by S. J. Parris
Marie’s head swivels from left to right and back, bright-eyed as a child at a carnival, and I smile to myself. This is certainly the place to be if you are a young woman seeking male admirers. There is a noticeable surfeit of young men in the hall. It is said that the queen does not like to have to compete for the attention of her courtiers - still less as she ages - so they are encouraged to leave their wives at home; certainly the few women present are older, nearer the queen’s own age, strapped tightly into bodices above broad farthingale skirts, their faces stiff with paint. Already Marie is drawing glances as we progress slowly through the crowd; though she holds tight to her husband’s arm, I notice that she smiles to herself and does not lower her eyes as she ought when she finds herself the object of some gentleman’s hungry stare.
I crane my neck and scour the crowds for familiar faces, but there is no sign of Abigail. At the far end of the hall, nearest to the musicians, seating has been arranged on a platform in front of the panelled wall, with a gilded throne in the centre; I presume that the queen and her attendants will make a grand entrance before the concert proper begins, with her ladies in her wake. The likelihood that I will have the chance to speak to Abigail alone is small indeed - court etiquette demands that I stay close to Castelnau and wait for his introduction - but perhaps I may be able to get a message to her requesting another meeting. I still suspect that she is holding something back, and my recent discovery about the ring makes it all the more urgent that I persuade Abigail to confide any more secrets. But beyond this, since her unexpected remark about finding a prospective lover, I have been intrigued by the possibility of seeing her again; at times I catch myself wondering if she might have said this for my benefit, though at others I tell myself I am being ridiculous. Nonetheless, I cannot suppress a frisson as I cast my eyes around the glittering crowd for a possible glimpse of red-gold hair.
Just then, the knot of people ahead of us parts and I spot, across the room, a dangerous confederacy: Henry Howard and his nephew Philip, Earl of Arundel, deep in conversation with Don Bernadino de Mendoza and Archibald Douglas, who I almost don’t recognise. He appears to have had a shave and a haircut for the occasion and looks younger and markedly cleaner than the last time I saw him. Castelnau dips his head in greeting; Howard responds with a curt nod, and turns back to say something to Mendoza, who whispers back, still staring at our party. Over Marie’s head, Castelnau glances at me, and there is fear in his eyes.
But he continues to weave his way towards the dais, keen to secure us a vantage point near where the queen will be sitting, the better to catch her eye; as I follow him through the crush, to my delight I spot Sidney standing with his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, the two of them head and shoulders above everyone else. Sidney’s hair sticks up more wildly than usual, as if he has just stepped out of a strong wind; I try to catch his eye as his gaze travels the hall. When he eventually notices me he smiles warmly, but he makes no move in my direction, and I remember with a pang that here in public, especially under Castelnau’s nose and with Courcelles watching me like a cat, I must keep a wary distance from those closest to Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester is imposingly aristocratic in an elaborately embroidered doublet of plum velvet; he keeps his arms folded tightly across his chest as he too scans the crowd, his face with its high cheekbones and thin lips set in an earnest expression, his eyes alert. Presently he leans in to Sidney and says something that makes them both laugh; I turn away, biting down the regret that I can’t join my friend. It strikes me that, of all my acquaintance in England, there is barely anyone I can talk to openly. In this great jostle of over-dressed men, I feel suddenly isolated, and weary of acting a part.
But these thoughts are dispelled as the musicians cease their tune and into the silence that follows there rises one clear note of eight trumpets together. As if at some unspoken command, the crowd falls back to either side to create a path from the main entrance to the raised seats at the far end of the room, and I see that a carpet has been laid up the centre of the hall. Castelnau eases us through so that we stand at the front, nudging Marie forward. A hush descends on the hall, before the trumpets ring out their signal again and the double doors are flung open; the courtiers drop as one to their knees, and, glancing up, I see the white skirts of a girl scattering rose petals over the carpet to either side as she processes slowly up the aisle formed by the kneeling guests.
