by S. J. Parris
‘We will discuss this further inside.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘I think we should not wait for Titch – he can find us when he arrives. The first bear is due any minute and we will be more noticeable as a group if we have to walk through the spectators to take our seats once it has started. Come, ladies – you are playing your roles admirably, I must say.’
He held out an arm to Bessie and Sophia and set off towards the entrance, where the queue had dwindled; the others made to follow him. Gifford glanced over his shoulder and shot me a look of pure panic. Perhaps his fear transmitted to me; I watched Ballard’s back with the sudden sensation that my doublet was too tight, that my chest was constricted and I couldn’t breathe in enough air. I babbled an excuse of relieving myself and told them to go on without me, then stumbled around to the far side of the arena, where a patch of grass faced the river, separated from the bank by a low wooden fence. Away from the crowd I leaned on the rail to steady myself and breathed deeply, inhaling dank river air. I had experienced again that feeling of the ground rushing up to meet me, as I had looked around the group and thought of all the cross-currents of deception at play: Gifford and Bessie pretending not to know one another; likewise Gifford and Sophia; me and Sophia, affecting to have met for the first time (and I the only one there who knew her real name); Bessie’s motives unknown, and Gifford, Poole and I, all working to convince the conspirators that we were loyal comrades, while each of us watched the others for any hint of a slip that might lead all three of us to our deaths. I had felt like one of those jongleurs who string a rope tight between two trees in the marketplace and walk its length; I asked one once in Paris how he did it, and he said the trick was to keep moving and not look down. I had been in danger of looking down a moment ago, and for the space of a heartbeat the sensation had terrified me.
I was trying to calm my breathing when a pair of hands clamped over my eyes. With the speed of reflex, I whipped out the knife from my belt and spun to thrust its point at the belly of my assailant before I even had time to process what I was doing. She let out a small yelp and jumped back, checking to see if I had stabbed her.
‘Jesus, Sophia!’ My blood was drumming in my ears. ‘You can’t sneak up on people like that, I could have run you through. That would take some explaining to your new friends.’
‘Good to know that would be your greatest concern.’ She smiled, but I could see I had frightened her. ‘Sorry. I forgot how jumpy you are. Though I suppose it makes sense in the circumstances. Señor Prado.’
‘You should stay alert too, Mary, since you are about to become an accessory to regicide.’
‘Ah, but that’s what I came to tell you.’ She clutched at my sleeve, her face lit up with an excitement I had not seen in a long time. ‘I have a new job.’
‘So I see.’ I indicated the low-cut dress and the jewellery. ‘Have you made much profit so far?’
She slapped my arm with the back of her hand. ‘Isn’t it awful? I feel naked – all those men staring and making comments. But Bessie said we could not go to the bear garden and meet Babington’s group as ourselves, people would talk. I think she just wanted to dress up – she’s having the time of her life.’ She smiled. ‘A dozen men have asked her how much, and each time she says “More than you make in a year, sweetheart” in this terrible accent, and doubles over laughing. It’s a pity she was born to the nobility, she’d have made an excellent living. Alas, I don’t have her assets.’ She glanced down ruefully at her small breasts. ‘I’d probably starve if I had to rely on these.’
‘Your assets are beyond price,’ I said, and realised, from the way she looked at me, that I had spoken with too much feeling. I quickly changed my tone. ‘So what is your new job, if not the one you are dressed for?’
She drew me with her into the shadow of the wall and bent to whisper; I felt all my muscles tense as she leaned against me. ‘Same as yours.’
‘So you’re a priest?’
‘No. Spy.’ She spoke so close that her cheek brushed mine and her lips touched my ear. My mouth had dried. She took a step back and looked at me to see the effect. ‘A man came to find me. Sandy hair, pock-marked face. I thought he was so strange at first, he talked as if he had learned how to speak from a book, but not how to put expression into his words.’
‘I know him.’
‘I know you do – he told me. And he explained all this—’ she waved a hand in the direction of the bear pit, to indicate Babington and the others. ‘He said they needed a trusted person to watch Bessie, and that the Queen’s life could depend on it.’
Her eyes widened with the thrill of it; I recalled how important I had felt when Walsingham had first asked me to join the Queen’s service. Somehow her excitement provoked a cold jealousy in me.
