‘Can we trust you?’ asked Robin, moving to Jack’s side and taking his hand. Instinctively, Jack pulled it away. Physical contact with men he might have to betray was too much. It did not seem to bother Robin, whose open, ingenuous face, sprayed with freckles, remained smiling. In the torchlight his hair glinted like beaten copper.
‘Why did you bring me here?’ he repeated.
‘If you are as you said,’ Thomas said, looking down his nose, ‘you must know the names of those who stand with Rome.’ Jack paled. He had not thought far enough ahead, so intent had he been on finding hidden priests. An idea occurred.
‘How do I know this is no trap? That you’re not men of Queen Elizabeth?’
‘There is no Queen Elizabeth,’ spat Adam. Jack turned, surprised. He had expected the vitriol to spill from the older man. ‘A filthy, degenerate southern whore who must be destroyed.’
‘Peace, Adam,’ said Thomas. ‘You set your two young friends a poor example with talk so bloody. What is your name? Jack what?’
‘Wylmott,’ said Jack, on the backfoot, using Amy’s maiden name. ‘I can share with you the names of the true faithful. When we trust each other more.’
‘Tsst,’ hissed Thomas. ‘The boy has nothing. Knows nothing. A troublemaker in a tavern is all. A fast talker.’
‘No, wait – I … I have heard things. In taverns.’ He thrust his mind into action, knowing he would have to offer them something to keep them in his orbit. ‘I heard tell there’s plans in the north. Heretic plans. Men calling themselves the diamond league.’
The atmosphere shifted, Jack’s voice echoing around the vaulted chamber before fading entirely. ‘Who are you?’ said Adam.
‘A man of chance,’ answered Thomas, again folding his arms, this time in triumph. ‘Diamond league – I’ve never heard of any such thing. It is the names of the faithful we need, not heretical conspiracies.’
‘I say only what I’ve heard.’ Jack held up the palms of his hands.
‘From whom, Jack?’ asked Adam.
‘Men who attack the faith?’ Robin put in.
‘I can’t say. Only saying what I’ve heard.’ Eager for something else to say, he almost asked them what their plans were. He bit his tongue; nothing could be calculated to arouse their suspicion more. Instead he said, ‘I can only offer you my word. I swear to you, fathers, I’m a true Catholic. I will pledge myself to help you, if you need means of escape or places to go. I’ll find them for you.’ As the words poured out, he found himself believing them.
‘I trust you, my son,’ smiled Robin, pulling a crucifix out from under his doublet and kissing it. ‘God has led you to us and us to you.’ Thomas tutted, but nodded. Adam only stared at him. ‘Will you hear Mass with us?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
‘Shall we meet again, then?’ asked Jack, after their devotions.
‘If we are not torn from our beds in the night and slaughtered by officers of the stolen crown,’ said Thomas, ‘then … then yes. We shall meet again. Leave us now, Mr Wylmott, if you please. We must discuss what our plans are. We cannot stay in any single place long.’
‘And yet we have nowhere yet to go. Not in safety,’ said Robin. ‘Two good men who came before us … they died. Killed, as we understand, but the manner of it …’
‘Is a thing not to be spoken of,’ snapped Thomas. ‘I knew them as you did at Douai. Fine Jesuits. Not what is said of them. Good evening to you, Mr Wylmott. I pray we can trust you, though I confess it is against my judgement.’
Bowing to them, Jack left the cellar and took the empty streets back to his lodging house. Dark thoughts threatened him as he walked, and he pushed them away, focusing on putting one foot before the other. The worst thing about being alone, about not having Amy, was having his own thoughts as company.
Soon he came to his lodging. It was the one he had lain in the longest, and the reason why soon made itself apparent. ‘Good e’en to you, duck.’ Doll, the heavy, middle-aged widow who kept the house greeted him with pat on the arm. When he had first enquired about a bed he had made the mistake of showing her warm gratitude – a rarity, apparently, from travellers – and he had since become her pet.
‘Good e’en, Doll,’ he said, the mimicry unconscious.
‘Anythin’ to eat?’
‘No, thank you very much, ma’am.’ She patted him again.
