Prophecy (2011)

by S. J. Parris

‘How odd, that Burghley should send a foreigner. But continue.’

  ‘The young lady, Cecily Ashe - do you have any idea who she might have been meeting in the ruined chapel this evening?’

  ‘The papists have done this, you know,’ Lady Seaton snaps, leaning forwards. At the same time, I note that the red-headed girl kneeling by the left side of her chair bites her lip and drops her eyes to the floor.

  ‘Why do you say so, my lady?’

  ‘Because of the sacrilegious nature of it.’ She looks at me as though this should be obvious. ‘I suppose you are one, or have been?’

  ‘Once. But His Beatitude Pope Gregory had me excommunicated and wishes to burn me. This is why I now live under Her Majesty’s kindlier skies.’

  ‘I see.’ Her expression changes to one of curiosity. ‘What did you do to upset him?’

  ‘I have read books forbidden by the Holy Office. I abandoned the Dominican order without permission. I have written that the Earth turns around the Sun, that the stars are not fixed and that the universe is infinite.’ I shrug. ‘Among other things.’

  She considers this with a slight wrinkle of her nose, as if a bad smell had drifted into her orbit.

  ‘Good heavens. Then I’m not surprised. To answer your question, I have no idea why Cecily should have been in that chapel. I last saw her at about four o’clock this afternoon, when she was engaged under my supervision with the other maids of honour in preparing the queen’s jewels for the evening. There was to be a musical recital in the great hall after supper. Master Byrd was to play.’ Here she pauses, and there is a minute tremor in her voice. The red-haired girl stifles a sob. ‘Cecily retired to dress with the other girls before Evensong, and that was the last time I set eyes on her.’

  ‘But evidently she slipped away to meet someone, disguised as a boy. Do you know who that might have been?’

  Lady Seaton’s eyes narrow.

  ‘Preposterous,’ she says, eventually, though her voice remains steady. ‘The very suggestion. These girls are under my direct authority, Master -‘

  ‘Bruno.’

  ‘- yes, so the idea that I should be so lax with their honour and reputations is deeply distasteful to me, especially in the circumstances. Her Majesty does not tolerate immorality at her court. Whatever your customs in Italy, the Queen of England’s maids of honour do not engage in trysts in broad daylight for all to see.’

  I am tempted to ask whether they always wait until dark, but sense that she would not respond well to mockery. The red-haired girl darts a furtive glance upwards and catches my eye for a moment before quickly looking away, evidently distressed.

  ‘I can only assume that she was crossing the courtyard and was dragged into the chapel garden by her assailant,’ Lady Seaton asserts, nodding a full stop, as if this is the last word on the matter. Then her face softens into something like regret. ‘Cecily was a particular favourite of Her Majesty’s, you know. She liked Cecily to read to her from Seneca in the evenings. Cecily had the best Latin of any of the girls.’

  ‘Seneca?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Master Bruno - no need to look so astonished. Our sovereign is highly educated and she expects the same standards of her attendants. She will not have girls who can’t read to her and understand what they read.’

  I glance down at the red-haired girl, who blinks up at me again, biting her lip. She is the one I need to speak to, if I can only find a way to get her alone. I wonder if she reads Seneca. She looks barely old enough to have learned her letters.

  ‘Why was she dressed in men’s clothes?’

  ‘I cannot account for that, Master Bruno. The girls are high-spirited, they do sometimes get up to games and pranks. Dressing up, and so on …’ The words die on her lips. It is clear that she will swear black is white if she must, rather than willingly offer anything that might reflect badly on her own vigilance over the dead girl.

  ‘Thank you for your help, my lady.’ I bow and make as if to leave, then turn back, as if struck by an afterthought. ‘There is no reason to suppose that Cecily had any loyalty to the Roman faith?’

  Lady Seaton is so outraged by this that she rises to her feet, though the vast bulk of her farthingales means she almost becomes stuck in the chair, so the gesture loses some of its impact. She shakes off the girls’ hands on her arm.

  ‘How dare you, sir! Her family’s loyalty to the queen is impeccable, and if you think I would not have been able to sniff out a papist right under my own nose -‘

  ‘Forgive me. I was only thinking aloud. She was found with a rosary in her hand.’

  ‘Planted on her by the papist conspirators who carried out this heinous deed!’ She points a finger into my face. ‘I think you should leave, sir. You come here charged with finding poor Cecily’s killer and instead accuse her of whoring and popery!’

