Prophecy

‘Lord Burghley, my arse. You’ll answer to the captain of the palace guard first, you Spanish dog,’ says one, as he drags me roughly towards the stairs. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘Lord Burghley let me in,’ I repeat, with a sigh; in six months in England I have learned to expect this. They regard all foreigners – especially those of us with dark eyes and beards – as Spanish papists come to murder them in their beds. I will find my way to Burghley eventually; what matters is that no one should know the maid Abigail has spoken to me. Cecily’s mystery inamorato may not know that she kept his identity a secret; there is every chance he may want to silence her friends too. Assuming – and I have learned to assume nothing without proof – that he is connected to this bizarre display of murder.

Chapter Three

Salisbury Court, London 26th September, Year of Our Lord 1583

‘Cut off both her tits, the way I heard it.’ Archibald Douglas leans back in his chair and picks his teeth with a chicken bone, apparently satisfied that he has delivered the definitive version. Then he remembers another detail and sits forward in a hurry, his finger wagging at no one in particular. ‘Cut off both her tits and stuck a Spanish crucifix up her. Fucking brute.’ He slumps again and drains his glass.

‘Monsieur Douglas, s’il vous plait.’ Courcelles, the ambassador’s private secretary, raises his almost invisible eyebrows in a perfect mannerism of shock that, like all his gestures, appears learned and rehearsed. He passes a hand over his carefully coiffed hair and tuts, pursing his lips, as if his objection is principally to the Scotsman’s vulgar turn of phrase. ‘I was told by a friend at court she was strangled with a rosary. On the steps of the Chapel Royal, if you can believe it.’ He presses a hand to his breast bone with a great intake of breath. He should be in a playing company, I think; his every move is a performance.

Across the table, William Fowler catches my eye for the space of a blink before he glances away again.

‘These reports do have a tendency to grow in the telling,’ he says, evenly, looking at the ambassador. He too speaks with the Scottish accent, though to my foreign ears his conversation seems more comprehensible than the broad tones of Douglas. Fowler is a neat, self-contained man in his mid-twenties, clean-shaven with brown hair that hangs almost into his eyes; his voice is restrained, as if he is always imparting a confidence, so that you have to lean in to listen. ‘I have been a frequent visitor to the court on official business these past days, and I’m afraid the truth is less sensational.’ But he doesn’t elaborate. I have noticed that Fowler, my new contact whom I have met for the first time this evening and have not yet spoken to alone, has a talent for implying that he knows far more than he is prepared to say in company. Perhaps this is why the French ambassador is drawn to him.

Why Castelnau tolerates Douglas, on the other hand, is anyone’s guess. The older Scotsman is some kind of minor noble, about forty years of age, with prematurely greying reddish hair and a face hardened by drink and weather, who has attached himself to the embassy with the promise of supporting the Scottish queen’s claim to the English throne. Improbable as it seems, he is a senator in the Scottish College of Justice and said to be well connected among the Scottish lords, both Catholic and Protestant; he comes personally recommended by Queen Mary of Scotland. For the ambassador, these connections must be worth the price of feeding him. I have my doubts. Given that I too have been obliged to survive these past seven years by seeking the patronage of influential men, perhaps I should be more charitable to Archibald Douglas, but I like to think that I at least offer something to the households of my patrons in return for their hospitality, even if it is only some lively dinner-table conversation and the prestige of my books. Douglas brings nothing, as far as I can see, and I am not persuaded by his professed interest in Mary and her French supporters; he strikes me as one of those who will always agree with whoever happens to be pouring the wine. It irks me that Claude de Courcelles, the ambassador’s too-pretty secretary, tars me with the same brush as Douglas; Courcelles is responsible for making the embassy’s books balance, and he looks with undisguised resentment on those he views as leeches. I am often forced to remind him that I am a personal friend of his sovereign, whereas Douglas – well, Douglas claims to be a friend of many influential people, including the Queen of Scots herself, but I cannot help wondering: if he is so popular among the Scottish and English nobles, why does he not beg his dinner at one of their tables once in a while? Why, for that matter, is he never in Scotland at his own table?