‘That was an exaggeration. They have plenty of people watching this plot – he wouldn’t leave you responsible for the Queen’s safety.’
‘Oh.’ She looked briefly disappointed. ‘Well, anyway – I was glad to be of use. They want me to search Bessie’s room, make copies of any letters I find, win her confidence and report back anything she says about Mary Stuart, or any lover. Beats sewing cushion covers with Lady Grace.’ She mimed putting a noose around her own neck and I laughed, feeling ashamed of my desire to belittle her. ‘He said they will try to find me a place in the Queen’s household so I can continue to report on Bessie next week – can you imagine? Me, in the palace of Whitehall!’
I felt obscurely cheated; if she was absorbed into the Queen’s entourage, it would be impossible for me to see her. And beneath that, a petulant, childish objection: I had shown my service to Queen Elizabeth several times now, at great risk to my life – where was my place at court, if Walsingham could hand them out so easily when it suited him? I reminded myself that Sophia’s elevation to royal servant would only be a temporary measure, until the conspiracy was fully uncovered and dealt with.
‘Is that why you agreed? Because you are tired of sewing cushions?’
‘No – though if you think that would not be reason enough, I can only suppose you have never embroidered a cushion in the company of the most boring woman in England. But you will not guess what else he said.’ She grasped my hands in hers this time, barely able to keep the smile from her face.
‘I’m sure I won’t – tell me,’ I said, knowing exactly what she was going to say.
‘He promised they would find my son,’ she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘They know everything, these people, you’d be amazed. Though I suppose you know already. But this man, Thomas, told me they had started making enquiries. If I help them, they will help me.’
‘That is wonderful news,’ I said, squeezing her hand. It was not for me to point out that she had little prospect of gaining access to the boy, even if they found him; she looked so happy and hopeful. ‘But – be careful, Sophia.’
Her face fell. ‘You think they are false?’
‘I think they’re good at making promises when they want something.’ I was considering how much more to say – conscious, too, that I was doing this to demonstrate my greater knowledge and experience in Walsingham’s service – when I glanced over her shoulder and saw, unmistakably, weaving through the last remaining stragglers on this side of the building, the figure of Archibald Douglas. ‘Kiss me,’ I hissed.
Sophia frowned. ‘God’s sake, Bruno – I thought we had moved beyond that—’
‘I need to hide my face. Now.’
Before she could protest, I pushed her urgently against the wall of the bear pit and kissed her; she resisted at first, and then I felt her subside and give in to it. Her mouth yielded and she began to respond with her tongue, one hand hooked around the back of my neck, the other at my hip, pulling me into her, and there was no pretence in it; I forgot Douglas as she arched against me and I ran a hand over her breast and slipped my thumb inside her bodice, feeling her nipple harden. She moaned into my mouth and moved her hand down to my breeches; God knows how we would hav
e proceeded if we hadn’t been interrupted by a sudden outburst of barking from inside the ring, followed by a loud cheer from the crowd. The show had started. She pulled back and we stared at one another, breathing hard, half-amazed by the sudden force of our desire.
‘Has he gone?’ she whispered.
‘Who?’
‘Whoever you were hiding from.’
‘No idea.’ I couldn’t take my eyes from hers for long enough to look around; it no longer seemed important.
She ran her hand down the side of my face, brushed her thumb over my lips, gave me a soft smile and said,
‘That’ll be five shillings.’
She told me, laughing, that I could pay her next time; I said she could send word to me at the Saracen’s Head. Even the suggestion that it could happen again was enough to lift my spirits. Despite the dance she had led me these past three years, she wanted me, I was sure; you don’t kiss someone that way if you’re indifferent. All my earlier anxieties about Ballard and the rest struck me as trivial now; I felt invincible. I stood facing the wall after she had gone, leaning on one hand, adjusting my breeches with the other, trying to bend my thoughts back to the evening’s business. I could not return to the others until I could be sure it was not obvious what I had been doing; it would hardly inspire confidence if Father Prado looked as if he had been grappling with a woman round the back of the bear pit. I closed my eyes, picturing again Sophia’s upturned face, her parted lips, and what I would have liked to have done, when the cold edge of a blade pressed against the soft skin beneath my ear and my whole body shrank from it.