  I murmur an apology for any offence caused and retire, backing through the doors in a low bow. As I leave, I catch the red-haired girl’s eye and try to convey by a look that I would welcome any confidence she may choose to share. It is not clear if she has understood.

  The many fine tapestries hanging on the walls keep the corridor free of draughts, but I hear an insistent wind worrying at the window frames as I settle myself almost out of sight in a bay opposite the stairs, where I can watch the door to the chamber I have just left. Walsingham will be some time with the queen, I suppose, and there is nothing for me to do but wait and hope that the young maid of honour with the red hair will show herself at some point, without the company of Lady Seaton.

  Minutes pass, and more minutes. Distant creaks and footfalls tell of activity elsewhere in this warren of passages, but my corridor remains empty. Cupping my hands around my face to the window pane I can make out, under the moonlight, the expanse of the palace compound ahead of me, the great hall on the west side and the chapel on the east, connected to the complex of privy apartments by a narrow covered bridge that spans the moat dividing us from the Great Court. The palace is well protected, bordered on one side by the deer park and another by the river, and all its gates and entrances heavily guarded against intruders. But the truth is that any would-be assassin has ample opportunity to run at Queen Elizabeth during her open procession from the Chapel Royal to her chambers of state every Sunday, or her summer progressions around the country, or any of her many other public appearances. Walsingham frets endlessly over her faith in the love of her subjects - naive, in his opinion - and her desire to show herself unafraid amongst them; but she insists that she will not be cowed by whispered threats. She likes to meet her people face to face, to give them her hand to kiss. Perhaps this is because Master Secretary Walsingham does not tell her everything he hears regarding plots hatched in the seminaries in France, now filled with angry young Englishmen in exile, who believe that the Papal Bull of 1570 declaring Elizabeth a heretic also gave them, in not so many words, a mandate to kill her on behalf of the Catholic Church.

  But tonight’s murder is not the reckless act of a hot-blooded youth willing to martyr himself for his faith; there is a chilling touch of theatre about it, a degree of planning designed to inspire real fear. Fear of what, though? The Catholics? The planets? There is a message, too; Burghley reads it straightforwardly, but I am not so sure. The sign of Jupiter troubles me, perhaps only because it comes so near to me and Doctor Dee and our secret work. I stretch my legs out in front of me and sigh. After my experience in Oxford, I had hoped for some respite from the under-currents of violence that attend the court of Elizabeth. I am a philosopher, after all; what I really wish for is time to work on my book in peace, for as long as King Henri III of France sees fit to go on paying for me to live here with his ambassador. When I agreed to work for Walsingham shortly after my arrival in England, I had thought it would be merely a question of keeping my eyes open at the embassy, watching who among the English nobles came to dinner there, who stayed for Mass, who grew close to the ambassador and who was corresponding with whom among the Catholics in exile. Now, for the sec
ond time, I find myself caught up in a matter of violent death and I am not sure what is expected of me.

  My thoughts are disturbed by the soft click of a door opening at the end of the passageway; I shrink back into the window seat and lean my head around cautiously, but in the dim light I can only make out the figure of a woman, too slender to be Lady Seaton. She carries a candle in a holder and walks briskly towards me; as she passes under a sconce of candles on the wall, I catch a flash of red-gold under her white linen cap and whistle softly through my teeth. She gives a little cry and immediately stifles it with her hand; I press my finger to my lips, uncross my legs from the seat and we both freeze, still as marble, waiting to see if any guard comes running. A moment passes before we are satisfied that no one has heard.

  ‘I waited for you. Can we speak privately?’ I ask her, my voice barely escaping my lips.

  She hesitates for a moment, then glances over her shoulder before nodding. Holding her finger to her lips, she gestures for me to follow her, and leads me down the staircase, along another passage and into an empty gallery, unlit except for the moonlight that spills through the diamond panes, casting pale shapes on the wooden boards, faintly coloured where the windows bear heraldic emblems of stained glass. Almost as soon as the doors swing shut behind us, she appears to regret her decision; her eyes open wide in fear and she looks frantically about her.

  ‘If they should find me here -‘

  I make soft reassuring noises, such as you might make to a skittish horse, while guiding her away from the door towards one of the large windows.

  ‘You were friends with Cecily?’

  She nods, with emphasis, then smothers a sob behind her handkerchief.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Abigail Morley.’

