gilbert Curle.”

“You are insolent,” said Mary. “I will not speak to you until you have recovered your good manners. Please go now.”

Jacques bowed, and as he was retiring Bessie prepared to follow him.

“Not you,” commanded Mary. “You will stay.”

Bessie stood sullenly looking at the Queen.

“Why did you not tell me?” asked Mary reproachfully.

“Because you were determined to make me marry Lord Percy.”

“Of course you must marry Lord Percy. It was not I who arranged the match—but it is a good one.”

Bessie said: “I shall never marry Lord Percy.” And as she spoke all the affection she had been wont to give Mary seemed to have disappeared, and it was almost as though her grandmother stood there.

“Bessie, you are very young . . . ” began Mary tolerantly.

“I am a woman. I love Jacques. I have always loved Jacques. I love him more than anyone in the world. I always shall. I am going to marry Jacques . . . .”

“Now, Bessie, my dear, you know that a girl in your position must obey her guardians.”

“I care nothing for my guardians.”

“Bessie! You can say that!”

Mary was deeply wounded. She was thinking of the day she had become this child’s godmother, how she had told her stories as they lay in bed, how they had taken their meals together and how, when Bessie was little more than a baby, rather terrified of her overbearing grandmother, she had run to Mary for comfort. Bessie thought of nothing but her passionate love for Jacques; and she was ready to hate anyone who came between her and its fulfilment.

“I can say it, and I will say it. I love Jacques. I want Jacques, and I hate . . . hate, hate anyone who tries to stop our marriage.”

“You are a foolish child,” said Mary. “You are not being reasonable.”

“I care not for reason. I care for nothing but Jacques!”

“Bessie, I think you should think what you are saying.”

“I have thought of nothing else for months. I am going to marry Jacques and no one on Earth is going to stop me! You are an old woman—you don’t understand . . . . Or have you forgotten!”

Bessie suddenly burst into angry tears and ran from the room. Mary looked after her bewildered.

MARY WAS ENTIRELY PREOCCUPIED with the affair of Bessie and Jacques. Hatred for her had looked out of Bessie’s eyes when the girl had stood before her so defiantly proclaiming her love, and Mary was hurt.

Had the lovers come to her and told her of their feelings for each other before the Countess had expressed her desire for a marriage with Lord Percy, she would have done all she could to help them. Now it seemed that she could not, since to do so would be deliberately to oppose the wishes of the girl’s family.

Her little Skye terrier seemed to sense her grief and jumped onto her lap and licked her hands.

She stroked him tenderly for she took great joy in the little creature and since he had been sent to her he had not left her side.

She wondered what she would do about the defiant lovers; and eventually she believed that she should send Bessie away.

If Elizabeth would have the girl at Court it might be that, with all the splendor of that life, Bessie would forget Jacques. Mary was of the opinion that the girl, living the sheltered life which had necessarily been hers, had imagined she was in love with the first handsome man who had noticed her. Bessie was too young to understand this; if she went away, met other people, she might learn that her affection for the secretary was not the grande passion she had imagined it was.

Eventually Mary wrote to Sir Henry and Lady Pierpont telling them that she thought it was time they took their daughter into their home.

IN AN INN PARLOR not far from St. Giles’s-in-the-Fields a priest sat waiting for a visitor. His outstanding features were his burning fanatical eyes, and as he waited he drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. Eventually he was joined by a man in the uniform of a soldier.

“Pray be seated,” said the priest.

The soldier obeyed, drawing his chair close.

“I know we can trust each other,” went on the priest. “My name is John Ballard and we have mutual friends. I know you to be John Savage and that we hold similar views.”

“I believe Thomas Morgan has recommended me to you,” Savage murmured.

“That is so. You are the one who is ready to give his life for the Faith. That is all that matters. Danger lies ahead of us, my friend. Are you afraid of danger?”

“I am not afraid to die for my faith.”

“That is what I understood. Believe me, my friend, all of those who are ready to work in this project must hold those views.”

“Will you enlighten me?”

“With pleasure. I believe—and I am sure you as a good Catholic will agree with me—that no good can come to England while we have a Protestant bastard on the throne.”

“I believe with all my heart that no good can come to England until she returns to the Catholic Faith.”

“Then, my friend, we are in accord. It is our endeavor to bring back the Catholic Faith and, as we can only do so by removing Elizabeth, we plan to do exactly that and set Catholic Mary in her place.”

“Who else is with you in this enterprise?”

“Certain gentlemen whom you shall meet without delay. Do you wish to go further?”

“I wish it with all my heart,” replied John Savage.

IT WAS GROWING DARK when the two men made their way to a house in Fetter Lane. Ballard gave three slow knocks on the door which after a while was opened.

He stepped into a dark passage, and Savage followed him. The man who had opened the door, recognizing Ballard, nodded an acknowledgment, and they followed him down a flight of stairs and along a corridor. When they reached a certain door, this was quietly opened by Ballard, and Savage saw that he was about to enter a dimly lighted room which, it soon became apparent, had been made into a chapel; he saw the altar and, standing about it, several men.

Ballard announced: “John Savage. He is one of us.”

An unusually handsome man stepped forward and grasped Savage’s hand.

“My name is Anthony Babington,” he said quietly. “Welcome to our band. We were about to hear Mass. You will join us?”

“With all my heart.”

“Afterward we will go to my house in the Barbican and there you will become acquainted with my friends.”

Savage bowed his head, and the Mass began.

When they had left Fetter Lane for the house in the Barbican, Anthony Babington entertained his friends with food and wine, and after they had been served he bolted the doors and assured himself that nothing which was said in the room could be heard by anyone outside it.

