Prophecy

by S. J. Parris

He shrugs.

  ‘Couldn’t rightly say, sir. A good part of the time, at least.’

  ‘With that same passenger? Or did he get on at Mortlake?’

  ‘Didn’t notice.’

  ‘But it left at the same time as us?’

  ‘Must ’a done, if it’s behind us now.’

  ‘Slow your pace,’ I instructed. ‘Let them catch us up.’

  The boatman obeys me and eases off his oars; the boat behind us appears to do the same, so that the distance remains. I tell my boatman to stop rowing altogether; he complains that the current is too strong and we will be brought into the bank. The other boat moves closer to the opposite side, away from us. The further we travel downriver, the busier the water becomes, but our two boats continue to follow the same course; I crane over the side but still cannot get a good view of the passenger who I am now certain is following me. At Putney, the other ferryman suddenly weaves his craft across the river and pulls it in at the landing stairs; my boatman pulls doggedly onwards, and I can only see the man in silhouette as he disembarks. There is nothing to distinguish him; he appears to be of average height and build, and he keeps his hat pulled down as he climbs the stairs and disappears. Clearly someone was interested in my visit to Dee. I recall the sensation I had of being followed yesterday at Whitehall; could it be the same person? But who would have an interest in my movements, to spend that much time tailing me to Mortlake? A cold shiver prickles at my neck. Unless it is someone who saw me talking to Abigail yesterday and is following me precisely because he fears that she has passed on to me something that she knew. And if that is the case, it means the man I have just seen stepping lightly up the stairs at Putney could only be the killer of Cecily Ashe. If it is so, I think grimly, Abigail may be in immediate danger – as may I, for that matter, though I am probably better equipped to look after myself. Perhaps I should warn her – but how am I to get a message to her at court without arousing further suspicion? I have no means of contacting the kitchen boy who brought her message last time – and no means of knowing whether he might have alerted anyone else to her meeting with me in the first place, intentionally or otherwise.

  When the boat has finally delivered me back to Buckhurst Stairs, and I have paid the boatman his considerable fee for the long journey, I return to find Salisbury Court silent, its halls and galleries unaccountably empty. This suits me; I manage to reach my room without being detained by Castelnau’s summons or his wife’s aggressive flirting. But even before I insert the key into the lock, I am struck by a feeling of unease, as vivid as if I had glimpsed a presence in the corridor; I whip around to right and left, but the landing remains as unnaturally still as the rest of the house. Chiding myself for growing skittish, I attempt to turn the key and it will not move. I turn the latch; the door is already open. Every muscle in my body tenses; the hairs stand up on my skin and my hand goes instinctively to the knife I carry at my belt. I left this door locked, I would swear to it on everything I hold dear; I am diligent to the point of obsession in this matter. I have never, in six months, gone out and left my chamber unlocked – there are books and writings in my chest that would not be regarded sympathetically by anyone in this devoutly Catholic household. How naïve I have been not to have considered that someone in the house must have a duplicate set of keys for all the rooms. Silently cursing my own stupidity, I slowly ease the door back and then kick it violently, springing over the threshold with my knife drawn.

  But the room is empty, untouched, just as I left it, the bed sheets folded back neatly, some papers arranged in two separ ate piles on the writing desk where I had been working, the quills, inkpot and penknife scattered beside them. For a moment, I doubt myself; perhaps in my haste to get to Dee this morning, I really did forget to lock the door. Still the sense of unease persists; I turn slowly, taking in the room, the details of its sparse furnishings, racking my brain to see if anything looks out of place, half expecting some movement out of the shadows. It is only when I cross to the desk that I notice immediately that the papers are out of sequence. Clearly, whoever has been in my room failed to consider that I am famous in France for my prodigious memory as well as my heresy. Quickly I sift through the notes; there is nothing here that is too contentious, some mathematical calculations on the motions of the Moon and the Earth, and a series of diagrams measuring how the heavenly bodies reflect light, but nothing that could have me arrested. Nevertheless, the topmost papers are not the ones I was working on recently. This thought leads me to check the carved wooden chest where I keep my more inflammatory books. The padlock that holds its iron clasps is intact, but there are tiny scuff marks in the dust around it that suggest it has been moved a fraction. Someone has given it some attention very recently.