The murder at court has been the chief topic of conversation at dinner this evening, eclipsing even the usual preoccupation with the Scottish queen and the ambitions of her Guise cousins. That night at Richmond Palace, I told Burghley and Walsingham of my conversation with Abigail; since then, the maids of honour have been given extra guards and the men at court are being questioned again but, naturally, when it comes to forbidden affairs, people are conditioned to lie. Walsingham grows increasingly anxious; the queen’s household at Richmond numbers upwards of six hundred souls. Though the hierarchies are strictly defined – each senior servant responsible for the duties of those below him or her – how can so many people be made to give true accounts of their movements on one evening? Queen Elizabeth, for her part, chooses to believe that a crazed intruder broke into the palace compound; her solution is to move the court earlier than usual to her central London palace at Whitehall, which is not so exposed to the open country and easier to defend. She will not admit the possibility that the killer might still be living among them. Walsingham had said he would send for me if he needed further assistance. Meanwhile, he said, I should return home and turn my attentions to the conversations behind closed doors at the French embassy.

In the wood-panelled dining room at Salisbury Court, the candles are burning low and the clock has already struck midnight, but the dishes with the remains of Castelnau’s grand dinner still litter the table, their sauces long cold and congealed. The servants will clear the board in the morning; after the meal is when the ambassador addresses himself to private business with his guests. Now that England’s most influential and restless Catholic lords gather so often around Castelnau’s table, it makes sense not to risk these discussions being overheard by servants; after all, says the ambassador, you can never be too careful. This means that we must all try to ignore Archibald Douglas toying with the carcass of a chicken, or wiping a finger through cold gravy and licking it while he delivers his half-formed opinions.

Michel de Castelnau, Seigneur de Mauvissiere, pushes his plate away from him and rests his elbows on the table, surveying his company of men. He is remarkably hale for a man of sixty winters; you have to look hard for the flecks of silver in his dark hair, and his dour face with its long bulbous nose is brightened by keen eyes that miss nothing. Castelnau is a cultured man, not without his vanities, who likes his supper table busy with men of wit and progressive ideas, those who are not afraid of controversy and enjoy a good argument in the pursuit of knowledge, whether in the sciences, theology, politics or poetry. I still do not see where a man like Douglas fits into this scheme, except that he has Mary Stuart’s personal blessing. In the low amber light, our shadows loom large behind us, wavering on the walls.

‘A virgin defiled in the very court of the Virgin Queen.’ The ambassador’s gaze travels steadily over each of us in turn. ‘My friends, this was done to slander the Catholics. Why else? Crucifix, rosary – it matters little. The details may differ in the reports but the intent is the same: to stir up fear and hatred – as if more were needed. The Catholics have done this, the English are saying in the street. The Catholics will stop at nothing, they mean to kill our Virgin Queen and make us all slaves to the pope again. This is what they are saying.’ He puts on a peevish, whining approximation of an English voice to simulate the common gossips. Courcelles laughs sycophantically. Douglas belches.

‘What I hear,’ says a new voice that cuts through the silence like a diamond on glass, ‘is that her body was marked all over in blood with symbols of black magic.’ He looks directly at me as he says this, the one who has spoken in that clipped, aristocratic tone, the one who sits half in shadow at the far end of the table. Everything about him is sharp; pointed face, pointed beard, brows like gothic arches, eyes hard as arrowheads. He has been unusually silent this evening, but I can feel the resentment emanating from him like the heat of a fire every time he turns those narrowed, unblinking eyes on me.

Castelnau casts a nervous glance my way; despite his secretary’s misgivings, the ambassador has never been other than a genial, even kindly, host to me since I arrived in April as his house guest, at his king’s request, but I know this part of my reputation troubles him. In Paris I taught the art of memory – a unique system I had developed from the Greeks and Romans – to King Henri himself, who called me his personal philosopher; naturally this elevated position drew envy from the learned doctors of the Sorbonne, who whispered into every ear that my memory techniques were a kind of sorcery, born of communion with devils. It was these rumours, together with the rising influence of the hard-line Catholic faction at the French court, that led to my temporary exile in London. Castelnau is an honest Catholic; not an extremist like the Guise crowd, but devout enough to be worried when people joke to him about keeping a sorcerer in his house. He is another who warns me that my friendship with Doctor Dee will not do my reputation any favours. I suspect he says this because his close friend Henry Howard hates Dee, though the cause of this passionate hatred remains a mystery to me.

