by S. J. Parris
‘Perhaps he has run away,’ Courcelles says smoothly. ‘What he knows from my lord ambassador’s letters might be worth a great deal of money to some people, and ser vants are always desperate for coins. You can never trust that sort.’ There is a provocative note in his voice that makes me look twice at him; could he know something about Dumas, or is he merely trying to rattle me? But I am never sure of the degree of complicity between him and Marie. How much might she have overheard outside my door this morning?
‘Dumas is an honest man,’ I snap back, stepping precariously out of the boat and almost losing my balance on the wet stairs. ‘More honest than many I know.’ Courcelles makes no move to assist me. Marie shivers.
‘Oh, stop bickering,’ she says, impatient. ‘He is only a clerk. He’ll either turn up or he won’t. Let’s get out of this wind.’
We are led by a steward through the Great Hall of Arundel House, past the rich linenfold panelling and the ornamental armour, into a narrow passageway with walls painted green and gold. At the far end I can see a heavy oak door, left ajar just far enough to glimpse inside a stack of shelves lined with handsomely bound books.
‘What is that room?’ I call to the steward, gesturing to the end of the corridor. He pauses and half turns, not pleased to have been detained.
‘That is my lord of Arundel’s private library,’ he says, almost without moving his lips. ‘Please, let us not delay. The earl and my lord Howard are expecting you.’ I do not miss the emphasis on ‘private’, but my heart is hammering in my throat as I glance back at the door. Before we reach the end of this passageway, the steward knocks for the sake of formality on a door set into the panelling and proceeds with a bow into a warmly lit room, not broad but with a high decorated ceiling and two tall windows, reaching almost from the floor to the top of the panelled walls. Here a long table is set with silverware and wrought branching candlesticks, all reflecting skittering beads of light from the flames. I note, with relief, that the stone floor is thickly scattered with scented rushes. This is exactly as I had hoped. We are late, it seems; the party is already gathered and, as we enter, the gentlemen rise to greet us. Philip Howard moves from his seat, his hand outstretched. Beside him, a shaggy white dog, a Talbot hound by its appearance, stands warily, its nose thrust forward quivering, almost the height of its master’s hip.
‘Madame de Castelnau, Seigneur de Courcelles, bien-venus,’ he says, with a graceful bow. ‘And Master Bruno. Benvenuto.’
‘Be sure to give Bruno his proper title, Philip,’ Henry Howard remarks, sitting down again, having barely risen in the first place. ‘He is a doctor of theology, and he is most offended when people forget. Dear God, Bruno – what has happened to your head? I had heard of your reputation as a brawler, but I thought you had left that behind in Italy along with your religious vows.’
I touch my fingertips to the wound at my temple – much improved since the day before, but still a raised welt of dried blood that must have looked alarming.
‘You should see the other fellow,’ I say.
Philip smiles uncertainly. I sense that he feels a familial obligation to treat me with disdain, but does not quite share his uncle’s conviction in the matter. I incline my head politely in return. I am not surprised to find that it is Henry Howard and not the young earl who takes the head of the table. Though the Duchy of Norfolk was forfeit when Henry’s brother the duke was caught in his plot to marry Mary Stuart, and the Arundel title now comes through Philip’s mother, it is quite clear to any onlooker that Henry Howard is de facto head of the Howard clan, and that his nephew defers to him in status and judgement. And also in deed, I wonder, looking at Philip as he now gestures around the table. My spirits sink at the sight of Don Bernadino de Mendoza seated at Henry Howard’s right hand; the Spanish ambassador merely grunts a brief acknowledgement of our party’s arrival, before ripping into a hunk of bread with his teeth. Archibald Douglas is here, and Fowler too, and at the foot of the table, opposite Henry Howard, a pale young woman in a blue dress, her fair hair bound under a plain hood. She seems to sense my enquiring gaze, meets my eye for the space of a blink, then looks quickly away.
‘Now we are all present, I think,’ Philip says, casting around the room. ‘I was most sorry to learn of my lord ambassador’s illness, madame. I trust he is comfortable and will soon find his health improved.’
Marie’s eyes narrow.
‘I thank you. I had not realised he had informed you already.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Philip folds his hands together and glances at me. ‘His clerk came this morning with a message, sending your husband’s apologies and explaining that he had asked Doctor Bruno to attend in his stead.’
‘Weak constitution,’ Mendoza observes through his half-chewed bread, to no one in particular.
I smile graciously at Philip. That was smart of Castelnau, I think, to make my presence official in advance. But by ‘his clerk’, does the earl mean Dumas? Did the ambassador send him with a message here as well as the delivery to Throckmorton? And if so, who was the last to see Dumas before he failed to return?
