Prophecy (2011) (21 page)

‘I don’t believe you,’ she says eventually, shaking her head with that same amused smile. ‘Whatever you are, Bruno, you are more than you seem on the outside. Though the outside is perfectly acceptable.’ She spreads out the paper with the diagram across both our laps and makes a show of studying it, tracing her finger slowly over the circles, her arm pressed against mine. My body is rigid with the effort of not responding. ‘
Did
you teach King Henri magic?’ she whispers, as if this proximity might persuade me to open up.

‘No.’

‘Does Elizabeth want you to teach her magic? Is that what your secret talks were about?’

‘No.’ So this is what she wants to discover, is it? I wonder if someone has put her up to it - Henry Howard, perhaps, to discredit the queen.

‘It is common knowledge she keeps an astrologer.’

‘This is not astrology,’ I tap the diagram. ‘It is a means of organising the mind.’

Her fingertip lingers over the central circle.

‘Are these the names of demons?’

I force a laugh; it comes out as a strangled squeak.

‘Again, no. These are the thirty-six decans of the zodiac, three faces for each sign. They are also symbols, memory pictures, if you like.’

She murmurs some of the names softly, like a litany:
Assican; Senacher; Acentacer; Acecath; Viroaso.
The hairs on my neck prickle at the words in her mouth; the air seems to settle on us like velvet. Then she turns and slowly raises a hand to my face, her thumb running softly along my cheekbone, then along my lower lip, and there is such longing in her eyes that it startles and confuses me. The firelight is reflected as dancing points of light in the depths of her pupils; I am caught, motionless. Just as her face begins to move inevitably towards mine, and I know that I am helpless to resist the pull of it, a log collapses in the grate with a great crack and flare, spitting cinders over the stone hearth. We both jump at the noise; the spell is broken and I take the opportunity to stand abruptly, snatching the paper away in my haste.

‘Marie … I can’t. Your husband - I am a guest in his house. It would be -‘ The sentences hang there, unfinished.

She twists on the settle, her body squirming first one way, then the other; when she looks up, her eyes are flashing. Her pride is wounded, and so she turns her anger on me; her cheeks are flushed and her mouth pressed into a white line.

‘One word to my husband,’ she says, her voice tight as wire. ‘I only have to say one word of this, that you tried to touch me, and you would be thrown out of this house. Where would you go then?’ When I do not respond, she raises her head, defiant. ‘Back to Paris in disgrace. I could destroy you if I chose.’

‘I suppose you could. But what would that satisfy? I have done nothing to hurt you, Marie.’

She says nothing, only looks away, her teeth clenched.

‘What is it you want from me?’ I say, as gently as I can.

She shakes her head, still turned resolutely towards the fire. I cannot read her; my suspicion remains that she meant to use her charms to coax some secret or other from me, believing I would be weak enough to give in, but there is always the outside chance that she felt something sincere, or believed she did. Either way, no woman takes being scorned lightly, and a woman whose pride is hurt can be dangerous. I kneel on the floor before her, placing my hand lightly over hers. She does not remove it, though she still will not look at me.

‘Marie.’ I pause, choosing my words carefully. ‘I was a monk for thirteen years. I have learned a little about mastering desire. And however beautiful you are, and you
are
-‘ here she deigns to look at me, finally, though her eyes are still cold - ‘I owe the duty of loyalty and respect to your husband and to King Henri, who is his master and mine. Nor would I wish to lose your respect.’ If I ever had it, I add, silently.

She purses her lips, as if weighing my speech, and eventually seems to approve it with a curt little nod. A thin wave of relief washes through me; I know as well as she how difficult she could make my life at Salisbury Court if she set her mind to it. For a moment I remain kneeling while I consider how to proceed, unwilling to make any sudden move that might inflame her anger again.

‘Perhaps it is best we leave the lesson for today?’ I suggest timidly; she nods and at that moment there comes a sharp knock at the door. I jump back, letting go of Marie’s hand, but not fast enough to be missed by Courcelles, who strides in without waiting for an invitation, his sharp eyes taking in the tableau at one sweep. Marie at least has the grace to look guilty for a moment, before a malicious smile curves across her face as she looks up at him.

‘Lesson going well?’ he asks, in a voice like satin wrapped around a steel blade.

‘Yes, thank you, Claude,’ Marie says lightly. ‘Did you want something?’

‘Yes, madame - the child Katherine’s governess has asked me to fetch you. She refuses to settle to her lesson.’

I watch Marie’s face and note that her first, uncensored reaction is irritation. I see it tighten her features, before she remembers herself and arranges her expression into an approximation of motherly concern.

