Page 267 of A Column of Fire
The audience yelled and screamed encouragement, and placed bets on whether the bull would kill all the dogs before succumbing to its wounds.
No one was looking anywhere but the ring.
Rollo began, as always, by letting his target know that he was a Catholic priest. ‘Bless you, my son,’ he said quietly to Babington, and when Babington gave him a startled look he flashed the gold cross.
Babington was shocked and enthused. ‘Who are you?’
‘Jean Langlais.’
‘What do you want with me?’
‘It is time for Mary Stuart.’
Babington’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
He knew perfectly well what was meant, Rollo thought. He went on: ‘The duke of Guise is ready with an army of sixty thousand men.’ That was an exaggeration – the duke was not ready, and he might never have sixty thousand – but Rollo needed to inspire confidence. ‘The duke has maps of all the major harbours on the south and east coasts where he may land his forces. He also has a list of loyal Catholic noblemen – including your stepfather – who can be counted upon to rally to the invaders and fight for the restoration of the true faith.’ That was accurate.
‘Can all this be true?’ Babington said, eager to believe it.
‘Only one thing is lacking, and we need a good man to supply the deficiency.’
‘Go on.’
‘A high-born Catholic whose faith is unquestionable must put together a group of similar friends and free Queen Mary from her prison at the moment of crisis. You, Anthony Babington, have been chosen to be that man.’
Rollo turned away from Babington, to give him a moment to digest all that. In the ring, the bull and the dead or dying dogs had been dragged away, and the climactic entertainment of the afternoon was beginning. Into the ring came an old horse with a monkey in the saddle. The crowd cheered: this was their favourite part. Six young dogs were released. They attacked and bit the horse, which tried desperately to escape their teeth; but they also leaped at the monkey, which seemed to tempt them more. The spectators roared with laughter as the monkey, maddened with fear, tried frantically to escape their bites, jumping from one end of the horse to the other, and even trying to stand on the horse’s head.
Rollo looked at Babington’s face. The entertainment was forgotten. Babington shone with pride, exhilaration and fear. Rollo could read his mind. He was twenty-three, and this was his moment of glory.
Rollo said: ‘Queen Mary is being held at Chartley Manor, in Staffordshire. You must go there and reconnoitre – but do not attract attention to yourself by attempting to speak to her. When your plans are made, you will write to her, giving the details, and entrust the letter to me. I have a way of getting papers to her secretly.’
The light of destiny shone in Babington’s eyes. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘And gladly.’
In the ring the horse fell down, and the dogs seized the monkey and tore it apart.
Rollo shook Babington’s hand.
Babington said: ‘How do I get in touch with you?’
‘You don’t,’ said Rollo. ‘I’ll contact you.’
*
NED TOOKGIFFORDto the Tower of London, his right arm roped to the left wrist of a guard. ‘This is where traitors are tortured,’ Ned said conversationally as they ascended the stone staircase. Gifford looked terrified. They went to a room with a writing table and a fireplace, cold in summer. They sat down on opposite sides of the table, Gifford still tied to the guard, who stood beside him.
In the next room, a man screamed.
Gifford paled. ‘Who is that?’ he said.
‘A traitor called Launcelot,’ said Ned. ‘He dreamed up a scheme to shoot Queen Elizabeth while she rode in St James’s Park. He proposed this murderous plan to another Catholic who happened to be a loyal subject of the queen.’ The second man also happened to be an agent of Ned’s. ‘We think Launcelot is probably a lunatic working alone, but Sir Francis Walsingham needs to be sure.’
Gifford’s smooth boyish face was deathly white, and his hands were shaking.
Ned said: ‘If you don’t want to suffer what Launcelot is going through, you just have to cooperate with me. Nothing difficult.’
‘Never,’ said Gifford, but his voice shook.
‘After you collect the letters from the French embassy, you will bring them to me, so that I can make copies, before you take them to Chartley.’
