by S. J. Parris
‘No,’ he said, his attention already back on the paper. ‘I do not think you would. Try not to wake Gifford. You did well tonight,’ he added as an afterthought.
At the door I paused to watch him, head bowed in the cone of light, his face in shadow, jaw muscles twitching minutely as he worked at his secret calculations. He was right; I had thought I lived a lonely life, but there was a particular quality of solitude about Thomas Phelippes that I did not envy, in spite of his prodigious memory. How would it feel for a child to see his own mother afraid of his strange, extraordinary mind? I wondered if Queen Elizabeth would ever truly know how much she owed him, or think to show her gratitude. I suspected it would not bother him either way. A man like Phelippes – and I was not even sure what I meant by that, since I had never met anyone else quite like him – was not motivated by principle, or faith, or ambition, or the desire for recognition, as far as I could see. I thought of how he repeated that phrase, ‘the good of the state’, like a religious creed. It seemed a matter of sheer blind luck that he had crossed paths with Walsingham and dedicated his peculiar talents to the government’s cause. I could not help thinking that, in other circumstances, with a different set of acquaintances, he could as easily have lent his skills to England’s enemies. I did not know what to make of a man so apparently detached, except to think – not for the first time – that I needed to be careful of him. If I outlived my use to the operation, he would not be moved by loyalty or fellow-feeling to defend me; in fact, I had no doubt that he would consider me immediately expendable.
ELEVEN
I slept fitfully that night, troubled by wild and whirling dreams. In one, I was standing near the front of the crowd at a public execution; as the prisoner was led to the scaffold, I saw, with fearful disbelief, that it was the first man in England sent to his death as a direct result of my work for Walsingham. When he was cut down from the gallows and laid on the block, still living, he turned his head and looked straight at me, eyes fixed steady on mine with an expression of sorrow and regret, and as the knife ripped him open and the executioner pulled his guts out by the handful, his mouth formed words meant for me alone, words of great secrecy and importance, and though I shook my head and tried to push closer, I could not make them out. Behind him, slipping in his blood as they bowed their heads for the noose, there followed others who had died through my agency, each of them seeking me out with his frank, accusing gaze, while I tried to shout my justifications over the noise of the mob. In another dream – or perhaps the same one – I saw Sophia ahead of me on a busy London street, chestnut hair gleaming down her back, rippling with the confident sway of her walk. I called out to her, shoving people aside until I could tap her on the shoulder; she turned, and I cried out as I saw the gaping hole where her eye and nose had been, the bleeding stumps of her ears. From the depths of my horror I forced my mind back to the surface until I woke, slick with sweat, to find Gifford kneeling by my bed in the grey light, his face inches from mine; I shouted again as I pushed him away from me, thinking first that he belonged to my night-terrors – though the smell of stale beer on his breath quickly convinced me of his solidity.
‘Are you all right? You were making a devil of a noise there, yelling all manner of things.’
‘Was I?’ I levered myself on to my elbows, alarmed, and pinched the corners of my eyes between finger and thumb. ‘What kind of things?’
He grinned. ‘No idea, it was all in Italian. You sounded near terrified, though.’
I breathed out, relieved. Christ be praised for that, at least; lucky for me that I still dreamed in my native language. I hoped to God I had not called out any names.
‘Dreaming of home is not always comforting,’ I said. He gave me a long look and let out a sigh.
‘Don’t I know it. My father guesses at the price of our freedom and despises me for it.’
‘Is he not pleased to be out of prison and back in his own house?’
Gifford stood and crossed the room to the window, pulling back the shutter to let in a dull light that suggested the sun was not long up, and obscured by clouds. He reached for the piss pot. ‘He feels the shame of trading his courage for his safety, when so many of his friends would not. I understand that.’
‘Well, at least he has the luxury of reflecting on his shame in a feather bed. As do you.’
‘Hardly feathers.’ He cast a glance back at the thin mattress as he relieved himself in an aggressive stream. ‘I lie awake night after night tormented by the thought of what I am helping to bring about. How God will punish me for it.’