‘Does she expect me to do everything? What is she employed for?’ she says, standing and smoothing down her dress. She hesitates briefly, as if unsure whether to acknowledge me or not, then juts her chin forward and sweeps from the room without glancing at either of us. Courcelles turns to me with a look that could crack marble.

‘I thought your tutelage was supposed to improve her memory?’ He rests a hand on the latch. ‘It seems to be having rather the reverse effect - apparently neither of you remembered that she is a married woman. I wonder what her husband would say to that.’

‘No doubt we will learn when you tell him,’ I say without looking up, folding away the diagram of my memory wheels before he can see it.

‘Oh, it won’t be me who tells him, Bruno. I am discreet as the grave.’ He leaves a pause, perfectly timed. ‘Not unless you give me good reason to think my lord ambassador should be informed.’

‘There is nothing to tell,’ I say bluntly, rising to my feet.

‘I’m sure. But my lord ambassador is a sensitive man on that point, for obvious reasons. By the way, did you hear - there has been another murder at court, just like the first?’

‘So I heard. A great tragedy.’

‘Last night, if you can believe it, while we were all at the concert. Well - all except
you
, I should say.’

‘An extraordinary coincidence.’

He produces a dry laugh. ‘No such thing as coincidence - isn’t that what you fairground stargazers say?’ With a final toss of his hair, he stalks out, leaving me with the uncomfortable knowledge that I am more vulnerable than ever at Salisbury Court.

City of London
1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583

‘Mary Stuart won’t be happy.’

Thomas Phelippes doesn’t raise his eyes as he makes this observation; instead I watch them flicker with quick lizard movements over the lines of numbers written in the letter he has just expertly unsealed. Walsingham once told me that Phelippes only had to read a cipher once or twice to have it by heart; he said this with almost fatherly pride. If he weren’t such a phenomenon as a code-breaker, Walsingham had added, with an indulgent laugh, he could make a fortune in a travelling fair with his feats of memory. Naturally, I am fascinated by the reports of this man’s prodigious powers of recall, but he doesn’t have the kind of demeanour that invites intimate conversation. In fact, he seems singularly ill equipped to deal with other people; he rarely looks directly at you, shifting uncomfortably unless he has been asked to explain some piece of his business, when he holds forth at length in his curious monotone, firing the information at you with barely a pause for breath. Here, in the dim back room of his house on Leadenhall Street, shuttered and lantern-lit even in the day, to protect his secretive work, he seems like a woodland creature, content to hide in its burrow. If Nature has blessed him with exceptional gifts of intellect, she has sought balance by withholding from him any physical charm; the man is short and squat, with a heavy jaw, a flattish nose and the scars of smallpox on his cheeks.

‘Mary Stuart is never happy,’ I remark, as his keen gaze continues to search the letter that I know comes from Lord Henry Howard, and is on its way to Francis Throckmorton for delivery on his next trip to Sheffield Castle. Idly, I pick up a block of sealing wax from Phelippes’s broad desk, examine it, put it back. In the corner of the room, Dumas is making a hasty copy of one of Castelnau’s letters to Mary before he delivers the original, his nib scratching frantically like a mouse trapped behind a panel. Phelippes reaches over without looking up and replaces the wax in the exact spot it had been, a fraction of an inch to the left, with a little irritated click of the tongue. Then he picks up a book from his desk and leafs urgently through the pages, glancing from it to the paper in his hand. As he lifts the book up, I see that it is Henry Howard’s
A Defensative Against the Poison of Supposed Prophecies
.

‘Good read?’ I ask.

Phelippes lifts his head sufficiently for me to catch the look of disdain on his face.

‘It’s the cipher,’ he mutters, as if it were hardly worth the effort of explaining this to someone so wilfully stupid. ‘The book
is
the code. It’s one of the most basic devices. That’s why he sends her a copy. See here, where the numbers are set out in groups of three?’ He tilts the paper towards me enough for me to see what he means, the lines of figures squeezed together in Howard’s cramped handwriting. ‘Page, line, word. You see? Meaningless to anyone who doesn’t know the edition the numbers refer to or doesn’t have a copy, and in theory endlessly varied, because one need never use the same reference for the same word twice. But Howard in particular is lazy. He frequently uses the same page reference for common words rather than looking for other examples. Makes my job easier, anyway.’

‘So you have memorised these page references?’

‘A good number of them, yes.’

If he catches the tone of admiration in my voice, he gives no sign of it, nor does he speak with any trace of pride. He is merely stating facts. He crouches closer over the letter, rifling through the pages of the book at the same time.