Babington, Savage realized, was a man in his middle twenties. He was somewhat flamboyant in dress as he was in manner and his handsome features glowed with an enthusiasm which was infectious. Babington believed wholeheartedly in his plot; he could not visualize failure, and such was his personality that everyone around that table caught his fervor.

He took the center of the stage and dramatically explained why this party of men were gathered together in such secrecy.

“My friend,” he said, “now that you have joined us we are thirteen in number. But do not think we are alone. Once we are ready we shall find the entire Catholic Nobility of England behind us. And we have allies outside England. This is no Northern Rising, gentlemen. This is going to be the revolt against Protestantism which will change the course of our country’s history. The Pope is with us. The King of Spain is with us. And once we have removed the bastard from the throne, these powerful allies will come to our aid.”

He looked around the assembly, his eyes glowing.

“John Savage,” he went on, “I will now introduce you to your colleagues.” He pointed to the man who sat on his right hand. “Edward Abington,” he said. Savage inclined his head in greeting which was returned by Abington. Then he indicated the others who sat around that table and the procedure was repeated: “Edward Windsor, Edward Jones, Chidiock Tichbourne, Charles Tilney, Henry Donn, Gilbert Gifford, John Traves, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury.”

When the greetings were over, Babington said: “Now pray be seated and we will talk together.”

Savage took his seat and Babington went on to explain the conspiracy, which he had been chosen to lead. It was well known on the Continent, he explained, that he was an ardent Catholic, devoted to the cause of the Queen of Scots. The core of the plot was to bring England back to the Catholic Faith and to free the Queen of Scots, but there was one deed which must be performed before this could be achieved: the assassination of Elizabeth. Once Elizabeth was dead the King of Spain and the Pope would not hesitate to give their open support. Therefore their first task was to plan that assassination. When the time was ripe Babington proposed to call for six volunteers for this most important task. In the meantime there were minor details to be discussed.

“I will inform the Spanish ambassador that we rely on Philip II above all, and that it is because of his encouragement and promises of help that we have the zeal and courage to go on with this dangerous plan. We shall ask for an assurance that, as soon as Elizabeth is dead, help reaches us from Spain and the Low Countries. Ships in the Thames must be seized. Cecil, Walsingham, Hunsdon and Knollys must be immediately either captured or killed. I shall inform the Queen of Scots of our intention.”

Charles Tilney put in: “Is it wise to tell her of the intention to murder Elizabeth? I have reason to believe that she will not readily agree to be party to such a deed.”

Babington was thoughtful and others added their doubts to Tilney’s.

They should go cautiously in their communication with the Queen of Scots who was, after all, a prisoner in the hands of their enemies.

“Letters will have to be smuggled to her,” pointed out Henry Donn. “A dangerous procedure.”

Gifford spoke then. “I do not think you need fear, my friends. We have a very good method of conveying letters to the Queen. The brewer of Burton is an honest man whom we can trust. The Queen must be prepared for rescue. It would be unwise to keep her in the dark.”

There was clearly a divided opinion on this matter and it was temporarily shelved.

But when the meeting was over and the conspirators went their various ways, Gifford returned to the house to speak to Babington; they sat for a long time discussing the plot, and Gifford did not have great difficulty in persuading Babington that it would be advisable to inform Mary of their intentions.

ANTHONY BABINGTON was a vain young man. Extremely handsome, elegant and wealthy, he had been intended for the Bar, but had abandoned this career for a fashionable life on the fringes of the Court. He had divided his time between that Court and his vast estates at Dethick. During the last few years he had also traveled abroad and, because he must be the center of attention, he had become known as an ardent Catholic, and a man of adventure, so that he had been noticed as a suitable leader to be remembered when such a one was needed—for his vitality, enthusiasms, wealth and charm were invaluable.

When he was barely eighteen he had married Margery, the daughter of Philip Draycot of Paynsley in Staffordshire; the Draycots were Catholics, as were his mother and his stepfather, Henry Foljambe. Among such fervent Catholics intrigue was constantly fostered, and Anthony soon became a member—with the support of his family—of a secret society which had been formed for the protection of Jesuit missionaries in England.

And so it was that while he was but twenty-five he found himself at the head of a conspiracy which if it succeeded would change the course of English history.

Anthony now saw himself as a man of destiny. He believed that Fate had chosen him. Was he not outstandingly handsome, cultured, witty? Did he not draw men and women into his circle through his charming manners?

He had always cherished a devotion to the Queen of Scots. She was such a romantic figure—a beautiful woman, a Queen, a helpless prisoner, the motive for many a conspiracy, the symbol of many a cherished ideal.

When he had met her he had been conscious of that potent charm. He was devoted to his wife and young daughter, but, for him, as she was for so many, the Queen was someone to worship from afar, the ideal woman.

But Anthony Babington was no simple-hearted George Douglas. His devotion was not single-minded. For although Anthony admired the Queen, he admired himself more.

Anthony must be the center of the stage—the leading character in the drama. The Queen was a charming second—but a symbol, whose grace and beauty must merely serve to emphasize the valor of the man of action.

He had already committed an act which he knew some of the conspirators would have declared not only foolish but highly dangerous, when he had caused to be painted a picture of himself with six of his friends—himself in the center as leader—and had allowed this picture to be inscribed with the words:

Hi mihi sunt comites, quos ipsa pericula ducunt.

Perhaps the best time to have had such a picture painted would have been after the conspiracy had been brought to a successful conclusion, but Babington was impatient, and he derived great pleasure from looking at this portrait of himself.

