by S. J. Parris
‘Well, Monsieur Throckmorton, you may assure Queen Mary that at this very moment, her son entertains at his court an ambassador of the Duke of Guise,’ Madame de Castelnau interrupts, looking out from under her fringe of lashes, ‘who will offer him the friendship of France if he will acknowledge his proper duty as Mary’s son.’
There are murmurs of surprise at this from around the table. Fury flashes briefly over Castelnau’s face – this is clearly the first he has heard of it and, as far as he is concerned, France’s friendship is not in Guise hands to give – but I watch him master his anger, ever the professional diplomat. He does not want to reprimand his wife in public. She does not look at him, but there is a quiet triumph about the set of her mouth as she lowers her eyes again to the table.
‘In any case,’ the ambassador says brightly, as if he has been having an entirely different conversation, ‘there is every reason to believe we will soon have a treaty that will give Queen Mary her liberty peacefully, restore her to her son and allow France to preserve our friendship with both England and Scotland.’
‘Treaties be damned!’
Henry Howard throws back his chair and pounds a fist on the table, so suddenly that again we all jolt in our seats. The candles have burned down so far that his shadow leaps and quivers up the panels behind him and creeps over the ceiling, looming like an ogre in a children’s tale.
‘In the name of Christ, man, the time for talking is over! Do you not understand this, Michel?’ Howard bellows, leaning forward with both hands on the table to face down the ambassador, while Courcelles makes little ineffectual flapping gestures at him to lower his voice. ‘Are you so comfortable now at the English court that you do not feel which way the wind is blowing in Paris?’
‘The King of France still hopes to forge a political alliance with Queen Elizabeth, and it is my job to make every effort to secure this while I represent his interests,’ Castelnau says, keeping his patience. But Howard will not be placated.
‘The French people want no such alliance with a Protestant heretic, and your King Henri knows it – he feels the might of the Catholic League rising up at his back. No more treaties or marriages or seeking to appease and befriend the pretender Elizabeth – there is only one path left to us now!’ He thumps the table again for good measure so that the plates rattle.
‘As I recall,’ Castelnau says stiffly, maintaining his composure, ‘you were my greatest ally not so long ago when it came to the marriage negotiations between your queen and my king’s brother.’
‘For the sake of appearance. But that was doomed before it began.’ Howard waves an arm in grand dismissal. ‘The Duke of Anjou never really wanted to marry Elizabeth – she’s at least twenty years older than him, for pity’s sake. I mean – would you?’ He looks at the men around him, inviting scorn; Douglas responds with a lascivious cackle. ‘And the minute she sniffed her subjects’ unrest at the idea,’ Howard continues, ‘she sent him packing. She will make no marriage now – and even if she does, it will never be with a Catholic prince. She has seen where that leads.’
‘Nor will she have an heir now, at the age of fifty,’ Marie de Castelnau points out, scorn in her voice. ‘France’s best hope is to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England and from there let her work on her son as a mother and as a Catholic sovereign, to bring him back to his natural obedience. Et voilà!’ She holds her hands out to us with a delighted smile, as if she has performed a conjuring trick, though her hands are empty. ‘The whole island united again under Rome.’
‘Et voilà?’ I look at her, incredulous. ‘Problem solved? You talk as if they were chess pieces – move this one here, take this one off the board, let this one see he is threatened. Fin de partie. Is it so simple, madame, do you think?’
Marie presses her lips together until they turn white, but she returns my stare, defiant. Howard glares.
‘You presume to speak –’ he splutters, but Castelnau holds up a hand. He looks tired.
‘Go on, Bruno,’ he says gently. ‘You have hardly spoken. I would like to hear what you have to say. You knew King Henri’s mind as well as any of his councillors.’
I can feel Fowler’s eyes on me. Without turning in his direction, I know he is willing me to be circumspect, not to compromise my privileged position at this table by appearing hostile. Yet Castelnau expects me to be outspoken; he would be suspicious if I did not take the role of devil’s advocate, I think.