Lord Henry Howard continues to stare at me from under his arched brows as if his position demands that I account for myself. ‘Did you not hear any such reports, Bruno?’ he adds, in his smoothest voice. ‘It is your area of expertise, is it not?’

I smile pleasantly as I return his stare, unyielding. It would shock him to learn that I alone among the company saw the dead girl with my own eyes, but naturally no one at Salisbury Court knows I was there that night, any more than they know the truth about my work for Walsingham. Castelnau thinks that my acquaintance with Philip Sidney works to his own advantage; occasionally I feed him snippets of disinformation from the English court that support this illusion. Poor, trusting Castelnau; it gives me no pleasure to deceive him, but I must shift for myself in this world and I believe my future is safer with the powers of England, not France. I have no such qualms about informing on the likes of Henry Howard; a dangerous man, as Walsingham warned me. Since the execution for treason of his elder brother, the late Duke of Norfolk, this Henry Howard, at the age of forty-three, is now the senior member of the most powerful Catholic family in England. He is not to be underestimated; unlike many of the English nobles, he has an excellent mind and has even taught Rhetoric at the University of Cambridge. Sidney says the queen appointed him to her Privy Council because she knows the wisdom of keeping one’s enemies close, and because she likes to keep her more Puritanical ministers on their toes.

‘My lord is mistaken – I am only a humble writer,’ I reply, holding out my hands in a gesture of humility. ‘Like your lordship,’ I add, because I know the comparison will annoy him. It works; he glowers as if I have questioned the legitimacy of his birth.

‘Oh, yes – how does your book, Howard?’ Castelnau asks, perhaps grateful for the distraction.

Howard leans forward, an accusing finger raised to the ceiling.

‘This murder – this was precisely the point of my book. When the queen herself leans so openly on divination and on conjurors like John Dee, her subjects are encouraged to follow suit. Since she has led them all away from their proper obedience to the pope, is it any wonder they clutch at supposed prophecies and any old grand-dam’s tales of stars and planets? And where there is confusion, there the Devil rubs his hands with glee and sows his mischief. But people do not take heed.’

‘You are saying, if I understand you, my lord, that this murder occurred because people have not read your book thoroughly?’ I ask, all innocence. Castelnau flashes me a warning look.

‘I am saying, Bruno –’ Howard enunciates my name as if it set his teeth on edge – ‘that all these things are connected. A sovereign who turns her face from God’s anointed church, who claims all spiritual authority for herself but will not walk out of doors without consulting the constellations? Prophecies of the end of days, the coming of the antichrist, rumours of wars – the proper order is overturned, and now madmen are emboldened to slaughter the innocent in the name of the Devil. I’ll wager it will not be the last.’

Douglas snaps his head up at this, as if the conversation at last promises more of interest than his chicken carcass.

‘But if the reports are to be believed,’ I say, carefully, ‘it seems rather that this killer did his work in the name of the Catholic Church.’

‘Those who have slipped out from under the authority of Holy Mother Church will always be the first to blaspheme her,’ Howard counters, as quick as if we were fencing, a thin smile curving his lips. ‘As I suppose you would know, Master Bruno.’

‘Doctor Bruno, actually,’ I murmur. I would not usually insist, but I happen to know from Walsingham that, while he may have a family title, Henry Howard holds only the degree of Master. Among university men, these things matter. From his expression I can see that I have scored a hit.

‘Alors . . .’ Castelnau smiles uncertainly, holding out the wine bottle as a distraction, peering across our glasses to see who needs more drink. Douglas, the least needful of the company, thrusts his glass forward eagerly; as the ambassador passes the bottle down the table, we all jump like startled creatures at the soft click of the door, our nerves set on edge by the secretive nature of these meetings.