‘Oh, “ma’am”, you’ve mickle good manners. It’s a good-fortuned wench as takes you to husband.’ Jack essayed what he hoped was an impish smile. There was something motherly about her – she could kindle something childish and needy in him that usually only Amy managed when she was in one of what folk had always called her ‘mammish’ moods. He passed out of the taproom part of the building and went into the back room, where he had a small blanket in the corner.
When he was tucked up, unable to focus on the walk, he could not resist the siren call of his conscience. The three men whose trust he had just, he hoped, earned, might soon be dead. When he pulled the cover over him that night, he again considered the enormity of what he was doing. He knew names – first names only, but names – and faces. He had no idea how to contact Polmear or any of Walsingham’s men, and had been told to gather as much information about priests’ movements as possible, encouraging them, even. But could he do that? Could he send three men to the gallows, whose only crime was their faith? They were so foolish and inexperienced, as young as himself, that they were willing to trust the first coney-catcher in a tavern who had made the right curses and oaths. They were honest men, stupidly honest. He must betray them in the hopes of keeping Amy safe, or find some way of saving both them and her. How that might be achieved he did not know, but he did know that if he secured their executions, his soul would suffer for it.
He knew how Walsingham and Polmear would excuse it, of course. It was for the greater good. It was for England. These men were traitors, sowing sedition, inciting hatred and violence, putting the queen’s life in danger. Jack did not care. If the country was so divided that a cluster of men in a cellar could endanger it, then it was not worth saving. The taproom, already chilly, felt suddenly colder.
2
The ambassador’s house on the Faubourg Saint-Germain was laid out along stately lines, and stood proudly, as though it knew it was to serve as the dwelling place of foreign princes’ proxies. To Amy’s fury, it was locked up. She remained on her horse, decked out in a cream-coloured dress and fur-trimmed travelling cloak. As she had witnessed on the road from Bruges, anyone might take her for a lady. Rather than a dreary cap, she even had a small chiffon headdress, her hair daringly curled and visible. It was remarkable that looking the part somehow made one feel the part, she thought. Unlike Jack, she knew she was not capable of mimicry. Yet she had learnt, instead, that the real trick to fooling people into believing you belonged was to appear completely at ease with yourself in their company. She looked up again at the shuttered house as she waited. Eventually, Kat came trudging back towards her own tethered mule. ‘Lad up there says there’s nae ambassador now.’
‘None? No man?’
‘No.’
Amy glanced around the street, where servants were carrying baskets and buckets to and from the doors of the other mansions. ‘And you used the French I gave you? Said the words right proper?’
‘Aye, madam.’
‘Well. Shit.’ The first thing she had done on arriving in Paris was not, as the countess had instructed, to inflict herself on the royal family, but instead to seek out Sir Henry Norris. Apparently, though, Lady Northumberland had been right in that he had been relieved of his post. If a new ambassador, Walsingham or anyone, had come to take his place, he had not arrived yet. There was no one from whom she could seek news of Jack’s whereabouts. Silently, she cursed to herself again. If Jack was dead somewhere, she would dig his bones out of the grave and kill him again for the nonsense into which he had gotten them thrust.
‘What do we do?’
‘What do we do,
my lady?’ grinned Amy. She had enjoyed wheedling the girl throughout their journey. Much of the pleasure had gone out of it, though, when it had become apparent that Kat did not greatly care who she served, lady or false lady. She sighed. ‘We try the palace.’ She patted her bosom for the hundredth time, although she had felt the crinkle of the countess’s letters with every beat of the horse’s hooves.
They stopped to buy food from a street stall, picking up the latest gossip – the queen-mother is ruling over the pretty new queen, the Austrian Elisabeth; the queen-mother has been meeting with a man of the Holy Father; the queen-mother is ruling France whilst the king has gone hunting, or to ride his mistress; and what a terrible shame it was that the wedding had had to take place in some distant provincial dump – the queen-mother would not have liked that at all. Their bellies full, they then wound their way through the streets to the Pont Saint-Michel and across it to the Pont aux Meuniers. The Louvre and the new semi-built palace of the dowager Queen Catherine lay to their left.
