by S. J. Parris
‘Not by the same means, I hope.’
Phelippes frowned, looking me up and down. ‘I doubt that would be effective. To the best of my knowledge, they are not sodomites.’
‘I was not serious, Thomas.’ I should have remembered humour was wasted on him.
‘Depending on how long the business takes, I will arrange to have dispatches sent back to Mendoza in Paris. Master Secretary will make sure Prado’s writing hand remains unaffected so I can learn his script.’
I winced. ‘Jesus, Thomas – spare me the detail.’
He glanced up. ‘What?’ When I shook my head, he continued, briskly: ‘I will need to shave you and cut your hair this afternoon.’
‘You?’ I ran a hand through my hair in alarm. ‘Do you have the skills?’
‘I have a razor, if that is what you mean. These are for you.’
From under the desk he brought out a pair of tall riding boots and offered them to me. Even at a glance I could see they were expensive.
‘You shouldn’t have. It’s not even my birthday.’
‘Try to concentrate, Bruno. You will need all your wits about you today, so don’t waste them on levity. They will not be expecting humour from Father Prado. He’s not a very amusing person, by all accounts.’
‘Nor would you be, with Walsingham fishing the ambassador’s seal out of your arse.’ I arranged my face into an expression of perfect seriousness. ‘Sorry. Father Prado will be a model of dull sobriety. Should I try them on?’
‘They will fit you. They have been made to your measurements. Now look at this.’ He manipulated the heel of the left boot until it sprang open to reveal a small compartment. From inside he took out a slim silver penknife and folded it open and shut to demonstrate. ‘This is in case you are searched and relieved of your weapon at any point. Useful to have a concealed blade about you.’
I wanted to ask Phelippes when he had had the opportunity to measure my feet. While I was asleep? The thought was oddly disturbing. I pulled off my old boots and tried on the new ones, to find he was right; the fine-grained Spanish leather moulded softly to my leg, and I was pleased to see the adapted heels added a good inch and a half to my height. Phelippes watched me admiring myself.
‘There are the clothes from Prado’s luggage. You are a similar size, they should fit.’ He indicated a chair against the wall, where a doublet and breeches of amber silk had been laid out, together with a ruffled, lace-collared shirt and a matching velvet cap with an extravagant ostrich feather.
‘You want me to wear that? Is the idea to draw attention wherever I go?’
‘The idea is that you look like Prado, who was passing himself off as a merchant’s son with a taste for fine clothes. If you go about in your usual black, your face may jog someone’s memory, even without your hair and beard.’
I ran my hand across my chin. Archibald Douglas would not be fooled by a gaudy suit. This would be the moment to mention him, if I were going to. I eyed the clothes on the chair, imagined myself wearing them, walking into a room of strangers, the sheer dazzling audacity of the deception fizzing through my blood, and realised with a jolt that I wanted to see if I could carry this off as much as Walsingham wanted it. If I told him about Douglas, and took the easy way out now, I would never know if I could have succeeded. Phelippes did not miss my hesitation.
‘What is it?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing. I will look like one of those birds from the Indies. Or, God forbid, a Parisian.’
‘That is the intention. Father Prado has come from Paris, remember.’ He indicated a leather travelling bag next to the chair. It looked like the one I had seen him swinging down from the horse earlier. ‘Shirts, hose and another suit are packed in there. All made in Paris, in case any of your new companions grow suspicious and decide to look through your belongings. Which they might, so there is a false compartment in the lining for anything you don’t want them to see. But I recommend you leave nothing incriminating in your new lodgings. Try to keep it about your person, if possible. Now – communications.’ He picked up a small bottle from his desk that looked like a vial of perfume. ‘Pay attention. If you must send a written note, use this. You know about alum solution? You reveal the message by—’
‘Holding it to a candle flame.’ I did not bother to hide my impatience. ‘You are teaching your grandmother to spin here.’
