‘Forgive me. I am too sensitive.’ Shakespeare changed the subject. ‘Is there word from Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude? We must hope they return soon.’
‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. They are much missed, but they are doing God’s work.’
‘In the north?’
Babington raised a finger, like a schoolmaster. ‘We do not ask such questions. It is enough that they are God’s soldiers, which is a noble calling. Are you a soldier of God, Mr Shakespeare? Will you take up your sword and pistol and follow me?’
Shakespeare was momentarily nonplussed, surprised by the openness of the invitation. At last he found a light way to reply. ‘My weapon is my mind. I fear I would make a better target than a shooter. But I will do all that is required of me. I am yours to command.’
‘What then, Mr Shakespeare? What will you do when God calls you?’ Babington gazed around the room at his drinking companions with a measure of scorn. ‘Will you crawl back into your hole and tell yourself that it was nothing but a brandy-fuelled game, more to do with feasting than carrying out His holy work?’ His voice lowered. ‘Or will your blade taste blood for Him?’
‘Do you doubt me? Perhaps you doubt the other fellows here?’
‘They will do well enough. But I am intrigued by you. Mr Savage says you are to be trusted, but I do not know you as well as he does. And you answer my question with questions.’
‘Let my actions speak while others boast.’
‘Then I will trust you.’ Babington’s smile did not extend to his eyes.
Although all those present looked up to Babington as their leader, for he was their senior in wealth and swagger, Shakespeare thought of him as a boy leading boys. The test would come when they were required to be men.
‘And if you are as true as I must believe, then you are indeed of the first importance to us,’ Babington continued.
Shakespeare gave a little bow of his head. ‘Indeed, Mr Babington, I do not know whether to be flattered or afraid.’
‘I do not flatter. If you are afraid, you must conquer it. As for these others . . .’ Babington gazed once more around the noisy room, ‘their comfortable life cannot endure much longer. The real work must begin. You, Mr Shakespeare, are the dog in the yard to warn us of impending harm. You will be the one to bring word to us if the satanic Walsingham begins to take an unhealthy interest in those gathered here.’
Shakespeare bowed again. ‘Mr Babington, I must tell you that he already takes an interest in you. He takes an interest in everyone, both in England and across the great capitals of Europe. It is said he even has agents in Peru and the Indies.’
‘But us in particular?’
‘I have told you about the information he receives from street spies.’ Half-truths, Shakespeare thought wryly; he would not mention the spies who watched from the inside, men like Slide and Gifford and Shakespeare himself. ‘Mr Secretary knows the Pope’s White Sons as recusants of noble and gentle birth. But there are many such in London and further afield. In some counties of the Midlands and the north, there are many more Catholics among the gentry than there are Protestants. Walsingham does not like them, but nor does he take most of them seriously.’
‘But we are not in the shires.’
‘It means nothing. Why, the court itself has its share of men and women who stand firm to the true faith. Walsingham knows all their names. He watches them all, but will only move against them if they are too open in harbouring priests or engaging in sedition. And so he will keep a watchful eye on you and your friends, but no more than he does with any other young men he suspects of being unsound in religion, as he sees it.’
‘And does he never suspect you?’
Shakespeare laughed, although to his own ears it sounded somewhat forced. ‘He suspects me every day. But I would say he suspects all those he employs and every man he works with. I would not be surprised to learn that he even suspects old Lord Burghley. The Queen herself, perhaps!’
‘Then be a good watchdog for us. Bark loud when you sense danger.’ Babington’s own voice lowered to a whisper. ‘Protect us well and we will have a new world shortly. Before this summer’s end a fatal blow will be struck against the usurpers. I have had this promise from Captain Fortescue, who has the ear of Mendoza himself.’
Bernardino de Mendoza, Spain’s ambassador to Paris. Here, between the twin cities of Westminster and London, the beating heart of England, this man Babington was speaking with reverence of his country’s most lethal enemy. At times these young men, these Pope’s White Sons – the Bishop of Rome’s innocent children as they would have it – seemed almost harmless, but Shakespeare knew that there was a great deal more danger here than a casual observer might ever imagine.
Babington patted Shakespeare’s arm, then stood up and signalled for quiet. His tone was serious and solemn. ‘Tonight we drink to absent friends and pray that they are with us before too long. A health to Captain Fortescue and Mr Maude and their faithful servant Mr Gage as they return from their great good work in the service of God. We wish them God speed to our bosom and promise that we will do all we can to emulate them by carrying out our own work. Each man must find his own path to salvation, but I believe in my heart that all here are resolved to work for the true faith. I would wish for a peaceful transition, but wishes sometimes need a little poke.’
The young men all rose again. Shakespeare drank with them, but could not conquer the churning in his stomach; all those present knew that Captain Fortescue was, in truth, the priest John Ballard, a conspirator who would wash this land with English blood in the cause of his faith. But only Shakespeare knew the real identity of his constant companion, Bernard Maude. In truth, Maude was Harry Slide, the slipperiest of the earth’s creatures, an intelligencer for Shakespeare and Walsingham.
Shakespeare was alone when he left the Plough soon after midnight. He was unsteady on his feet but that could not be avoided. As a relatively new recruit to Babington’s circle of drinkers and debaters, he had to gain their trust by drinking as heavily as they did. Now, however, he had no alternative but to ride, for he had no intention of walking all the way across London at this time of night.
He took a deep breath of the cool air. Above him the sky was clear, purified by the rain. It promised fine weather come morning. He tried to shake himself sober, but his head was swimming. All he wanted was his bed and a blanket.
At the west side of the inn there was an arched entrance through to the mews where carriages were parked and a bank of stalls was set aside for customers’ horses. Shakespeare stumbled into the archway, unable to see his way, for the wall lantern had gone out. He looked around, bleary-eyed, hoping to find the night ostler; he’d find the nag and help him up. But first he needed a piss. He faced the wall, splayed his legs, and fished in his hose for his prick.
He failed to hear the sound of footsteps behind him.
The first blow was a kick to the back of his legs, just behind the knee. The strike crumpled him instantly and was followed, as he went down, by a hard push in the small of his back. The surprise of the attack gave him no chance. He fell helplessly towards the cobbles, only putting out his hands instinctively at the last moment to prevent his chin and face smacking into the stone. Sprawling on the ground, he tried to climb back to his feet, but a rough-edged boot caught his ribs, then a hobnailed toe smacked into the side of his head.
‘Papist vermin. Pope’s dirty son!’
He cried out, more in bewilderment than pain, and scrabbled backwards. There were three of them; spotty youths in apprentices’ blue tunics and aprons. He reached towards his belt for his poniard, but one of them kicked it out of his hand, and then brought his own dagger close to Shakespeare’s face.