Prophecy

by S. J. Parris

  I speak gently, but she understands my implication: I think she is keeping something back, some clue to the identity of Cecily’s lover, either out of fear or misguided loyalty. She smiles hesitantly and I realise I am still holding her by the shoulders; our eyes meet again, for slightly too long. For a moment I entertain the absurd thought that, once this business is resolved, I might ask to see her again. There is something about her expectant eyes that makes me wonder if she has thought the same. I could hardly be considered the grand match her father has in mind, but has she not already made clear that she would have different criteria for a lover? I push to one side the uncomfortable suggestion that her father is probably not much older than I am. Embarrassed by my unspoken thoughts, I release her and she draws her hood up closer.

  ‘The perfume is disgusting, by the way,’ she says, as she turns to leave, nodding to where I have stuffed the velvet bag inside my jerkin. ‘Only a man could possibly think a woman would want to wear that.’ She laughs then, and with a little wave, steps out of the archway into the bright light of the morning.

  I watch her as she disappears into the throng, then turn and make my way back in the opposite direction. It is only when I emerge into the light at the other end that I sense someone behind me; quick as blinking, I spin around, but there are dozens of people in my wake, none of them paying the slightest attention to me other than to tut at the fact that I have stopped dead in the path, interrupting the flow of human traffic again. I turn urgently left and right, craning my neck above the crowd, knocking into people as I go, but all I can see is a steady stream of faces coming towards me from the gatehouse passageway. None of them makes eye contact. It is possible that I imagined the sensation. Yet I know, instinctively, that there was someone at my back, just now, watching me, and he must have seen me talking to Abigail Morley.

  I hail a boat back to Salisbury Court, thinking that it would be harder for anyone to follow me inconspicuously by river, but although I spend the journey peering out at the other wherries and their passengers until even the boatman grows nervous and asks what is the matter, I see nothing to give me any cause for concern. By the time I arrive back at the embassy, I have almost persuaded myself that I was mistaken.

  Halfway across the first-floor gallery, with my fingers burning to examine the contents of the velvet bag, which I have not dared to open in any public place in case I was being followed, I hear a woman call my name. So fixed am I on reaching the privacy of my room in order to examine its contents that I nearly curse aloud at being detained. Marie stands in the doorway behind me, regarding me with her head on one side, her daughter’s little dog clasped in her arms. Reluctantly, I turn and bow.

  ‘Madame.’

  ‘Who was your mysterious letter from yesterday, Bruno? We are all dying to know.’ She advances on me, smiling coquettishly, and stops a little too close. She wears a dress of blue silk, and on her bodice is pinned a large jewelled brooch, studded with rubies and diamonds that glint and sparkle in the sun. The dog stretches out its small head and licks my hand in an enquiring manner. ‘I have speculated that you have some besotted English girl sending you verses, but Claude is quite convinced that it is something more intriguing. Who would be sending Bruno letters, he wonders, that could not divulge his name? Or her name.’ She widens her eyes in an affectation of intrigue.

  I smile politely, but this is worrying: it will not do me any good to have the household speculating on my communications, especially in the midst of such conspiracies as I heard the other night. I begin to think it was a mistake to suggest that Abigail contact me here. Thinking as quickly as I can, I compose my expression into one of regret.

  ‘I only wish you were right, madame, but I’m afraid there is no besotted English girl. The letter came from a young man at court who has read one of my books and wishes to become my private student.’

  ‘One of your books?’ She looks disappointed.

  ‘As unlikely as that may seem.’

  ‘Student of what?’

  ‘Of the art of memory. Just as I taught to King Henri in Paris.’

  ‘Oh.’ She considers this. ‘Then why the secrecy?’

  ‘Because ignorant people mutter that the techniques of memory owe something to occult sciences. I expect he is being cautious. Though I assure you there is no truth in that,’ I add, hastily.

  She continues to study me with her head tilted, as if I make more sense viewed at an angle.

  ‘Well, then, Bruno,’ she says, at length, ‘I insist that I become your private student too. I would like to learn your system. You can sort out the payment with my husband – although he may feel that the board and lodging you already receive are wages enough.’