‘My grandmother is dead.’ He frowned, confused.
‘It’s an expression, Thomas. An English one, I thought. Never mind – do you know who expounded the practice of writing in alum?’
‘The natural magician Giambattista della Porta, in his Magiae Naturalis, published in Naples in 1558. Now, this solution is strong, so it is best used on linen, and in fact that would be to your advantage, since scraps of cloth are more likely to be overlooked than papers, if anyone is watching for secret communications. There is a supply of linen strips in the hidden compartment. If anyone should wonder about them, you could always cut your thumb and pretend they are to bind the wound. To read the message on linen, you need to—’
‘Drop the cloth in water. I knew della Porta in Naples. He was a sort of mentor to me in my youth, for a short time.’
Phelippes paused, nearly impressed. ‘Really? He is the author of a learned work on cryptography. It remains one of the most important texts of our age on that art.’ He tilted his head and gave me a curious look. ‘It is said he formed a secret society for men prepared to carry out experiments challenging the laws of nature.’
I could have told him of my adventures with della Porta’s secret society, but I did not fully trust Phelippes, and suspected his interest would be limited to his own sphere, so I merely nodded.
‘Whatever I know of code-breaking, I learned from him.’
‘Hm. Then perhaps you do know something after all.’
‘Thank you for your confidence. How do I convey messages to you?’
‘I’m coming to that. I have devised a cipher for you to use. Memorise the key and burn it. I do have faith in your memory skills, at least.’ He passed me a folded sheet of paper. As I took it he clicked his fingers and a shadow stirred against the far wall of the chamber, so noiselessly that I almost leapt in the air. A boy of about thirteen years stepped forward into the light, and I realised that I recognised his face from the scabs on his lip; he was the same child who had been outside the house holding Poole’s horse before we rode to Southwark. He watched me from under long dark lashes, dipping his head in a brusque nod.
‘This is Ben,’ Phelippes said. ‘He carries messages around our network. He’s fast and you can trust him.’
‘How can I be sure to find him, if the message is urgent?’
‘You and Gilbert will move today to lodgings at Herne’s Rents, in Holborn. Babington takes rooms there, you will be close by to keep an eye on him. At the corner of Holborn and Snow Hill there is a tavern called the Saracen’s Head. In the yard there is a disused dovecote. Leave your message in one of the cavities for Ben to collect – he will check it at intervals through the day. He will also leave responses there for you, if he can’t find you in person.’
‘If you need me urgently, I’m usually in the yard at the Saracen’s, if I’m not on a job,’ the boy said, digging his thumbs into the waist of his breeches. I liked his breezy manner; he carried himself with the self-possession of London street children.
‘Will people not notice you hanging about there?’ I asked.
‘It’s my dad’s tavern,’ he said. ‘People know me.’
‘The father is one of ours,’ Phelippes said. ‘Keep that in mind if you need a safe meeting place outside your lodgings.’
‘Right.’ That was as good as saying that if I were ever to meet anyone at the Saracen’s Head, it would be reported to Phelippes before I had picked up my first quart of beer. ‘And if I need to see you or Master Secretary in person?’
‘That would not be advisable until the business is over. But in extreme circumstances, Ben will a
rrange a location. You must not be seen here or at Seething Lane for as long as you are Father Prado. Do you have any questions?’
‘Yes. If they should suspect me—’
‘You stick to your story. You tell them to appeal to Mendoza if they have doubts. That should silence them – they will not wish to offend the Spanish by questioning his judgement, and in the time it would take for a letter to reach Paris we can get you out if need be. I can always provide a response from Mendoza if I must.’ He tapped the seal with the penknife.
‘But if the matter is more urgent than that? If they suspect me to the point of threatening my life imminently?’
Phelippes rubbed his chin, considering.
‘If they attack you in a private room, I’m afraid your only option will be to defend yourself. I was assured you have some skill at that.’