The company breathes with relief as the newcomers enter. Despite the late hour, it seems they have been expected, at least by our host. At first you might take them to be a couple, they step into the room so close and conspiratorial, until the young woman draws down her hood and moves immediately towards Castelnau with her arms outstretched; he stands and greets his young wife with a spaniel look in his eyes. When she moves into the light you see that she is not quite so young as you might at first think; her figure could be a girl’s but her face betrays that she is the wrong side of thirty. Even so, that makes her nearly three decades younger than her husband; perhaps this accounts for the spark in his eyes. She places a delicate hand on her husband’s shoulder, then raises her eyes briefly to look around the table. Marie de Castelnau is petite and slender, like a doll, the sort of woman men rush to protect, though she carries herself with the poise of a dancer, in a way that suggests she is well aware of her own allure. Her chestnut hair is bound up and caught in a tortoiseshell comb at the back of her neck, though loose strands tumble around her heart-shaped face; she brushes one away as she unlaces her cloak and takes in the assembled guests.

I catch her eye; she holds my gaze for a moment with something like curiosity, then demurely returns her attention to Castelnau, who pats her hand fondly. Walsingham was right: she is very beautiful. I try to smother that thought immediately.

‘You have found our dear Throckmorton, then,’ the ambassador says, beaming at the young man who came in after his wife and now hovers by the door, still wearing a travelling cloak. ‘Close that behind you and come, take some wine.’ He gestures broadly to an empty chair. Courcelles is dispatched in search of another bottle; the secretary is not too proud to take on a servant’s duties when secrecy is at stake. For my part, I am surprised that I have been allowed to stay for what is evidently a clandestine meeting; Henry Howard may dislike me, but it seems Castelnau’s faith in my loyalty to France, if not necessarily to Rome, is untarnished. My heartbeat quickens in anticipation.

‘He came in by the garden?’ Castelnau asks his wife anxiously.

‘I came by Water Lane, my lord,’ the young man called Throckmorton says, as he takes the seat that was offered. He means that he entered the house the back way, from the river, where he would not be seen. Salisbury Court is a long, sprawling building at least a hundred years old, which has its main door at the front on Fleet Street, by the church of St Bride’s, but its garden slopes down as far as the broad brown waters of the Thames; anyone wishing to visit the embassy in private can land a boat at Buckhurst Stairs after dark, pass up Water Lane and be admitted through a gate in the garden wall, without fear of being seen. This Throckmorton seems young; his beardless face is narrow and elfin, framed by fair hair long enough to curl over his collar; he has a pleasant, open smile but his pale eyes dart around nervously, as if he half-expected one of us to assault him while he was looking the other way. Seated, he unfastens his cloak; his eyes linger on me as an unfamiliar face, questioning, though not hostile.

‘Doctor Bruno, you have not met Francis Throckmorton, I think?’ Castelnau says, noticing the direction of the young man’s gaze. ‘A most valuable friend to the embassy among the English.’ He nods significantly.

Howard regards the new arrivals without smiling, then cracks his knuckles together.

‘Well then, Throckmorton,’ he says, without preamble. ‘What news from the queen?’

He means the other queen, of course: Elizabeth’s cousin Mary Stuart, whom they believe is also the rightful queen of England, the only legitimate Tudor heir. They being the extremists of the Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise (Mary’s cousin on her mother’s side), and those English Catholic nobles who see the tide in their own country turning against them, and gather around Castelnau’s table to grumble and agitate for something to be done. Except that, at the moment, Mary Stuart is not queen of anything; her son James VI rules Scotland under Elizabeth’s watchful eye, and Mary is imprisoned in Sheffield Castle, sewing, precisely so that she can’t inspire a rebellion. This measure has apparently done nothing to lessen the number of plots fomenting in her name on both sides of the English Channel.

Throckmorton lays his hands flat on the table, palms down, and allows his gaze to travel around the company once more, then he draws himself up as if he were about to embark on some great oratory, and smiles shyly.

‘Her Majesty Queen Mary asks me to convey that her spirits are greatly lifted by the love and support she receives from her friends in London and Paris, and very particularly by the fifteen hundred gold crowns my lord ambassador so generously sent to aid the comfort of her royal person.’

