They threw the contents of their drinking vessels down their gullets then brought the empty tankards onto the tabletop with an explosion of banging.
‘Now charge your goblets and tankards and let us drink to the Pope’s White Sons!’ Once more they shouted and drank. Babington sat down and the other men followed his lead. He looked about once more. At his right hand sat John Shakespeare, one of the newer young gentlemen, recommended by Goodfellow Savage as a fellow of influence and secret knowledge; just the sort of man they needed. Was he to be trusted, though? He knew the mass well enough, but any spy worth his salt could learn that. On the other hand he was too valuable to be dismissed. He had already brought information about the inner workings of Sir Francis Walsingham’s intelligence network and promised more. Well, they would watch him carefully. And use him ruthlessly. Walsingham might think himself cunning, but Babington knew that he was a great deal cleverer. If Shakespeare was a spy, he would find out soon enough.
Shakespeare was becoming more than a little drunk, yet even through the fog of smoke and alcohol he could not rid himself of the tautness in his neck that came with playing a part. An hour earlier he had betrayed his religion to hear mass with these men at a house nearby. Now he was seated at Babington’s right hand, drinking to the death of the Queen he had sworn to serve loyally.
Through the haze of his inebriation, he studied Anthony Babington: the doublet of gold and silver threads shining in the candlelight; the long, carefully tied hair, so soft and clean; the small gold earring; his puffed-up pride. The word popinjay might have been coined for him.
A sudden hubbub of hail and welcome made Shakespeare look towards the door. Two late arrivals were entering – Edward Abingdon and Charles Tilney. Shakespeare knew them well and a sudden chill crept over him. Abingdon and Tilney were courtiers with access to the Queen, honoured members of the Queen’s Guard. And here they were among a group of malcontents and putative traitors with insurrection and assassination in mind.
He put his fears aside for another day. For the present, nothing must be said or done to raise alarm in the minds of those gathered here. Instead Shakespeare raised his tankard to the two men. Tilney came and clapped him on the back and pushed his way onto the bench on his right side.
‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, I had not expected to meet you here.’ His voice boomed.
‘Nor I you, Mr Tilney. It seems we both have a taste for interesting company.’ He moved a little way further from his new companion, who was known as ‘Roarer’ Tilney with good reason.
‘Does Mr Secretary know you are out?’ Tilney shouted.
Shakespeare grimaced. ‘Mr Secretary may own my body, but he does not own my soul. And what of you, Mr Tilney? Does Her Majesty know that you are here? I had thought you to be a Gentleman Pensioner with care for her safety. Should you not be guarding her royal body with your life?’
‘Why, she does not need me ! She has God on her side!’ Tilney bellowed with laughter at the preposterous notion that a Protestant God could protect anything or anyone. Eyes turned his way and then, seeing who it was, turned away again.
‘You speak so loud, I suspect you are heard at Greenwich, Mr Tilney. Watch your roaring lest you ruin us all.’
‘They are looking for men who huddle and whisper, Mr Shakespeare. When I roar, the spies know I can have nothing to hide. And what of you? You talk in hushed tones here, but are you not heard at Seething Lane?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Shakespeare’s senses sharpened, despite the ale he had drunk.
Tilney shrugged. ‘It was but a jest. I have come for ale and good roasts with fine company, no more.’
‘It was no jest. I do not like your insinuation.’
‘Insinuation?’
‘You know why I work for Walsingham. I will not be defamed by you or anyone
‘Now charge your goblets and tankards and let us drink to the Pope’s White Sons!’ Once more they shouted and drank. Babington sat down and the other men followed his lead. He looked about once more. At his right hand sat John Shakespeare, one of the newer young gentlemen, recommended by Goodfellow Savage as a fellow of influence and secret knowledge; just the sort of man they needed. Was he to be trusted, though? He knew the mass well enough, but any spy worth his salt could learn that. On the other hand he was too valuable to be dismissed. He had already brought information about the inner workings of Sir Francis Walsingham’s intelligence network and promised more. Well, they would watch him carefully. And use him ruthlessly. Walsingham might think himself cunning, but Babington knew that he was a great deal cleverer. If Shakespeare was a spy, he would find out soon enough.
Shakespeare was becoming more than a little drunk, yet even through the fog of smoke and alcohol he could not rid himself of the tautness in his neck that came with playing a part. An hour earlier he had betrayed his religion to hear mass with these men at a house nearby. Now he was seated at Babington’s right hand, drinking to the death of the Queen he had sworn to serve loyally.
Through the haze of his inebriation, he studied Anthony Babington: the doublet of gold and silver threads shining in the candlelight; the long, carefully tied hair, so soft and clean; the small gold earring; his puffed-up pride. The word popinjay might have been coined for him.
A sudden hubbub of hail and welcome made Shakespeare look towards the door. Two late arrivals were entering – Edward Abingdon and Charles Tilney. Shakespeare knew them well and a sudden chill crept over him. Abingdon and Tilney were courtiers with access to the Queen, honoured members of the Queen’s Guard. And here they were among a group of malcontents and putative traitors with insurrection and assassination in mind.
He put his fears aside for another day. For the present, nothing must be said or done to raise alarm in the minds of those gathered here. Instead Shakespeare raised his tankard to the two men. Tilney came and clapped him on the back and pushed his way onto the bench on his right side.
‘Well, well, Mr Shakespeare, I had not expected to meet you here.’ His voice boomed.
‘Nor I you, Mr Tilney. It seems we both have a taste for interesting company.’ He moved a little way further from his new companion, who was known as ‘Roarer’ Tilney with good reason.
‘Does Mr Secretary know you are out?’ Tilney shouted.
Shakespeare grimaced. ‘Mr Secretary may own my body, but he does not own my soul. And what of you, Mr Tilney? Does Her Majesty know that you are here? I had thought you to be a Gentleman Pensioner with care for her safety. Should you not be guarding her royal body with your life?’
‘Why, she does not need me ! She has God on her side!’ Tilney bellowed with laughter at the preposterous notion that a Protestant God could protect anything or anyone. Eyes turned his way and then, seeing who it was, turned away again.
‘You speak so loud, I suspect you are heard at Greenwich, Mr Tilney. Watch your roaring lest you ruin us all.’
‘They are looking for men who huddle and whisper, Mr Shakespeare. When I roar, the spies know I can have nothing to hide. And what of you? You talk in hushed tones here, but are you not heard at Seething Lane?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Shakespeare’s senses sharpened, despite the ale he had drunk.
Tilney shrugged. ‘It was but a jest. I have come for ale and good roasts with fine company, no more.’
‘It was no jest. I do not like your insinuation.’
‘Insinuation?’
‘You know why I work for Walsingham. I will not be defamed by you or anyone
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