A Fine Madness Alan Judd (beach read book txt) 📖

a distraction. A distraction from what? Well might you ask, sir. From the search for truth, from that human quest we find in Plato and the ancients. Now that I am confined here, without my beloved Mary for company, I become more than ever convinced that Plato was right, that truth is to be found in the mathematic. Granted, it is beyond my fathoming, unimaginable, unattainable, but there is in number an echo of eternity that reaches us from beyond the clamour of humanity. I confess I am now more convinced of this than of the truths of scripture which, in those days, I never questioned. Until prompted by Christopher. This may shock you, sir, but if you will have the truth you must hear it. I leave it to you to decide what to tell His Majesty.

Well, he reported to me in Whitehall later that day, after the arrest of Ballard. It went as planned, the other parties to it being a city official and two royal pursuivants. They asked no questions of Christopher, having been told they would be joined by one of the Lord Admiral Howard’s men. Armed with clubs, swords and chains, they proceeded directly from the tavern to Poley’s lodgings where they found the door unlocked and ajar, though all was dark and quiet within. The explanation for this was that Poley had opened it and was awaiting them, guessing they would come. He whispered that Ballard and Babington were sleeping within, and asked that they knock loudly on the door and that upon his answering they force their way in, handling him a little roughly and perhaps even binding him, but letting him go once they had secured Ballard. They queried this, knowing nothing of Poley or the background, at which point Christopher had to intervene to say that Poley was a trusted man, that they should heed what he said and secure only Ballard, leaving the other one, the young Babington.

Poley quietly closed the door and a minute later the city official banged upon it with his cudgel and demanded entry loudly enough to wake the neighbourhood. Poley opened and the pursuivants barged in, seizing him and demanding to know whether he was the priest, John Ballard. By this time the other two were on their feet in the back room. Christopher could see them crouching, frozen with shock, until Babington suddenly made for the window at the back. But the city official was too quick for him, rushing into the room and thrusting Ballard aside so that he fell. He grabbed Babington by the shoulder and arm, throwing him to the floor beside Ballard. Then one of the pursuivants let go of Poley and knelt upon Ballard’s chest, pinning him to the floor.

Satisfied they were all under control, they roped them together and stood them up against the wall to search and examine them. Poley tolerated it with the resignation of one who was no stranger to such procedures, as indeed he wasn’t, and who had nothing to fear, as indeed he hadn’t, this time. Babington, wide-eyed and shaking, protested in a high querulous voice, demanding to know who they were, what was going on and insisting that the Court should hear of this. No one answered him. Ballard, a tall man with hair and beard as black as Mr Secretary’s, was silent and watchful, calculating. No doubt he was fearful, too, and with good reason, but he didn’t show it.

Christopher witnessed all this from just inside the door. He had no need to say anything more and neither Babington nor Ballard paid him any attention.

The city official stood before each man in turn and said, ‘Who are you? Give me your name.’

Poley answered straightforwardly and, when asked who could vouch for him, said, ‘Sir Francis Walsingham, whose messenger I am.’

Babington described himself as Anthony Babington, gentleman of Derbyshire and Lincoln’s Inn. Then, recovering himself, he demanded to know who it was who asked. They ignored him.

Ballard drew himself up and gave his name as Captain Fortescue, military gentleman. The city official stared at him. ‘Are you known by any other name?’

‘People sometimes call me Black Fortescue.’

‘What else do they call you?’

‘They may call me many things, depending on whether they mean good or ill.’ He had a deep voice, controlled and clear.

‘Do they ever call you John Ballard, priest?’

‘Never to my knowledge. Why should they?’

The official turned to the pursuivants. ‘Take him. Let the others go.’

Ballard was bound anew and led out. Christopher said that his expression was set hard like a man determined to resist. Determined he may have been, then, and certainly remained so while held in the Counter prison. But taken later in the Tower he confessed all to the rack, as nearly all do.

That was the end of Christopher’s official role in the affair. For what happened next we had only Poley’s account, which was true enough but, as usual, showed its author in a fair light and was not quite complete. He said that he and Babington stayed talking a while. Babington was shaken, white as a ghost, fearful that the plot had been discovered. Poley persuaded him that the authorities were very hot on priests entering the country in order to preach sedition and that somehow they must have discovered Ballard’s real name and his Fortescue alias, perhaps from spies in the seminary that sent him. If they had suspected the plot they would have arrested Babington, Poley insisted, and probably himself too, but they had shown no interest. It was clear that they were simply after a priest.

Babington, calming, accepted this but worried that Ballard might under torture reveal the plot and the names of all the plotters. He and the others must flee, he said. It would be best to flee abroad but they had no papers so would have to go to ground in the country. Poley urged that they should simply lie low, do nothing to indicate that they feared arrest