  ‘Madame, I am not sure that would be –’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Bruno. It would be perfect – it is not as if you are employed elsewhere, and I must fill my time somehow while Katherine is with her governess. Besides, my memory is quite shamefully poor. I came after you to tell you something, and now I have quite forgotten what it was. You see? I need you.’ She smiles up at me with a twitch of her eyebrow, all innocent and knowing. Looking for a distraction, I reach out to stroke the dog and she does the same, with the result that her hand lightly caresses the top of mine; I pull my own hand back as if burned, and she blushes and drops her gaze. Christ, I think: the idea of trying to teach her anything, alone in a room, is more daunting than any task Walsingham could ask of me. I am reassured by the thought that Castelnau would never sanction it.

  ‘Anyway, where are you heading in such a hurry?’

  ‘Oh – just to my room. I had one or two ideas while I was out walking and I must write them down before they evaporate.’

  Her laugh is musical. ‘You are not a very good advertisement for your own memory techniques, Bruno.’

  ‘You have been warned.’

  ‘Oh, I am not deterred. I only feel sorry for your young student – I hope he is not wasting his money. What was his name?’

  I hesitate only for the space of a breath, but she is sharp enough to notice.

  ‘Ned. Ned Kelley. Well, madame, I must –’ I gesture towards the door at the other end of the gallery. It is a handsome room, running the length of the house at the front, with tall windows along the walls on both sides. Sunlight plays along the darkened panelling, dust dancing in perpetual motion in glittering shafts. The same light falls sidelong on Marie’s face and I have an urge to reach out and touch her cheek, not from desire but merely to see how soft it feels, lit up and golden. I take a step back as if to leave and she reaches out and grasps my sleeve.

  ‘There – now I have remembered what it was! The ambassador wishes to speak to you in his private office – he has been asking for you all morning but no one knew your whereabouts.’ She says this as a kind of accusation.

  ‘Then I will go to him shortly,’ I say, feeling the shape of the bag still pressing against my chest under my jerkin. ‘First I must change my shirt.’

  She looks at my collar doubtfully.

  ‘While you are there, tell him I wish to take lessons in your arcane magical arts.’

  ‘Madame, there is no magic involved, whatever they say in Paris –’ I begin, earnestly, but then I catch sight of her impish smile.

  ‘Oh dear, Bruno – you are too easy to tease. I think I will enjoy our lessons.’

  I reply with a curt bow, leaving her standing in a ray of light with her jewels glittering, still laughing to herself.

  The velvet bag, when it is opened, reveals the items Abigail mentioned to me before: a gold signet ring with an engraved emblem; a tortoiseshell hand mirror, beautifully smooth; a small glass vial of perfume in the shape of a diamond, of the kind that women wear around their necks, with a gold clasp and a chain attached at the top. Love-tokens, clearly expensive, but what can these trinkets tell me of the story of Cecily Ashe and her lover? One by one, I hold them up to the light and examine them. The ring’s design is of a bird with outstretched wings and a cu
rved beak, an eagle perhaps, and around the edge letters are carved in mirror image, so that they would read true when pressed into warm sealing wax. I frown for a moment, trying to decipher the motto, until I realise it is written in French: Sa Virtu M’Atire. ‘Her virtue draws me’ – or perhaps ‘its virtue’. But the word ‘attire’ is mis-spelled – a curious mistake. You would think if you were having a gold ring engraved, you would make sure the goldsmith carved it correctly; nor would any craftsman worth his fee want the expense of making such an error. So, I think, rotating the ring again while my eye follows the letters around, what appears at first glance to be a mistake must be by design, and therefore perhaps the motto has a hidden or coded meaning. If this is the case, it is not giving itself up to me easily; I am no nearer than Abigail to knowing whose emblem this is, though it seems the giver of the ring had a French connection. That hardly helps, of course – half the nobility have some French ancestry and everyone of the gentry class and above learns at least a few words.