I hoped he was speaking metaphorically; last night he had not noticeably been kept from sleep by his conscience. ‘You were caught with a bull of excommunication against the Queen, Gilbert. If you weren’t doing this, they’d have torn out your gizzard and stuck your head on London Bridge. Have you ever seen a traitor’s execution?’
He shook his head as he rearranged his underhose. ‘I have been out of the country a long time. I sometimes think I would not have the stomach for it, though it is not manly to say so. I saw a woman burned for a witch once, in Paris. I could not get the smell out of my nose for days.’ He shuddered, pulling on his shirt and reaching for the doublet he had tossed in the corner the night before. Before he put it on, he ran a finger around the seam where the letter was hidden, checking for it, oblivious to the fact that I might be watching. He was supremely naïve at this subterfuge business.
‘Tonight you meet them,’ Gifford said, as if following my thoughts, looking out of the window as he pulled on his breeches. He did not sound enthused about the prospect. ‘The conspirators. Are you afraid?’
‘A little.’ I sat up, wrapping my arms around my knees. In truth, I was more concerned about him making some careless slip that would see both of us with a knife in our necks. And he was not the only worry. ‘Did you ever hear any of Babington’s group mention the name Archibald Douglas?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Not that I remember. Why, who is he?’
‘Someone who used to work for Mary Stuart. I wondered if he had any connection to this plot.’
He shook his head. ‘I have not heard the name. I know that Ballard was keen not to involve anyone associated with previous conspiracies, who might be known to the authorities.’
‘Then forget I mentioned it. Are you worried about tonight?’
‘I think it will be a miracle if we survive it.’ He grabbed a fistful of his hair in both hands. ‘I live in terror of saying the wrong thing. I can just about keep up with my own deceit, but now I have two people’s stories to maintain. I’m not good at holding my nerve under pressure. Unlike you, I did not choose this.’ His voice had grown peevish, as if his situation were all my fault. ‘And John Ballard is so sharp – the way he looks at me, I sometimes think he suspects me already. It would take only the smallest thing for him to sniff a deception.’
‘Do you think that’s what happened to Clara Poole?’
‘How should I know?’ He let go of his hair and made a brief, dismissive gesture, holding both palms up, empty. ‘I never even met her. Babington didn’t invite women to meetings about the conspiracy – Ballard would never have stood for that. I’ve no idea why she was killed – I was not even in London when it happened, and I have not spoken to any of them since her body was discovered. Master Secretary has asked me all this already.’
‘But if you had to guess?’ I said, gently. His response seemed unusually defensive, and I knew that on the matter of not being in London, he was lying.
A quick shrug of one shoulder. ‘Then I’d say it would not surprise me at all if a woman had given herself away through some carelessness. Rather, I am surprised that Master Secretary ever trusted her in the first place. She was bound to do something stupid sooner or later.’
‘Because Clara was a stupid woman, or because no woman is capable of the subtlety needed for this kind of work?’ I asked. I refrained from reminding him that he had just been fretting about the likelihood of doing th
e same thing himself.
‘Most women are not.’ His expression glazed over again and his eyes took on that dreamy look I recognised. ‘Of course, it could be that an exceptional woman, led by her intelligence and true motivation, might have the skill to serve a cause in that way.’ He paused, and his voice stiffened again. ‘I don’t know if Clara Poole was especially stupid, but if she managed to give herself away so easily, she was clearly not that woman. I still say it is work better left to men. We are practised at hiding our feelings.’
Straight from the book of Robin Poole, I thought. Funny how these English boys appeared so threatened by the thought that women could be effective agents. I wished I could transport them to the French court; they would be no match for the talents of Catherine de Medici’s Flying Squadron. I filed away his comment about an exceptional woman to consider at more leisure; the look on his face suggested he had been thinking of Bessie Pierrepont. ‘You Englishmen, perhaps. You are famed for never showing emotion. But you would not deny a woman has advantages she can use in persuading a man to talk.’ I slid him a sly look.