‘Hello, old pal,’ said a Scots voice, still familiar after three years. ‘Fancy running into you. Seems only yesterday we were last here.’
‘Douglas.’ I didn’t bother to open my eyes. All I could do was wait.
‘Didn’t like to interrupt you just now,’ he said conversationally. ‘Seems unsporting to cut a man’s throat while all his blood has rushed to his breeches. Perhaps I should wait for your cockstand to go down.’
‘Oh, it’s gone,’ I said through my teeth.
‘Aye, I have that effect. That was a tasty little whore you had there – why didn’t you stay and finish the job? Maybe I’ll give her a try later on – she looked like she’d be dirty enough for anything.’
At that I brought the arm leaning against the wall sharply back in a fist; I would have caught a less practised fighter on the jaw, but Douglas was quick enough to dodge. I turned and felt a warm trickle on the side of my neck where the movement had caused the tip of his knife to nick my skin.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he said, as if he was disappointed in me. He tucked the blade close to my ribs, just below my heart. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt you if you were a good boy. So she’s your special whore. That’s useful to know.’
‘She’s not a whore,’ I said, before I realised I should have kept my mouth shut.
‘Oh, I know that. She was with the Pierrepont girl at The Curtain the other night, the first time I saw you, before you got your smart haircut and shave. Come on, Bruno – you should know better than to underestimate me.’
‘Have you been following me?’
‘Obviously. You’re terribly careless – it’s lucky I didn’t want to kill you. I could have done,’ he added, off-hand.
‘I thought that was exactly what you wanted.’
He laughed. ‘Of course not. Revenge is for petty men. You and I are bigger than that. I knew there would be something interesting afoot if you were back in town, and I wasn’t wrong.’ But he kept the knife where it was. ‘I’m curious about your new friends, though. You can’t keep away from Mary Stuart’s admirers, can you? Wherever there’s a plot to break the old girl out of prison, there you are in the middle of it.’
‘So you know them.’
‘I know of them. Your pal Walsingham’s not the only one with informers in France.’
‘Who are you working for these days?’
‘My own advantage, as always. Just like you. Tell me, do your new friends know who pays you? Do they know what you did to Throckmorton and the last lot of eager boys who wanted the Queen of Scots on the throne?’ When I did not reply, a wolfish smile curved across his face. ‘Thought not. Would you like to keep it that way?’
‘What do you want, Douglas? They’ll come looking for me in a moment.’
‘That would be awkward, wouldn’t it? We’d have to explain how we knew each other. All right, listen – this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to keep me informed of those gentlemen’s plans at every step.’
‘Then – you have nothing to do with the conspiracy?’
‘Me? I’m offended you would even think it.’ He chuckled. ‘Mary Stuart is last year’s cause, Bruno. No one with an ounce of political nous believes she’ll rule anywhere, not even her – only naïve boys and fanatics still rally to her banner. I watch which way the wind is blowing.’
‘So why are you in London? Aren’t you a wanted man here?’
‘Oh, they want me everywhere. Let’s just say I’m on a most sensitive mission, and it’s very much not in my interest for those lads to succeed in whatever they’re plotting – I assume some new hare-brained scheme to get rid of Elizabeth. And since you’re obviously monitoring them for your friends in high places, you can pass whatever you find on to me at the same time.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because’ – he brought his face an inch from mine – ‘if you don’t, I’ll tell your new friends who you are. And then I’ll find your pretty little slut and ruin her face.’
‘What?’ I stared at him. Douglas was the kind of man who could throw out a comment like that without thinking, but he was also entirely capable of doing it.
‘You heard. You can find me at the Unicorn. It’s where all the best people stay – but then you know that. We’ll take a drink together – I know you’ve missed me.’ He puckered his lips in a kiss. I turned my face away in case he actually tried. He laughed again, enjoying himself.
‘How long have you been in London?’ I asked, my thoughts scrambling to catch up.
‘A week. Why?’
‘Did you know Clara Poole?’ It was a stupid question; he was hardly going to admit it if he had.
‘I know so many women – you can’t expect me to remember all their names. Who is Clara Poole? Oh…’ he nodded as understanding dawned. ‘Is that the servant of Lady Sidney who was found murdered along the way here the other day? I heard talk of that. Tragic business. Nice girls should know better than to hang around Southwark after dark.’
