Prophecy (2011) (41 page)

A bead of orange light bobs through the milky air; as the probing sword taps its way along the boards, I pre-empt my discovery by rolling out and kicking swiftly upwards, aiming for the lantern. I catch his arm; he curses, but keeps hold of it. I scramble to my feet and dart away over the wooden benches, climbing up to the next tier.

‘Over here!’ Fowler calls, and I see a second point of light pause in the stands opposite, then start a descent. But the scuffling I heard earlier came from above, on this side. There is no time to think about this now; Fowler moves nimbly over the benches and more than once I feel the whip of air as his sword shreds the mist only inches behind me. I climb downwards again until I reach the wall, meaning to roll myself over it into the arena. I have trapped myself here, I realise, cursing my own stupidity; I will be forced to fight the two of them like the bears that usually take to the ring here, backed up against the stake with a mob of baying dogs snapping at them from either side. I place one foot up on the barrier to jump over, but a hand catches my cloak and yanks me back; I lose my footing and fall over the side into the arena, landing hard on my side. The ground is sand and though I am winded I roll over as he jumps the barrier and lands a mere two feet from my head; he raises the sword, I cross my arms in front of my face and, in that moment, as I wait for the blade to fall, I find my mind grown suddenly lucid; in that moment I know for certain that the myths of the priests and the preachers are so many stories for children; that death, when it strikes, will not come as judgement but as liberation; in this moment I see myself standing as if on a threshold between worlds, on the brink of the known universe, ready to ascend through the orbits of the planets in their spheres, out to the infinite universe beyond with its million suns, that Hermes Trismegistus called the Divine Mind. I see my life briefly illuminated, and my body relaxes to receive the blow, when this trance-like state is pierced by a sharp whistle, a motion so fast it blurs past my eyes, and a blood-curdling howl from Fowler, whose sword falls from his hand, grazing my leg as he topples sideways, clutching his arm.

My instinct returns; I throw myself on him and pin him down; a crossbow bolt protrudes from his shoulder. He bellows for Douglas but the only response is a frantic scrabbling of feet towards the entrance. The other lantern lies motionless on the ground where it was dropped. Fowler struggles under me, moaning softly and clutching at his shoulder, but I draw my knife to his throat and he falls limp. There are footsteps in the seats overhead and then the thud of someone landing in the arena. I look up and flinch, as a tall young man in a leather jerkin crouches beside me and examines Fowler.

‘I went for the lantern. I was afraid I might hit you, though, sir.’

‘Who are you?’ I hardly dare breathe out, my knife still at Fowler’s throat. The mist softens the stranger’s features, making him look younger still; he is perhaps in his early twenties, with a broad jaw, his beard still sparse.

‘Tanner, sir, Joseph Tanner. At your service.’ He sweeps off his cap and bunches it in his fist. ‘I was sent to look out for you, sir. They said folk were trying to kill you. They were right and all.’ He nods at Fowler, then picks up his sword from the sand and weighs it in his hand with the appraising glance of a connoisseur.

‘You serve Walsingham, then?’ Exhaustion floods me and I am suddenly freezing.

‘I serve Sir Philip Sidney, sir,’ he says, still twisting his cap. Fowler produces a strangled howl of pain through his teeth; I dig my knee into his ribs.

‘Sidney sent you? How long have you been following me?’

‘Since the night you came to Barn Elms, sir, after you was attacked on the road. Sir Philip said I was to mark who tried to follow you and make sure you was never left unguarded. But only to act if I thought your life was in immediate danger.’

‘Why didn’t you make yourself known to me?’

The young man looks awkward.

‘Sir Philip said you mightn’t like the idea, sir. He said you were proud.’

‘Did he.’ I smile; half of me does not like it all, the idea of Sidney deciding behind my back that I couldn’t look after myself and required a bodyguard. The other half must concede that, without the intervention of young Tanner, I would now have Fowler’s sword through me.

‘He also said it’s no more than he would do for you himself, sir, if he didn’t have other duties. Watch your back, I mean, like a friend should.’

‘I will thank him for it.’ I glance down at Fowler, whose face, even in this meagre light, has turned very white. A dark stain spreads over the cloth of his doublet where the crossbow bolt has pierced his shoulder. ‘This man needs a physician, Joseph. We must take him to Whitehall.’