‘For instance, I will have to double check some of these words against the book but the gist of this letter is Henry Howard saying he knows nothing about any ring. Apparently Mary sent him a valuable ring that belonged to her mother, with a family crest engraved. In a green velvet casket. Weeks ago, this is. She wanted him to use it as a seal to guarantee his letters were genuine, but he protests he never had any such casket nor ring from her. You’d think they were betrothed, all this giving and receiving of rings.’ Phelippes barks out a sudden laugh, the sound unnatural in his throat.

‘Except that Howard never did receive it,’ I murmur, my mind spinning into action. The ring Mary had sent as a gift to Henry Howard had ended up being given as a love-token to Cecily Ashe - it could only be the same one - but by whom? If all Mary’s correspondence to Howard comes through the French embassy, then the package containing the ring could have been intercepted either before it was passed on to Howard - by Throckmorton, say, or someone at Salisbury Court - or else Howard is lying to Mary, and he was the one who gave the ring to Cecily. Or his nephew, Philip Howard, who I have already marked out as fitting the description Abigail gave of Cecily’s lover. I shake my head; again, the question remains: why give a token so clearly identifiable, one which, if found, would point straight back to the conspirators around Mary Stuart? It seemed almost like a deliberate betrayal of Mary.

The room is oddly still; I glance up and realise that Dumas has stopped his scribbling. Instead he is staring at me, his face white and strained, his eyes bulging more alarmingly than usual. I send him a quizzical frown; he only bites his lip and mouths the word ‘time’.

He is right; he must take the packet of letters to Throckmorton and I have Fowler waiting for me at the Mitre. We work as fast as we can in this back room of Phelippes’s house, but there is always the fear that someone from Salisbury Court will have seen Dumas meet me at the Lud Gate or noticed our detour through the city to Leadenhall, particularly now it seems certain that someone is watching my movements. Already the best part of the day is gone, thanks to Marie and her diversions, but I still have hopes of making my way to Mortlake in pursuit of Ned Kelley, or clues to his whereabouts. Phelippes seems to have frozen at his task; I give a small cough behind my fist but he merely blinks.

‘Almost there,’ he says mildly, still staring fixedly at the letter, and I realise he is memorising the numbers. I would love to ask him his technique but do not want to break his concentration. When he has jotted down what he needs, he refolds Howard’s letter and arranges the instruments of his other skill, the forging of seals: several bars of wax, a candle, a selection of small silver-bladed knives, some no bigger than the nib of a quill. He takes a moment to compare the new wax, matching the colour carefully to the original seal. I watch, mesmerised, as his quick fingers deftly reattach it, part heating the underside and adding just enough fresh wax to press it home without cracking the surface or disturbing the cords set into the original wax. Any careless move at this crucial stage could damage Howard’s seal so that the tampering became evident; Mary’s sharp eyes would be looking for any such sign of treachery. I find I am holding my breath in sympathy, anxious not to make any move or sound that might distract Phelippes, but he seems oblivious; for a thick-set man, he has surprisingly delicate fingers, long and white like a seamstress’s. With his little knife he prods and tweaks the soft wax until he is satisfied with its appearance. He replaces the letter inside the oilskin wrapping of the package Dumas must deliver to Throckmorton imminently.

At the edge of my vision I can see Dumas fidgeting; he is anxious to be gone. When he has handed over the letter he has been copying and the packet for Throckmorton has been resealed satisfactorily, Phelippes ushers us out of the back door of his house, bidding us good day with an awkward twitch of his shoulders, eyes still turned to the ground.

We cross a yard and emerge into a side street that leads us out by the little churchyard of St Katherine Cree. A cold gust throws a handful of raindrops into our faces and Dumas shivers, a violent tremor that rattles through his thin body. He seems unusually tense; as we step out into the street, our collars pulled up against the squall, a boy dashes suddenly from the mouth of an alley and Dumas leaps a foot into the air like a rabbit, clutching at my sleeve.

‘Are you all right, Leon?’ I ask, as the boy swerves between puddles and disappears behind houses on the opposite side of the street. Dumas looks at me with an oddly pleading expression, as if there is something he wants to say, then shakes his head tightly, mumbling that he must hurry. I, too, am already late for my meeting with Fowler; earlier this morning I had regretted the necessity of seeing him, adding another distraction to my day, but now I feel something approaching relief. Walsingham’s anger at the palace has taught me that I cannot hope to find this killer alone, and the quiet, composed Scot, with his network of contacts and his knowledge of Salisbury Court, may be just the confidant I need. Walsingham has as good as instructed me to share my information, and the prospect of sharing the burden is no longer unwelcome.