‘She had her face ruined.’
‘No! Why would someone do that to a woman, I wonder.’
‘You tell me. You’re the one who just threatened it.’
‘Figure of speech. My ancient warrior blood, Bruno – what can I say?’ Another roar rose up from the wall behind us. He shook his head with a wince. ‘Listen to that. I can’t abide it. People paying money to watch an old blind bear ripped to pieces by dogs kept starving, women and bairns laughing and cheering when the poor creatures lose another chunk of flesh? Fucking monstrous. Makes you lose faith in humanity, Bruno, it really does.’ He lowered the knife and sheathed it. He knew I would not try anything now.
‘My name is Prado,’ I said.
He grinned. ‘Course it is. I’ll be seeing you, Prado. Mind I do.’
* * *
I took my seat alongside the others in the stands; no one seemed to have noticed my long absence, with the exception of Robin Poole, who gave me a quizzical frown and pointed to the trail of blood down the side of my neck; I brushed it away quickly and shook my head. I sat down next to Babington, whose attention was all on Bessie to his left. It was hard to know where to look: not at Sophia, seated next to Ballard and affecting rapt attention to his every word; even the line of her profile caused the heat to surge through my blood again, and I could not afford to have my responses clouded by lust. Not at the exhausted, blood-soaked anima
ls in the ring; I agreed with Douglas on that spectacle, though it struck me as odd that he should be so vehement in his objection, knowing the brutality he was capable of with people who inconvenienced him. It made me think of a Dominican Inquisitor I had known in Naples, who was rumoured to eat his supper with one hand while crushing a man’s knees in a spiked vice with the other, but wept like a child when his dog was trampled by a horse. Gifford and Ballard were discussing in low voices how long it would take to get men up-country to Staffordshire, who should go and whether they should leave this weekend, if the execution – as they still referred to it – was to happen in the next week, once Bessie returned to Elizabeth’s service. None of them seemed to have questioned Bessie’s immediate and enthusiastic agreement to their proposal. Babington was right about Ballard abandoning all caution; he appeared ready to seize on any means to get his way now, regardless of consequences. And unless Sophia could find a copy of the letter to which Bessie had replied with her promise that it will be done, the girl’s true loyalties remained unknown.
I leaned in to give the appearance of interest in the conversation, but my mind snagged on other, unanswered questions. That sudden flash of emotion Babington had shown when I spoke of Clara’s death earlier; there was real feeling there, despite his efforts to hide it. Perhaps he had been in love with her after all, though it did not follow that he had killed her. In fact, the more I saw of the conspirators, the clearer it seemed that Clara’s death had thrown them into disarray; Babington appeared genuinely fearful that the murder meant the plot was now discovered, and he seemed to be losing his appetite for it, even as Ballard’s had been sharpened by the threat of arrest. Chidiock Tichborne’s absence was odd too; he might simply have forgotten the meeting, which struck me as unlikely, or he could have taken the chance to flee, as Gifford had proposed last night – either because he feared discovery as her killer, or because he thought the conspiracy was blown. But I had not seen any convincing evidence so far that any one of them had reason to think that murdering Clara served their purpose. Finally, there was my bizarre conversation with Douglas. Mary Stuart is last year’s cause, he had said. It was true enough that in his time he had taken great risks for Mary, as Ballard had reminded us, and seen little reward for it except imprisonment and exile; it made sense that he would look for better prospects elsewhere. Given what I knew of him, I could guess his new allegiance: Mary Stuart’s only son, twenty-year-old King James of Scotland. Now that it was certain Elizabeth would not produce an heir of her own, it was widely believed that young James would be named as her successor, as the nearest suitable heir by blood and religion, but so far the Queen had refused any public commitment to him. Could Douglas’s sensitive mission have something to do with ensuring James’s place as the next king of England? If Douglas was working for James, it made sense that he would not want a conspiracy on behalf of Mary Stuart to succeed, and he was quite capable of committing murder to prevent it. Could he have killed Clara in cold blood and left her body in a public place to draw attention to the Babington plot, and thereby thwart it? He had been in London at the time, and staying at the Unicorn. But if he knew enough to target Clara, he must already have an informer within the Babington group, which made no sense of his threats to me.