had been sending a steady stream of unsettling information for months. Philip would like nothing more than to have a Catholic queen on the throne of England, and Walsingham knew there were traitors in London and elsewhere willing to help the Spanish king achieve just that. He was close to being able to prove it, but he also knew there were conspirators he’d not yet found. They haunted him, stalked both his dreams and his waking hours, and he prayed for the strength and tenacity to do whatever necessary to ensure they were stopped before they could carry out their immoral mission. Nothing was more important than keeping Elizabeth safe.
On the outskirts of London, Savage was taking none of it well. He’d failed his compatriots when he ran from the armorer instead of killing him. Failed them even before he’d run, when he’d revealed his anger and raised the man’s suspicions. Failed them with the horror in his eyes after Reston had dealt with the man. Now, standing alone among trees, a forest dark around him, he shivered, his face blanched as he half-mumbled, half-sang an endless prayer.
“Salve regina, mater
misericordiae, vita dulcedo et
spes nostra salve...”
His fellow conspirators sat nearby, close enough to watch him, but none looked at him. They stared at the fire burning before them in the clearing, its light cutting through the trees. Only a fourth man who stood, ignoring the fire, focused on Savage.
“His weakness endangers us all,” Reston said, no longer dressed in his Jesuit robes, presenting the perfect picture of an ordinary Englishman. “He can’t go on with us. And we can’t leave him behind.”
“Surely he won’t take much longer.” Babington watched his friend holding the gun, pointing it at nothing.
“We cannot wait,” Reston said. “Who among us has the courage to show him mercy and send him to God?” Silence hung over the fire. Reston considered the men before him. He would take care of it himself, but the time had come for others to share in the blood. It would guarantee their loyalty. “Would you have him die a suicide and suffer for eternity in hell?”
Babington met his stare, nodded, and headed off through the trees. No one save Reston looked in his direction. Reston had personally selected each man to join his mission. Babington, though young, was a true idealist, while Ramsay had an easy manner that allowed him to blend in anywhere. Francis Throckmorton, whose focus was unwavering, had connections at court. They were all fervent Catholics, all willing to die in the service of returning England to the true church, and all had been very clear as to what would happen should any of them prove less than reliable. Martyrdom never came to cowards. Savage’s family history and his devotion to God had impressed Reston, and it was not often his impressions of people were wrong. He prayed God would forgive him for not recognizing the man’s utter lack of strength.
“Ad te clamamus, exsulaes filii
Evae
Ad te suspiramus gementes et
flentes in hac lacrimarum valle...”
Savage, continuing his semi-delirious chant, leaned against a tree, then stood again on his own, his glazed eyes fixed on the gun. He raised it to his temple, then lowered it, swaying on his feet, looking up as Babington approached him.
“Make your peace with God,” Babington said, taking the pistol from his hand. Savage stood still, his eyes suddenly clear. He stepped back from his friend.
“No! Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.” His limbs were trembling with such ferocity it looked as if he were convulsing. Babington swallowed hard and raised the gun, then paused, breathed deeply, and pointed it to the ground.
Now Reston started to pray, his voice strong.
“ Si ambulam in medio umbrae mortis, non timebo mala—”
The others gathered behind him and joined in, reciting together the words of the psalm. As Babington added his voice to theirs, he began to weep.
“Quoniam tu mecum es,
On the outskirts of London, Savage was taking none of it well. He’d failed his compatriots when he ran from the armorer instead of killing him. Failed them even before he’d run, when he’d revealed his anger and raised the man’s suspicions. Failed them with the horror in his eyes after Reston had dealt with the man. Now, standing alone among trees, a forest dark around him, he shivered, his face blanched as he half-mumbled, half-sang an endless prayer.
“Salve regina, mater
misericordiae, vita dulcedo et
spes nostra salve...”
His fellow conspirators sat nearby, close enough to watch him, but none looked at him. They stared at the fire burning before them in the clearing, its light cutting through the trees. Only a fourth man who stood, ignoring the fire, focused on Savage.
“His weakness endangers us all,” Reston said, no longer dressed in his Jesuit robes, presenting the perfect picture of an ordinary Englishman. “He can’t go on with us. And we can’t leave him behind.”
“Surely he won’t take much longer.” Babington watched his friend holding the gun, pointing it at nothing.
“We cannot wait,” Reston said. “Who among us has the courage to show him mercy and send him to God?” Silence hung over the fire. Reston considered the men before him. He would take care of it himself, but the time had come for others to share in the blood. It would guarantee their loyalty. “Would you have him die a suicide and suffer for eternity in hell?”
Babington met his stare, nodded, and headed off through the trees. No one save Reston looked in his direction. Reston had personally selected each man to join his mission. Babington, though young, was a true idealist, while Ramsay had an easy manner that allowed him to blend in anywhere. Francis Throckmorton, whose focus was unwavering, had connections at court. They were all fervent Catholics, all willing to die in the service of returning England to the true church, and all had been very clear as to what would happen should any of them prove less than reliable. Martyrdom never came to cowards. Savage’s family history and his devotion to God had impressed Reston, and it was not often his impressions of people were wrong. He prayed God would forgive him for not recognizing the man’s utter lack of strength.
“Ad te clamamus, exsulaes filii
Evae
Ad te suspiramus gementes et
flentes in hac lacrimarum valle...”
Savage, continuing his semi-delirious chant, leaned against a tree, then stood again on his own, his glazed eyes fixed on the gun. He raised it to his temple, then lowered it, swaying on his feet, looking up as Babington approached him.
“Make your peace with God,” Babington said, taking the pistol from his hand. Savage stood still, his eyes suddenly clear. He stepped back from his friend.
“No! Don’t kill me. I don’t want to die.” His limbs were trembling with such ferocity it looked as if he were convulsing. Babington swallowed hard and raised the gun, then paused, breathed deeply, and pointed it to the ground.
Now Reston started to pray, his voice strong.
“ Si ambulam in medio umbrae mortis, non timebo mala—”
The others gathered behind him and joined in, reciting together the words of the psalm. As Babington added his voice to theirs, he began to weep.
“Quoniam tu mecum es,
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