‘My daughter sometimes believes she sits on the Privy Council,’ Walsingham said drily.
‘I would talk more sense than half the blustering old men there,’ Frances shot back. ‘If the Privy Council and the Parliament were all women, we’d have less money wasted on war and twice as much done.’
Walsingham caught my eye with a half-smile; I tried to picture Elizabeth Tudor seeking the counsel of other women on matters of state. An unlikely scenario; it was well known she commanded most of her courtiers to leave their wives at home in the country so she did not have to share their attention.
‘He had my companion, Clara Poole, working for him in this business of Babington,’ Frances said to me, tilting her head towards her father. ‘It ended badly for her, as you heard. He needs to know why, I want justice for her, and you want employment, so you see, we all want the same thing.’
‘Who is Babington?’
Walsingham lifted his wine glass and studied it without drinking. ‘The ringleader of this little band of would-be assassins is a young blood by the name of Anthony Babington. Catholic, twenty-five, made extremely wealthy by the death of his father last year. Studied in Paris not long ago, remains friendly with known conspirators there, including Mary’s agents. A wife and infant daughter at the family seat in Derbyshire, but spends all his time in London now, throwing himself into the Catholic cause – more out of desire for adventure than ardent faith, I think, but he met Mary Stuart as a youth and has romantic notions of her suffering and her rightful claims.’ He paused, sucked in his cheeks, as if weighing how much more to say. ‘I needed someone on the inside to monitor Babington and his friends without drawing suspicion – it proved difficult to get any of my trusted men close enough. Babington is hot-headed but he is not a fool, and he is understandably cautious about this business. Clara Poole is – was – a beautiful young woman. It seemed an obvious solution.’ He lowered his eyes and looked at the glass turning between his hands, avoiding his daughter’s sharp stare.
‘She was beautiful until they broke her face,’ Frances said, through her teeth. She turned to me, her tone softer. ‘I’ve known Clara since I was ten years old. She was four years older than me, and my father took her and her brother in when they were orphaned. She was my companion for four years until she married at eighteen, but she was widowed a year ago and returned to my household, since her husband had left her without means. I had thought she would work as governess to my daughter when Lizzie was old enough to take lessons. She knew French and could draw beautifully.’ Her voice wavered, and she returned to twisting the napkin between her fingers.
‘Clara’s half-brother, Robin, has been in my service for some time,’ Walsingham said. ‘The Catholics trust him – he has helped import books and relics for them in the past, and served time in prison for it, without betraying that he was my man. They do not know the extent of his work for me – they think he is true to their cause and believe he spies for them. It was an easy matter to have Clara introduced to Babington’s circle. I thought her charms might open doors closed to the men in my employ, and I was not deceived in that.’
‘You sent her – forgive me – to seduce him?’ I stared at Walsingham, thinking of the court in Paris, and the bevy of beautiful, accomplished young women trained by Catherine de Medici, the Queen Mother, to use their wiles in spying on the King’s enemies; I had personal experience of their determination. I had imagined Master Secretary, whose morality leaned towards the puritanical, to be above such methods. Clearly I had been mistaken.
‘Like a whoremaster,’ Frances said, pointedly.
‘Remember to whom you speak, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone was stern, but he looked uncomfortable. ‘Clara was willing to be of service,’ he added, to me. ‘We must conclude that certain things are no sin when they are done to save the life of an anointed sovereign, or to protect the state. We must trust that God sees the greater picture.’
‘Just as He does when my father turns the handle of the rack to make a priest confess to treason,’ Frances said, with a flash of triumph in her eyes. I sensed that she enjoyed sparring with her father, and that Clara Poole’s death had given her a licence to do so.
‘Would you have them move freely through the realm instead?’ Walsingham turned to her, his voice wound tight; her provocation was succeeding. ‘If you had seen what I have seen, young lady – you were but four years old when—’
Frances rolled her eyes. ‘When we were barricaded inside the English embassy in Paris on Saint Bartholomew’s night, yes, yes, I have heard this story before, Father. All my life, in fact.’ She sounded like a sullen child.
‘So that you never take it for granted.’ Walsingham leaned back in his chair. I could see that he was forcing himself not to lose his temper. ‘We were a hair’s breadth from being massacred along with all the other Protestants in Paris that night. And if you think the same could not happen in London if Catholic forces invade, you are nothing but a silly girl and not worthy to carry your husband’s name or mine. Sacrifices must be made. Philip knows that. So did Clara. Only you seem to think the world should fall into your lap without cost, and perhaps the blame for that rests with me, and the way I have spoiled you.’
Frances coloured as if she had been slapped. Walsingham breathed out again and clasped his hands, his watchful gaze settling on me.
‘You have risked your life before in England’s service, Bruno,’ he said, quietly. ‘Would you do so again?’
I shifted in my seat. ‘Your Honour, you know I am willing to offer what skills I have to secure England’s freedom, be assured of it. But …’ I hesitated, spread my hands. ‘I am a philosopher. I’m not sure I am equipped for the task you mention. Besides, I have a teaching job in Paris, I am expected back—’
At this, Walsingham chuckled. ‘Ah, yes. The Collège de Cambrai. And how does that suit you?’
‘It’s …’ I scratched the back of my neck. It was impossible to guess quite how much Walsingham knew. ‘A prestigious position. King Henri himself arranged it for me.’
‘To keep you away from court after that episode last Christmas,’ he said, without missing a beat. ‘And does it satisfy your taste for adventure – arguing with undergraduates?’
‘It gives me an income, Your Honour.’ I could not quite meet his eye.
‘Hmm. Thomas?’
Phelippes looked up and blinked. ‘Last month you gave a lecture in which you spoke against Aristotle and the ensuing debate ended in a mass brawl which had to be broken up by the city authorities. One student was left with a cracked jaw and another with a dagger wound. They made a formal complaint. You received an official warning from the university. Since then, you have been corresponding with Professor Alberico Gentili at the University of Wittenberg, and making secret plans to travel there.’ He recited this as if reading from an official report.
I looked at him; it was not even worth asking how he knew all this. It was true that I had intended to move on to Wittenberg at the end of the summer, but I had told no one.
‘Gentili works for me,’ Walsingham said, by way of explanation. ‘I take an interest in your movements, Bruno – that should not surprise you. Once a man has been in my employ, he becomes part of a family, so to speak. Tell me honestly – would you not rather return to the service of the Queen of England, and earn her gratitude?’
Damn him. I watched him watching me; he knew so precisely how to find a man’s weakness. Queen Elizabeth’s patronage would be a prize more valuable than any other monarch’s, since in England I had greater freedom to publish my controversial books than anywhere else in Europe. But if she had not offered it the last time I was here, after the service I had done her, I was not convinced that