Raising my head as far as I dare, I look up past this girl and set eyes, for the first time, on the Queen of England. Since even before I arrived in her realm, I have carried the image of Elizabeth Tudor in my mind as a symbol of possibility: the Protestant monarch who has dared to defy three successive popes over the twenty-five years of her reign. It is foolishly presumptuous, I know, but I always believed that, if I could only find a way to make her listen or read my words, she would feel some instinctive affinity with me. Like me, she has been excommunicated for heresy and declared an enemy of the Church for her ideas; the Holy Office seeks her death as it does mine; despite the best efforts of her more rational advisers such as Walsingham and Burghley, she encourages men like John Dee, and takes a keen interest in his esoteric pursuits. If any sovereign is suited to be the patron of a heretic philosopher with unorthodox and provocative views, it is surely this open-minded, unashamedly intellectual woman who, behind the generous smiles she bestows now on her fawning courtiers, must have a will of steel to have ruled so long alone in a world of men.
Elizabeth Tudor walks at a stately pace, upright in her bearing and surprisingly graceful in her movements, given her years and the obvious weight of her ornate gown, with its skirts of thick scarlet-and-gold brocade, the scarlet bodice all embroidered with tiny garnets and pearls. At her neck she wears a small ruff of starched lace, with a stiff collar, a delicate structure of wire and finer lace, standing up behind her head; three long ropes of pearls are fixed at either side of her collar and hang in tiers across her front. Her dark red hair is an extraordinary confection, piled high and pinned in loops on top of her head, so that she must hold her neck almost without moving to maintain her balance. I suspect it is a wig. Her entire posture is an exercise in regal control. Behind the white veneer of ceruse that coats her face, her expression is inscrutable, her eyes, lips and brows painted in like a mask. She is not beautiful, but in her face is a refinement that goes beyond beauty, a look of purpose and self-possession that makes beauty seem trivial. In her hands she carries a fan of tall red feathers with a mother-of-pearl handle and she moves, as do her ladies, in a fine cloud of perfumed powder. For one ridiculous moment I find myself hoping she will glance to her left and see me, but she continues without haste towards the seats, smiling at the kneeling crowd, but always maintaining that inward-looking poise. As they pass in her wake, I notice the maids of honour, all dressed in long gowns of white silk, following her steps impeccably while their eyes stray feverishly around the room, alighting here and there on young men before flitting coyly away. Behind the maids march the older attendants, the seven Ladies of the Bedchamber, among them Lady Seaton, who happens to glance down as I look up; our eyes meet and she frowns with what I take for curiosity, before returning her gaze to the front, arranging her face back into its habitual, slightly sour expression.
It is only when the queen has mounted the dais and taken her throne with her maids gathered around her that I notice Abigail Morley is not among the women and immediately my chest clenches.
Walsingham, Burghley and a number of other grave-looking, silver-bearded men in black - the statesmen of the Privy Council, I presume - take up their positions at the sides of the dais, hands clasped behind their backs as if they were on duty. If Walsingham notices me, he gives no indication. Elizabeth gestures for her subjects to rise, which they do with varying degrees of stiffness, and when the rustling has died away, she stretches out a hand.
‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ she begins, in a clear voice, pitched low for a woman but carefully measured, familiar with public speeches.
‘I have invited you here to enjoy some new compositions by Master Byrd, sung by the choristers of our Chapel Royal. The beauty of music, both sacred and secular, transcends all bounds of race and religion, and is for all.’ With this, she gives a nod, and the main doors of the hall open once more.
‘She says this to appease the Puritans,’ Courcelles whispers at my back. ‘There are plenty in her council who think polyphonic music among the worst sins of Rome.’
I nod, but my attention is on the man now walking up the central aisle towards the dais; short, with brown hair swept back from his forehead and a neatly trimmed beard, only his darting eyes betray a restless energy as he leads the choir - thirty men and twelve boys - towards the alcove in front of the grand window where the musicians had played. This William Byrd is watched around the clock by Walsingham’s agents; he makes no secret of his Catholic faith, and his pos ition as Gentleman of the Chapel Royal only protects him so far. But the fact that Elizabeth not only disregards his religious disobedience but continues to exalt him so publicly is read by some as a sign of ambiguity in her own faith, or merely as an indication that she knows her own mind and will not be bullied by extremists of any faction.