‘Do you not mind being so far from home?’ asked Amy, when there was room for them to ride side by side.
‘No’ really, madam. No. If I can pick up French, I can get work anywhere. For anyone. I have my letters too.’
‘You’ve picked up English fair enough.’ The girl smiled. ‘And who do you seek to work for? Not some servant done up as an English dame?’ Kat seemed to consider this before speaking, giving them time to skirt some people on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. As they approached the range of palaces, the smell of people mingled with the fishy stench of the river and the churned muck from hundreds of tramping feet and hooves. Paris was bustling, despite the cold.
‘I’d like to work for a queen.’
‘You aim high.’
‘No queen in Scotland. Not anymore. And the king still in skirts. He won’t be marrying awhile yet.’
‘You’d like to be a servant forever?’
‘It’s a good life,’ Kat said, shrugging her shoulders and setting her mule stumbling forward. ‘Don’t starve. Don’t have to marry.’ The word sent Amy into contemplative silence. It could not last.
‘Nothing wrong with being married. But it’s good you wish to get on. I did too. You’ll find your queen. My mam always said the Scots get everywhere.’ She did not add her mother’s final assessment on that: they got everywhere like rats and fleas and were harder to shift.
‘That too – I like to be out in the world, seeing it. Travelling.’
‘Ha,’ said Amy. ‘You sound just like … my husband. You sound like Jack. He loves to travel.’ Sadness threatened. She had never understood his desire to be out seeing the world. Life was the same everywhere – tiring and unfair. Personally, she would be more than happy to sit in a home she could call her own and just listen to the tales of some other poor soul who had worn out his boots and who could tell her of the world’s sights. She cast the thought aside. ‘Here we are. This is the palace, anyway.’
Amy craned her neck towards the gatehouse, which loomed up, its roof light blue against the grey sky. Her heart sank. She had spent weeks and weeks training to walk, to speak softly in the French with which she had struggled since the start of the year; she had even tried dancing, playing a lute, terribly, and shooting a bow. At best she could say she was competent in speaking. In that she had been strict on herself. If she found herself stumbling, even thinking in English when she should not be, she pinched her upper arm. Even now it ached. Yet the desire to turn around and ride away came gusting down from the palace bell-towers as they rang out the afternoon hour. Another of her mother’s sayings came back to her: if in doubt, do nowt. It did not help very much.
‘Let’s go, my lady,’ said Kat, nudging forwards, the mule dragging the tiny little cart on which their belongings were stowed. Her boldness shook away the fear, exciting her urge to go first.
‘You follow my lead, Kat. And mind what I told you. Treat me like as though–’
‘Like you were the countess, aye. I ken.’
‘And keep your mouth shut,’ said Amy pressing ahead, her chin tilted. She had grown to like the girl, but she did not want a smart little Scotch mouth getting her into trouble.
A steady stream of men and women, some on horseback but most walking, were making their way into the palace precinct. Others were leaving. Amy opted to follow the crowd, having no clear idea of where to go. The majority of the people, she noticed, were in aprons and the garb of masons, gardeners, and craftsmen. It felt rather like a great building project was underway, but she supposed that it was just another ordinary day at the French court. As they made their slow progress, a man on a black horse came towards them in the opposite direction. Walkers and riders cleared a path for him and a few of them cheered. He waved in return. The horse was caparisoned in hangings, the words, ‘Dederit'ne viam casus've Deus've’ emblazoned in gold thread.
‘Shall chance or God provide the path?’ said Kat. Amy turned in wonderment but had no time to question her unexpected knowledge. The rider turned an exceptionally handsome, swarthy face in her direction, looked past her, and then returned his gaze. ‘My lady,’ he said in French, moving forward and taking off his hat.
‘My lord,’ she said, hoping her accent gave the language some semblance of culture. ‘You might help us – we seek an audience with the queen – uh, the old queen. I am kinswoman to her Majesty’s friend, the countess of Northumberland. I come bearing her greetings.’