  At the far end of the room there is another chest, somewhat larger, where I keep my clothes. It emits a faint gust of amber when I lift the lid, from the pomander I keep in there to discourage moths. Here too, I see subtle evidence of interference. My clothes have been taken out and replaced, hastily folded. I lift up a fine wool doublet and smooth it down, refolding it carefully. Nothing appears to be missing, but the chest has clearly been searched. This is even stranger; I can see that there might be some among the embassy’s household – Courcelles, for one – who feel they have a right to sneak in and investigate what I read and write under their roof, but I cannot imagine any reason why anyone here would have the slightest interest in looking through my clothes. Only someone who was looking for something very particular would bother to search there.

  At least, I think with some relief, as I tuck the doublet back into the chest, I had taken the velvet bag containing Cecily Ashe’s love-tokens with me. This thought makes me freeze for a moment; but that is impossible, clearly. No one in the household could know anything about my presence at Richmond Palace on the night of the murder, nor about my contact with Abigail Morley. Standing, I brush myself down and shake my head briskly, to dislodge such foolish thoughts as if they were flies. The encounter with the man in the boat has made me see shadows where there are none, and even there I have no firm proof that I was followed. Still, I think, as I step out on to the landing and make doubly sure that I lock the door behind me – I have not imagined the intruder in my room, and someone in the embassy knows who it was.

  The silence persists throughout the house; it is as if the apocalypse has occurred while I was out, the other inhabitants of Salisbury Court gathered up and only I left behind. I do not encounter another soul or hear so much as a footfall on my way to Castelnau’s private office at the back of the house, and when I knock on his door, the only sound is the echo of my knuckles on the wood.

  When I push open the door, however, I see a figure outlined against the window; he starts and turns, expectant, and I recognise him as the young man Throckmorton, the courier. When he sees me, his elfin face tightens, wary.

  ‘Good day, Master Throckmorton. My lord ambassador is out?’ I keep my voice light. I see his eyes flicker for the merest instant to Castelnau’s desk. He bows slightly, and clasps his hands behind his back.

  ‘The household is hearing Mass at present. I am waiting for him to return.’

  ‘Ah. You do not join them?’

  ‘I have only just now arrived,’ he says, and again his gaze strays almost unconsciously to the ambassador’s desk. ‘I was not expected today, so I did not like to interrupt.’ He smiles, but it appears strained.

  ‘I had thought you on the road to Sheffield,’ I say; our haste in delivering the letters two days ago was, I believed, because Throckmorton rode for Sheffield the following morning. What has happened to delay him – some concern over the correspondence, perhaps?

  ‘I had to postpone my journey. Unforeseen circumstances. I ride on the second.’ He is cautious with me in his turn. Even here in the embassy, it is wise not to speak too openly. I decide to take a chance.

  ‘Because of Mendoza’s news?’

  ‘You know of that?’ He looks immediately suspicious.
>
  ‘I was here when he visited Castelnau yesterday.’ I affect a lack of concern, picking up a quill from the ambassador’s desk, turning it between my fingers and replacing it, all the while not looking at him. ‘Interesting developments.’

  I glance at Throckmorton; he seems relieved, and visibly relaxes.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he says. ‘With Spanish troops and money, we have a real chance of success. I had not expected King Philip to agree so quickly.’

  So my speculation was correct. Throckmorton has the same gleam in his eyes that I observed in Marie de Castelnau when she talked of the glorious enterprise of restoring England to Catholic rule. His smooth face with its clear, wide-set eyes is lit with a boy’s excitement at the prospect of some adventure, his enthusiasm clearly undampened by any personal experience of war or massacre. Where does a young man like this, with his cultured accent, his well-cut doublet of dark green wool and his expensive leather boots, acquire a taste for enforcing his religion with Spanish warships?

  ‘Your family has suffered a great deal, then, I suppose?’ I lift the lid of an enamelled inkwell and affect to give it all my attention.

  ‘My family?’ He sounds bemused. ‘Why would you say that?’

