by S. J. Parris
I stopped and spun round to face her again. ‘Since we know enough of one another’s secrets to barter with, I will tell you this. I did follow someone to the playhouse, and it was not you.’
‘Oh. Gilbert Gifford.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth, realising. I was gratified to see her turn scarlet.
‘Exactly. So you can flatter your vanity by interpreting my motives as you wish, but Gifford was the object of my interest tonight, and him alone. Not everything is about you, Sophia. You had better return to your companions, they will be missing you by now.’ I heard how haughty I sounded, but I didn’t care; I was stung that she would find the idea of my attention so repellent.
‘Shit,’ she said, clenching a fist, though I could see that her anger was directed at herself. ‘I’m an idiot, Bruno. Sorry. I should have guessed you had better things to do than run after me.’
‘Yes. Well. I will try to keep out of your way in future. Unfortunately young Gifford is keen to throw himself in the path of your friend Bessie, so we may see one another again. I’m sure you can learn to look past me. In fact, you will have to.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ She raised a hand, as if she were about to lay it on my sleeve; instead she hesitated, and let it fall to her side. ‘She’s no friend of mine. I must tolerate her company now and again, not by choice. Why are you following Gifford?’
‘Why do you dislike Bessie?’
Her mouth twisted. ‘She is one of those women who lives or dies by how many men look at her. That is why she likes to come to the playhouse.’
‘Are you sure? Perhaps it is an act. I understand she is quite clever.’
‘The two things are not exclusive.’ She tilted her head to one side and looked at me. ‘You seem very interested in her.’
‘Shouldn’t that be a relief to you?’
She shrugged. ‘I wish you luck. The other thing about Bessie Pierrepont is how much she cares about rank and title. I never hear the end of “my grandmother the Countess of Shrewsbury”. I don’t think you are quite the man she has in mind.’
‘By that token, neither is Gilbert, and she seems to favour him with her attentions.’
‘Oh, she must have someone to admire her at all times. And he is at least a gentleman.’
‘No more to it than that?’
A sly smile crept across her face. ‘I see. You did not answer my question about Gilbert. You are on the trail of intrigue.’ A light dawned in her eyes, and this time she did grasp my sleeve. ‘Wait – I told you before Christmas that he was carrying letters for Mary Stuart. Is that why you’re in England? Is he caught up in something? Is Bessie?’
I drew back; the excitement in her face was confirmation enough that she would jump at any chance of adventure if Walsingham held it out to her.
‘Don’t play mysterious with me, Bruno – it’s only thanks to me that you know anything about Gilbert and his letters. The least you could do is tell me what’s going on.’
‘Gilbert has been of interest since long before you mentioned him,’ I said, keeping my voice low.
‘Of interest. To whom, I wonder?’ She tilted her chin. ‘I know what work you are involved in, Bruno. Do you forget Oxford?’
The smile was gone. She gave me a long look that contained all our shared history, and I was struck again by the colour of her eyes, amber flecked with gold, a shade I had only ever seen replicated in one other creature – the lion King Henri of France kept at his menagerie in the Louvre. Sophia had something of its watchful menace in her gaze too. I had not forgotten Oxford, where I had first met her when I stayed at her father’s college, nor what my work for Walsingham there had cost her. I remained convinced that my actions three years ago had saved her life; she thought they had led directly to her losing the man she loved, her son’s father, and the future she believed they would have had together. I suspected that, in some deep-buried secret place of her heart, she still blamed me for everything that had happened to her since. I turned away first.
‘I could help you,’ she offered, casually. ‘If you want to know what Gilbert is up to.’
‘You see him often, then?’
She shrugged. ‘Three or four times now, since I returned, always at the playhouse. But we have spoken only once. He was very formal and cool with me. I suppose I should be glad that he has turned his gaze elsewhere.’ She made a small, brittle movement with her neck that conveyed her impatience. Gifford had been a lodger in the English Catholic household where she had worked in Paris, and she had spent her days constantly sidestepping his gawky attempts at courtship. To see the scorn on her face, I almost felt sorry for him.