‘I say only that these queens are not dolls to be moved around at will.’ As I say it, I have a sudden image of the Elizabeth doll clutched in the dead hand of Cecily Ashe, the needle sticking from its breast. I shudder; the memory makes me falter. ‘This glorious reunification under Rome could not be achieved without great bloodshed in England. I hear no one mention that.’
‘Such things are taken for granted, you damned fool,’ Howard growls.
‘Do you make bread without crushing the grain?’ Marie says, half-smiling, still pinning me with her stare. She has neat, white teeth; it seems she is not afraid to use them.
‘The Queen of the Scots will not shy away from spilling blood when it suits her, I assure you,’ Douglas declares confidently to the room, rousing himself from his own thoughts to pour another large glass of wine, which he drinks off almost in one go. ‘Now, I could tell you a story about the Queen of the Scots.’ He laughs into his empty glass.
‘Really? Is it the one about the pie?’ Courcelles says, with a stagey roll of the eyes.
‘Aye.’ Douglas’s eyes light up. ‘After her husband died, there was a great feast –’
Courcelles holds up a hand.
‘Perhaps on another occasion. I think Madame de Castelnau might not appreciate it.’
‘Oh. Aye. Sorry.’ Douglas glances at Marie and touches his fringe with a self-mocking grimace.
A brief, uncomfortable silence follows; everyone turns to look at him and I sense that I have missed something. A glance passes between Marie and Henry Howard but I cannot read its meaning. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement among the moving shadows that sculpt out the lines of her face, her eyes bright and determined, her lips softly parted, glistening. She sees me watching her and lowers her eyes modestly, but she glances up again to see if I am still looking.
‘The seminaries in France are still working tirelessly to send missionary priests here undercover, my lords, and the Catholic network for their continued support remains strong,’ Fowler says, and the company turns to regard him. ‘We may pray that their endeavours succeed in bringing souls back to the Holy Roman Church –’
‘Yes, Fowler, I admire your piety, and I’m sure we are all praying for the same thing,’ Howard cuts across him, im patient. ‘But they are gutting every Jesuit missionary they catch on the scaffold at Tyburn like pigs on a butcher’s block, as a warning to potential converts. It is time to accept that this country will not be made Catholic again by politicking nor by preaching. Only by force.’
‘Then – forgive me if I seem slow – but you are talking about an invasion?’ I turn, wide-eyed, from Howard to Castelnau. It is not really a question; the ambassador’s face answers with a look of helpless sorrow.
‘Michel – is this wise, that he sit here with us?’ Howard snaps his fingers towards me, impatient now. ‘We all know this man is wanted by the Holy Office on charges of heresy. Tell me – where do you think his loyalties naturally fall, in this enterprise? Hm? With Rome, or with his fellow excommunicate Elizabeth?’
‘Doctor Bruno is a personal friend of my king,’ Castelnau says quietly, ‘and I will vouch for his loyalty to France myself. His ideas might occasionally seem a little . . .’ he searches for the diplomatic term ‘. . . unorthodox, but he remains a Catholic. He attends Mass regularly with my family here in the embassy chapel, and always observes the terms of his excommunication. Which is something we may resolve in time, eh, Bruno?’
I assume what I hope is an expression of piety and nod gravely.
Howard scowls but sa
ys nothing more, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for the ambassador, and a corresponding pang of regret for my own deception. Whatever unfolds in this case, I determine that Walsingham will know the ambassador argued for peace. Castelnau, like King Henri of France, is a moderate, the sort of Catholic who believes that faith should be able to accommodate a variety of viewpoints. He is a man of integrity, in his way; he would not choose war, but perhaps he will not be given a choice. His wife, on the other hand, looks as if she can’t wait.
‘Listen,’ she says now, clasping her hands and allowing her bright eyes to sweep around the company before adding, ‘my lords, friends,’ with a calculated lowering of her lashes. ‘We have come together around this table from different backgrounds, but we all share one common goal, do we not? We all believe that Mary Stuart is the rightful heir to the English throne, and that she would restore the Catholic faith that unites us, is it not so?’