  I turn to look at him.

  ‘Only that I imagined all Englishmen who conspire against their queen must have reason to resent the Protestants. Like my lord Howard.’

  Throckmorton tilts his head to one side.

  ‘You don’t think a man would want to fight for his beliefs alone? For what he holds to be true?’

  I shrug.

  ‘It is possible. But revenge or gain are stronger motives, from what I have observed.’

  He regards me with suspicion for a moment.

  ‘Perhaps you have never believed anything with enough passion to fight for it.’

  I smile, ignoring the implied slight. It is true, I would like to tell him, that I have never considered the lives of innocent people a price worth paying for any belief of mine, but I must maintain my fiction.

  ‘I do, of course, or I would not be here. But then I was raised a Catholic. I was only curious as to what makes a young Englishman turn against his own country.’

  He looks a little abashed at this; I sense I have touched a sensitive area.

  ‘My family were all loyal Protestants, Doctor Bruno,’ he says, with a hint of defiance. ‘My uncle, Sir Nicholas, was a diplomat for Elizabeth, in France and Scotland, where he became a friend of Mary Stuart. Though he never shared her faith, he supported her right to succeed Elizabeth and publicly opposed her imprisonment.’

  I nod, as if impressed.

  ‘I studied in France after Oxford,’ he continues, ‘and there I met many Englishmen in exile who favoured the cause of Queen Mary. Through them I was introduced to Madame de Castelnau.’ You might have missed it, if you were not paying close attention, the almost imperceptible softening of his voice. Perhaps he is driven not by revenge, but by subtler motives. I want to smile, but I keep my face earnest and attentive. He would not be the first man – or woman – to change his religion for the sake of desire. Presumably Marie used her considerable powers to draw him into the embassy cabal.

  ‘So you converted to the Catholic faith in France?’ These seminaries of Rheims and Paris are the thorn in Walsingham’s side, cauldrons of Catholic missionary zeal brewing up plots and conspiracies heated by the youthful rage of English students craving a taste of rebellion. First Fowler, now Throckmorton; both sons of good families, both resisting the prosperous but uninspiring course mapped for them. One becomes a spy, the other a traitor, all in the name of adventure, the desire to prove themselves. I was about this Throckmorton’s age when I defied the Inquisition and fled my monastery in Naples; I cannot pretend that the prospect of risk doesn’t quicken the blood.

  ‘God by his grace showed me the way to the true Church.’ Throckmorton says this as if it is a phrase he has carefully learned from another language. ‘I came back to England to be of what service I could to Queen Mary’s cause. Madame de Castelnau recommended me to her husband.’ Again, the slight change in tone when he mentions her, the lowering of the eyes, the faint spread of a blush.

  ‘Do your family suspect?’

  ‘My father and uncle are both dead. I wish my uncle in particular could have lived to see these times.’ His voice grows wistful. ‘He was suspected of involvement in the Duke of Norfolk’s plans to marry Queen Mary, in ’69, you know.’

  ‘Henry Howard’s brother? Really?’ I forget for an instant to disguise my interest, but he is less guarded now that he has warmed to his theme.

  ‘He was their go-between for a while, I understand. The whole family fell under suspicion for it, but they never found any evidence to charge him. I was fifteen at the time, but I remember it well.’ His face tightens again at the memory.

  ‘A family tradition, then.’ I smile, to put him at ease, but he barely notices, glancing anxiously past me to the door.

  ‘If Mendoza does not replace me.’

  ‘Replace you?’

  Throckmorton scowls.

  ‘He fears my face will become too familiar around Sheffield Castle. He says he’s worried I’ll be searched and the correspondence discovered, so he talks of using one of his own couriers. But they don’t know the terrain like I do, and they don’t know how to get the messages to Mary’s women.’ He bridles at the suggestion; I see he fears being deprived of his role.

  ‘Perhaps he also wishes to keep his correspondence separate from the French?’ I offer. ‘Maybe he doesn’t trust this embassy, and thinks you are too much Castelnau’s man?’

  Again his eyes slide inadvertently to the desk, but he reins them quickly back and begins to pick at a loose thread on his sleeve.