He was impatient now—eager to receive the approbation of the Queen of Scots. He wanted Mary to know that he was ready to risk his life for her; when the plot succeeded there would be many to claim her praise for their part in it; he wanted her to know now that the plot was Babington’s plot and that it was he who was at the very heart of it.

He knew that he should act with caution, that some members of the company had thought it unwise to write to Mary; but Gifford was with him. Gifford believed that Mary should be informed.

Anthony took up his pen and wrote to Mary:

Most highly and excellent Sovereign Lady and Queen unto whom I owe all fidelity and obedience . . . .

He smiled as he wrote, and the eloquent words rose to his lips while he mouthed them slowly to keep time with his pen.

He himself, with his trusted followers, would deliver her from her prison; they planned to dispatch the “Usurping Competitor”; he told her that Ballard, who was one of Her Majesty’s most zealous servants, had recently come from overseas with promises of help from Christian Princes. He wished to know if he could promise his friends rewards for their services when victory was won.

He signed himself: “Your Majesty’s most faithful subject and sworn servant, Anthony Babington.”

Having finished, he read through the letter once more, repeating the phrases which seemed especially well turned.

He closed his eyes and rocked to and fro in his chair, looking into a future colored bright with the rewards of valor and loyalty. The Queen of Scots was now the Queen of England also. She reigned in Hampton Court and Greenwich; and always beside her was her most faithful friend and adviser, without whom she would make no decisions. She wished to shower honors on him; she wanted the whole world to know that she would never forget all he had done for her.

But he only smiled and said: “It matters only that I can say to myself: ‘But for Anthony Babington my gracious lady would still be a prisoner of the bastard Elizabeth.’ That is all the reward I ask.”

Then she begged and pleaded—and just to please her he accepted an earldom . . . a Dukedom . . . great estates . . . and so it was—almost against his will—that the most important man in England was now Anthony Babington of Dethick.

This was no time to dream. He sealed the letter and took it to Gifford.

“I have written to the Queen,” he said. “I know I can trust you to see that it reaches her.”

“With the help of that honest man it shall reach Her Majesty in her next consignment of beer.”

When they parted, Gifford was smiling. His master would be pleased, he was thinking, as he made his way to Walsingham.

WALSINGHAM EXULTED as he read the letter.

“Well done,” he murmured. “Well done.”

“It seems, my lord,” ventured Gifford, “that the end is in sight.”

“Let us not be impatient. This Babington is a fool.”

“Assuredly so. Do you propose to arrest him now?”

“No. We will give him a little more rope. He is such a fool that he gives me no qualms. I will have this letter resealed at once and you must see that it reaches the Queen’s hands without delay. Her answer will be interesting. Go now. You will be hearing from me very soon.”

Gifford left Walsingham and made for Chartley. Meanwhile Walsingham sent for Thomas Phillipps. He had work for him.

MARY CONTINUED TO BROOD on the change in her relationship with Bessie Pierpont. Bessie was sullen in her presence and showed no regret that their love for each other had undergone this change. Bessie hated everyone and everything which kept her from Jacques.

“I understand her love for the man,” Mary told Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curle, “but surely she must understand my position. How can I help her against the wishes of her grandmother? And she grows more like Bess of Hardwick every day. To tell the truth, when I see her looking so much like the Countess I almost wish that she were one.”

There were complications also with Jacques who knew that the Queen was endeavoring to have Bessie sent away. He too was resentful, and she knew that he jealously watched Barbara and Gilbert Curle as though, by favoring them and not himself and Bessie, she had been guilty of unkind favoritism.

“As though I do not want everyone about me to be happy!” She sighed. “God knows there is enough unhappiness in these prisons which I have been forced to inhabit for so many years!”

She looked forward to those days when the beer was delivered. There was always the excitement of seeing what was in the box; and it was while she was so distressed about Bessie and Jacques that she received the letter from Babington.

It was in cipher of course, and it was necessary for one of the secretaries to decipher it. This duty fell to Gilbert Curle who, when he brought it to her, was very agitated. He handed it to her and she read it, catching her breath as she did so.

Freedom! she thought. A chance of freedom at last.

She reread the letter and her eyes rested on that phrase “dispatch the Usurping Competitor.” She knew what that meant, and she heartily wished it had not been included. And yet . . . Elizabeth had kept her in prison for all these years. Should she be anxious on her account?

Why, thought Mary, once I am free I will never allow them to do this deed. I will demand my rights and nothing more. I do not seek to be Queen of England. I only wish to regain my own crown, to be with my son again, to bring him up as my heir.

“Your Majesty will answer this letter?” asked Curle.

She nodded.

“Send for Jacques Nau,” she said.

Jacques came sullenly into her presence, seeing that Curle was already with her.

“Ah, Jacques,” said Mary, “I have received a letter which I must answer. You will take my notes and then Gilbert will put them into English and into cipher.”

This was the usual custom, for Mary thought in French and Jacques took notes and composed her letters, then handing them to Gilbert for translation into English, for although Jacques spoke English well and Curle French, Mary preferred to use them in this way to ensure greater accuracy.

“It is a letter to an Anthony Babington,” said Mary to Jacques. “You had better read what he says.”

Jacques read the letter and turned pale as he did so.

“Well, Jacques?” asked Mary.

“Your Majesty should not answer this letter.”

“Why not?”

“To do so would put Your Majesty in the utmost danger.”

“Gilbert, what do you think?” asked Mary.

“I agree with Jacques, Your Majesty.”

