‘So. Urgent news from Paris, I presume.’ Walsingham steepled his fingers and watched me.
I reached into my pack and passed the wallet containing the letters across the desk to him. He turned it carefully between his fingers but did not open it immediately. ‘Give me the meat of it. Thomas will transcribe it later.’
‘Nicholas Berden intercepted a letter from Charles Paget to Mary Stuart, written four days ago. There is an English priest arrived in Paris this last fortnight disguised as a soldier – one Father John Ballard, claims he is part of a well-advanced plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and spring Mary from her prison to take the throne. Paget took him last week to the Spanish ambassador, where this Ballard assured them both that English Catholics at strategic points across the land have pledged to rise up and assist an invading army, if King Philip of Spain will commit troops and money. They believe the timing is apt, with so many of England’s fighting men away in the Low Countries.’ I paused for breath, amazed to see a wide smile spread slowly across Master Secretary’s face.
‘Well, this is excellent news, Thomas, is it not?’ He appeared delighted.
‘We could not have hoped for better,’ Phelippes replied, without looking up from his papers.
I stared at Walsingham, thrown by his reaction.
‘Forgive me, Your Honour, but Berden believes this intelligence to be credible. That is why he sent me with all speed – he dared not trust the diplomatic courier.’
‘I have no doubt that Berden’s intelligence is entirely accurate. He is one of my best men. This is the very letter I have waited for – and from Paget too, the horse’s mouth.’ He gave me a knowing nod, his eyes alight with anticipation. I grimaced. Charles Paget was the self-appointed leader of the English Catholic exiles in Paris; it was he who coordinated links between the extremist Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise, and the English conspirators who wanted to replace Queen Elizabeth with her cousin. He had been behind the plot in ’83, and my encounter with him in Paris had almost cost me my life before Christmas. Walsingham tapped the letter, impatient. ‘What more?’
‘Ballard says he has a band of devout men in London committed to carrying out the execution of Queen Elizabeth. That is the term they use to absolve themselves of regicide.’
‘Good. Names?’
‘Not set down in writing. But Ballard returns to London imminently to further his preparations. Ambassador Mendoza promised he would send one of his men here directly – a Jesuit priest – to bring the conspirators funds, though he has not yet gone so far as to commit Spain to military support. Paget guesses that this Jesuit’s task is to sound out their seriousness and report back to Mendoza, though he tells Mary to take heart, he is sure Spain will champion her cause.’
‘Marvellous. I look forward to hearing more of their progress.’ Walsingham sat back in his chair and folded his hands together, smiling to himself, showing surprisingly white teeth.
‘You do not seem overly concerned,’ I remarked. In truth, I could not help feeling resentful at the reception of my news; I had expected a mix of shock and gratitude, and a flurry of activity as Walsingham rushed to apprehend the plotters and warn the Queen, quietly mentioning my name as the bearer of this timely intervention. Instead, even by Master Secretary’s standards, this reaction seemed unusually phlegmatic.
‘Ah, Bruno. Do not think I don’t appreciate the efforts you have made to bring me this news – I have been waiting for it. We’ve been monitoring John Ballard for some time, waiting for his plans to bear fruit. And now that the game begins …’ he paused, pulling at the point of his beard ‘… all we have worked for stands on a knife-edge. One false step could mar everything. You see?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I had not thought it was a game.’ I looked across to Phelippes for a plainer explanation, but his eyes remained fixed on his scratching nib.
Walsingham sighed. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to kill a queen, Bruno?’
‘I have never tried.’
‘Well, I have been trying for years, believe me. And now the means is almost at my fingertips. We cannot afford to fail this time.’
I watched him while his meaning gradually took shape. ‘You mean the Queen of Scots.’ I let my breath out slowly and felt a tremble. ‘You want her dead.’
‘That vixen.’ He pushed his chair back abruptly and strode to the window with his back to me, but I could see the suppressed fury in the set of his shoulders. ‘Every damnable conspiracy against the state and the Queen of England’s person these last twenty years – who is at the heart of it? That conniving Scottish witch. There she sits like a poisonous spider at the heart of her web, under house arrest, embroidering tapestries, complaining she is not kept in regal luxury. She protests her love for her cousin Elizabeth, while her words and letters embroider plots of murder and insurrection for her devoted followers in France. She wraps every gaoler I appoint around her finger with her simpering and her flirtations. It must end, Bruno, do you understand?’ He turned back to me, thumped his fist once on the wood panelling to make his point. ‘While she lives, the Protestant Church in England will never be secure. Her name is a banner to rally every angry young man who believes his fortunes would be better if the clocks could be turned backwards to a golden England of yesteryear, before the break with Rome. An England that exists only in his imagination, but no matter – he will plunge the country into ruin to recover it.’
‘But the Queen of Scots cannot be held responsible for what impetuous men do in her name, surely?’
Walsingham sank into the window seat as if the outburst had exhausted him, and I saw in his strained look why his daughter worried for his health. ‘Explain it to him, Thomas.’
Phelippes lifted his head and glanced at me briefly before shifting his gaze to the bookshelves.
‘Actually, she can now – Master Secretary has passed legislation this year to say exactly that. Mary Stuart is the granddaughter of the eighth King Henry’s sister,’ he said, in his odd, flat voice. ‘So for those English Catholics who hold that Henry’s divorce was not sanctioned by the Roman church and that his second marriage to the Queen’s mother Anne Boleyn cannot therefore be legitimate, Mary Stuart is the only true, Catholic heir by Tudor blood to the English throne. They maintain that Queen Elizabeth is a bastard.’
‘I know all this.’ I tried to conceal my impatience, but Phelippes had a manner of explaining that addressed his listener as if they were a slow child. ‘I was the one intercepting the letters from Mary’s supporters through the French embassy three years ago, the last time they tried a plot like this. But there was no evidence that Mary had given the conspiracy her approval.’
‘You understand the challenge, then,’ Walsingham said, his voice soft. I looked at him; his gaze did not waver.
‘You mean to entice her into betraying herself.’
‘The new law states that anyone who stands to benefit from the Queen’s murder is guilty of treason, even if they do not commit the deed with their own hand.’
‘Then – this plan of Ballard’s, that Paget mentions – it’s a trick?’
‘Oh, the plot is real enough.’ Walsingham stood, with evident effort, and returned to his desk, taking a small sip from his glass. ‘The invasion plans too, quite possibly, though I suspect Philip of Spain will think twice before reaching into his coffers again for a rabble of hot-headed Englishmen – he has heard all this before,