‘Yes, but – there are four of them, and Poole and Gifford could not come to my defence without breaking their own cover.’ Gifford might even take the opportunity to join in, I thought.
‘Then you had better not let anyone suspect you.’
‘I can watch out for you, mister,’ Ben said, with a breezy swagger. ‘People never notice me.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘Well, thank you for the thought. Could you kill a man?’
‘What makes you think I haven’t?’ He rocked back on his heels, and with a flourish pulled a small knife from the waist of his breeches, the kind used at table. So if John Ballard or any of the others put a blade to my throat, my best hope of support was a child with a fruit knife. I almost laughed, but there was something in his insouciance that made me pause. Perhaps it would be wise not to underestimate Ben.
Phelippes tutted. ‘Neither of you is to kill any of them, if you can possibly avoid it. That would not serve our purpose at all. They must be kept alive for questioning, and to testify against Mary Stuart.’ He slipped the boy a couple of coins and dismissed him; Ben gave me a brief salute, two fingers to his temple, and disappeared as silently as he had arrived. Though I strained for the sound of footsteps on the stairs I heard none. Either he was admirably light-footed, or he was still there listening. Neither would have surprised me.
‘I’m sending Gifford this morning to see Babington at Herne’s Rents, to advise him of your arrival,’ Phelippes continued. ‘If he accepts the idea and everything seems straightforward, Gifford will come for you later this afternoon and take you to him. In the meantime, learn the cipher, go over your Father Prado story until you can recite it in your sleep, and remind yourself how to say the Mass.’
‘What? Why?’ I turned to him, alarmed.
‘You’re supposed to be a Jesuit priest.’ He looked impatient. ‘They may expect it of you. You should be prepared, just in case.’
‘I am out of practice.’ I was not worried about forgetting the words – the formula and the gestures were etched almost as deep in my bones as my mother tongue – but there was the small matter of my excommunication; a lingering superstitious part of me feared my fraud would somehow be evident in my face.
‘Then there is your task for the afternoon – repeat it until you have it by heart. Any more questions?’
‘Yes. One. Bessie’s note, last night. Tell me how you deciphered it so quickly.’
‘That has nothing to do with the business in hand.’
‘I find that hard to believe. But even so – before I go. Satisfy my curiosity, as one enthusiast to another.’
He flicked an impatient glance to the window, assessing the light to judge how the day was progressing. Eventually he let out a sigh. ‘Very well. Then you leave me in peace. You understand the method of a cipher based on a shared text?’
‘Of course. The key to the substitution is derived from identifying certain words on certain pages of the book that both the writer and the recipient have in common. So if, say, the key is 25,12, it means the cipher alphabet begins with the first letter of the twelfth word on page twenty-five.’
‘Exactly. Or the key might say 25,12,17, meaning the alphabet changes every seventeenth word of the message, so the cipher is almost impossible to decode without a copy of the book.’ He set down his penknife, warming to his theme. ‘Before Mary Stuart was moved to her current quarters at Chartley, her guard was more lax. She received gifts from her supporters which were not searched as thoroughly as they should have been, most particularly books. She contrived a means of communication whereby certain books were marked with green ribbons, those which contained the keys with her correspondents. But because her library was limited, she tended to fall back on the same books, so it was easy to become familiar with them. After a moment last night, I recognised a pattern as belonging to one of the texts Mary had commonly used – a book that she had with her when she was in the care of the Earl of Shrewsbury, Bessie Pierrepont’s step-grandfather. So the connection was there.’
‘You think Bessie is writing to Mary?’ My eyes widened; this would be a new twist to the business.
‘Keep your voice down.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Hard to tell. The note was ambiguous.’
‘What did it say? Go on, Thomas – it was I who brought it to you, I am hardly going to divulge to anyone.’
After a pause, he relented. ‘It said, “For the love I bear you, it shall be done.”’
‘That could mean anything.’