‘Does he always meet Bessie at the playhouse? What do they talk of?’
‘I’ve never been close enough to overhear. She always contrives to leave the box between acts, without the man-servant. Once I followed her, out of curiosity. She was around the back where the men go to piss, talking to Gilbert, though when she saw me she pretended to have run into him by chance. I thought she was just flirting, and embarrassed to be caught. Do you think Bessie is secretly Catholic?’ Her eyes danced with the thrill of gossip. I guessed incident was rare in her current position.
‘I’ve no idea. You must know her family better than I. Though on first impressions, Lady Grace looks sour enough to be a Calvinist.’
She laughed. ‘That is unkind of you, Bruno. She is not the liveliest companion, it is true. But being married to a brute like Sir Henry would crush any woman’s spirit.’ She broke off, wrapping her arms tightly around her narrow chest; I knew she was remembering her own brief, unhappy marriage that had led to so much grief in Canterbury.
‘And what of your quest?’ I asked gently, to change the subject. ‘Did you have news that brought you back to England so soon?’
She pressed her lips together and looked away. ‘Nothing solid. Charles Paget said he had news of my son, and he would tell me when he was sure of it, but I have heard nothing from him yet, he was probably lying. In any case, I had had enough of Paris. I wanted to be home. When I am more settled, I will begin making my own enquiries.’
‘Take care you don’t arouse anyone’s suspicions.’
A shadow passed across her face. ‘I do not need you to tell me that, Bruno. I know what’s at stake.’ She sighed. ‘I thought no one would know me in London. And yet, here you are. It seems I cannot escape faces from my past.’
‘I have the same problem. But I did not come here to find you, I assure you.’
She dropped her gaze. ‘It was foolish and vain of me even to think it. I apologise. And perhaps I spoke too hastily in Paris. I was not myself then. I thought you wanted…’
‘What?’
She lifted a shoulder. ‘More than I could give. You wanted me to go to Prague with you.’
‘You wanted to travel.’
‘I could not risk being distracted from the only thing that matters at all in my life. Until I find my child, I have nothing to offer anyone.’
‘I have never asked you for anything,’ I said quietly. She could not know how close I once came to asking her to marry me, at the exact time she had been planning her escape. Even the memory made my skin prickle at how narrowly I had swerved that mistake. At least I had clung on to a shred of dignity.
‘I know. You have always been good to me, and I have never deserved it… We could meet in secret, if you wanted,’ she said, almost shyly. ‘I could let you know if I learn anything about Gilbert and Bessie. It would be good to have a friend in London.’
A friend. Strange how that word could sound like an insult from the lips of a woman you are longing to push up against a wall there and then. I still remembered the sensation of her nails urgent on my back, her long legs wrapped around me.
‘It would be difficult,’ I said, aware that my effort to keep my voice steady made me sound clipped and cold. ‘We are both pretending to be someone else. If we should meet in public, we must not acknowledge one another. People may be observing us. Even now
, for instance. You should return to your company before they begin to worry and send someone looking for you.’
Confusion flickered across her eyes and I confess it gave me some satisfaction to see her process the idea of being rebuffed. But she composed herself quickly, and set her shoulders back with a tight smile.
‘You’re right. Well – you know where to find me. We come every week, when Bessie has her day off. She likes to chivvy her aunt into society, claiming it does her good. I have yet to see the evidence. Lady Grace only seems more despondent after a trip to the theatre.’
‘I know how she feels.’
She laughed; she looked me in the eye with a frankness that seemed both knowing and hesitant, and for a moment I thought she might be about to lean in for a kiss, but she pulled her jacket around her shoulders and nodded briskly.
‘Goodbye, then. Until next time.’
I made as if to set off, but when she turned to walk away I stopped and watched her to the end of the street, her long, swinging stride, the supple curve of her waist as she moved. She did not look back for me, as I had known she would not.
