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.”