  ‘You know more than Lady Seaton, I think, Abigail,’ I prompt gently.

  She nods again, disconsolate; she will not meet my eye and I guess that she fears disloyalty to her dead friend.

  ‘Did Cecily have a lover? Did she tell you she was going to meet someone? If you know anything, it may help to catch him.’

  Finally the girl raises her head.

  ‘Lady Seaton says it was black magic.’

  ‘People talk of magic to cover their ignorance. But you know better, I think.’

  Her eyes widen in amazement at this and she almost smiles; the audacity of someone questioning her mistress’s authority. She is standing close to me and I notice that she is pretty in that milky, English way, though there is something bland about her features that does not move me. I prefer a woman with more fire in her eyes.

  ‘We are not allowed to associate with the gentlemen of the court,’ she whispers. ‘It is strictly forbidden. Even the merest rumour could have us sent straight back to our families in disgrace with no chance of return, you understand?’

  ‘That seems hard.’

  The girl shrugs, as if to say things have always been arranged like this.

  ‘Being maid of honour to Her Majesty is the surest step to making a grand marriage at court. This is why our fathers send us here, and lay out their money for the privilege. Cecily told me her father paid more than a thousand pounds to get her a place.’

  ‘Poor man. A double loss for him, then. But how are you supposed to make these grand marriages if you are not allowed near the courtiers?’

  ‘Oh, the marriages are made for us,’ she says, with a little pout. ‘Between our fathers and the queen. And naturally no man wants to know us if there are rumours flying about the court concerning our virtue. Besides,’ she adds, slipping into a sly grin, ‘Her Majesty is renowned as the Virgin Queen, so she thinks we should all follow her example. She should really know that all the tricks of secrecy make it the more exciting.’

  ‘Like dressing as a boy?’

  ‘Cecily was not the first girl to have tried that. You’re just noticed less - it makes it simpler to slip away. Men have it so much easier,’ she adds, with a pointed look, as if this imbalance were my fault.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid your poor friend is beyond any disgrace now. So she did have a sweetheart?’

  ‘She had met someone,’ the girl confides. ‘Quite recently - for the last month she was all smiles and secrecy, and quite distracted. If Lady Seaton chastised her for not having her mind on her duties, she would blush and giggle and send me meaningful looks.’ A resentment has crept into Abigail’s tone.

  ‘But did she tell you who he was?’

  ‘No,’ she says, after a slight hesitation, and in the silence that follows her eyes dart away. ‘But in the Maids’ Chamber at bedtime, she would hint that he was someone very import ant - someone she evidently thought would impress us, anyway. He must have been rich, because he bought her beautiful presents. A gold ring, a locket, and the most exquisite tortoise-shell mirror. She was convinced he meant to marry her, but then she always was fanciful.’

  ‘So he was here at court?’ In my haste I inadvertently clutch at her sleeve, startling her; quickly I withdraw my hand and she takes a step back.

  ‘I assume so. He must have been a frequent visitor, anyway, because lately she would often go missing at odd times, and she would come back all flushed and hugging her secret, though she made sure we all knew. She begged me to tell Lady Seaton she was feeling unwell, but the old woman is no fool, as you saw - she was growing suspicious. Cecily would have been found out sooner or later - or ended up with a full belly.’

  ‘But someone found her first,’ I muse. ‘So she never mentioned his name? You’re certain? Or anything that would identify him?’

  She shakes her head, firmer this time.

  ‘No name, I swear. Nothing except that he was unusually handsome, apparently.’

  ‘Well, that would narrow it down in the English court.’

  She giggles then, finally looking me in the eye; at the same moment, the sound of footsteps echoes along the passageway outside and the laughter dies on her lips.

  ‘Have you told anyone else of this?’ I hiss. She shakes her head. ‘Good. Say nothing about the secret suitor - neither you nor any of the other girls who knew about it. And tell no one that you spoke to me. If you remember anything else, you can always get a message to me in secret at the French embassy. I have lodgings there.’

  Her eyes grow wider in the gloom. ‘Am I in danger?’

  ‘Until they know who killed your friend and why, there is no knowing who might be in danger. It is as well to be on your guard.’

  The treads - two people, by the sound of it - grow closer; just as they stop outside the doors to the gallery I motion to her to keep back in the shadows, out of sight. Then I open the door just as the guards are about to reach for the handle, affecting to jump out of my skin at the sight of them.