Mary did not speak for some time, but she had clearly abandoned her intention to answer immediately.

“I will think about it,” she said.

A NEWCOMER HAD APPEARED at Chartley. This was Thomas Phillipps who, when he arrived, asked to be taken at once to Sir Amyas Paulet.

Paulet rose with difficulty to greet his guest who was a somewhat unprepossessing man of about thirty; he was short and very thin; his beard and hair were yellow, but he peered shortsightedly out of dark eyes and his skin was hideously pockmarked.

“We could not be overheard?” Phillipps asked.

“That is impossible,” Paulet assured him.

“That is well. I come on the business of Secretary Walsingham.”

“He is pleased with the work we are doing here at Chartley, I trust.”

“He is indeed. But we are reaching the climax. An important letter has been delivered to the Queen, and we are eagerly awaiting her reply.”

“If it is what you wish, she will be entirely incriminated?”

Phillipps nodded.

“And if not . . . I suppose we shall go on with our little comedy of the beer barrels?”

“It will be what we wish. It has to be.”

“I see you have instructions from the Secretary.”

“Very definite instructions. As soon as the letter is in your hands it must be passed to me here. For that reason I have come here. This is the most important letter of all. It is not safe to trust it to any messenger. It must come straight from the box to me, that I may decipher it and myself deliver it into the hands of my master.”

“Your presence in the castle will not go unnoticed.”

Phillipps waved his hands. “Let some rumor be circulated. You are not well. You have asked for help in your task, and I have come to relieve you. That is as good a tale as any.”

“It shall be done,” answered Paulet.

“JANE . . . ELIZABETH,” said Mary, “who is the pockmarked man?”

Jane did not know, but Elizabeth answered: “His name is Thomas Phillipps, Your Majesty. He is here to relieve Paulet of some of his duties.”

“I do not much like him.”

“Nor I,” put in Jane.

“I saw him yesterday when I rode out in my coach for a little breath of air. He was riding toward the castle. He saluted me. I did not like his sly eyes, which peered at me so oddly. I felt almost glad that I was surrounded by guards. That was an odd feeling to have for a stranger.”

“I hope he is not going to replace Paulet,” said Elizabeth.

“I had thought I disliked him as much as I could dislike any jailor. Yet I think that I would rather have Paulet than this pockmarked Phillipps.”

“Let us not concern ourselves with him, Your Majesty,” Jane said. “It may be that he will soon be gone.”

“Yes, there are other matters with which to concern ourselves,” Mary agreed.

There was Babington’s letter. If she did not answer it, would that mean the loss of another chance to escape?

I have let too many chances pass by, she told herself. If I had been bolder I might not be a prisoner now.

But for that one sentence . . . . But if she were restored to the throne, if she were free and able to command, she would tell them that she forbade them to allow any harm to come to Elizabeth. She would say: It may be that she is a bastard, but the people of England have accepted her as their Queen, and she is indeed the daughter of Henry VIII.

She would answer the letter.

She sent for Jacques and told him to take notes. He looked at her with those dark eyes of his which had once been so affectionate and now were often reproachful. At this moment they were fearful.

Never mind. She was the one who must make decisions.

“Trusty and well beloved,” she began.

And Jacques took up his pen and wrote.

She wanted to know what forces they could raise, what captains they would appoint; what towns were to receive help from France, Spain and the Low Countries; at what spot the main forces were to be assembled; what money and armor they would ask for; and by what means had they arranged her escape. She begged Babington to be wary of all those surrounding him, for it might be that some who called themselves friends were in truth his enemies.

She put forward three methods by which she might escape from her prison. Firstly she might take the air on horseback to a lonely moor between Chartley and Stafford; if, say, fifty or sixty men well armed could meet her there, they could take her from her guards, for often there would be only eighteen or twenty of these with her and they would only be armed with pistols. Secondly, friends might come silently to Chartley at midnight, set fire to the barns, stables and outbuildings which were near the house and, while this was being extinguished, it would be possible, with the help of her trustworthy servants, to rescue her. Thirdly, her rescuers might come with the carters who came to Chartley in the early morning. Disguised they could pass into the castle, upsetting some of the carts under the great gateway to prevent its being closed, while they took possession of the house and brought her out of it to where armed supporters could be waiting half a mile or so away.

She ended with the words:

God Almighty have you in protection.

Your most assured friend forever.

Fail not to burn this quickly.

Mary sat back watching the two secretaries at work. Immersed in the task, they forgot the danger, and Mary felt alive again.

“This cannot fail. This cannot fail,” she whispered. “Soon now I shall be free.”

It was difficult to wait patiently for the brewer to come for the empty barrels. What joy when at last he came, when the box was put into place and the letter sent on its way.

PAULET BROUGHT THE LETTER to Phillipps.

“At last,” sighed the latter. “I thought it would never reach me.”

“It would have aroused suspicions, had we changed the routine in any way.”

“Of course. Of course.” Phillipps broke the Queen’s seals and looked at the document. He glanced up at Paulet, anxious to be alone that he might continue with his task of deciphering.

Paulet understood and left him, and as Phillipps labored, his shortsighted eyes close to the paper, he was almost trembling with excitement.

This was what they had been waiting for. Walsingham was going to be delighted with his servant. Phillipps could scarcely wait to decipher it all.

At last his task was completed and he read through the damning letter.

Was it enough? Would it satisfy Walsingham?

Then he had an idea. Why should he not add a postscript to this letter? No sooner had the idea entered his head than he set to work.