TEN
I was in bed and feigning sleep by the time Gifford stumbled into the room, tripping over my boots and swearing. From the smell of him, he had stopped off in a tavern on the way home; I had to hope that would be to my advantage. After servicing himself again, with a series of muffled grunts – I had to admire the boy’s stamina, though he took longer this time, thanks to the drink – he fell asleep almost immediately, his breathing heavy and sated, gently snoring through his open mouth. When I could be certain he was not going to stir, I slipped out of bed and crept to the corner where he had dropped his doublet and breeches in a heap on the floor. It took a few minutes with no light, freezing every time his pallet creaked as he shifted in sleep, ready to pretend I was feeling my way to the piss pot, but I knew better than most where to look for secret letters, and I quickly found the slit in the padding of his doublet where he had hidden Bessie’s note.
I found Phelippes bent over his desk in the next room, candles blazing around him, indecipherable papers spread out on the desk.
‘I began to think you’d nodded off,’ he whispered, with an air of reproach. He had not been pleased with me for leaving Gifford unsupervised at the playhouse, though I had pleaded my fear of being discovered, and the news of the boy’s encounter with Bessie and the note she had passed had mitigated my offence. I had not yet mentioned the appearance of Douglas; I could not decide what to do for the best about that.
‘I was waiting for him to fall asleep,’ I hissed back. ‘Here. You’ll have to copy it quickly, in case he wakes and sees my bed empty.’
He took the paper from my hand, unfolded it, skimmed it with a glance and nodded, the candle flames dancing in his eyes.
‘Something interesting?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes. I have seen this cipher before, I’m certain. But not in this context. Most curious. You’re certain the Pierrepont girl gave it to him?’
‘Yes. The meeting was clearly arranged. Apparently it’s not the first.’ I decided against telling him that I had heard this from Sophia; I didn’t want her drawn into this business any sooner than necessary. ‘What is it, a letter?’
‘Obviously, it’s a communication of some kind.’ His tone implied that I was an idiot.
I clicked my tongue. ‘Well, yes. But who is it to, can you tell? Gifford, or is he an intermediary?’
‘That,’ Phelippes whispered, glancing up and giving me a rare direct look, so that I saw the shine of excitement in his eyes, ‘is the great question. Don’t distract me now – we need to replace the original before he wakes. Lucky it’s short. He must not suspect anyone knows of it.’ He stared at the paper again, shaking his head as if at a great marvel. It was the closest I had seen him to animated. ‘This really is remarkable. Don’t pace, you’re making the boards creak.’
It was clear I was not going to draw any more from him until he was ready. I stood as still as I could by the dying fire, shivering with my arms wrapped around my chest, while his quill scratched frantically in the silence. At length, the sound stopped and he held out the paper.
‘There. Put it back where you found it. I will work on the copy.’
‘Did you get anywhere with the other paper?’ I asked, tucking Bessie’s note into my breeches. ‘The one from Clara’s locket.’
‘No.’ His mouth pinched. ‘That one is far stranger. Unlike any code I have seen before.’
‘May I look?’
‘You have experience of cryptography?’ He regarded me with a sceptical eye.
‘A little.’
He looked unconvinced, but he reached into a wooden box on the desk and pushed a scrap of paper across to me. ‘Well then. See if your little experience can help you with this, for I cannot fathom it yet.’
I picked up the tiny note and smoothed out the creases where it had been folded into the locket, curious to see what could have foxed even Phelippes’s formidable powers of analysis. The message, if such it was, consisted of only four symbols, miniature but so carefully rendered that they were almost tiny sketches: a half moon, waves against a beach, what appeared to be a field ploughed into a deep furrow, and a rose.
‘Concise,’ I said. He did not reply. ‘Not exactly a full alphabet.’
‘That much I had discerned for myself,’ he murmured, still bent over the copy of Bessie’s letter.
