Page 273 of A Column of Fire

He stepped out, with Babington on his heels. Two seconds later their way would have been blocked by sheep. He ran along the street, hearing Babington’s footsteps behind him.

A shout of ‘Stop! Stop!’ went up from the men-at-arms. Rollo glanced back to see some of them struggling to push through the sheep and give chase.

Rollo ran diagonally across the street and past the front of a tavern. An idler drinking a pot of ale stuck out a foot to trip him, but Rollo dodged it. Others just watched. Londoners were not generally well disposed towards men-at-arms, who were often bullies, especially when drunk; and some bystanders cheered the fugitives.

A moment later Rollo heard the bang of an arquebus, but he felt no impact, and Babington’s pace did not falter, so the shot had missed. There was another shot, with the same lack of effect, except that all the bystanders scurried indoors to take cover, knowing well that bullets did not always go just where the gun was pointed.

Rollo turned into a side street. A man carrying a club held up a hand to stop him, shouting: ‘City watch! Halt!’ Members of the city watch had the right to stop and question anyone suspicious. Rollo tried to dodge past the man, but he swung his club. Rollo felt a blow on his shoulder, lost his balance, and fell. He rolled over and looked back in time to see Babington’s arm swing through a half-circle that ended with a mighty punch to the side of the watchman’s head, knocking him down.

He tried to rise but seemed too dazed, and he slumped on the ground.

Babington helped Rollo up and they ran on.

They turned another corner, ducked down an alley, emerged from it into a street market, and slowed to a walk. They pushed their way into the crowds shopping at the stalls. A vendor tried to sell Rollo a pamphlet about the sins of the Pope, and a prostitute offered to do them both together for the price of one. Rollo looked back and saw no one in pursuit. They had escaped. Perhaps some of the others had also managed to get away in the confusion.

‘God sent his angels to help us,’ Rollo said solemnly.

‘In the shape of sheep,’ said Babington, and he laughed heartily.

*

ALISON WAS ASTONISHEDwhen grumpy Sir Amias Paulet suggested to Mary Stuart that she might like to join him and some of the local gentry in a deer hunt. Mary loved riding and socializing, and she jumped at the chance to do both.

Alison helped her dress. Mary wanted to look both pretty and regal for people who would soon be her subjects. She put on a wig over her greying hair and anchored it firmly with a hat.

Alison was allowed to go too, along with the secretary, Nau. They rode out of Chartley courtyard and across the moat, then headed over the moors towards the village where the hunt was to rendezvous.

Alison was exhilarated by the sun, the breeze, and her thoughts of the future. Previously, there had been several conspiracies aimed at freeing Mary, and Alison had suffered a series of bitter disappointments, but this one seemed different, for everything had been taken into account.

It was three weeks since Mary had replied to Anthony Babington giving her approval of his plan. How much longer did they have to wait? Alison tried to calculate how many days it would take the duke of Guise to assemble his army: two weeks? A month? Perhaps she and Mary would hear advance rumours of the invasion. Any day now, word might reach England of a fleet of ships assembling on the north coast of France, and thousands of soldiers going aboard with their horses and armour. Or perhaps the duke would be subtle, and conceal the fleet in rivers and hidden harbours until the last minute, so that the invasion would come as a shock.

As she was mulling this, she saw a group of horsemen at a distance, riding fast. Her heart leaped. Could this be the rescue party?

The party drew closer. There were six men. Alison’s heart beat rapidly. Would Paulet put up a fight? He had brought with him two men-at-arms, but they would be outnumbered.

The leader of the group was someone Alison did not recognize. She noticed, despite her tumultuous excitement, that he was expensively dressed in a suit of green serge with extravagant embroidery. It must be Anthony Babington.

Then Alison looked at Paulet and wondered why he appeared unconcerned. The approach of a group of fast riders in open country was normally worrying, but he almost looked as if he had been expecting them.

She looked again at the riders and saw, with a horrible shock, that bringing up the rear was the slim figure of Ned Willard. That meant the riders were not a rescue party. Willard had been Mary’s nemesis for a quarter of a century. Now approaching fifty, he had streaks of grey in his dark hair and lines on his face. Even though he was riding last, Alison felt he was the real leader of this group.

Paulet introduced the man in green serge as Sir Thomas Gorges, an emissary from Queen Elizabeth, and Alison was seized by a fear as cold as the grave.

Gorges spoke what was obviously a rehearsed sentence. Addressing Mary, he said: ‘Madam, the queen my mistress finds it very strange that you, contrary to the pact and engagement between you, should have conspired against her and her State, a thing which she could not have believed had she not seen proofs of it with her own eyes and known it for certain.’

Alison realized that there was no deer hunt. Paulet had invented that as a way of separating Mary from the majority of her entourage.

Mary was horribly surprised. Her poise deserted her. Flustered, she spoke barely coherently. ‘I have never . . . I have always been a good sister . . . I am Elizabeth’s friend . . .’

Gorges took no notice. ‘Your servants, known to be guilty too, will be taken away from you.’

Alison said: ‘I must stay with her!’

Gorges looked at Willard, who gave a brief shake of his head.

Gorges said to Alison: ‘You will remain with the other servants.’

Mary turned to Nau. ‘Don’t let them do this!’