An expectant silence falls over the court as Byrd waits for his choristers to settle themselves in lines. When he is satisfied, he raises both hands and pauses at full stretch, his arms taut as a bowstring; the audience holds its breath and for the space of a heartbeat we all seem suspended in time, caught between one moment and the next. Then Byrd lowers his hands in a sweeping gesture and a note breaks forth from the smallest boy, pure and clear as birdsong, its sweetness echoing to the beams of the roof. Barely has he begun his note when the other voices join him, layering their harmonies piece by piece over one another, the bass notes holding firm and melancholy beneath the soaring, liquid music of the boys’ voices. The song is a prayer for the queen, though the words slide through the melodies like water pouring over a fountain of glass. The effect is so beautiful, so otherworldly, that the hairs on my neck prickle and stand up. I glance sideways at Marie and her expression takes me by surprise; her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, her lips softly parted, as if she is allowing the music to ravish her. Seeing her so seemingly transported, I revise my opinion of her; I had thought her too superficial to be moved by beauty, unless it was her own reflection in a glass. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly. Then I have to look away; there is something so provocative about the curve of her exposed throat, the moistness of her open mouth, her pale eyelids, that I experience a sudden surge of desire that rebels against my will and my better judgement. I cannot allow myself to indulge those thoughts about my host’s wife.
Searching for distraction, I allow my gaze to wander again around the hall, observing the faces, the variety of responses, from immersion to undisguised boredom; suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I am aware of a commotion near the dais. Standing on tiptoe, I am near enough to see that one of the Yeomen of the Palace Guard, evidently in a state of some urgency, has approached Lord Burghley and is whispering frantically in his ear. Edging back, I insinuate myself between Courcelles and Castelnau so that I have a clearer view of Burghley through the heads of the audience. His face is drained of colour; I see him cast around and gesture for Walsingham, a small, tight movement of the hand. Walsingham excuses himself, squeezing past his companions on either side to join Burghley, who draws him close in whispered conference. Eventually Walsingham looks up, his eyes rake the crowd for a moment, and as soon as I catch the frozen expression on his face, I feel a sudden lurch in the stomach, a certainty of horror.
By now several people are turning to look at the source of the disturbance while the singers’ fluting voices still rise to the rafters. Elizabeth herself has noticed and leans forward, hands resting on the arms of her throne, to see who dares interrupt the concert, with a look of irritation that quickly turns to concern as she sees her two senior statesmen huddled with the soldier. Walsingham holds up a hand to her, a gesture that says, Don’t worry, we have this under control. But his face is tight with anxiety and now he raises himself on tiptoe, searching the crowd again, as if he hoped to find someone in particular. Then he leans in to the soldier, whispers some hasty instructions, and the three of them - Burghley, Walsingham and the guard - leave the hall by a side door.
I try to concentrate on the music but the blood is hammering at my temples: the palace guard, his look of fearful urgency; Burghley and Walsingham and their strained expressions. Something terrible has happened, I am certain of it, and try as I might to rein in my worst imaginings, my mind returns again and again to the absence of Abigail among the queen’s maids and the suspicion that someone had been watching our exchange at the Holbein Gate. But I can hardly leave the concert and follow Walsingham; publicly I am no one here, only an insignificant guest of the French ambassador. It is not my place to ask questions. The choir continues its ethereal song; there is a movement, another disturbance, at the other end of the hall, opposite the dais, but when I crane my neck to look, I see that it is only servants bringing in candles, which they fit into wall sconces between the tapestries as the last of the daylight is dying. Then I notice that, behind the servants, armed men have unobtrusively slipped into place either side of the main doors, and still the singing continues. My palms are sweating; I wipe them on my breeches and fix my attention on the choir, but my mouth is dry. Another motet begins and fades to its bittersweet, plaintive close.