  The little mirror is the least interesting object. I turn it over in my hands but it yields nothing; the tortoiseshell is so highly polished that you can see your face almost as well in its swirling patterns of tawny brown as you can in the silvered glass. Frustrated, I put it to one side and open the perfume bottle. Raising it to my nose, I understand immediately Abigail’s complaint. Beneath the scent of rosewater is a hint of something bitter, a sour vegetable smell that makes you wince. But Abigail is wrong about a man’s ignorance of perfume; the giver of these gifts was clearly a man of taste and considerable generosity, so why would he present his love with a perfume that was so obviously unappealing? Tipping the bottle, I wet the end of my finger with a tiny drop of the colourless liquid and raise it to my tongue, but as I am about to taste it, there comes a sudden rap at the door.

  ‘Bruno? Are you in there?’

  Dumas. I scrabble to stuff the gifts back into the velvet bag and in my haste I knock the little mirror to the floor, where it lands with an ominous crack.

  ‘One moment!’ Cursing silently, I retrieve it and turn it over to see with great relief that the glass has not broken, but the fall seems to have damaged the frame; it feels looser, as if the glass might slip out. But there is no time to look closer; I push the bag under the pillow of my bed and unbolt the door for Dumas. He stands, twisting his hands, with the face of a startled hare.

  ‘My lord ambassador sends for you. I don’t know what it is about. Do you think he has discovered our . . .’ he falters, looking for the right word.

  ‘Business? Well, let’s not immediately jump to the worst conclusion, eh.’ I give him a good clap on the shoulder for encouragement as I pass him in the doorway, though the fact that Castelnau has been looking for me all morning worries me, too. Dumas watches while I lock the door of my bedchamber. Secrets must be guarded closely in this house.

  Castelnau looks up from his desk as I enter his private office, and his expression seems serious, though not angry.

  ‘Bruno! What an elusive man you are. Take a seat, will you?’ He indicates a chair by the empty fireplace, inlaid with tapestry cushions. Dumas hovers behind me, shifting from one foot to the other, as if unsure whether he is expected to stay. ‘Léon, you have work to do, don’t you?’

  Dumas scurries back to his small desk in the corner. Castelnau waves a hand in his general direction.

  ‘Don’t worry about him, Bruno. I have no secrets from Léon – do I, Léon?’ He smiles genially. Dumas makes a noise that is somewhere between a squeak and a cough. I send him a hard stare behind the ambassador’s back. I have never seen a man wear his conscience so plainly on his face; if only Courcelles could give him a few lessons in oily insincerity, our operation would be much the safer.

  ‘Will you take a glass of wine?’ Castelnau says, reaching for a Venetian decanter on his desk. I decline, claiming the hour is too early. The ambassador looks disappointed; nevertheless, he pours himself a generous glass and pulls up the chair opposite mine. ‘You have been on my mind a great deal these past couple of days, Bruno,’ he begins, then pauses to drink a long draught. ‘I know you will have been troubled by what you heard at dinner the other night.’

  ‘Unless I have misunderstood, my lord, it sounds very much as if Lord Henry Howard is trying to start a war.’

  Castelnau sighs. He looks tired; for the first time since I have known him, he is beginning to show his age. I wonder if this is the effect of the Scottish queen’s intrigues or the return of his wife.

  ‘You have not misunderstood. My wife, as you have seen, is a great supporter of the Duke of Guise, but I want you to know that I do not favour any such enterprise and nor does King Henri – though he has his own difficulties at the moment. I need you on my side, Bruno, to advocate tolerance, diplomacy, negotiation, when they start up their talk of invasion. Stand with me – we need to remain in their confidence. I am doing my best to urge everyone to be patient.’

  ‘Perhaps they feel they have been patient long enough.’

  ‘Hm.’ He tips back his glass and drains it, then shakes his head. ‘If only Elizabeth had not been so stubborn about marrying the Duke of Anjou – then our two countries would have had a solid alliance. But I see now that she was making fools of us all. She has never had any desire for marriage. In that, at least, she shows wisdom.’

  He adds this last so vehemently that I suspect he is no longer thinking about the queen. From what I have seen of Marie de Castelnau, I find it hard to imagine that his own marriage gives him any peace of mind.