‘It’s more like a pictogram.’ I held it up at arm’s length, as if that might make the meaning clearer; the paper was so small, it would have taken a fine quill and considerable skill to draw. Clara Poole had drawn beautifully, Frances Sidney had said. ‘Like the Egyptians used to use. But are those images literally representative, or do they have some symbolic significance only to the person they were intended for? That is what we must determine.’
‘Congratulations, I see you have understood how ciphers work.’ Phelippes pushed his chair back and crossed the room to a shelf of books, ran his finger along the spines, pulled out the one he wanted with a flicker of a smile and returned to his desk, all without looking at me. But there was a companionable kind of stillness to the room, both of us concentrating, the warm, flickering light, the smell of beeswax and paper and old wood. It put me in mind of the library at San Domenico, the only place I had ever felt at home during my years in the convent, so that I felt indulgent enough to ignore his sarcasm. I even hoped for a moment that he would let me stay up working with him, sharpening our wits together on hidden meanings.
‘Moon, sea, land,’ I mused, tapping the paper in my hand. ‘A reference to the elements? Heavens and earth? And the rose is usually a symbol of transience. So it could signify death.’
He ignored me, his eyes flitting back and forth from the book he had fetched, now propped open before him, to the copy of Bessie’s letter.
‘Or,’ I continued, mainly to myself, ‘perhaps it’s more obvious than that. The rose could be a reference to the Tudor rose. Maybe the message means that they will kill Elizabeth Tudor at the next half moon. Which will be’ – I crossed to the window and craned up at the night sky, to see the horns of a crescent moon poking out from behind a chimney stack – ‘in a couple of days, no?’
He made a faint derisive noise. ‘And will they kill her on a beach? Or in a field? Or in the village of Beechfield?’
So he was listening.
‘Is that a real place?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s as likely as your wittering.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘You can help by making sure that letter goes back in Gifford’s doublet before he wakes. I’m busy.’ He stopped suddenly, very still, staring at the page in front of him. Then he scratched a few urgent notes and sat back with an air of satisfaction. ‘There.’
‘Already?’
‘Yes. I knew I had seen that alphabet before. Bessie’s correspondent is either lazy, stupid or over-confident, to re-use the same cipher.’ His li
ps pursed, as if in disapproval at the lack of challenge. ‘That, of course, is to our advantage.’
‘So? Are you going to tell me who she’s writing to? Is it Gifford? Babington?’
‘That is for Master Secretary alone.’ He did not say this with any kind of malice, or pleasure in making himself important, merely in his usual blunt factual manner. ‘Go to bed.’
I had not really expected a different reply, but all the same I was reluctant to leave. Childishly, I wanted to be let in on the secret, to stay here at the heart of the business, not sent to my room. I had always been quick at ciphers; I had been taught well and I wanted to believe that I could match Phelippes’s skills, given the chance, though I also knew that was not true.
‘How do you do it?’ I asked softly, turning to the door.
He frowned up at me, as if surprised to find me still there. ‘What?’
‘You looked at that for less than a minute and said you recognised the cipher. You knew exactly where to find the book you needed – I assume for the key. But with all the different codes you must have seen in your work – how could you identify it so quickly? What is your technique?’
‘Technique?’
‘Your memory system. I’m genuinely interested.’
He looked blank. ‘No system. I just know. I may as well ask you how you understand Italian.’
‘That’s not the same at all. We absorb our native language as infants, before we can even form thoughts, we can’t separate it from thought. But this—’
‘So with this. Even as a child I could memorise sequences of numbers at a glance, it was natural to me. I register patterns, almost before I am aware of doing so. I used to entertain myself by reciting my father’s account books. I have no more understanding of how I did it than you do of learning your own tongue. My mother feared I was possessed.’ This last part was barely audible.
‘One day, Thomas, I will write a book on the art of memory, and you shall be in it,’ I told him. ‘I would give anything for your gift.’