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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 a
bout 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.

  8

  West of Salisbury

  July, 1586

  ‘Wait for me, madam,’ wailed Bess.

  Meg tried to hide her irritation. It was unkind to snap. The journey had been her idea, and even she was beginning to think it had been a great mistake. They were both exhausted and in truth, she was not sure if they were going in the right direction, let alone with any chance of finding Tom at the end.

  ‘Try to remember to call me Matthew, Bess,’ she restrained herself to saying.

  ‘Yes, mad— Matthew,’ Bess replied in a dubious tone.

  Meg managed a smile. ‘It can’t be much further to Plymouth. Soon all this will be over.’

  ‘Yes, M-Matthew.’

  As they trudged on, Meg looked up at the louring sky. She hoped the rain would hold off until they found shelter. They would need food soon as well and she had no idea where they would find it. She squared her shoulders; she must not let Bess see her doubts. The thought of finding Tom kept her own flagging spirits up but it was more difficult for Bess.

  The second day was harder, and the one after that worse still. Both she and Bess were hungry and thirsty. In the villages and hamlets they passed through, people greeted them with suspicion and sometimes even downright hostility, overcharging for what little food and drink they were prepared to sell. The small store of money they had managed to bring with them diminished at an alarming rate.

  Men’s clothes might be easier to walk in but the leather of the old shoes Bess had found for Meg to wear was hard and cracked. Her feet blistered until every step was a penance. Bess drooped and it was a struggle to make her keep on walking.

  That evening, as they breasted a hill, a cottage surrounded by tumbledown outbuildings came into view. A plume of smoke rose from the chimney. When they came close, Meg saw two scraggy brown cows in a pen and a grey cob tethered to a pump by a water trough. She wondered if they should walk on past. These people might be as unfriendly as most of the others they had encountered and it was a lonely spot, but Bess pulled at her arm.

  ‘Those cows look like milkers, madam. Perhaps the farmer will let us have a drink.’

  ‘I don’t think we should, Bess. It will be safer to go on.’

  Bess’s lower lip jutted and she started to cry. Meg felt a stab of guilt. Poor Bess! She had pushed her very hard today. The long-threatened rain had finally fallen, leaving their clothes damp. She had to admit, the prospect of cool, fresh milk to drink and somewhere to dry off was irresistible.

  ‘All right, but you must promise to be careful. No calling me madam, understand?’

  ‘I promise,’ Bess said meekly.

  A surly man answered Meg’s knock.

  ‘What d’you think you’re about, disturbing honest folk at this hour?’

  ‘We only want to buy some milk, and any other food you can spare,’ Meg answered, trying to put on a gruff voice. ‘My sister and I have travelled all day and we’re hungry and thirsty.’

  The man looked them up and down for a moment. ‘You’d best come in then,’ he said grudgingly.

  What must have been years of smoke had blackened the low ceiling of the windowless room into which they stepped. The only light came from the small fire burning in the hearth. In its glow, patches of damp glistened on the wattle and daub walls. Two three-legged stools, a table made from rough planks of wood and two wooden buckets comprised the furniture. The rushes strewn on the floor looked as if they had not been changed for months. Next to the grimy hearth were a poker, a few chipped earthenware bowls and two battered iron pans.

  A lanky, tow-haired youth Meg had not at first noticed shambled out from the alcove by the fireplace, rubbing his eyes. Behind him was a stained mattress with wisps of straw poking through the holes in its ticking. He goggled at the sight of Meg and Bess.

  ‘My son,’ the man grunted.

  ‘Pretty,’ the youth sidled up to Bess and stroked her fair hair. Her blue eyes widened and she flushed.

  ‘Fetch some milk, you halfwit,’ the man snapped. The youth hung his head. He slouched to the hearth, picked up an earthenware bowl and dunked it in one of the buckets. As he lifted it out and carried it to Bess, milk dripped from his calloused hand.

  His father scowled. ‘You’re wasting it, you idiot. D’you think I’m made of money?’ He snatched the cup and handed it to Bess. ‘Here, share that with your brother.’

  Eagerly, Bess gulped half the milk. Creamy froth smeared her lips as she gave the rest of it to Meg to finish.

  ‘Thank you, that was good,’ Meg sighed when she had drunk the last drop. Her eyes alighted on a hock of ham hanging from a beam. The man followed her glance. ‘Where’s your manners, Jeb?’ he barked at the youth. ‘Get some bread from the crock and cut the lady and gentleman a good slice of ham.’ He grinned at Bess. ‘Can’t have you and your brother going hungry, can we?’

  Blushing once more, Bess lowered her eyes. He laughed. ‘Your sister’s a shy little thing, ain’t she?’ Meg didn’t answer.