Castelnau inclines his head modestly. Howard sits up, amazed.

‘You spoke with her?’

‘No.’ Throckmorton looks apologetic. ‘With one of her ladies. Walsingham has ruled that she may not have visitors for the present.’

‘But she may have letters?’

‘Her official letters are all opened and read by her gaolers. But her women bring my correspondence in and out secretly, hidden in their undergarments.’ He blushes violently at the thought, and hurries on. ‘She is confident that her keepers have not yet found a means to read these. And she is permitted to have books.’ He gives Howard a significant look. ‘In fact, she most particularly asks that you send her a copy of your new book against prophecies, my lord Howard. She finds herself most eager to read it.’

‘She shall have it by your next delivery,’ Howard says, leaning back, his satisfaction evident in his smile.

‘She is also particularly anxious,’ Throckmorton continues, looking hopefully from Douglas to Fowler, ‘to have news from her son. To know the King of Scotland’s mind.’

Castelnau gives a short, bitter laugh. ‘Wouldn’t we all like to know that? Where will young James nail his colours, when he is finally made to choose?’ He produces an exaggerated shrug.

‘He does not write to his mother directly, then?’ Howard frowns.

‘Infrequently,’ Throckmorton says. ‘And when he does, he writes in the language of diplomacy, so that she can’t be sure of his intentions. She fears that his loyalties are not wholly where they ought to lie.’

‘King James is seventeen,’ Fowler says, in that quiet, authoritative voice, so that everyone has to lean towards him. He dresses plainly, with no ruff, just a shirt collar protruding above his brown woollen doublet. In a small way, this pleases me; I have an instinctive mistrust of dandies. ‘He has only just emerged from the shadow of his regents – what seventeen-year-old, having tasted independence, would willingly hand over the reins again to his mother? He will need a more material advantage than filial sentiment if he is to be persuaded to support her cause. Besides,’ he adds, ‘he was not one year old when he last saw her. She may believe they have a natural bond, but James knows he stands to gain more from a queen on a throne than from one in prison.’

‘Well, Monsieur Throckmorton, you may assure Queen Mary that at this very moment, her son entertains at his court an ambassador of the Duke of Guise,’ Madame de Castelnau interrupts, looking out from under her fringe of lashes, ‘who will offer him the friendship of France if he will acknowledge his proper duty as Mary’s son.’

There are murmurs of surprise at this from around the table. Fury flashes briefly over Castelnau’s face – this is clearly the first he has heard of it and, as far as he is concerned, France’s friendship is not in Guise hands to give – but I watch him master his anger, ever the professional diplomat. He does not want to reprimand his wife in public. She does not look at him, but there is a quiet triumph about the set of her mouth as she lowers her eyes again to the table.

‘In any case,’ the ambassador says brightly, as if he has been having an entirely different conversation, ‘there is every reason to believe we will soon have a treaty that will give Queen Mary her liberty peacefully, restore her to her son and allow France to preserve our friendship with both England and Scotland.’

‘Treaties be damned!’

Henry Howard throws back his chair and pounds a fist on the table, so suddenly that again we all jolt in our seats. The candles have burned down so far that his shadow leaps and quivers up the panels behind him and creeps over the ceiling, looming like an ogre in a children’s tale.

‘In the name of Christ, man, the time for talking is over! Do you not understand this, Michel?’ Howard bellows, leaning forward with both hands on the table to face down the ambassador, while Courcelles makes little ineffectual flapping gestures at him to lower his voice. ‘Are you so comfortable now at the English court that you do not feel which way the wind is blowing in Paris?’

‘The King of France still hopes to forge a political alliance with Queen Elizabeth, and it is my job to make every effort to secure this while I represent his interests,’ Castelnau says, keeping his patience. But Howard will not be placated.

‘The French people want no such alliance with a Protestant heretic, and your King Henri knows it – he feels the might of the Catholic League rising up at his back. No more treaties or marriages or seeking to appease and befriend the pretender Elizabeth – there is only one path left to us now!’ He thumps the table again for good measure so that the plates rattle.