Fowler struggles briefly, but I can feel he is growing weaker. He must not bleed to death here, or too many questions will be left unanswered - not least the matter of whether the Accession Day assassination plot is still active, and who might have been charged with carrying it out. Tanner nods.

‘We’ll have to get him to a boat, sir. We can carry him to Bank End stairs between us, I reckon.’

I admire his optimism; at this moment I do not feel capable of carrying my own cloak as far as the gate, but I struggle to my feet as Tanner drags Fowler upright, occasioning a further protest, but his cries are weaker too; his body seems limp in our arms, and all the heavier for it, as we must manoeuvre him over the gates where we entered. As I bend my back to take his weight while Tanner hoists him up from the inside, I find myself scanning the liquid shadows on both sides in case Douglas should be somewhere nearby, waiting for his chance.

‘There was another one,’ Tanner says apologetically as he hooks Fowler’s undamaged arm around his neck and drags him towards the river. ‘I couldn’t stop him, sir - he took off and I thought it was more important to make sure you were all right. This was the one had the sword.’

The sword I am now carrying, its weight unfamiliar in my hand, but lending me a good deal more confidence than I had on my way here. Perhaps I could learn to use it, I think, feeling it slice through the air as I curve my arm gently downwards. If I am to continue in Walsingham’s service, it would seem a useful skill. As we arrive at the stairs and I descend to call ‘Oars, ho!’, I can only marvel again at the unexpected turns my life has taken. I had thought my tools would be only pen and ink. By the time a boat draws up, I am fully convinced that Douglas has no intention of returning to help his co-conspirator. The man who left only his shoes by the corpse of Lord Darnley has once again slipped away into the mist-draped streets, out of reach.

Three armed guards in palace livery patrol the landing stage at the Privy Bridge outside Whitehall; as our boat approaches, they level their pikestaffs at us and demand our business. Tanner declares himself Sir Philip Sidney’s man and tells them we have urgent need of Lord Burghley. He is permitted to disembark and stands in close conference with one of the guards while the others regard us with suspicion, as I sit with the sword unsheathed in my lap, propping up Fowler, who still has the arrow protruding from his shoulder. We look like refugees from a small skirmish. I have pressed the hem of my cloak around Fowler’s wound to staunch the blood; I am no physician, but I do not think the injury severe enough to threaten his life. On the jetty, I see the guard lift his lantern as Tanner pulls a medallion on a chain from around his neck; it must show some insignia because this seems to satisfy the guard, who confides something briefly to his fellows and motions for Tanner to follow him inside the gate.

We wait in silence. The boat rocks with each wave and bumps against the piles of the landing stage. The boatman looks questioningly at me and grumbles about time wasted; I hand over another penny to keep him quiet. The two remaining guards watch us, leaning against their pikestaffs. Fowler shifts his weight with a low moan.

‘This will make for interesting diplomatic relations with King James when the queen knows of your plot,’ I whisper, to break the silence. ‘Did you think of that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he croaks. ‘Everything has been done in the name of Mary Stuart. She is behind this conspiracy. Let them prove otherwise. Where is their evidence?’

His face cracks into a smile, weak but replete with self-belief. He still thinks his plan is intact.

‘You think Walsingham couldn’t make you repeat what you told me an hour ago?’

‘He can try. But I’ll die with the name Mary on my lips. You can’t stop the wheels turning now. And
you
, my friend -‘ he pauses, effortfully swallowing before running his tongue over his dry lips - ‘you’d better sleep with one eye open from now on. Archie Douglas doesn’t like to leave loose ends.’ He coughs and a stream of white spittle trails from the corner of his mouth.

Footsteps rattle the landing stage as it bends under the weight of newcomers: Walsingham, with four more armed men, followed by Tanner. The Principal Secretary wears a fur-lined cloak which swishes and wraps around his legs as he halts abruptly by the boat and looks down, his face inscrutable. For a moment he does not speak, simply regards Fowler with that same, unchanging expression.

‘William.’ In his voice, you hear everything his face will not show: regret, anger, disappointment, betrayal - and impatience with himself, for the failure of his own judgement.

