Prophecy

I hail a boat back to Salisbury Court, thinking that it would be harder for anyone to follow me inconspicuously by river, but although I spend the journey peering out at the other wherries and their passengers until even the boatman grows nervous and asks what is the matter, I see nothing to give me any cause for concern. By the time I arrive back at the embassy, I have almost persuaded myself that I was mistaken.

Halfway across the first-floor gallery, with my fingers burning to examine the contents of the velvet bag, which I have not dared to open in any public place in case I was being followed, I hear a woman call my name. So fixed am I on reaching the privacy of my room in order to examine its contents that I nearly curse aloud at being detained. Marie stands in the doorway behind me, regarding me with her head on one side, her daughter’s little dog clasped in her arms. Reluctantly, I turn and bow.

‘Madame.’

‘Who was your mysterious letter from yesterday, Bruno? We are all dying to know.’ She advances on me, smiling coquettishly, and stops a little too close. She wears a dress of blue silk, and on her bodice is pinned a large jewelled brooch, studded with rubies and diamonds that glint and sparkle in the sun. The dog stretches out its small head and licks my hand in an enquiring manner. ‘I have speculated that you have some besotted English girl sending you verses, but Claude is quite convinced that it is something more intriguing. Who would be sending Bruno letters, he wonders, that could not divulge his name? Or her name.’ She widens her eyes in an affectation of intrigue.

I smile politely, but this is worrying: it will not do me any good to have the household speculating on my communications, especially in the midst of such conspiracies as I heard the other night. I begin to think it was a mistake to suggest that Abigail contact me here. Thinking as quickly as I can, I compose my expression into one of regret.

‘I only wish you were right, madame, but I’m afraid there is no besotted English girl. The letter came from a young man at court who has read one of my books and wishes to become my private student.’

‘One of your books?’ She looks disappointed.

‘As unlikely as that may seem.’

‘Student of what?’

‘Of the art of memory. Just as I taught to King Henri in Paris.’

‘Oh.’ She considers this. ‘Then why the secrecy?’

‘Because ignorant people mutter that the techniques of memory owe something to occult sciences. I expect he is being cautious. Though I assure you there is no truth in that,’ I add, hastily.

She continues to study me with her head tilted, as if I make more sense viewed at an angle.

‘Well, then, Bruno,’ she says, at length, ‘I insist that I become your private student too. I would like to learn your system. You can sort out the payment with my husband – although he may feel that the board and lodging you already receive are wages enough.’

‘Madame, I am not sure that would be –’

‘Don’t be tiresome, Bruno. It would be perfect – it is not as if you are employed elsewhere, and I must fill my time somehow while Katherine is with her governess. Besides, my memory is quite shamefully poor. I came after you to tell you something, and now I have quite forgotten what it was. You see? I need you.’ She smiles up at me with a twitch of her eyebrow, all innocent and knowing. Looking for a distraction, I reach out to stroke the dog and she does the same, with the result that her hand lightly caresses the top of mine; I pull my own hand back as if burned, and she blushes and drops her gaze. Christ, I think: the idea of trying to teach her anything, alone in a room, is more daunting than any task Walsingham could ask of me. I am reassured by the thought that Castelnau would never sanction it.

‘Anyway, where are you heading in such a hurry?’

‘Oh – just to my room. I had one or two ideas while I was out walking and I must write them down before they evaporate.’

Her laugh is musical. ‘You are not a very good advertisement for your own memory techniques, Bruno.’

‘You have been warned.’

‘Oh, I am not deterred. I only feel sorry for your young student – I hope he is not wasting his money. What was his name?’

I hesitate only for the space of a breath, but she is sharp enough to notice.

‘Ned. Ned Kelley. Well, madame, I must –’ I gesture towards the door at the other end of the gallery. It is a handsome room, running the length of the house at the front, with tall windows along the walls on both sides. Sunlight plays along the darkened panelling, dust dancing in perpetual motion in glittering shafts. The same light falls sidelong on Marie’s face and I have an urge to reach out and touch her cheek, not from desire but merely to see how soft it feels, lit up and golden. I take a step back as if to leave and she reaches out and grasps my sleeve.

‘There – now I have remembered what it was! The ambassador wishes to speak to you in his private office – he has been asking for you all morning but no one knew your whereabouts.’ She says this as a kind of accusation.

‘Then I will go to him shortly,’ I say, feeling the shape of the bag still pressing against my chest under my jerkin. ‘First I must change my shirt.’

She looks at my collar doubtfully.

‘While you are there, tell him I wish to take lessons in your arcane magical arts.’

‘Madame, there is no magic involved, whatever they say in Paris –’ I begin, earnestly, but then I catch sight of her impish smile.

‘Oh dear, Bruno – you are too easy to tease. I think I will enjoy our lessons.’

I reply with a curt bow, leaving her standing in a ray of light with her jewels glittering, still laughing to herself.

The velvet bag, when it is opened, reveals the items Abigail mentioned to me before: a gold signet ring with an engraved emblem; a tortoiseshell hand mirror, beautifully smooth; a small glass vial of perfume in the shape of a diamond, of the kind that women wear around their necks, with a gold clasp and a chain attached at the top. Love-tokens, clearly expensive, but what can these trinkets tell me of the story of Cecily Ashe and her lover? One by one, I hold them up to the light and examine them. The ring’s design is of a bird with outstretched wings and a curved beak, an eagle perhaps, and around the edge letters are carved in mirror image, so that they would read true when pressed into warm sealing wax. I frown for a moment, trying to decipher the motto, until I realise it is written in French: Sa Virtu M’Atire. ‘Her virtue draws me’ – or perhaps ‘its virtue’. But the word ‘attire’ is misspelled – a curious mistake. You would think if you were having a gold ring engraved, you would make sure the goldsmith carved it correctly; nor would any craftsman worth his fee want the expense of making such an error. So, I think, rotating the ring again while my eye follows the letters around, what appears at first glance to be a mistake must be by design, and therefore perhaps the motto has a hidden or coded meaning. If this is the case, it is not giving itself up to me easily; I am no nearer than Abigail to knowing whose emblem this is, though it seems the giver of the ring had a French connection. That hardly helps, of course – half the nobility have some French ancestry and everyone of the gentry class and above learns at least a few words.

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