‘As I said. It could be a love note, either to Gifford, unlikely as it seems, or for him to pass to one of the Babington gang if she is involved with them. Or it could be intended for Mary herself. What we lack is any correspondence to which this might be a reply, and that would make all the difference. We need to know what “it” refers to.’
I exhaled slowly, understanding the import. ‘You mean that if she and Mary are writing to one another, then those letters can only be passing via Gifford, and he is double-dealing with you.’
‘We have had doubts about Gifford from the beginning – that is usual when someone’s loyalty has been coerced with money or threat. But his association with Bessie is more worrying. It means he is passing letters that he is not declaring to us. Even if it turns out that the girl is involved with one of the Babington group rather than directly with Mary Stuart, the idea that she has undertaken to do something for love of someone is a cause for concern – Bessie Pierrepont has access to Queen Elizabeth’s most intimate chambers.’
‘Can you not move her, if you think she is a danger?’
‘I have been discussing this with Master Secretary early this morning. To do so would be to reveal that we suspect her, and as yet we do not know if she represents a separate threat, set on by Mary herself, or if Bessie is part of the Babington conspiracy, or merely a foolish young woman with a lover who happens to know Mary’s ciphers. She will be watched closely and not allowed too near the Queen’s person. For now, it would be better if she or her correspondent gave themselves away more explicitly. And you will be watching Gifford. If all goes well, you will be at supper this evening with the group when he passes over the letters from his recent trip to Mary. Take good note of what papers he gives to whom. Check his doublet when he is asleep to see if that message is still there.’
I nodded. At the thought of that supper, I had the sudden sensation of the room rushing towards me and time contracting; by the evening, I would be a different person, in a different life, walking a knife-edge among men who would kill me if I mis-spoke one word of the Mass and gave myself away. There was a chance that my intervention could save Queen Elizabeth’s life, or bring the Queen of Scots to the block. The enormity of what I was about to undertake rose up before me like a wave, so that I had to steady myself with a hand against the desk, almost overwhelmed by it. I breathed hard, afraid I might involuntarily retch; the feeling was not unlike seasickness.
‘Are you all right?’ Phelippes asked, briskly.
I nodded; all I could do was wait for the moment to pass. But behind the fear I could also hear in the hammering of my heart the drumbeat of exhilaration. I would be Father P
rado, and not even the prospect of Archibald Douglas would stop me.
PART TWO
TWELVE
I had changed names more than once in my thirty-eight years. It was one thing I had in common with Sophia Underhill; we both understood what it meant to find yourself so tightly tangled in circumstances that the only way out was to step out of your old self like leaving behind dirty clothes, and walk away unburdened as someone else. Except that it never works out like that, of course. My parents had christened me Filippo; when I was admitted to the Dominican order at the age of seventeen, they renamed me Giordano, a new name to signify the start of my new life as a servant of God. Ten years later, when I was forced to run from San Domenico under cover of darkness rather than face the Inquisition, I used my birth name again, and took the family name of my mother’s side – Savolino – in case the name Bruno reached the ears of their agents. I had tried out other names on my travels, when it seemed prudent, and Filippo Savolino had served me well on some occasions, but though I had necessarily adapted details of my life story for the curious, I had never really been playing anyone other than myself. Becoming Father Xavier Prado was a different prospect altogether. I was not worried about making obvious mistakes – I had been over the form of the Mass with Phelippes until you would think I’d been saying it daily; my Spanish was fluent, so that only another Spaniard would notice the inflection of a Neapolitan accent, and there were ways to explain that, in the unlikely event that I ran into one – but it would take every ounce of concentration not to slip, like the inn-yard jongleurs who juggled with flaming torches or balanced one on top of the other by only one hand. The moment I stepped out of Phelippes’s lodgings that afternoon in the amber silk suit that rustled disconcertingly as I walked, I realised I was already carrying myself differently, and I felt the sudden, sharp thrill of a blank page, the terrifying possibility of a fall.