Execution

by S. J. Parris

  I closed it behind me and stood, watching her.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ she muttered. ‘There’s ink all over the carpet – they’ll know I’ve been in here now.’

  ‘Here.’ I unbuttoned my doublet, pulled my shirt over my head and pressed it to the stain on the carpet. I was not sure what I had wanted to prove, but I saw her relent; a smile hovered at her lips.

  ‘Always the master of the extravagant gesture, Bruno.’ Her gaze travelled over my naked chest. ‘I see you’ve been looking after yourself in London. What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘Who are you writing to secretly in the middle of the night?’ I had wanted to make it sound like a joke, but it came out accusatory and demanding.

  ‘Why, are you jealous?’ She lifted her chin as if in challenge, laughing. I laughed too, to cover the truth that I had been seized by a sudden horrible image of some lover she had left behind in Paris. ‘I’m writing to our mutual friend,’ she said, lowering her voice, though there was no one for miles to hear. ‘It takes me so long, though, to put it into cipher. I suppose you can do it easy as blinking.’ She bent and picked up the paper from the floor. ‘At least you didn’t make me spill ink on my poor efforts. I’ll never get it done by the time the boy comes in the morning, and I have important news for Thomas, about Bessie.’

  ‘Oh yes? That she has agreed to the conspirators’ plan?’

  ‘Not just that.’ Her eyes shone in the lamplight. ‘She took a bath this evening after we returned from the bear garden. I knew she’d be at least an hour, so while she was soaking, I went through her room and found some letters. It turns out she does have a lover.’

  ‘Not Gifford?’

  ‘I doubt it. I don’t like the girl, but credit her with some taste. I don’t know his name, he’s too sharp to sign it, but from the context it’s obvious that he has some connection with Mary Stuart or her family.’

  ‘That could be any number of men,’ I said, though my first thought was: Douglas. ‘Did you manage to read his letters to her?’

  ‘I could only find a couple. They’re in cipher so you may imagine how long it took me – your friend Phelippes gave me a code to try, and it worked, but it still took me forever. They’re quite ambiguous – but in one this man is asking her to deliver an urgent message to Queen Elizabeth. It was dated ten days ago.’

  Ten days; that would fit with Gifford’s last visit to Staffordshire. ‘Is that his word – a “message”? That could cover all manner of things, from a letter to a dose of poison.’

  ‘I thought that. I could not see any sign that Bessie had started on a reply, though. Maybe she has given it to Gifford already.’

  For the love I bear you, it shall be done. Not Mary, then, but a man close to her – someone Gifford was supposed to deliver the letter to. Bessie must have concealed the truth about the correspondence; he would not willingly have agreed to carry love notes to a rival. But until we found Gifford, the man’s identity would remain a mystery.

  ‘Have you seen Gilbert here tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Is that why you’re creeping around the garden? Why would he be here?’

  ‘He’s disappeared. I thought he might have come to borrow a horse.’

  ‘Why would he want a horse?’

  ‘To run away.’

  ‘Ah. But I wouldn’t have seen him if he did. I sneak out of the back door, I don’t go near the stables. Though I probably would have heard some commotion if they’d been getting horses ready, and it’s been quiet all night.’ She gestured around the summer house. ‘This place is where Sir Henry brings his mistresses when he’s at home. Lady Grace put her foot down about having them in the house. He’s in Derbyshire at the moment, thank God, so I knew this would be empty.’

  She glanced over her shoulder, and I felt the atmosphere in the room shift; we were both suddenly very aware of the bed behind us. I shivered, regretting my gallantry in offering up my shirt.

  ‘Tonight, at the bear pit,’ she said softly, taking a step towards me. ‘Were you really hiding from someone, or was that just an excuse?’

  I smiled. ‘No, he was real.’

  ‘Is he dangerous?’

  I thought of Douglas’s threat to ruin Sophia’s face. ‘Only if you’re married to Mary Stuart.’

  She frowned slightly as she tried to puzzle this out. ‘But her husbands are dead.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, you would not have kissed me if he had not been after you?’

  ‘I would have thought you were beyond my purse.’

  She laughed. Then she took another step forward and placed her hand flat on my chest, over my heart.