  ‘Where’re you travelling to?’

  ‘Plymouth. We have an uncle and aunt there who will take us in. Our parents are dead.’

  ‘Land stops at Plymouth, I heard.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Our uncle works in the shipyard there.’

  The talk carried on in a desultory fashion. Relieved, Meg congratulated herself. They had passed their first real test. Neither the man nor his son seemed to think there was anything out of the ordinary about her and Bess, and although he had seemed so unwelcoming when they arrived, he was now quite friendly. She felt sorry for his son. It was not his fault he was simple but clearly his father had very little patience with him.

  As soon as they finished their meal, she stood up. ‘We haven’t much money but we’d like to pay you for your kindness. Will tuppence be enough?’

  ‘Nay, lad, I won’t take your money and it’s almost nightfall. The roads won’t be safe. You can stay here and go on tomorrow. Gentlefolk like you shall have the bed. Jeb and me’ll sleep in the barn.’

  Meg hesitated.

  ‘I’m so tired, Matthew,’ Bess pleaded. ‘It would be wonderful to sleep in a warm bed.’

  ‘But we can’t take their bed.’

  ‘We doan’ mind, do we, Jeb?’

  Jeb sniggered and his father shot him an angry look.

  ‘Please,’ Bess whispered.

  ‘All right,’ Meg said. ‘And we’re very grateful,’ she added quickly.

  The man yawned. ‘There’s cows to milk in the morning and candles cost money. It’s time we were turning in. Jeb’ll fetch you some more wood to keep the fire in until you go to sleep, won’t you, lad?’

  Muttering, Jeb went outside and came back with an armful of brushwood which he stacked by the hearth. He straightened up and stared at Bess again until his father’s boot landed on his backside, making him yelp.

  ‘Get to the barn with you,’ he growled then turned to Meg and Bess and nodded. ‘We’ll be off then, goodnight.’

  The door closed behind them and Meg let out a long breath.

  Bess sank onto one of the stools. ‘Oh madam, they’ve gone, thank goodness.’

  ‘Sssh,’ Meg whispered with a frown, ‘they might be listening outside the door. I’m sure I can hear something.’

  There was a grating sound, then footsteps and after that silence. Motionless, Meg waited a few minutes then went to the door and pressed her ear to the wood. ‘I think they’ve really gone now,’ she whispered at last. Cautiously, she lifted the latch on the door and tried to open it a fraction. It didn’t move. She tried again but it was stuck fast.

  Bess’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘They’ve locked it, we can’t get out.’

  Meg felt her heart thud against her ribs but for Bess’s sake she tried to stay calm. ‘I’m su
re it’s nothing to worry about. I expect they usually lock their door at night. This cottage is in such a lonely place they might be afraid of being robbed. I expect they did it out of habit.’

  Bess’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh madam, I’m frightened.’

  Something in Meg snapped. ‘Stop it, Bess. You were the one who wanted to sleep in a warm bed.’

  Tears streaked Bess’s pink cheeks and contrition replaced Meg’s anger. She went to her and squeezed her arm.

  ‘I’m sorry I shouted at you. Look, if we pull the table across to the door, no one can come in.’

  Bess took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped her face with the back of her hand. Together, they dragged the table over the layer of mouldering rushes and wedged it against the door.

  ‘Now for pity’s sake, let’s get some sleep,’ Meg muttered. ‘We may not have another chance like this for days.’ She pulled off her painful shoes and groaned. ‘At last, that’s better.’

  She climbed onto the mattress and pulled the sheepskin up to her chin. It was none too clean and smelt of animal grease but at least it was warm.

  Doubtfully, Bess examined the skirt of her dress and the petticoats underneath. ‘They’re dry now but they’re still all caked with mud. I shouldn’t lie in the bed in them.’

  ‘I hardly think it’ll make much difference to it,’ Meg grimaced. ‘Anyway, you’ll have to unless you want to sleep naked.’

  Bess shook her head.

  They lay side by side in the dark listening to the small sounds of the night.

  ‘What do you think that scuffling is?’ Bess asked in a frightened whisper.

  ‘Mice probably, I expect this cottage is full of them.’

  ‘Or rats,’ Bess said, a tremor in her voice. ‘I hate rats. Suppose they come on the bed and bite us?’

  ‘I’ll hit them with these horrible shoes you found me,’ Meg reached out and fumbled for them. ‘Now stop fretting and go to sleep.’

  ‘There’s someone outside, I know there is,’ Bess said after a few more minutes. Meg felt a stab of alarm; she heard something too. If it was an animal, it was a large one. With a shiver, she wondered if there were still bears in these parts. Suddenly, a man’s voice cursed and the door shook.