I should like to know the names and qualities of the gentlemen who are to accomplish the task, for it may be that I should be able to give further advice; and even so do I wish to be made acquainted with the names of such principal persons. Also from time to time how you proceed, and how far everyone is privy hereunto.

The letter was ready for dispatch to Walsingham, and all in good time it would reach Babington.

Delighted with his work, Phillipps made a little design on the outside of the letter. It was of a gallows.

WHEN BABINGTON eventually received the Queen’s letter he put it to his lips and kissed it.

Now, he told himself, our plans will soon come to fruition. The Queen is with us. She will never forget us when we have brought her out of her prison. This is the happiest day of my life.

Now he was going to answer the letter in detail, as she so clearly desired. He would get together all the information that she asked and gladly give it to her. The moment was at hand.

It was while he was writing his reply that his servant came to tell him that a friend had called and was asking to see him.

Ballard was ushered into his room, and as soon as they were alone together it became clear that Ballard was agitated.

“All is not well,” he said. “I fear there is treachery among my servants.”

Babington was startled. He thrust his hands out of sight, because he feared they might begin to tremble.

“What has happened?” he demanded hoarsely.

“Little as yet. But we must take the utmost care. I have reason to believe that one of my servants is betraying us. I saw him in conversation with a man in a tavern who I know was at one time an agent of Walsingham’s.”

“You have questioned this servant?”

“No. It would be unwise to arouse suspicions. I shall watch him. But in the meantime I wanted to warn you to act with the utmost caution.”

“I was about to write a letter to the Queen in reply to hers.”

Ballard caught his breath and held out his hand for Mary’s letter. When he read it he was silent.

“If this fell into the wrong hands all our endeavors would be wasted,” he said.

“My dear Ballard, of course it cannot fall into the wrong hands. All our correspondence has been reaching us through that honest man, the Burton brewer. Gifford has arranged this excellent method of carrying letters to and from the Queen. You cannot doubt its efficiency?”

“I do not. But I say, at this stage move with care. Do not answer that letter until we have satisfied ourselves that all is well.”

Babington was disappointed, and Ballard thought how young and impetuous he was, and for the first time questioned the wisdom of making him the leading spirit in the conspiracy.

“If you value our lives, do not write to the Queen until we are sure that we are safe,” he insisted.

Babington nodded slowly. “You are right,” he added, with regret.

When Ballard had gone, he tried to recapture his dream of Babington, the first minister of the new Queen of England. But it would not return. Instead other pictures—grotesque and terrifying—were forcing themselves into his mind.

Ballard had shaken him.

WALSINGHAM WAS WAITING IMPATIENTLY for the letter he expected, and when it did not come, he guessed that the suspicion that all was not well must have struck the conspirators. He had not meant to make arrest at this point. There was more information that he had hoped to acquire through that interesting correspondence. But if the conspirators were aware that they were being watched, there must be a hasty change of plans.

Babington might be called the leader of the plot, but the experienced Ballard would certainly be the chief instigator. A sharper watch should be kept on Ballard.

As the days passed Ballard’s suspicions grew stronger, and he called a meeting of his friends in St. Giles’s Fields at dusk.

When they were all gathered there he said that they must disperse after the meeting and wait until they had further news from him. He suspected they were being spied on, and he was determined to question the spy without further delay.

They would each leave the Fields separately and go their different ways. Soon he hoped to send them news that it was safe for them to reassemble and make their final preparations.

Ballard was the last to leave and, as he sauntered to the edge of the Fields, two men emerged from a clump of bushes.

“John Ballard?” said one.

“You wished to speak with me?”

The other came swiftly toward him and had seized him by the arm.

“You are the Queen’s prisoner.”

“On what charge?”

“Treason,” was the answer.

Then John Ballard understood that his fears were well founded.

BABINGTON WAS REALLY ALARMED NOW. He knew that Ballard had been taken, but he did not believe that Walsingham was aware of the conspiracy. If so, why should he arrest Ballard and allow the others to go free?

Ballard could be trusted not to betray his friends. He was a zealous Catholic and one of the bravest men Babington had ever known. He would remain silent no matter what they did to him, for he would still hope that the plan to murder Elizabeth and set up Catholicism in England would succeed.

But it was unwise to stay in England. Babington invited several of the conspirators to the Barbican and told them that he planned to go to France to make the final arrangements for a foreign invasion. He was therefore applying to Walsingham for a passport.

This explanation was plausible. As for Ballard’s arrest, they discussed this and Gifford suggested that it may have been that he had been taken on account of his being a recusant—as many priests were.

“Undoubtedly that is so,” answered Babington. “But we must go ahead with our plans. The sooner I am in France the sooner we shall be in a position to proceed.”

This was agreed and when after a few days Walsingham had made no reply to his request, Babington, beginning to grow uneasy, wrote once more to the Secretary offering his services while in France to act as a spy. As a gentleman of Catholic leanings, he pointed out, he would be trusted by other Catholics and would thus be in a position to move easily among the enemies of their Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.

Walsingham was amused, and called his steward, one of his secretaries and several of his higher servants to him.

“There is a young man,” he told them, “who is importuning me to supply him with a passport. Get into touch with him, ask him to sup with you. Watch him carefully and ply him with wine. Listen to what he says when in his cups. You might suggest that . . . for a consideration . . . you would see if you could procure for him what he wants.”

Shortly afterward Babington received a call from Walsingham’s secretary and accepted an invitation to supper.

But Walsingham’s servants had not been trained to spying, and something in their demeanor aroused Babington’s suspicions. He did not drink as freely as they would have wished and, during the time he was in Walsingham’s house, he caught a glimpse of papers on the secretary’s table and there was one in Walsingham’s own handwriting on which, to his horror, he saw his own name.