‘Giordano Bruno?’
His breath is hot on my cheek, his voice barely audible. In the corner of my vision, a bearded face appears so close to mine that I can’t focus.
‘Don’t turn or speak, sir. In a few minutes, find a moment to slip through the door behind you, as discreetly as you can. Master Secretary’s orders.’
He moves away as invisibly as he arrived, without my even having seen his face fully. I wait until I am sure that Castelnau, Marie and Courcelles have their eyes fixed on the choir and take a short step backwards, then another, until I am hidden by other guests. A side door is built into the panelling; as I approach, the guard there holds it open a fraction and I back through the narrow gap. On the other side, a tall young man, bearded and wearing a black suit, waits for me. He has the appearance of a clerk.
‘This way.’ He gestures to the corridor ahead.
‘Can you tell me what this is about?’
He shakes his head, his mouth set in a grim line, and motions for me to continue down the passageway that leads away from the Great Hall towards a warren of state apartments. When we need to turn a corner, he places a palm lightly on the small of my back to show me the way. At the end of another corridor he stops outside a door and knocks, before ushering me into a small, sparsely furnished office with tall windows. The Earl of Leicester leans against the wall by the window, looking out at the darkening sky as if deep in thought while shadows carve deep hollows around his eyes and the sharp bones of his face; Walsingham paces, one hand clasped across his mouth and chin; Burghley stands by the writing desk, watching the door, his skullcap awry and his white hair sticking up in tufts where he has run his hands through it. Beside him, to my immense surprise, stands the skinny boy who brought me the message from Abigail three days ago. He wipes his hands repeatedly on a streaked apron that suggests he works in the kitchens, and by the look of his face he has been crying. As the guard shuts the door softly behind me, the boy points at me and cries, accusing -
‘That’s him, sir! That’s the man!’
Chapter Eight
Palace of Whitehall, London
30th September, Year of Our Lord 1583, cont.
Lord Burghley’s face constricts in an expression of distress. I suspect it is mirrored on my own face, though I don’t yet know why. No one moves.
‘You’re quite sure? This is the man who gave you the message for Lady Abigail?’
Walsingham speaks sharply and the boy looks confused; his eyes flick wildly from me to Walsingham to Burghley and back, as i
f between us we are trying to trick him.
‘No! Not the message - that is to say - the message came from him, but it wa’n’t him who gave it to me.’
‘You are not making any sense, boy.’
‘He told me the message came from Master Bruno - the man who stopped me in the yard,’ the boy says, a note of panic rising in his voice. ‘I couldn’t rightly see him in the dark, but he had an English voice. This is Master Bruno,’ he adds, pointing again. ‘It wa’n’t his voice. He’s not English.’
‘We know that.’ For a moment Walsingham betrays his impatience, then he masters himself and his tone softens. ‘We need to understand what happened tonight. Jem, is it?’
The boy nods unhappily.
‘Good. Then, Jem - tell us again. A man you don’t know stopped you earlier in the yard by the kitchens and asked you to give a message to Abigail Morley from Master Bruno. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you didn’t see this man clearly?’
‘No, sir. The candles hadn’t been lit yet and it was shadowy. And he had a big hat, pulled down over his face, and his collar all up like this, sir.’ He tugs at the neck of his dirty tunic to demonstrate. There is a pause. ‘He might’ve had a beard,’ the boy offers, hopefully.
Walsingham rolls his eyes.
‘He might have had a beard. Well, at least we can rule out the women and children.’
‘Not all the women,’ Leicester says, under his breath, from the window. I catch his eye and he smiles, briefly; despite the tension in the room, I return it. It is almost a relief. Burghley sends him a reproachful stare.
‘And what was the message, exactly?’ Walsingham continues.
‘To tell her - to say that Master Bruno wanted to meet her in secret at the kitchen dock before the concert. He said it was urgent. Then he gived me a shilling.’ The boy glances around again nervously, as if afraid he might be asked to give up the coin.