  ‘Once again, I think you have come looking for me and it turns out you are really in search of Gilbert Gifford.’

  ‘It’s becoming a habit.’

  ‘It’s almost as if you’re obsessed with him.’

  ‘I can assure you it’s not him I think about when I’m lying in my cold empty bed at night.’

  She looked at me aslant from under her lashes. ‘Is your bed empty, Bruno? I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘What would you care?’

  She curled her fingers and scraped her nails lightly through the hair on my chest; a white-hot bolt of desire flashed through me. ‘Of course I care. I just—’

  ‘I don’t know what you want from me, Sophia.’ I had not meant it to sound as frustrated and full of blame as it came out.

  She sighed and let her hand fall to her side. ‘This is what you always do, Bruno. You can never just be with me. You must always be asking what happens next. You want promises I can’t make.’

  ‘Because I love you!’ I pushed my hands through my hair and turned away, furious with her and with myself. ‘Because every time you walk away from me I never know if it will be the last time I see you. I feel there is no solid ground under my feet.’

  She gave a soft, sad laugh. ‘What is it you think you want from me? Do you want a wife in a white apron, a little cottage with roses, a couple of pretty children playing around your feet when you come home from delivering your latest book to the Queen?’

  ‘You can mock. I’ve lived in exile for ten years, often in fear of my life. Don’t you think the idea of a home like that sounds like a dream to me?’

  ‘That’s all it is. You would tire of that life in a matter of months. You’re obsessed with your work, Bruno. I’ve seen how you light up when you talk of it, these books that are going to change Christendom’s understanding of the cosmos, the way Copernicus did. That’s the life you want, not the demands of a family.’

  ‘Could I not wish for both?’

  She laughed again then, and not pleasantly. ‘Yes, I suppose a man can always expect both, because he imagines there will be a woman there making the meals and washing the clothes and caring for the children while he is off doing his great work.’

  ‘That’s not what I expect of you—’

  She shook her head. ‘In any case, I can’t have another child.’

  I looked at her. ‘I’m sorry – I didn’t realise – was it the birth?’

  ‘I don’t mean that. I mean that I could not. How could I love another child when I know my son is out there somewhere, without me? Until I find him, there is no prospect of happiness for me.’

  I did not reply, because what she was saying was that she could never love or want a child of mine. She was right that I was holding on to a fantasy, but it was one that sustained me in my darkest moments – the idea that I might not always be alone. If I had wanted to hurt her in return, I could have told her that she too was chasing a chimera – wherever her son was now, she had little hope of bringing him to live with her and raising him. Estranged from her family, cut off from her friends, Sophia was as alone in her way as I was, and she was clinging to the pursuit of her lost child as a reason to keep going.

  She came close to me again and put her arms around my waist, her face against the side of my neck. ‘You’re cold. Here.�
�� She untied the gown she was wearing and tried to fold me into it. I could feel the heat of her body on my skin through the thin linen shift she wore underneath. ‘Why must we always fight?’

  ‘Because you can’t decide if you want me or not. You like to keep me in your orbit just in case.’

  ‘If you really loved me, you would not want to own me,’ she whispered, and she sounded sad again.

  I could not reply, because she pulled me closer until I could feel the pressure of her breasts against my chest. I heard my own ragged breathing loud in the silence of the room and hers quickening against my ear. She let the gown fall from her shoulders and loosened the ties of her shift; I bent my head to lick her nipples as she wrapped her hand in my hair and arched her throat back, making small animal noises. Eventually she led me across to the bed; I made to ease her down on to it but she shook her head and instead pushed me down on my back, pulling up her shift so that she could sit astride me as I unlaced my breeches. I remembered how she liked it like this; I lifted my hips so that she could grind against me while I was inside her, her hair falling over my face and her mouth at my ear, whispering incoherent commands or threats or promises. She brought herself to her climax in barely more than a minute, and even as I enjoyed her pleasure I found myself wondering if it was me, or if she would have been so fast and eager with anyone, and then hated myself for thinking it. When she rolled breathlessly on to her back for me to finish – though she insisted I pull out at the last moment – I knew she had already gone from me, her thoughts were elsewhere, and I thrust hard, half-wanting to hurt her, to make her acknowledge me. After it was over she smiled fondly, distractedly, pressed the palm of her hand to the side of my face and told me that I could leave by a side gate into the lane that was kept unlocked.