That put an end to his peace of mind. Excusing himself he left the party and went hastily to his house in Barbican; there he left a message, with one of his servants whom he could trust, to warn the rest of the conspirators and then made with all speed to St. John’s Wood.

In the heart of the wood he found a hut, and here he stayed for the rest of that night. In the morning his servant came to him, as he had told him to, bringing with him food and walnut juice. With this latter Babington stained his skin, and then made his servant cut off his hair. Then he changed clothes with his servant, and sent him back to Barbican.

He could not live here for long, so he only remained in the hut for the rest of the next day and then, during the following night, he walked to Harrow to the home of a Jerome Bellamy, who had recently been converted to Catholicism.

Jerome stared at the brown-faced man whom he did not immediately recognize, but when Babington explained his plight and the danger in which he knew himself to be in, Jerome eagerly agreed to shelter him.

There he remained for some weeks. But the hunt had begun.

Walsingham, aware that Babington knew he was a wanted man, decided his freedom must be ended; he knew also that his quarry could not be far away, and it was no secret that Jerome Bellamy of Harrow was a recent convert to Catholicism and a friend of Babington’s.

One warm August night a man knocked at the door of Jerome’s house, and when the door was opened forced his way past the startled servant.

“It is no use trying to eject me,” said the newcomer. “The house is surrounded by the Queen’s men. I come to search it because I believe you are sheltering here a traitor to our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth.”

There was no escape.

Anthony Babington was taken from Harrow, Walsingham’s prisoner.

SIR AMYAS PAULET came to the Queen’s apartment; he was smiling, and rarely had Mary seen him in such a good humor.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “I have here an invitation from Sir Walter Aston of Tixall, which is close by Chartley, as you know. He is arranging a stag hunt in his park and asks if you would care to join his party.”

Mary’s eyes sparkled at the prospect. In the summer she felt so much better, and during these lovely August days she had felt herself to be quite well enough to ride a horse and handle a crossbow.

“Then I will convey your wishes to Sir Walter,” Paulet told her.

And all that day Mary was excited at the prospect of riding a horse.

“I believe,” she told Jane Kennedy, “that Paulet no longer hates me as he once did. He seemed almost pleased because I was to have this pleasure.”

“It may be that the more sickly he grows, the more sympathetic he is toward Your Majesty,” replied Jane.

On the appointed day, the party set out from Chartley, with guards in front and behind; and beside Mary rode Sir Amyas.

Mary’s spirits were high. She could almost believe that she had escaped from her prison. The air was warm, and it was glorious to see the sun on her flesh. She spurred her horse and galloped on. Sir Amyas could not keep pace with her and, remembering his strained face as he rode beside her, she slackened speed and waited for him to catch up with her.

Poor old man! she thought. He is infirm, and he must be frightened to see me galloping ahead of him in such a manner. If her supporters suddenly appeared, that would be a different matter. Sir Amyas could not be blamed if his guards were outnumbered. But she did not wish to alarm the old man unnecessarily.

“I’m sorry, Sir Amyas,” she said. “I know how stiff your limbs are. None could know better than I.”

Sir Amyas gave her his sour smile and they rode side by side for a few more miles. She glanced at Jacques and Gilbert who were members of the party riding close behind her, and she was pleased to see that they too were enjoying the exercise.

If I had always been allowed to ride in this manner, she thought, I should have enjoyed better health.

It was Jacques who, coming close to her, cried suddenly: “Your Majesty, there is a party of horsemen riding toward us.”

Then Mary saw them and her heart leaped with hope.

They had planned it. This was it. They had come to rescue her. This was one of the methods she had said they might use.

But it was not a large party. Would they be strong enough to hold back the guards?

Now that the two parties were coming to a halt, and Sir Amyas was riding forward, Mary saw that at the head of the horsemen was one in serge trimmed with green braid. He could not be one of her friends unless he was disguised in Tudor livery; he was talking confidentially to Sir Amyas.

She rode her horse forward and called imperiously: “Sir Amyas, who is this that hinders us in our journey?”

Sir Amyas turned his head to look at her, and there was something like loathing in his eyes as he said: “This is Sir Thomas Gorges, a servant of our Queen.”

Sir Thomas Gorges dismounted and came to stand by Mary’s horse. When he reached her he said in tones which could be heard by those who stood close by: “Madam, the Queen, my mistress, finds it very strange that you, against the agreement which you made together, have undertaken against her and her estate; and in consequence of the discovery of your share in a horrible conspiracy against her life, my orders are to conduct you to Tixall.”

Mary said coldly: “I do not understand you, sir. And I refuse to go with you to Tixall.”

“You have no choice, Madam, since you have conspired against Queen Elizabeth.”

“She has been wrongly informed.”

She was aware of Jacques and Gilbert, and she remembered the letter she had written to Anthony Babington. She must speak to them without delay. She must warn them, for it seemed certain that that letter had fallen into Elizabeth’s hands.

“I will return to Chartley,” she said. She looked quickly from Jacques to Gilbert. “Come, ride with me.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Sir Thomas Gorges. “Those two men must not be allowed to speak to the Queen.”

Jacques and Gilbert immediately attempted to bring their horses level with Mary’s, but as they did so they were intercepted by the guards and Gorges cried: “Arrest those two men. They are to be taken at once to London.”

“You cannot do this!” she cried.

“Madam, you are mistaken,” replied Paulet coldly.

