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?