  ‘I must finish this letter,’ she said, reaching for her gown while I dressed and tried to fight the hollowed-out feeling gnawing at my insides.

  ‘The boy who collects your messages,’ I said, my voice deliberately cold, ‘does he have a scab on his lip?’

  ‘Ben? Yes, that’s him.’ She knelt to pick up the tray and the quill. ‘Sorry about your shirt,’ she said, passing it to me.

  ‘I know Ben. He could bring a message to me, if you ever wanted…’ I let the sentence die and slipped the shirt over my head.

  ‘If I want to get a message to you, I’ll ask him.’ She smiled again, but it was brisk now; our encounter was done, and she was impatient for me to leave.

  ‘Or at the Saracen’s Head,’ I said, shrugging on my doublet. I knew I was outstaying my welcome, she wanted to get back to her dispatch for Phelippes, and I found myself irrationally jealous of him, of all people. I felt a sudden rush of anger with her, for having this power over me and being so careless with it.

  ‘I’ll remember. You’d better take a candle,’ she said, dipping the quill in what remained of her ink. ‘Bruno—’

  I turned at the door.

  ‘Don’t think it means nothing,’ she said. ‘This is how it is, with us.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ I said, hearing my voice choked with anger again. ‘It’s not what I want.’

  ‘And must it always be what you want?’

  She did not speak unkindly, but I turned my back on her and closed the door, stepping out into the night scents of the garden, not trusting myself to answer. I walked towards the gate, my steps deliberately slow in case she decided to come after me with some word or gesture of affection, but she didn’t, as I had known she would not, and I stepped into the streets of London alone.

  * * *

  I arrived at Herne’s Rents more furious and frustrated than when I had left, cursing all of them with the most imaginative and colourful oaths I could think of in all the languages I knew. Any encounter with Sophia always left me feeling dissatisfied and rejected, I should know that by now, and yet I kept going back, thinking each time that it might be different. I should never have gone to the Strand. Why should I care if Gifford had run? He was not my problem. This whole charade was pointless; Walsingham knew the names of the conspirators, he knew where they lived, he could have arrested them all long before now, but instead we were playing out this game, Robin and Gifford and I all risking our lives so that he could entrap Mary Stuart. Clara Poole had already died for it; little Joe might be next, and all the time Phelippes had been willing to forge a postscript to use against her; why could he not fabricate an entire letter?

  I knew, of course, that I should worry about Gifford; if he had fled because he could not cope with his conflicted loyalties any longer and had come down on the side of the Catholic cause, he might easily have run straight to Ballard and betrayed me and Poole. Even now, I thought, climbing the stairs wearily to my floor, the priest could be waiting inside the room to cut my throat. I drew my knife before kicking the door open and braced myself on the threshold for an ambush, but the room was empty. I lit a candle and had barely taken off my boots when there came a quiet but unmistakable knock. I sat upright, every muscle tensed. For a heartbeat I considered ignoring it, but guessed the light would be visible through the gap under the door. It could be Babington, wanting to know how many Hail Marys would cover his earlier sin, or Ballard intending to kill me. I waited; the knock came again, soft and timid. There was always the chance that it could be Robin Poole or another messenger from Phelippes, with news of Gifford’s flight; if so, I needed to know whether my identity had been exposed. I picked up my knife and held it at waist height as I opened the door a couple of inches.

  Outside was a man of about my own age, with light brown hair and beard and dark clothes. I had never seen him before.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, offering a tentative smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Father Prado.’

  Ah. I opened the door a little further in relief; I guessed Ballard must have sent him, another secret Catholic wanting the last rites for his dying mother, no doubt. I was beyond exhausted, but I assumed a benign, priestly expression, hoped I didn’t smell too much of sex, and returned his smile.

  ‘I am Father Prado,’ I whispered. ‘How can I help you?’

  There was a long pause. His round, pleasant face crumpled in consternation and he gave an embarrassed little laugh, as if he might have missed a joke.