Gifford blushed to his hairline, and I remembered from our brief acquaintance in Paris how any mention of sex rendered him as tongue-tied as a schoolboy. ‘That is a dangerous approach, though,’ he said, frowning to cover his embarrassment. ‘Women are weak. If a woman goes to a man’s bed, she will grow attached to him, and then her loyalty is compromised. Unless she is a harlot,’ he added, sitting on the edge of his bed and reaching for his boots.
‘Well, you seem to have their entire sex summed up. You should write a book.’
He glanced up, to see if he was being mocked. I bit down a laugh; the least skilled of Catherine’s girls would eat him alive. But at the thought, his words recalled another memory from Paris, of a girl who had fallen in love with the man she was supposed to be spying on and compromised her loyalties. I wondered if there might be lessons in that story for the case of Clara Poole.
‘You don’t think it matters, then,’ I continued, before he could take offence, ‘to find out which of them killed her?’
‘What difference would it make? They are all destined for the scaffold anyway, if Walsingham’s plan succeeds – who cares which of them held the knife? Far more important to find out how much they know about who she worked for. If they think she was spying, they may suspect others among us, and I do not fancy being subjected to interrogation by Ballard or Savage.’ He chewed at his thumbnail, looking like a boy afraid of a beating.
‘Held the knife?’
‘What?’ He lowered his thumb and his eyes widened.
‘Was she killed with a knife, then?’
His face grew wary. ‘I assumed – I thought I overheard Phelippes say something about it. Why, is that not so?’
He appeared flustered, but that did not necessarily mean anything; his habitual manner was a constant switch back and forth between certainty, anxiety and self-pity. Still, I thought it unlikely that Phelippes would have elaborated any details of Clara’s death in Gifford’s hearing.
‘I don’t know. Make sure you don’t let slip any mention of knives, or even of Clara, this evening. The point is for them to give themselves away, not you.’
He nodded, relieved. ‘I will say nothing. In any case, it was a figure of speech. To mean the guilty party, you understand?’
‘Naturally.’ I flashed him a reassuring smile, and his shoulders dropped with relief. ‘And don’t worry, the conspirators will not suspect you, Gilbert – didn’t you come personally recommended by Charles Paget, one of Mary’s most trusted agents?’
He puffed up a little. ‘Yes, and they have a letter in Mary’s own hand vouching for me. But it has not escaped their attention that my father was released from prison shortly after I arrived back in England. They do not like the coincidence. I have been asked about it more than once, and it is no easy business being on the end of their questions, as you may well discover.’
‘But, not being a weak woman, I’m sure you kept your countenance and gave nothing away,’ I said.
He paused in the act of pulling on a boot. ‘I did not,’ he said tersely. ‘Or I suppose I would have gone the same way as Clara Poole by now.’ His gaze slid away.
‘Still, you will be on the road again soon,’ I said, aiming to cheer him. ‘Then you will not be responsible for keeping my cover, at least. Perhaps the business may even be over by the time you are back.’
‘Perhaps it may, one way or another.’ He looked morose. ‘And what then, for us, if we succeed? You think we will be any safer?’
‘What do you mean?’
He jerked his head in the direction of Phelippes’s room and lowered his voice. ‘You ask if I am afraid. Besides Ballard, I am most afraid of them.’
‘Of Thomas?’
He stared at me as if I were defective. ‘His master, rather. They know my history – I have only their word that my part in this plot will buy my freedom and my family’s – and what is that worth? They might just as easily decide to round me up with the other conspirators and send me to the scaffold once I have served my purpose. It would be no trouble to them to deny all knowledge of my work for them, and who would believe me? I’ve heard it’s happened to others who have betrayed the cause, believing the promises of heretics were worth anything.’ He set his mouth miserably as he pulled on the other boot.
I noticed the way he was talking more carelessly to me this morning, in language that made plain where his loyalties lay in the competing causes of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth; I wondered if fear had loosened his tongue. I could not help a shiver, nonetheless; no doubt there was some truth in the rumour that Walsingham persuaded Catholics to betray their friends with the lure of promises that were never kept. Whether he would go so far as to send Gifford to the gallows with the other conspirators, I did not know or want to believe, but the fact that the boy’s worries echoed my own misgivings about Phelippes caused a knot to lodge in my throat.