  ‘Henry Howard is powerful in this country just as the Duke of Guise is in France,’ Castelnau continues. ‘Powerful enough to make their respective sovereigns afraid. But not as powerful as they would like to be. So now they look for a secret alliance with Spain to fund their plans.’

  ‘A grand Catholic reconquest.’

  ‘I know you are no zealot for the Catholic Church, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, leaning forward and fixing me with his large, sad eyes, his glass clasped between his hands. ‘But the tide is turning. The Protestant faith is weakening – in France, in the Netherlands, and in this island too. It flourished for a season, but it couldn’t compete. I would wager that by the end of this troubled century it will be remembered only as an experiment, a warning to our sons and daughters. All the omens point to the coming of a new era. We must be ready.’

  ‘Then you think this war inevitable, my lord?’ I rub my brow with my thumb, confused. ‘In that case, why argue against it?’

  ‘No. I think the reassertion of Catholic supremacy inevitable,’ he says, his face stern. ‘King Henri has given too much freedom to the Protestants in Paris, and I do not think he can resist the rise of the Duke of Guise. But perhaps both sovereigns can be persuaded to submit to the Catholic powers without war. That is my hope. So you see my difficulty, Bruno. I must not appear too firmly set against this invasion, in case Guise gains power in Paris. But neither must I commit myself or France to it – as a diplomat I must urge all parties to peaceful means.’ He shakes his head at this conundrum and looks away to the window. I understand what Fowler meant when he said Castelnau was trying to please too many people.

  I am framing a reply when the door is suddenly flung open with such force that the timbers shudder on their hinges. On the threshold stands a man who almost fills the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, black beard bristling. His scowl could blister the paint on the portraits that line the walls. Dumas visibly shrinks further into his corner. Castelnau assumes the smooth face of diplomacy and rises to his feet, addressing the visitor in Spanish.

  ‘Don Bernadino. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Save your flattery for the English, Castelnau. We both know that it is neither. But I bring you news that will light a fire under your backside.’ The Spanish ambassador turns and skewers me with his black glare. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Giordano Bruno of Nola, at your honour’s service,’ I offer, also in Spanish, as I stand and bow.


  Mendoza’s eyes narrow; he nods slowly.

  ‘So this is King Henri’s Italian heretic. I have heard them talk of you. I suppose you think you are safe here.’ He turns back to Castelnau, his eyes blazing scorn, and points a stubby forefinger at his face. ‘This is your problem, Michel – you keep men like this in your house, feed them at your table, and then you wonder why no one will take you or your sovereign seriously. My King Philip –’ here he stabs the finger forcefully into his own chest – ‘is pouring out Spanish money and men to fight heresy, while your King Henri opens his purse to patronise it!’ He directs a furious look at me; I return it as blandly as I can while letting him see that I am not cowed. ‘Send him out,’ Mendoza says, with a flick of his hand, as if he were in charge. ‘And him.’ He points at Dumas, trembling behind his little desk in the corner. ‘What I have to say is not for the ears of servants.’

  Castelnau nods me towards the door with an apologetic expression. Dumas follows, arranging his papers into a pile as he stands while Mendoza looks on, huffing impatiently.

  Outside, in the corridor, Dumas turns his anxious eyes on me. ‘What do you suppose his news is?’ he whispers.

  ‘If I had to guess, I’d say Philip of Spain has agreed to invest in Mary Stuart’s enterprise. If I am right . . .’ I let the sentence fall away. ‘The stakes are much higher than we imagined. We must not fail now, Léon.’

  Entering the first-floor gallery on the way back to my room, I encounter Marie and Courcelles standing together in a bay window, their heads bent close, talking quietly. They fall silent as soon as they see me; Courcelles stumbles back with a guilty look. It is a gesture I recognise; perhaps this is how all men behave around Marie. There is something in her way of talking and touching that makes you feel you have been inappropriately intimate. She, on the other hand, seems blithely unaware of this, or she affects to.

  ‘Well, Bruno?’ she calls lightly, as I quicken my steps, hoping to pass them without being detained. ‘Did you ask him?’