‘An English lady. How very charming. And such a beautiful one.’ Amy did not blush. She knew what noblemen were like and had heard rumours enough in England about the French ones. ‘I do not know this … ah, but yes. The lady lately come out of England. You are her kinswoman, you say? And she brings greetings to the king’s mother, then, and the new queen? The court is not yet arrived from Mézières. The king is hunting. Marriage has given him vigour.’
‘Yes,’ said Amy. It would be better, she guessed, to say as little as possible. The more she elaborated, and the more unwieldy she made her lies, the harder they might fall. ‘Their Majesties are not here?’
‘The king’s mother is here. At her own house, beyond the gardens.’ He gestured behind himself, where, above sculpted hedges and trees rose a huge, lone building with scaffolding on one side. ‘To see that all is in readiness for the entry of the king and his new queen.’ He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together and winked, before waving a hand encased in a shimmering black glove at the sky. ‘This rain across France, the sky weeps with joy. Yet it is too much for a young queen and her court to travel in. The roads.’ He shook his head. Amy frowned. The weather had been poor and the rain strong, but if the old queen, this man, and she herself could have travelled, she did not see why the king and new queen could not, unless they were carrying half the treasury and goods of France with them. She rolled her eyes without thinking; probably they were. ‘It is a miracle you made it here, my dear lady. I am the duke of Guise,’ the man said, his black eyes boring into hers. ‘A dog lately made friends again with the king’s mother. At present her Majesty is making ready to take the air.’
‘Your Grace,’ said Amy. The forest of correct forms of address came suddenly to mind. The French were very particular about those. She had heard of Guise. Amongst the Protestants he was a holy terror – a monster who devoured heretical babies and washed them down with their mothers’ blood. To the Catholics he was a hero, valiantly defending the honour of the true faith and protecting it from Satan-worshipping Antichrists. Looking at him, Amy saw a pompous, arrogant creature – the kind who was acutely aware of how attractive and important he was.
‘You were not to know, my dear lady.’ He snapped his fingers and there appeared three men at the side of his horse, each dropping to bended knee. ‘See that his lady is taken to meet with her Majesty. See to her horses. See that her girl is given warmth and good cheer. Now, dogs. Madam, I must away. I have business to which I must attend. These men will see that you are well cared for. You will, I think, wish to refre
sh yourself before you attend her most Christian Majesty?’
‘I should like to see the king’s mother as soon as I may,’ said Amy. ‘If it please your Grace.’ God, but she despised the fiddly titles such people used – they were nothing but a tongue-twisting bother. The good thing about being a lowly servant was that wealthy men in England seldom spoke to you and were instead quite content to let you take out their filthy laundry in silence.
‘Oh, you English. So famous for your direct natures. But of course. I bid you good morrow.’
Before Amy knew what was happening, she was being helped down with much bowing, hand-kissing, cap-doffing, being led along a gravel path which bordered the gardens and passed from officer to officer. She had been at the English court once, at Windsor Castle, but the French was something altogether different. The Tuileries itself looked statelier and less old-fashioned, and its staff somehow more powdered, polished, and efficient. She expected that she was being led to some inner sanctum of the palace and was surprised, after taking a detour off the main path, to find herself winding her way into a frosty sculpted garden. The latest officer to escort her spoke to someone else, and eventually she was bowed to and the man’s white-gloved hand invited her to step forward. She did, into one of several concentric squares of grass and bush. The sound of women’s conversation tinkled from somewhere ahead, and a deeper voice said, ‘come forth.’
Amy dropped low. ‘Rise,’ rumbled towards her. She did, and found herself staring into the flat, expressionless face of a middle-aged woman bundled in furs. ‘From England?’ She spoke French, but the accent was something else – Italian, she supposed. She realised that the woman was the king’s mother, Catherine de Medici. The ladies’ chatter was coming from somewhere else in the garden, where the dowager’s attendants must have been strolling.
‘Yes, your Majesty. I come from the countess of Northumberland, who lately left England.’
‘I know. The countess sent me a letter speaking of your coming. I had it at Mézières. Walk with me. These are my privy gardens. A poorer sight in wet weather.’ Catherine began to walk as she spoke. In addition to the accent, her voice had a flat, emotionless quality. It fit her statue-like face which, though not ugly, was rather bland.
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