There is a swell of murmured assent from the company, some more enthusiastic than others; I catch Fowler’s eye again and look quickly away.
‘Besides, Mary Stuart on the English throne would better serve the interests of our respective nations,’ Marie continues briskly, stretching out her elegant fingers and affecting to examine the colourful array of rings she wears. ‘This joins us in our purpose as much as our religion. We must take care to remember what makes us natural allies, even when we may disagree, or we shall lose all hope of success.’ Here she looks up and aims the full beam of her smile at me, before turning it on the rest. I watch the ambassador’s wife with fresh curiosity. Whatever her reputation for piety, there can be no doubting her political acumen; beneath the smiles and the modest blushes lies a steely force of will that contrasts with her husband’s habit of trying to balance all interests harmoniously. I steal a glance at Castelnau; he pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and looks weary. It seems the balance of power in the embassy has subtly shifted since Marie’s return.
‘Shall I fetch fresh candles, my lord?’ Courcelles murmurs; without our realising it, the feeble flames have almost died and we are sitting in near darkness.
‘No.’ Castelnau pushes his chair back and rises heavily. ‘We will retire. My wife is not long returned from Paris and she needs to rest. Tomorrow evening my chaplain will say Mass here before supper. Goodnight, gentlemen. I think, Claude, that Monsieur Douglas may need a guest room.’ He nods down the table to where Douglas appears to have fallen asleep face down on his hands. Courcelles makes a little moue of disgust.
Our host holds the dining-room door open for us, bidding us a good night as we file past him into the corridor. I am forced to halt abruptly as Henry Howard, in front of me, embraces Castelnau in the French style, though with a very English lack of warmth.
‘Speaking of natural allies – you know we must talk to Spain if this is to proceed,’ he hisses in the ambassador’s ear as he leans in. ‘Sooner rather than later.’
Castelnau sighs.
‘So you say.’
‘Throckmorton carries letters from Mary to Spain’s embassy as well. Oh – you didn’t know?’
Castelnau looks wounded at the news, as if he had just learned that his wife was unfaithful. He is still clasping Howard by the arm.
‘She involves Mendoza? But the man is so . . .’
‘Forthright?’
‘I was going to say uncouth. For an ambassador.’
‘Mendoza is a man of action,’ Howard says emphatically, then bows curtly and leaves, the implicit criticism still hanging in the air.
Outside in the passageway, once we are out of earshot, Howard rounds on me, pointing a finger heavy with gold into my face.
‘You may have duped the French king and his ambassador, Bruno, but you should know that I do not like the look of you at all.’
‘I can only apologise, my lord. These are the looks God gave me.’
He narrows his eyes and leans back to give me a long hard appraisal, like a man who suspects he is being sold an unreliable horse.
‘I hear what is said of you in Paris.’
‘And what is that, my lord?’
‘Don’t toy with me, Bruno. That you practise forbidden magic.’
‘Ah, that.’
‘And it is said you converse with devils.’
‘Oh, all the time. They often ask after your lordship. They say they are keeping a place warm for you.’
Howard steps even closer. He is taller than me but I do not step back. His breath is hot in my face.
‘Joke all you like, Bruno. You are nothing but a glorified jester, just as you were at the French court, and a licenced fool may say anything. But when King Henri no longer has the power to protect you, who will be laughing then?’
‘Can a sovereign lose his power just like that, my lord?’
He laughs then, low and knowing.
‘Watch and wait, Bruno. Watch and wait. Meanwhile, I shall have my eye on you.’
There are footsteps on the boards behind us; Howard breaks off, gives me a last blast of his disapproving glare, then hastens away, calling for a servant to bring his cloak. I turn to see William Fowler with Courcelles beside him.
