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
‘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
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