‘Sir Francis,’ Fowler replies, his voice so faint as to be barely audible, but the sneer in it is unmissable.

‘He is wounded,’ I say; Walsingham gives a curt nod.

‘Bring him ashore. And take care with his arm,’ he barks to the guards. One of them steps towards the boat, and in that instant Fowler sits upright, pushes me hard in the chest so that I tip back to the floor of the boat, and launches himself over the side, sending a wave of freezing water spilling back after him. The guards glance urgently at one another; in their armour they are helpless. One begins unbuckling his breast-plate; I scan the black water as far as I can to either side but Fowler has disappeared.

‘Hold up your light!’ Walsingham shouts to the boatman, running to the end of the jetty. Almost quicker than thought I glance up at him, unpin my cloak, squeeze my eyes shut and dive after Fowler.

Again, the shock of the cold strips me of breath and as I kick back to the surface, it takes a moment to regain my bearings.

‘There!’ calls the boatman, hanging precariously over the side with his lantern aloft and pointing; I turn, snatching shallow mouthfuls of air, to see through the white webs of mist a sleek black shape break the water’s surface a little way downriver. I strike out after him; although the current is carrying him, he cannot make much progress with the arrow still in his shoulder, even if he had been exaggerating his weakness. In a few strokes I have almost caught him; he seems to flag and his head begins to sink below the surface. Filling my chest with air, I plunge after him; there, in the silent, swirling blackness, my hands grasp blindly and make contact with something solid. Fingers close over my arm; I battle for the surface, but he has a fistful of my sleeve and won’t let go, and his weight is greater than mine. I fight to get one arm under his shoulder, kicking wildly to try and lift him up with me, but he claws at me with his other hand and I realise, too late, that he was not trying to escape but to avoid the punishment to which I’d delivered him, to protect his secrets from Walsingham’s expert probing by taking them with him to the bottom of the river. Perhaps he even anticipated that I would throw myself impetuously after him. His hand gropes at my face; he does not mean either of us to reach the air again. I flail against him, and my hand collides with the wooden shaft of the crossbow bolt, still jutting from his shoulder; I wrench it hard to one side, his grip loosens and I give an almighty kick with my legs, reaching the air just as my lungs begin to burn. Snatching breath, I gulp down a quantity of foul Thames water and choke violently; I fear I shall go under again, but something bumps against my shoulder and I clutch at it in desperation with my right hand, my left still clinging to a fragment of Fowler’s garment as his weight drags him back under.

‘Take hold!’ cries a voice, and I blink the water away to see the boat, now with two of the guards at the helm; it is one of the oars that they have pushed out to me. My hand slips, but he manages to drag me close enough to the boat to grasp a handful of my doublet at the back; between them, they haul me over the side like a landed fish, where I am doubled over, coughing up water.

‘F-F -‘ I cannot make my voice obey me, my teeth are rattling too hard; instead I point frantically to the water, where one of the guards pokes impotently at the waves with his oar. I lurch forward; they must not give up now, Fowler must not be allowed to triumph by choosing his own way out. I have let too many vital pieces of evidence slip away from me in pursuit of him; he will not rob me of this final proof. Half-crazed with anger, I am almost ready to throw myself over again in pursuit, but the guard who pulled me out takes a firm hold of my arm, just as his companion shouts out and the ripple of light spreads over a black shape, bobbed to the surface. Fowler, despite his best efforts, is more buoyant than he anticipated. The guards pull the boat nearer, and reach over to grab the sodden bundle, almost overturning the little craft in their efforts.

‘Is he dead?’ I manage.

‘Don’t know. Sit back,’ says one, who has evidently dealt with such matters before. He turns Fowler over and presses hard several times on his stomach. There is no response. The guard leans down harder, tries again, and lifts Fowler’s torso upright as a feeble spluttering breaks from his lips, followed by a watery stream of vomit. By the time the other guard has pulled us back against the tide to the landing stage, I am satisfied that Fowler is still tethered to this world by a fragile thread.

The guards manhandle him on to the boards and lift him between them; Walsingham gives him a cursory glance as they pass.

‘Does he live?’

‘Aye, your honour.’

He nods, then stretches out one leather-gloved hand to me. Shaking, I step on to the jetty and my legs buckle beneath me. Walsingham crouches beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder.