‘I … my lady, she said …’
‘Your lady? Your kinswoman?’
‘She is …’
‘She is not your kinswoman.’ This had the cadence of a question, but Amy suspected it was more statement, and she felt her legs wobble. ‘You or she have lied to me. Or both have. Why?’ Amy said nothing. Humiliatingly, she felt tears prick, though more of anger at how rapidly things were going wrong than anything else. Why had the countess not told her that she had written ahead? She might then have prepared something else to say. ‘You do not deny it? This letter, it said that you have news for me. Of the dowager queen. Mary of Scotland.’
Amy resumed walking the raked gravel path, keeping pace with Catherine, who seemed more interested in the building work going on around the edges of the garden. ‘I have been with her, your Majesty. In England.’
‘You were her companion?’
‘Yes.’ That was stretching the truth, but she was past caring.
‘Scotland is truly lost?’
‘I … Queen Mary is a prisoner in England.’ Catherine waved a dismissive hand, looking almost irritated.
‘The child has lost Scotland to us. It is in the hands of the heretics now. I warned her. Warned her against those melancholy humours. It was having a son destroyed her, as it will weaken us all in time. The heretics would never let her raise a Catholic prince. She should have broken them sooner. Broken all of them. Instead she gave them power enough to undo her before she could undo them. Strike before struck, I said, and said, and said again.’ She tutted. ‘Yet she was once our queen. I would that she was well kept.’
‘She is. The earl and countess of Shrewsbury keep her. They are fine people.’
‘Fine, fine. She is Elizabeth’s now.’ Amy lowered her head. Mary Queen of Scots had been Catherine’s daughter-in-law, as all the world knew. Yet the woman spoke as though she was simply a lost piece of property, snatched away by someone else – regrettable, but nothing to weep over. Amy had not particularly liked the woman – she distrusted most women who appeared overly friendly and sweet – but she had felt sorry for her. ‘Is that all you come to tell me? That the Scottish queen is a prisoner. That which I know already?’ They had come to the edge of the garden, and Catherine turned and began moving towards a stone wall with an iron gate set farther down it. Strange chirps and hoots came from behind it.
‘The palace here is finer than Windsor,’ offered Amy.
‘You have been a guest of the English queen? You have seen her?’
‘Yes, your Majesty. Once.’ For the first time, some animation came into Catherine’s doughy face.
‘What does she look like? Her face – is it handsome? Does she walk straight? I have only the word of ambassadors who serve her. You, I think, are with her enemy, this Northumberland lady who writes me. A spy for this countess, are you not? The truth of that queen will lie somewhere between what you say and they say.’
‘Queen Elizabeth, she is …’ Amy thought back to her brief glimpse of the English queen, and could picture only a long face, black eyes, and red hair. It was hard to know how much her mind might have distorted it in the past year. ‘A handsome woman.’
‘A beauty?’
‘No, your Majesty. I don’t say beauty. Yet she has a queenly air.’ Catherine nodded, as though savouring something.
‘Does she look old? Too old for children?’ The older woman mimed a distended belly with one arm.
‘I can’t say. She … looks strong enough to bear them.’ Again, the nod.
‘I understand she is not well liked by your countess and her people of the north. And yet very well loved by the most part in the south. Is this the truth?’
‘Queen Elizabeth is … she makes herself loved when she can, I think. Where she can. Tries to.’ Amy did not feel she could say that the majority of people she knew did not spend their time either loving or hating their queen.
‘Elizabeth has sat on the English throne for ten years and might sit for ten years more,’ boomed Catherine, as though beginning a sermon. ‘Each year makes her more acceptable to the people. Each year brings her closer to a husband. I confess, it is hard not to admire your sovereign lady. Yet she cannot fight time. Time always wins. It presses her to make a child.’ She gave her first smile – a brief knife-slash. ‘And what other news comes from your English countess? I own I see little reward in taking her hand over her queen’s.’ The laughter of the other ladies somewhere in the maze-like garden was growing louder, and Catherine’s voice fell in volume as she reached her last few words.
‘That … there is some Protestant plot. The diamond plot. The men say they have someone about the queen of France. This was months ago – when the only French queen was your … uh … most Christian Majesty. They’ve tried to poison my lady.’ Catherine stopped walking and turned cold eyes on Amy.
‘Poison?’
‘Yes. An old man’s ale was poisoned. He was told to bring it to my lady’s house. He drank of it first and died in the street.’ Catherine digested this, looking towards the sound of the chattering ladies and then up at the palace walls.
‘I think this grand palace shall never be finished, the expense of weddings and entries and peace.’ She coughed. ‘My son is newly married to a good and faithful Catholic. A girl I love beyond all others – a true daughter to me. Worthy of protection, as is my son. France is at peace. We have the finest physicians and apothecaries in the realm in our service. All food is tested, and clothing, and cushions. A unicorn horn. Pure emeralds with a special magic about them. What know you of this plot, of these Protestants? A Huguenot who has lingered about me for months? Who are you girl, truly? I know the difference between a great lady and … and a shop-keeper’s daughter. Quickly. Out with out.’
‘I …’ Amy blurted out everything, from her time in service, to her husband, to Walsingham and Cecil, the trip to Scotland, and her journey back to Paris. It came out so quickly she doubted it made sense. Just as she was finishing, a pair of well-dressed women rounded a hedge and stopped respectfully, their servants following behind. On seeing Catherine, all fell to their knees, but the women at the front could not resist looking up coyly to study the new arrival. Amy felt herself bristle.
‘My ladies. Bianca Gondi and Vittoria de Brieux. Too old and too ugly to join the new queen’s household. My eyes in Paris when I am from home.’ The expressionless tone had returned to Catherine’s voice, which she did not trouble to lower. ‘They will remain in this city to make its great places ready for France’s new queen. Once I have raised … once there is wealth enough out of Paris, I shall bring her Majesty and the king here in all triumph. Your name, girl?’
‘Amy, your Majesty.’
‘You will remain at this place also. With these ladies. You will be treated with all honour, as your fallen mistress of Northumberland begs. You claim you have served the Scottish queen, yes? So you know something of fine taste. I doubt that that lady will have lost her fine fancies even in an English prison. You will not try to leave. I will have you named a dame of my own household, but you stay here until I escort my son and daughter to Paris. I shall wish to hear more of your story and make study of the truth of it. I shall discuss with the king the names of those who have come into my service this past year. Which, if any, might favour the Huguenots. If there is truly some person about me or my family, you will discover the name and bring it to me. If they call themselves a diamond … we have emerald, coral, amethyst – all enemies to foul poison. And if I find you have lied about anything – anything else – or if this is some stratagem, a plot to get the lady of Northumberland’s eyes in my house … I shall have you thrown to the dogs.’
Amy let Catherine trundle onwards, her carriage slow and deliberate. She waved away the two ladies, gesticulating sharply back in Amy’s direction and mumbling something. They came towards her, the women she had not allowed herself to imagine living beside. To her own disgust, she felt butterflies stir. On the road she had imagined a flock of de
licately feathered birds with sharp talons and beaks, mocking and judging and despising her. Despite her best efforts, her mind had weaved her fears and insecurities into a tapestry that would be hard to unpick. It was always better, she thought, to expect dislike and be relieved than to expect love and kindness and be disappointed.
The younger of the women, dripping in jewels and furs, took her by the arm. ‘My lady,’ she said in a high, brittle voice, ‘what a charming dress.’ The other, far older, gazed at her with milky eyes, before grumbling something under her breath. ‘Ah, pay no heed to my friend. She distrusts the English. Yet we shall be friends, we two young things.’ Amy looked the woman in the eyes and smiled. She was almost certainly some distance past thirty, the thick layer of white makeup emphasising what it was intended to hide.
‘Yes,’ said Amy. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Come, let me show you where you shall take your rest.’
Amy allowed herself to be led, but her attention had returned to the broad back of Catherine de Medici. The old woman had, she realised, set her a nigh-on impossible task: discover the plotter said to be in her household, whilst remaining only with a small part of it in Paris. It might be weeks before the king and queen took up residence in their capital, and thus weeks before Catherine’s entire household was together. The whole thing was a ruse to keep her confined. She had been seen through as a spy of the countess’s and was being retained, to be watched. Probably the dowager queen thought the entire tale of the diamond league a fable. Amy would just have to prove her wrong.
3
Acre strolled the streets known as the Shambles on the first Thursday after Christmas. He had bought several apples and crunched on one of them conspicuously, his cap pulled low. The smell of blood in the air was invigorating; it gave him appetite. Chunks of meet hung on hooks outside butchers’ shops, and offal was being swept into the channel running between the cobbles.
The fellow he was to meet was in York and would know him by sight. He circled around two florid women who were kissing each other on the cheek and exchanging loud greetings, raising their voices against the nearest merchants’ cries. Neither seemed to care that the hems of their dresses were being splashed bloody.
‘Our ace of diamonds,’ whispered a voice at his ear. He did not jump, though he had not seen the man coming. The street grew alternately wider and narrower as the thatches overhead crookedly conferred, making it an ideal place for surprise.
‘Our knave,’ Acre said, chewing the last of the apple and throwing the core into the sewer. It bounced off some frozen blood and then stuck in nearby sludge melted by the pressing of boots. ‘Where shall we talk?’
They joined the street that led to the old Bootham Bar, running past York Minster on its way. The cathedral’s outer walls offered no shade on a cold, grey day, but they did offer an escape from the press of people thronging the Shambles. They did not speak until they were walking alongside them, damp and chill reflecting in icy blasts. ‘What are you calling yourself now?’
‘Acre.’
‘Acre. Ace. Very good,’ smiled the other.
‘All is well?’
‘It is. The Jesuits are here. Stupider even than the last.’
‘Pfft. Their deaths brought no great fury.’
‘No. No, nor did the killing of the heretic.’
‘He was well hated.’
‘Yes. We must think of something else.’
‘Our king? Our queen? What do they say?’
‘They are plagued, brother. And if they are plagued, as are we all.’
‘By whom? How plagued?’
‘A pair of bustling interferers. A husband and wife. They took ship with that ridiculous countess and her people from Scotland. The wife has departed for Paris, where she can be well watched and well dispatched. The husband is here in York. He disappeared at sea, probably intending to be thought lost so that he might work his tricks here. A spy for the English queen – though he claims he is a Catholic. Calling himself Jack Wylmott about the town, but the name is Jack Cole. A nothing. Yet he speaks of us. We were too loose in Scotland, too eager to enlist those filthy Calvinist savages. Now he is in York.’
‘In York,’ echoed Acre. They had come to a gate in the wall, where more people were huddled, and they turned back. ‘Show him to me. I will get rid of him.’
‘Very good.’
‘What about the wife?’
‘Ah … our attempts to rid ourselves of her failed. It was poorly done, and thereafter she was careful. The countess was too. Any attempt after a failed one is a risk.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She has taken up residence with the old witch-queen of France.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. We do not know how they know what they know. When they aided the countess’s flight out of Scotland, it is possible they worked in the Scotch camp. Heard of our overtures to those stupid heretical savages. They know that we have someone at Catherine’s door.’
‘But … I cannot be in France – I have much to do here.’
‘Nor need you be, brother. Becalm yourself. Our own queen of diamonds, she will deal with the little English wench.’ Acre relaxed, but not entirely. He would prefer to have completed both jobs himself. ‘You, young pup – you will have other work, as you say.’
