squinting into the afternoon sun. Marlowe overfilled Babington’s mug with beer and the froth ran onto the oak table.
‘I must say, Kit, that I don’t know how you find the time to do everything you do – engaging in your Master’s at Cambridge, writing your ditties and pursuing, how shall I put it, other activities.’
Marlowe frowned in displeasure. ‘I don’t deny that there scarcely seem to be enough hours in the day. But as to your first point, I have an arrangement with my Master at Benet to be away from college for certain periods as long as I maintain my academic obligations. On the third point, my conscience demands that I pursue these “other activities” and on the second point, I do not write ditties. I write plays.”
Babington showed his sincere mortification. ‘I’ve offended you. I did not mean to do so. I am overwhelmed, sir, at your industry and accomplishments.’
‘You shall come to my opening night,’ Marlowe said magnanimously. ‘Come, let us turn our attention to weightier matters. Let us talk of restoring the true Catholic faith to England. Let us talk of dear Queen Mary. Let us talk of that dry hag Elizabeth and what is to be done with her. We have vast sunshine, we have beer, we have our own pleasant company.’
They had met through Robert Poley, one of Walsingham’s men, not a run-of-the-mill toady but a choice cut of meat. Ruthless and cunning, he had matriculated at Cambridge in 1568 as a Sizar but had not received his degree because as an alleged Catholic he’d been unable to swear the necessary oath of allegiance to the Queen’s religion. Yet apparently he wasn’t so principled as to deflect the entreaties of Walsingham’s recruiters and he quickly became one of the Secretary’s most useful operatives, an informant who easily wheedled himself into Papist plots in England and on the Continent and for the right compensation even permitted himself to be imprisoned time after time. Her Majesty’s jails, he insisted, were the best places to meet Catholic plotters.
During Lent of that year, Poley arranged a supper meeting of young Catholic gentlemen at the Plough Inn, near Temple Bar on the western edge of the City of London. Anthony Babington, an acquaintance of Poley, was invited along with two strangers whom Poley had vouched for, Bernard Maude and Christopher Marlowe. Naive and hapless, Babington was the only one at the table that evening not in Walsingham’s employ.
Over ale, wine and whispers, Babington was made aware of certain plans. Mary, Queen of the Scots, had been imprisoned at Elizabeth’s pleasure for eighteen years for fomenting revolt against Elizabeth’s Protestant reign and for offering herself up as the rightful Queen of England and restorer of the Pope’s primacy. Following the collapse of the Throckmorton plot against the crown, Mary found herself in her strictest confinement yet, at Chartley Hall in Staffordshire, isolated from the outside world by Puritan minders who reported her every twitch to Walsingham.
Here was Poley’s news. Catholic agents in France, Holland and Spain were passing along their assurances that the Catholic League and the great Christian princes of Europe would commit a force of 60,000 men to invade the north of England, free Mary and assert her rule. Thanks to the genius inventions of Kit Marlowe, a brilliant young recusant recently allied to their cause, a method of communicating with Mary had been devised. Marlowe had imagined a way to smuggle letters to Chartley Hall, hidden and sealed waterproof within kegs of beer, and he had also devised a clever cipher to encrypt them in the unlikely event that they were discovered.
Letters from plotters had already been sent in this manner and Mary had given written replies of general encouragement. However, she had been cautious. None of the plotters were personally known to her. They needed someone whom she knew and trusted.
Enter Babington. In 1579 he had been a page to the Earl of Shrewsbury who was then Mary’s keeper. She’d been fond of the boy and five years later he’d been entrusted to deliver several packets of letters directly to the hand of the Scottish Queen. Though he’d dropped out of the dangerous game to take up a gentleman’s life in London, his views were well known among her sympathizers.
So the question put to Babington that night was this: will you join with us? Will you help the good Lady?
His response delighted the spies. How could this treason succeed, he whispered, if Elizabeth remained alive? She was popular among her misguided subjects. Wouldn’t she be able to rally her armies and effectively counter the invaders? Wouldn’t the plot go better if she were brought to, as he put it, a tragical end?
The others assured him that one of their number, a John Savage, was planning to take care of just that and in a giddy response Babington sealed his fate by clinking his mug around the table. Marlowe, who was fresh game and unknown to the likes of Walsingham, would be his go-between. The two young men smiled at each other like fine co-conspirators and there followed another clinking of drinking vessels.
There were sounds from inside the house. Babington started to rise in alarm but it was only Mrs Bull returning from her shopping. She stuck her head out the window and asked if she should bring out a tray of food.
They supped and drank until the shadow of the mulberry tree grew long and dark. Marlowe had news to report which he told Babington had been passed directly to Poley from the French Ambassador to England, Guillaume de l’Aubespine. Invasion plans were taking shape. French, Spanish and Italian armies were committed to the holy task. There were strong indications that English Catholics would also rise to arms at the first sight of foreign troops carrying the Papal colors. What was required was the final assent of Queen Mary, to be obtained by Babington.
Marlowe withdrew the implements of his trade from the portable writing case at his feet. He shaved a quill with his best knife, opened the lid of his ink pot and amused Babington no end by blotting the beer from the table with his rump before placing the case upon the dry spot and laying a few sheets of parchment on its leather pad. ‘Would you care to dictate?’ Marlowe asked. ‘I am a most excellent scribe.’
‘You, Kit, are the author. We have well discussed what must be transmitted. Perhaps you can compose.’
Marlowe agreed, saying he would refrain from flowery prose in favor of plain language. As he scratched the parchment he read aloud:
‘Are you well satisfied with this concoction?’ Marlowe asked when he was done.
Babington’s throat seemed raspy with anxiety. ‘It seems to properly convey our knowledge of the affair and our requests for the Queen’s blessings.’
‘Then I will place it into a cipher forthwith. While I undertake the task you might ask the Widow Bull to bring us more beer. I will drink only for thirst. The process of substituting letters for numbers and words for symbols is ever taxing and my head must remain as clear as Narcissus’s reflecting pool.’
Babington shuffled off with the foreboding of a man heading to the gallows. When he returned with a full jug Marlowe said, ‘I will make as much haste as I am able. Poley will need to get this letter to the brewer in Chiswick tonight for I believe tomorrow is the day the next keg goes to Mary. Then we need only await the reply of the dear lady.’
Babington drank two tankards in quick succession. He had no such desire to keep a clear head.
The Palace of Whitehall was a city unto itself. It surpassed the Vatican and Versailles in sheer size and pomp and it was no small task to navigate among 1,500 rooms. To find one’s destination required prior knowledge or the good graces of a friendly gentleman or lady to take you by the hand and lead you through the labyrinth of offices and private residences.
By now Marlowe well knew his way around the palace and eagerly presented himself at Walsingham’s privy