“Oh, Jacques,” murmured Mary, “what means this? And you, Gilbert . . . ” She looked with dismay at the two young men who for so long had been her friends. She thought with anguish of Barbara who was so soon to give birth to her first baby; how would Barbara take the news that Gilbert was the Queen’s prisoner?

But it was useless to expect sympathy from these men. Already they had seized the two secretaries.

“Gilbert,” she called, “I will take care of Barbara.”

Sir Amyas had his hand on the bridle of her horse.

“Come, Madam,” he said, “we are riding to Tixall, where you will remain during the Queen’s pleasure.”

All the joy had gone out of that sunny morning, and there was terrible foreboding in her heart as Mary rode with her captors toward Tixall.

A SUBDUED SIR WALTER ASTON received Mary at Tixall Park. There was no hunt, as had been promised her, and she was conducted to two small rooms which, she was told, were all that could be put at her disposal.

Her servants were not allowed to visit her; she was to have no books, no pen nor paper; thus for days she was left alone in apprehensive solitude, Sir Amyas Paulet remaining at Tixall to guard her while he sent his officials back to Chartley to ransack her apartments for any shred of evidence which could be used against her.

Jacques and Gilbert were taken before Walsingham who, after questioning them without being able to make them utter a word against their mistress, kept them confined in separate rooms in his own lodgings in Westminster Palace. He did not doubt that in time he would get from them what he wanted.

He set his man, Aleyn, to watch over Jacques, and this man slept in the same chamber and was with Jacques night and day, engaging him in conversation, waiting for one word which would betray the Queen.

Jacques was very melancholy, and it was not easy to make him talk.

Aleyn tried to coax him. “Come,” he told him, “you cannot be blamed. My master is a very just man. He knows full well that as secretary to the Queen you must perforce do your duty. If she said to you, Write this, then you wrote. All my master wishes is to confirm what is already known was written.”

Jacques remained silent for some time and then he said: “I wonder how she is taking this.”

“She is fearful, my friend, doubt that not.”

“She will be wondering what has become of me. She is so young; it is hard that she should suffer so.”

“Young! She is no longer young and she will be too concerned with her own skin, friend, to think much of yours.”

“I see you have misunderstood. I was speaking of another.”

“Your mistress?”

“We will marry when it can be arranged.”

“Ah,” grunted Aleyn, disappointed.

But now Jacques had begun to speak of Bessie he could not stop; he told Aleyn of the way her eyes sparkled and how soft her hair was; and how quickly she grew angry, how defiant she was, how determined when she had set her heart on something—as she had set her heart on marrying him.

Aleyn listened halfheartedly. Strange, he thought, that when a man was in mortal danger he could think of nothing but a girl.

When Aleyn stood before his master and Walsingham asked if he had anything to report, the man replied: “It is not easy with this one, my lord. He seems unaware of the danger he’s in. He talks of nothing but his Bessie.”

“His Bessie?” mused Walsingham.

“Bessie Pierpont, my lord.”

“That would be Shrewsbury’s granddaughter—so there is love between these two.”

“He’ll talk of nothing else, my lord.”

Walsingham nodded. It was a pity. Still, no piece of information, however small, should be ignored. Long experience had taught him that one never knew when it might be useful.

WHEN MARY WAS ALLOWED to return to Chartley Castle her first thought was of Barbara Curle who she believed might already have given birth to the child.

Bessie greeted her—a frightened Bessie, whose eyes were red with weeping.

Mary embraced her affectionately, all rancor forgotten. It was sad that Bessie, at such an early age, had already come face-to-face with tragedy.

“And how fares Barbara?” Mary asked.

“Her child is born. She is in her bed now.”

Mary went at once to Barbara’s chamber and the young mother gave a cry of pleasure as the Queen hurried to her bed and embraced her.

“And the little one?”

“A girl, Your Majesty. She is very like Gilbert. Your Majesty, what news?”

“I know nothing, my dear. I have been a prisoner at Tixall Park all this time. But as my priest was with me, who has attended to the child’s baptism?”

“She has not been baptized, Your Majesty. There was no one to perform the ceremony.”

“Then this must be remedied without delay.” She lifted the baby from where it lay beside Barbara and, holding it in her arms, gently kissed its brow, and while she was doing this Sir Amyas Paulet burst unceremoniously into the chamber.

“I hope you will call her Mary after me,” she said.

“Your Majesty, that will be an honor she will remember all her life.”

Mary turned to Paulet. “Will you allow your minister to baptize this child?”

“Nay,” he answered. “This child’s baptism is no concern of mine.”

“It is the concern of us all,” answered Mary sternly, and she turned to one of the women who was close by and said: “Bring me a basin of water.”

“So you will baptize the child?” asked Paulet.

“It is permissible for members of the laiety to administer baptism if no priest is available.”

Paulet was glowering at her, wondering how he could prevent her from carrying out her intention, but he said nothing and very soon the woman returned with a basin. Taking the child on her knee, Mary sprinkled the little face with water, saying: “I baptize thee, Mary, in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

Paulet growled: “It is time you returned to your own apartments.”

“I am ready,” answered Mary; and smiling she laid the child in its mother’s arms. “Have no fear, dearest Barbara,” she whispered. “All will be well. Gilbert will return to you. They cannot harm the innocent.”

Then she stopped and kissed Barbara’s forehead, and turning to Paulet said: “I am ready.”

The sight which confronted her in her own apartments caused her to cry out in alarm and protest. Drawers had been burst open, coffers had been emptied; and she saw that almost everything she possessed had been removed.

Mary stood staring at the disorder in dismay while Paulet watched her, a smile of satisfaction on his lips.