‘Beyond the husband?’
‘Yes. Our plans thus far … they have not progressed as we would wish. Some priests and a corrupt old man. None have been stirred to anger over them. Forgotten.’ He cut the air with a bone-white hand. ‘If we wish to provoke the greatest outrage, to have the people railing in confusion and anger, to wash away the sins of corruption with blood–’ He stopped himself when Acre gave him a warning look; his voice had been rising dangerously. ‘You have doubts?’
‘No. Never. Now you are here, though, are two of us needed in the north? I could go south. Raise the southerners’ heat.’
‘I think not. Not yet. When we have instructions, I shall journey south.’
‘Mmph,’ said Acre, knowing how sullen he was beginning to sound, how very like a child caught doing something that made his mother scream. ‘Only … would it not be better to have some dark day of reckoning.’ To Acre’s mind, a plot was not a plot unless some day were secured on which all hell would break loose. Thus far their actions had the complexion of scattered acts, however much he prepared each one individually. The other man stopped walking.
‘A day planned is a day to be discovered,’ he said. ‘Great days of attack exist in the minds of intelligencers only. Gives them something to believe in and search for.’ Acre felt the rebuke. He had known it all his life, the gentle sense that he was wrong, but that he would be set right. His partner jabbed a hand in the direction of the Minster walls. Above them, the two western towers stood sentinel against the lowering sky. ‘You see that? What we seek to do is like bringing it down. Flat, to the ground. So that we can rebuild. Yet there are many who would stop us. How could we do it? Yes, we could plan a great act – hire soldiers, hire a great gun, organise all so that on a certain day – Christmas Day, perhaps – BOOM. It would fall about its archbishop’s ears. You like that? A pleasing image, I admit. Yet think. Could we trust the soldiers? The cannon-maker? I said there are many who would stop us – they would be listening for such a plan, bribing soldiers to find out the day of the enterprise.
‘Then there is another way. Each day we could pass by the place in all innocence. Removing bricks under the nose of its keepers. Gradually. Steadily. It would take some time, but none would know what we were about. We might not know the day the thing falls but fall it will. This is our way. And as each brick is torn out, we judge the mood of the people. When they have had enough rot and corruption and evil from the men they believe to have the care of their souls … then we might release the cannon.’ Acre nodded, drawing his eyes away from the Minster. He still did not like what they were doing; it was still too unfocussed. Too slow. ‘We must destroy one who is beloved by all. Re
member, it is not the English queen’s heretics we must raise to anger. That was our error. Those fools are angry at everything already. The Catholics of this country must be turned against themselves, against Rome’s men. If we are to spark total war, we must heat the blood of all. You recall what it has been in France. So will it be here.’
‘France,’ repeated Acre, softly.
‘Yes. The English will not succeed in bloody revolution but by degrees. You know them as well as I do. In France, perhaps, we shall bring about something grander. Something that will rouse the English from their slumber. Put fire in their bellies. But first we must warm them up. Through fear and hatred. We have greater funds coming to us than ever before. Rich men are at our back now. The Pope too.’ Acre did a double take and the other laughed. ‘Not that any of them know it.’
‘Whom do you have in mind?’
Rather than answering immediately, the other man looped his arm through Acre’s and the two began strolling back into the Shambles.
***
‘You say you’re a Catholic? You know I’m not of that faith. Not for a long space.’ Mrs Oldroyd smiled, the deep wrinkles crinkling her eyes. ‘What brings you?’
Acre had been shown the woman as she handed out coins in the market. Over seventy years old, apparently, and had been trained as a nun until the monasteries fell. Though she was a religious turncoat, she had lived out her life in the north, continuing charitable works and becoming known as a friend to any who struggled with faith, trouble with the law, or food to eat. She lived alone, thankfully, and employed no woman to cook or clean in her little shack near the River Floss.
‘I heard tell in’t market that you were right good to folks that are in want.’
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