I lay a hand on Dumas’s shoulder and he flinches. We must part ways here, I west to Creed Lane, he south to Paul’s Wharf and Throckmorton’s house.

‘I will see you back at Salisbury Court.’

He looks around briefly, then leans in towards me.

‘They will know now, won’t they? That the letters have been opened?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The ring. If the casket and the ring has been stolen from inside the package, they will start looking for anyone who might have had the chance to do so.’ He is clutching at my sleeve again, his eyes bright with panic.

‘Slow down, Leon - the ring could have disappeared at any stage in its journey. Or it may not have disappeared at all. There is no reason to think we will be under any more suspicion than we are now.’

But he is not convinced; in fact, he looks more stricken than I have ever seen him. If his fear gets the better of him and he tries to pull out of the arrangement to avoid discovery, we could lose our access to Mary’s correspondence with Salisbury Court and with it any advance information about the invasion plans or concrete evidence of plots against the queen. This must not be allowed to happen; the entire operation depends on Dumas’s peace of mind, and it is up to me to reassure him.

‘We must remain calm, Leon, and give nothing away from our behaviour. You and I will speak of this further. Come to my room when you can,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder again, ‘but for now, Godspeed.’ And I watch him as he sets off south towards the river, his shoulders hunched against the rain. As I turn to make my own way up the hill, I am certain I see a flicker of movement, a figure darting away into the shadows behind St Katherine’s Church. My stomach twists for a moment, as my hand reaches for the bone-handled dagger I carry always at my belt, the only possession I took from the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples the night I fled. But as I draw level with the churchyard I can see no one; two men are walking eastwards towards me, deep in conversation, and I pull my shoulders back and breathe deeply. London is full of people going about their business, despite the rain, and I must guard against becoming as nervous as Dumas, leaping at shadows. I pull the peak of my cap down against the weather and walk on, though I keep one hand on the dagger, just in case.

Creed Lane runs to the west of St Paul’s churchyard, and the narrow street is already thronged with people as I approach the sign of the Mitre, jostling one another with sharp insults as they try to protect themselves and their wares from the weather. Just as I reach the door of the tavern, a hand clamps down on my shoulder; again, I start, my hand instinctively tightening around the knife as I turn to find the grinning face of Archibald Douglas only a few inches from mine, his breath already thick with the fumes of drink but his eyes bright and mischievous.

‘Bruno! I thought it was you. Recognised your hat through the crowds. What brings you to this part of town?’

I look at him through narrowed eyes, immediately alert. Douglas has never to my knowledge seen me wearing a hat, and in any case, mine is of black leather, the same as every second man in London. Could it possibly be
Douglas
following me?

‘Books,’ I say, hastily recovering myself. ‘I wanted to look at the booksellers’ stalls outside St Paul’s.’

‘I’m not sure they sell your kind of books on public stalls,’ he says, winking broadly and hooking his arm around my neck as he pushes the door open. ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

I am wary of his sudden appearance and unprecedented display of bonhomie, but since I was so obviously on my way into the tavern, it is impossible to refuse his offer without looking suspicious myself, so I shrug and allow him to usher me through the door into the steaming tap-room, where the smell of wet wool vies with the warming aromas of pastry and yeasty beer.

Douglas shoulders his way through the press of damp bodies sheltering from the cloudburst, calling for beer as a put-upon girl eases past, splashing from the four tankards she carries, two in each hand, and cursing as she does so.

‘Watch you don’t get your pockets picked in here,’ he says to me, over his shoulder, then he pauses, looks over my head across the other side of the room, makes a face and mutters, ‘Fuck.’ When he reaches a corner table, he motions to the other drinkers to shove up along the bench, let us sit down; grumbling, they obey. There is something oddly compelling about Douglas’s presence; though I don’t like him, neither do I want to be on the wrong side of him, and since he is so entangled with the conspirators at Salisbury Court, it would be foolish of me not to use this opportunity to take a close look at him. Still, I can’t escape the sense that it is he who has decided to take a look at me.

When we are seated and drinks set in front of us, he leans in, beckoning me closer.

‘You’ll never guess who I just saw over the other side of the room.’ Without waiting for me to answer, he breathes, in a gust of beer fumes, ‘William Fowler.’

‘Fowler? Really?’ I concentrate on the tankard in front of me. Poor Fowler. I wonder if he noticed me come in with Douglas, having kept him waiting for more than half an hour. I can only hope he understands that, in our business, plans have to change at a moment’s notice.