“At least,” said Mary, “there are two things of which I cannot be robbed—my English blood and my Catholic Faith, in which, by the grace of God I intend to die.”

ALEYN CAME INTO THE ROOM and sat down beside his charge.

“I have news for you,” he said. “Your young lady is a prisoner in the Tower.”

Jacques lifted his eyes, weary with sleeplessness, to his jailor’s face. “This is true?”

“True it is. They’ve taken her from the Queen’s side and put her there. They’ve ransacked the Queen’s rooms and have found enough to send her to the block.”

“It cannot be so. She has never done anything to deserve such a fate.”

“There’s some that thinks different.”

“What are they doing to Bessie in the Tower?”

“You’ve no need to concern yourself for her safety. If she’s sensible and you’re sensible . . . why, I shouldn’t wonder if there wouldn’t be a nice little wedding, and all merry ever after.”

“What do you know of these matters? Tell me truly.”

“That the Queen of Scots is in mortal danger.”

“She has committed no crime by trying to escape.”

“You, who wrote all those letters for her, know there was more in it than that.”

“I know that she is innocent of any crime.”

“Conspiring against the life of our gracious Sovereign Elizabeth! Is that no crime then? You should have a care. Such talk smacks of treason.”

“She did not conspire against Elizabeth’s life.”

“If you were to tell all you know . . . you would be let out of here . . . your Bessie would be let out of the Tower. There would be no obstacles to your wedding, and who knows . . . I reckon you’d find yourself with a pleasant place at Court, for my master rewards those who please him and he is a man of great influence.”

Jacques’ tongue wetted his dry lips. What was being offered him? Freedom and Bessie. All that he wanted in life. For what? For betrayal of the Queen.

He was torn in two. He yearned for Bessie . . . for peace . . . to forget this danger. Perhaps to return to France . . . .

Aleyn was looking at him slyly.

A pleasant enough fellow, he was thinking. The sort that didn’t betray easily. But look what was offered him. How would he be able to refuse . . . in time?

“Give him time,” Walsingham had said. “Then when we have his evidence against her, that will be all we need to achieve our purpose.”

BABINGTON KNEW that the end was near.

Everything had turned out so differently from his dreams. The conspiracy was discovered; his guilt—and that of his fellow conspirators—was proved without doubt. They had been tried and found guilty of treason. He had no illusions about the fate which was being prepared for him; he and every man in England knew of the barbaric death which was accorded traitors.

He and Ballard had been tried before a special commission with five others: John Savage, Chidiock Tichbourne, Robert Barnwell, Thomas Salisbury and Henry Donn. It had been useless to attempt to deny their guilt.

Brought face-to-face with Ballard he had blamed him for all that had taken place. How brave and restrained the priest had been on that occasion! He had faced the court and declared: “The fault was mine, for I persuaded Anthony Babington to become a member of this conspiracy. Shed my blood if you will, but spare him.”

This was noble, but had little effect on the court. All were condemned to the terrible traitors’ death.

And now the hour was at hand.

The prisoners were taken out of their cells and drawn on hurdles from Tower Hill through the city to St. Giles’s Fields where a scaffold had been erected.

The crowds were waiting to see these men die perhaps the most horrible death which man could devise.

Ballard, brave to the end, was the first to die.

So those who were condemned to die under similar diabolical circumstances watched their fellow conspirator hanged, cut down before he was dead and disemboweled while still alive by the executioner’s knife.

It was the turn of Babington. Determined not to falter he faced the crowd and told them that he had not joined the conspiracy for private gain but because he believed he was engaged in a deed both lawful and meritorious.

The hands of the executioner were upon him.

He was still alive when they cut the rope about his neck. He saw the executioner’s knife poised above his suffering body; he felt the sharp steel pierce his flesh.

Gone were all the dreams of Earthly greatness.

“Parce mihi, Domine Jesu,” he murmured.

And thus he died.

IN THE STREETS the people were talking of that scene of revolting cruelty. John Savage had broken the rope on which he was hanged; and the terrible mutilation had been endured while he still lived.

When news of the execution was brought to Elizabeth, she asked for a truthful answer as to how the spectators had acted; and when she heard that they had witnessed the scene in silence, she gave orders that it was not to be repeated on the next day when other conspirators were to be executed.

Those who had taken part in the Babington plot and were due for execution on the next day were more fortunate than those who had suffered before them. The Queen ordered that they were to be hanged by the neck until they died.

ELIZABETH was pensive.

The time had come, Burleigh assured her, to take action against the Queen of Scots. Walsingham was in complete agreement with him.

In her hand the Queen held a letter from Leicester, who was in Holland. He was shocked beyond expression, he wrote, that the wicked woman of Scotland had schemed against the life of his beloved Queen. The easiest method of preventing such an occurrence being repeated was to administer a dose of poison. This, urged Leicester, was legal in the circumstances and would relieve his dear mistress of the anxiety he knew she would feel if obliged to sign the death warrant of one who was a Queen even as she was herself.

No, Robert, thought Elizabeth. I will not be accused by my Catholic subjects of her murder.

But what to do?

“Bring her to the Tower,” suggested Walsingham.

But the Queen shook her head. She did not forget that there was a strong Catholic party in London. It had shocked Elizabeth deeply, to learn that there were among her subjects those who could conspire against her. The number involved in the Babington plot was startling; and they were but a minority of the Catholics who were prepared to work against her.

“I shall not have her brought to London,” she said. “She shall go to Fotheringay Castle and there be tried. If she should be found guilty, there shall she meet her fate.”