  ‘Scusi - I was looking for the office of my lord Burghley? I think I have become lost in all the corridors.’ I offer a little self-deprecating laugh; they glance at one another, but they lead me away without looking further into the room.

  ‘Lord Burghley, my arse. You’ll answer to the captain of the palace guard first, you Spanish dog,’ says one, as he drags me roughly towards the stairs. ‘How did you get in here?’

  ‘Lord Burghley let me in,’ I repeat, with a sigh; in six months in England I have learned to expect this. They regard all foreigners - especially those of us with dark eyes and beards - as Spanish papists come to murder them in their beds. I will find my way to Burghley eventually; what matters is that no one should know the maid Abigail has spoken to me. Cecily’s mystery inamorato may not know that she kept his identity a secret; there is every chance he may want to silence her friends too. Assuming - and I have learned to assume nothing without proof - that he is connected to this bizarre display of murder.

  Chapter Three

  Salisbury Court, London

  26th September, Year of Our Lord 1583

  ‘Cut off both her tits, the way I heard it.’ Archibald Douglas leans back in his chair and picks his teeth with a chicken bone, appare
ntly satisfied that he has delivered the definitive version. Then he remembers another detail and sits forward in a hurry, his finger wagging at no one in particular. ‘Cut off both her tits and stuck a Spanish crucifix up her. Fucking brute.’ He slumps again and drains his glass.

  ‘Monsieur Douglas, s’il vous plait.’ Courcelles, the ambassador’s private secretary, raises his almost invisible eyebrows in a perfect mannerism of shock that, like all his gestures, appears learned and rehearsed. He passes a hand over his carefully coiffed hair and tuts, pursing his lips, as if his objection is principally to the Scotsman’s vulgar turn of phrase. ‘I was told by a friend at court she was strangled with a rosary. On the steps of the Chapel Royal, if you can believe it.’ He presses a hand to his breast bone with a great intake of breath. He should be in a playing company, I think; his every move is a performance.

  Across the table, William Fowler catches my eye for the space of a blink before he glances away again.

  ‘These reports do have a tendency to grow in the telling,’ he says, evenly, looking at the ambassador. He too speaks with the Scottish accent, though to my foreign ears his conversation seems more comprehensible than the broad tones of Douglas. Fowler is a neat, self-contained man in his mid-twenties, clean-shaven with brown hair that hangs almost into his eyes; his voice is restrained, as if he is always imparting a confidence, so that you have to lean in to listen. ‘I have been a frequent visitor to the court on official business these past days, and I’m afraid the truth is less sensational.’ But he doesn’t elaborate. I have noticed that Fowler, my new contact whom I have met for the first time this evening and have not yet spoken to alone, has a talent for implying that he knows far more than he is prepared to say in company. Perhaps this is why the French ambassador is drawn to him.

  Why Castelnau tolerates Douglas, on the other hand, is anyone’s guess. The older Scotsman is some kind of minor noble, about forty years of age, with prematurely greying reddish hair and a face hardened by drink and weather, who has attached himself to the embassy with the promise of supporting the Scottish queen’s claim to the English throne. Improbable as it seems, he is a senator in the Scottish College of Justice and said to be well connected among the Scottish lords, both Catholic and Protestant; he comes personally recommended by Queen Mary of Scotland. For the ambassador, these connections must be worth the price of feeding him. I have my doubts. Given that I too have been obliged to survive these past seven years by seeking the patronage of influential men, perhaps I should be more charitable to Archibald Douglas, but I like to think that I at least offer something to the households of my patrons in return for their hospitality, even if it is only some lively dinner-table conversation and the prestige of my books. Douglas brings nothing, as far as I can see, and I am not persuaded by his professed interest in Mary and her French supporters; he strikes me as one of those who will always agree with whoever happens to be pouring the wine. It irks me that Claude de Courcelles, the ambassador’s too-pretty secretary, tars me with the same brush as Douglas; Courcelles is responsible for making the embassy’s books balance, and he looks with undisguised resentment on those he views as leeches. I am often forced to remind him that I am a personal friend of his sovereign, whereas Douglas - well, Douglas claims to be a friend of many influential people, including the Queen of Scots herself, but I cannot help wondering: if he is so popular among the Scottish and English nobles, why does he not beg his dinner at one of their tables once in a while? Why, for that matter, is he never in Scotland at his own table?