‘I believe they are men of their word,’ I said, as blandly as I could manage. He watched me as I swung my legs out of bed in search of my shirt.
‘I suppose you do not need to worry,’ he said, with an edge of resentment. ‘Since you are an enemy of the Catholic church, your loyalty is not in question. I imagine you will be glad to see Mary Stuart’s head on a spike.’
‘Christ’s blood, Gilbert.’ I turned my back to him while I dressed. ‘I don’t relish the prospect of anyone’s head on a spike, least of all a woman’s. Anyway, it is the Church that has chosen to be at odds with me – I did not seek their enmity. I want only to be left alone to write my books. The fault is theirs if they don’t like my ideas.’
He laughed, as if I had confirmed a suspicion. ‘Charles Paget said you were the most arrogant man he had ever met.’
‘That is quite an accolade from Paget. Himself a paragon of humility, of course.’
‘What are you doing here, then?’ Gifford gestured to the room. His tone had grown harder. ‘If all you want is to write your books, why are you taking part in this charade, Father Prado?’
His hostility was becoming wearing. This delicate balancing act was going to be a lot harder if one of the two men I relied on to support my cover was holding a grudge against me. I should have realised that he would not forgive me for trapping him into working for Walsingham just because we were now nominally on the same side.
I sighed. ‘Because it seems to me that, one way or another, a queen must die. If I have to choose, I would rather place my bet on the one who would let me live in England and write, without burning me for heresy.’
‘You would be burned if Mary takes the throne, and I will be gutted at Tyburn if Elizabeth keeps it,’ he said, kicking the end of the bed like a sulking child. ‘One queen pitted against another, half the country made enemies of the other half and no pity on either side. The winner will take all.’
Any further debate was interrupted by a clatter of hooves in the street below. I glanced through the
window to see Phelippes jump down from a horse and unhook a leather bag from its saddle, while a boy emerged from the gates at the side of the house to take its reins. Dawn had barely broken and the cryptographer had already been on the road; I wondered if it was Bessie’s coded message from last night that had called him out with such urgency.
* * *
Phelippes summoned me to his room almost as soon as he returned.
‘The Jesuit was very talkative last night, it seems,’ he said, folding his cloak neatly and laying it over a stool. ‘Fortunately for you.’
And for him, I thought, though I wondered how much of what a man says under threat of torture could be trusted. If the Jesuit Prado suspected someone was being lined up to impersonate him, might he have slipped some false information into his answers that would trip me up the minute I repeated it? I had to hope that fear had stripped him of the chance to think so clearly, shackled in Walsingham’s cellar through the small hours of the night.
‘Now listen carefully.’ Phelippes straightened his papers and tapped the edge on the desk. ‘Padre Xavier Maria Gonzales Prado, born Madrid, third of December 1552, employed as a trusted courier of sensitive messages between Ambassador Mendoza in Paris and the Spanish court for the past two years. Arrived in Southampton the day before yesterday on board a merchant ship, passing himself off as the representative of a textile exporter. Had this on him’ – Phelippes waved a rolled-up paper, somewhat creased – ‘a bill of goods for bolts of silk, written over invisibly with alum solution. The secret writing is a letter of recommendation from Mendoza, with a copy of his seal as guarantee.’ He picked up a square of muslin from the desk and gingerly unwrapped it to reveal a small silver disc the size of a sovereign. I reached out for a closer look but he drew his hand back. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you. You don’t want to know where he had that hidden. Prado says his instructions were to bring funds’ – he patted a small wooden strongbox on the desk – ‘in earnest of more Spanish support when the plot was further advanced. Mendoza also asked him to find out how many English Catholic nobles have promised men and arms to support a coup once Mary is freed, with estimated numbers of troops and safe havens to land. As you know, that information was one of the things we hoped Clara would bring us. Obviously it will be your task to secure it instead.’