Domine.
Virga tua et baculus tuus, ipsa
me consolata sunt—”
As if fortified by the holy words, Babington raised the pistol, continuing to pray aloud as tears streamed down his face. He squeezed the trigger.
Savage would tremble no more.
Francis Walsingham, his mind still full of conspiracies, returned from Whitehall to a house that was not as grand as his position and proximity to the queen would have led one to expect. He spent freely when he wanted to and was a frequent patron of musicians. But the bulk of his fortune went toward funding the work of gathering intelligence, work essential to ensure the queen’s safety, a matter that concerned him only slightly less than the glory of God. There was nothing more dangerous than belief in security; no one was ever secure.
He’d established an extensive network of agents throughout the world and regularly received updates from twelve locations in France, nine in Germany, four each in Italy and Spain, three in the Low Countries. Constantinople, Tripoli, and Tangiers were within his reach. He’d found no court or household that did not contain at least one person ready to gossip. Solid news often required payment, but Walsingham never balked at that. Personal fortune was nothing compared to the security of the realm.
Not that his wife always agreed.
The walls of his study in Seething Lane were lined with oak cases that hardly began to provide enough space for his books. With shelves overflowing, volumes were stacked on every surface, heaped on the floor, on chairs. His desk was covered with papers, letters, maps, and codebooks—everything he needed for the work that consumed him.
The door opened and Walsingham looked up from his desk, the frown on his face disappearing as he recognized his visitor and lifted his arms to embrace him. “You look terrible. Don’t they feed you in Paris?” He pushed back to get a better look at his younger brother. “How are your studies? Learned the secrets of the universe yet?”
William smiled, tired but at ease. “Not yet.”
“You study theology and these are dangerous times to be questioning the ways of God. You must take care of yourself.”
“My needs are simple.”
“But are they safe?”
“I do what I must, brother. You know that.”
“You’ll dine with us?” Walsingham asked. “You’ll lodge with us?” Two women, mother and daughter, all smiles and dimples and beautiful gowns entered the room.
“William!” Mary exclaimed, tumbling into her uncle’s arms.
“Look at you. All grown up.”
“I’m twenty, you know,” she said, eyes bright with innocence.
Walsingham’s wife, Ursula, came forward, raising an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, an unasked question on her lips. “William. This is a pleasure.”
“I’ve been away too long, ma’am,” he said.
Mary took his arm and started to lead him out of the room. “You come with me, William. There’s much we need to discuss.” As they left, heads bent together, laughter following them out the door, Ursula met her husband’s eye. “He’s not still a student, is he?” Walsingham did not answer but took her arm and steered her down the winding staircase toward the sound of his daughter’s voice.
Mary and William were already comfortably ensconced in the hall, he sitting by the fire, she at the small table that held her virginals. She started to play, first a bright fantasia by William Byrd, showing off her quick fingers, then cycled through a stack of popular songs. Her voice was a sweet delight, and her father would have been content to sit quietly listening to it.
“Have you spoken to the queen?” Ursula asked. They were sitting across the room, by a long table.
“I speak to her daily,” Walsingham replied. “You know that. Have you suddenly decided to be impressed?”
She did not respond to his attempt at levity. “You know what I mean. You’ve done enough.” The urgency in her tone distressed him; he did not like to
Virga tua et baculus tuus, ipsa
me consolata sunt—”
As if fortified by the holy words, Babington raised the pistol, continuing to pray aloud as tears streamed down his face. He squeezed the trigger.
Savage would tremble no more.
Francis Walsingham, his mind still full of conspiracies, returned from Whitehall to a house that was not as grand as his position and proximity to the queen would have led one to expect. He spent freely when he wanted to and was a frequent patron of musicians. But the bulk of his fortune went toward funding the work of gathering intelligence, work essential to ensure the queen’s safety, a matter that concerned him only slightly less than the glory of God. There was nothing more dangerous than belief in security; no one was ever secure.
He’d established an extensive network of agents throughout the world and regularly received updates from twelve locations in France, nine in Germany, four each in Italy and Spain, three in the Low Countries. Constantinople, Tripoli, and Tangiers were within his reach. He’d found no court or household that did not contain at least one person ready to gossip. Solid news often required payment, but Walsingham never balked at that. Personal fortune was nothing compared to the security of the realm.
Not that his wife always agreed.
The walls of his study in Seething Lane were lined with oak cases that hardly began to provide enough space for his books. With shelves overflowing, volumes were stacked on every surface, heaped on the floor, on chairs. His desk was covered with papers, letters, maps, and codebooks—everything he needed for the work that consumed him.
The door opened and Walsingham looked up from his desk, the frown on his face disappearing as he recognized his visitor and lifted his arms to embrace him. “You look terrible. Don’t they feed you in Paris?” He pushed back to get a better look at his younger brother. “How are your studies? Learned the secrets of the universe yet?”
William smiled, tired but at ease. “Not yet.”
“You study theology and these are dangerous times to be questioning the ways of God. You must take care of yourself.”
“My needs are simple.”
“But are they safe?”
“I do what I must, brother. You know that.”
“You’ll dine with us?” Walsingham asked. “You’ll lodge with us?” Two women, mother and daughter, all smiles and dimples and beautiful gowns entered the room.
“William!” Mary exclaimed, tumbling into her uncle’s arms.
“Look at you. All grown up.”
“I’m twenty, you know,” she said, eyes bright with innocence.
Walsingham’s wife, Ursula, came forward, raising an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, an unasked question on her lips. “William. This is a pleasure.”
“I’ve been away too long, ma’am,” he said.
Mary took his arm and started to lead him out of the room. “You come with me, William. There’s much we need to discuss.” As they left, heads bent together, laughter following them out the door, Ursula met her husband’s eye. “He’s not still a student, is he?” Walsingham did not answer but took her arm and steered her down the winding staircase toward the sound of his daughter’s voice.
Mary and William were already comfortably ensconced in the hall, he sitting by the fire, she at the small table that held her virginals. She started to play, first a bright fantasia by William Byrd, showing off her quick fingers, then cycled through a stack of popular songs. Her voice was a sweet delight, and her father would have been content to sit quietly listening to it.
“Have you spoken to the queen?” Ursula asked. They were sitting across the room, by a long table.
“I speak to her daily,” Walsingham replied. “You know that. Have you suddenly decided to be impressed?”
She did not respond to his attempt at levity. “You know what I mean. You’ve done enough.” The urgency in her tone distressed him; he did not like to
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