  ‘No you’re not,’ he said.

  We stared at each other.

  ‘Oh, God. You’re Weston,’ I said, remembering at the same moment that his eyes fell on the knife I held, point towards him; in an instant, he had turned and hurled himself towards the stairs. I had to stop and put my boots on again; by the time I reached the street he had disappeared. I listened for the sound of running feet, but heard nothing; he must be hiding nearby.

  ‘Weston,’ I hissed, hoping he might be close enough to hear. ‘Come out and talk to me, I can explain.’

  But there was no reply, and no sign of anyone in the dark street. I waited a few minutes longer, keeping my knife at the ready, but I knew Weston would not come to me willingly; he probably thought I had killed Prado. By rights I ought to go straight to Phelippes and tell him there was now another person in London who knew I was not Xavier Prado; between Weston, Douglas and Gifford on the loose, it was too dangerous for me to continue trying to cling on to that identity. I kicked at a stone in frustration; that bloody Jesuit must have been out here waiting for me half the night, or else he was the one following me. From what Ballard had said, there was no great fellow-feeling between the Babington group and the English Jesuits, but it was highly likely that this Weston would feel obliged to let them know there was an imposter in their midst. I glanced down the street. The prospect of walking to Leadenhall now filled me with dread; Phelippes was probably out organising the search for Gifford, and in any case, I would be less safe alone in the streets at three o’clock than locked into my chamber. One way or another, the morning would bring some kind of clarity. I returned to my room, bolted the door behind me and lay down on the bed, fully clothed, so that I wouldn’t b
e caught unprepared by any more unexpected visitors. I placed my knife on the mattress beside me and had time to notice, as I drifted into sleep, that my skin still carried faint traces of Sophia.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I woke early after a fitful night, and in the liminal moments between sleep and waking I became aware of a creeping sense of unease – the knowledge that something had gone terribly wrong – before the details took shape. When I finally opened my eyes into stark morning light, the night’s events came rushing back: Gifford had fled, Joe had disappeared, William Weston was out there somewhere knowing I was an imposter, Sophia had let me in briefly and then pushed me away, as always, and Robin Poole was Babington’s lover. On the plus side, at least no one had come to kill me in the night. Through the open door into the adjoining room I could see Gifford’s empty bed, neatly made up. Where was he now, I wondered, and why had he run – blind panic, or desertion to the Catholics? I fell back on the pillow and considered the matter of Poole and Babington. I could not see that what I had discovered about them last night meant much in the bigger picture. Such things had never bothered me; if you spend your youth as a novice friar in a convent full of men sworn not to touch women, you can’t help but know it goes on. I had never been convinced by the Church’s case against it – I had infuriated my novice master by asking him more than once to cite where in the Scriptures Christ forbids a man to lie with another man, Christ who surrounded himself with men he loved, which had led the novice master to mark me as a potential sodomite as well as a heretic. But I asked because I had seen the shame and guilt bred by the Church’s disgust; a young novice of my age at San Domenico died by his own hand rather than live with the knowledge of damnation for feelings he could not avoid, and that struck me as the real sin. I could understand why Poole might have thought that bringing in his sister to pretend a decoy affair with Babington would distract the others from the truth, but Ballard had sharp eyes and I had no doubt that the priest would have strong views about a relationship between two men in his holy campaign. Even so, I couldn’t see how it could have contributed to Clara’s death. She had ‘complicated things’, Poole had said, without further detail. But for whom? I found myself wondering again if he could have done it. I had seen how skilled he was at dissembling; a man who could take a beating from prison guards for being Catholic without breaking his cover was perfectly capable of feigning grief over a half-sister he had killed with his own hands. But since Savage’s revelation, Poole’s loyalties were not necessarily as clear as I had thought – or perhaps as Walsingham believed. If Robin and Clara’s father had really been killed on Master Secretary’s orders, might one of them have wanted the conspirators to succeed, as revenge? Could they have argued over it, and Robin felt he had no choice but to silence her, either because she wanted to betray the conspiracy or he did? Or had Clara been true to Walsingham, and suspected that her brother’s involvement with Babington had compromised his loyalties? Had she threatened to expose them?