  ‘This is why I need to speak to the ambassador. There is bad blood between him and Mendoza, as I’m sure you know, but that must not be allowed to infect these plans. I am Mary’s man, if I am anyone’s.’

  Mary’s or Marie’s, I wonder.

  ‘Well, then, I shall leave you in peace to wait for him,’ I say, moving towards the door.

  ‘What about you, Doctor Bruno?’

  ‘Me?’ The question stops me as I reach for the latch, and the roots of my hair prickle; I turn to find his pale eyes fixed on me, questioning.

  ‘Yes. Whose man are you?’

  ‘King Henri of France,’ I say, as lightly as I can. ‘He is my patron while I live in England, and I will give myself to whatever cause his ambassador believes to be in France’s best interest.’

  He studies me for a moment through narrowed eyes.

  ‘Then for you it is a matter of politics, not religion? Restoring Mary to her throne, I mean?’

  I smile.

  ‘If there are men whose religion is free of politics, Throckmorton, they are not to be found in the embassies of Europe. They are probably in a desert cave somewhere, praying and wearing animal skins.’

  He laughs at this, and gives a little bow as I take my leave, hoping that I have assuaged any doubts he might have harboured about me, at least for the moment. I retrace my steps through empty corridors towards the back of the house, to the small annexe that Castelnau’s predecessor converted into the embassy’s private chapel. Queen Elizabeth permits the celebration of Mass within the embassies of those countries who still cleave to Rome, but participation is strictly limited to embassy staff and servants, and foreign nationals baptised in the Catholic faith. In practise, the embassy chapels are crowded with those English Catholics, friends of the ambassadors, for whom taking the sacrament in their own houses would be punishable by imprisonment or death.

  I take up a position in a window seat opposite the door of the chapel and wait so that I can observe them leave. Among my duties for Walsingham I am expected to note who attends Mass here and pass on any unexpected visitors. A slow monotone is just audible from inside, the words indistinct, punctuated at intervals by the muffled responses of the communicants. A fly buzzes idly against the
glass, lemon-coloured light pours through in oblique lines, illuminating the rushes on the floor.

  Minutes pass, I lose track of how many, the intonations continue, then silence falls and finally the door opens and they pour out, whispering among themselves with a slightly frantic relief like children released from school: the butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the rest of the household servants. Then those who were sitting nearer the altar: Courcelles, Archibald Douglas (which surprises me; I had not known he attended Mass), Lord Henry Howard, naturally, and behind him, a tall young man with a long, equine face and high forehead, then Castelnau and his wife, followed by a diffident Spanish priest, who scuttles by with his head lowered and his hands clasped before him. Though Mass is legal for those who live here, they all carry themselves as if they have been caught out in some immorality, glancing sidelong at me and scurrying past with downcast eyes; all except Marie, who flashes me a coquettish smile.

  ‘Ah, Bruno – I’m afraid you’ve missed Mass today,’ the ambassador says, pausing with an apologetic smile, as if it were his fault; Courcelles offers a derisive snort.

  ‘My apologies – I have only just come in,’ I say, with a brief bow. ‘Throckmorton is waiting in your office, my lord.’

  ‘Throckmorton?’ Castelnau stops abruptly and exchanges a look with Howard. ‘What on earth?’

  I only shrug and shake my head.

  ‘He has some urgent matter to discuss, I suppose.’

  ‘Then I had better hear it.’ Castelnau quickens his pace.

  Howard pauses to glower at me, his gaze scanning me from head to foot with his now-familiar contempt. I meet his eye, because I want him to know that I am not intimidated either by his person or his position, and as I do so a sudden anger burns in me at the idea of this man coolly hiring thugs to attack Doctor Dee and his servant on the road from Oxford, the idea of him poring over the stolen book by the light of a candle, intent on the pursuit of immortality. But this, too, is only speculation; I compose my expression. Howard looks away and my attention shifts to the young man with him. He appears in his mid-twenties, expensively dressed in a velvet doublet with a wide starched ruff like any other courtier of his age, but there is something unexpectedly familiar about his face, with its thin moustache that looks as if it has been painted on with a fine brush.