‘Goodnight, Doctor Bruno,’ Fowler says, his smooth face inscrutable in the candlelight. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
Likewise, I assure him, my own expression as neutral as his. He reaches out to shake my hand and there is a paper folded into his palm; I tuck it into my own with a finger and bid him a safe journey as I turn towards the staircase, wishing that I could walk with him now so that we might talk openly and together make some sense of what we had heard that night.
Chapter Four
Salisbury Court, London
27th September, Year of Our Lord 1583
It feels as if I have barely closed my eyes when there comes a soft, insistent knocking at the door of my chamber. Dawn is just creeping around the edge of the shutters; only bad news brings callers this early. I bundle myself into a pair of under-hose and a shirt to unlatch the door for my impatient visitor, steeling myself, but it is only Léon Dumas, the ambassador’s clerk, who hurtles into the room so quickly in his haste not to be seen that he almost knocks me backwards and cracks his head against the sloping ceiling. Here on the second floor of the house, under the eaves, the rooms are designed for people of my height, not his.
Dumas rubs his forehead and sits heavily on my bed. He is an earnest young man of twenty-seven, tall and skinny with thinning hair and slightly bulging eyes that give him a permanent expression of alarm – though I cannot help feeling that this has intensified since I persuaded him to share with me the ambassador’s correspondence. Now he looks up at me with those big eyes and a pained frown, as if the knock on the head was my doing as well. He is fully dressed.
‘Léon. You are up with the lark – is something the matter?’
He shakes his head.
‘I only wanted to warn you – my lord ambassador has already gone down to his private office to make a start on the day’s correspondence. He was up half the night reading the letters from Mary Stuart that Monsieur Throckmorton brought from Sheffield, and now he sets about writing his replies. He wants them delivered to Throckmorton’s house at Paul’s Wharf before nightfall today – apparently Throckmorton rides for Sheffield again tomorrow at first light.’
‘Good. So Throckmorton expects you some time this afternoon?’
‘I believe so. Castelnau will spend the morning writing his letters and ciphering them and I must be there to assist him. Then he will leave me to write out the fair copies while he and the rest of the household are dining, and when he has eaten he will approve and seal them and I will be dispatched.’
‘So . . .’ I run over the timing in my mind. ‘We will need to work quickly. Have you seen the letters from Queen Mary?’
He shakes his head, a nervous, twitching motion.
‘No. But the packet is in his writing desk.’
‘Read them while he is out. If you do
not have time to make a copy, at least get the sense so that you can relay it. But it may be that she has sent him a new cipher – they change it often for fear of interception. That we must copy, if it is there.’
Dumas swallows hard and nods, sitting on his hands.
‘If I don’t have time to make two copies of his reply before he wants it sealed . . .?’
I pace the room for a moment, considering.
‘Then we will have to pay a visit to our friend Thomas Phelippes on the way to Master Throckmorton. Don’t look so alarmed, Léon – Phelippes is so gifted in the art of interception, I suspect he may be a wizard. No one will see anything amiss.’
Dumas looks miserable and jiggles on his hands more vigorously.
‘But if we should be caught, Bruno?’
‘Then we will be thrown out into the street,’ I reply solemnly. ‘We will be forced to join a troupe of travelling players. We can offer ourselves to play the ass for Christ’s entry to Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.’
‘Bruno –’
‘Ah – I know what you are going to say. Very well – you can be the front legs.’
‘Must you turn everything to a joke?’
Despite himself, he smiles, while I remember Howard’s sharp insult from last night. A glorified jester. Was that really how they spoke of me in Paris? Queen Elizabeth keeps an Italian fool at court, who goes by the name of Monarcho; am I to be compared with him? It stung because I recognised the truth of it: with no money, land or title to my name, I must make myself indispensable to men of wealth if I hope to thrive, and I have learned the hard way that most men of wealth would rather be entertained than enlightened. But might I not hope to do both? That, at least, was the intention of the book I was now writing, which would set forth my new ideas about the universe in a style that could be read outside the universities, by ordinary men and women, in their own language.