Philip Howard points me to a chair on the far side of the table, tucked against the wall, adjacent to the pale young woman, who glances up at me shyly as I take my seat and this time risks the faintest of smiles. The dog pads over and rests its muzzle in her lap; she strokes its head absently.
‘I don’t believe you are acquainted with my wife Anne, Doctor Bruno?’ Philip says.
‘Piacere di conoscerla,’ I say, bowing low so that they will not see my face. A wife! It takes me a moment to absorb this information. A wife throws my speculations about the Howards and the murders off course; I had all but convinced myself that the Earl of Arundel must be the handsome, impressive young courtier who had wooed Cecily Ashe, and that he had done so at his uncle’s behest to further the assassination plot. But if Philip Howard is married already, this cannot be. I take my seat, frowning.
‘You all right there, Bruno?’ Douglas, seated opposite me, grins affably, reaching for his glass. ‘You had a face on you for a moment there like a man trying to shit a turnip.’
‘A little stomach trouble,’ I say, composing my expression into a smile. ‘Probably hunger.’ I must give nothing away. What I must do is model myself on the man opposite.
‘Aye, we’re all bloody hungry waiting for you,’ Douglas says, waving his glass in the air for a refill. Immediately, a servant peels away from the far end of the room, where bottles and dishes are laid out on a wooden buffet, and stands at his elbow with a bottle of wine. When he has poured for Douglas, I hold my glass aloft too, by its delicate stem, and drink off the contents almost in one. Douglas watches as if impressed, and grins wider.
Supper passes uncomfortably, as Mendoza bombards Marie and Courcelles with questions about the factions at the French court, interrogating them closely about the degree of support for the Duke of Guise among the French nobles and the waning of King Henri’s favour among the people. Frequently he hints at King Philip of Spain’s growing admiration for the young Duke of Guise, while Marie simpers and bats her eyelashes at him as if the success of the conspiracy depends upon the power of her attractions. Courcelles seems torn between his anxiety to please the Spanish ambassador and his instinctive possessiveness over Marie’s attentions. The silences in their conversation are broken by one or other of us attempting stilted small talk about court gossip or variations on the same compliments about the food. These, at least, are sincere; the Earl of Arundel clearly keeps a talented chef.
‘Italian,’ whispers Anne Howard, when I mention as much to her. The countess is softly spoken, eats little and prefers to toy with her food, studying it as closely as if it were a memory test, rather than look directly at me, but by diligent attention and gentle questioning I learn from her that she is of a fragile disposition, often sickly and rarely attends court. Though this, she confides, leaning into me, is less because of her health than because Her Majesty, now that she stands on the brink
of her autumn years, is jealous over the attentions of her courtiers and forbids wives from attending all but the occasional celebration. The only women the queen tolerates, Anne explains, are her own maids of honour, chosen for their modesty and virtuous reputations. She tells me this without a trace of irony, so I refrain from comment. Asked, in a light-hearted tone, whether she fears sending her handsome young husband into this fray, she responds with a pretty laugh, and tells me that she has known the earl since childhood, that she was in fact his foster sister and they were contracted in marriage at fourteen. She explains this as if their shared history is a self-evident guarantee against her husband straying; I would regard it as the opposite, but naturally I do not say so.
Dishes are carried in, richly scented and steaming: capons stuffed with fruit; venison; coneys in fragrant sauces, piled with thyme and rosemary; calves’ foot jellies and pies of larks and blackbirds with delicate latticed pastry. Servants duck and weave past one another balancing their trays, while the young man with the bottle silently and discreetly circles the table, making sure that no one’s glass remains empty for too long. Mendoza eats and drinks with the same voracious appetite he brings to all his dealings, talking constantly through bulging mouthfuls as remnants of his supper gather in his beard. I note that Henry Howard barely touches his wine; neither does the earl, or his wife. Douglas and I, on the other hand, appear to be keeping the serving-boy permanently busy, one or other of us constantly lifting our empty glass to him with a subtle nod. Fowler drinks modestly and says little, though now and again he catches my eye with a neutral acknowledgement from the other end of the table; I smile briefly and return my attention to Anne Howard.
Given the company, I had expected a more direct approach to the matter of the invasion, but as more bottles are opened, dishes are cleared and new courses brought, it seems that, for the moment, this is no more than a supper party. I wonder if the determined silence is because of Anne’s presence, or the servants’, and at what point, if at all, the table will turn to a council of war. Some sort of almond custard is placed in front of me. The small talk begins to wear thin.
‘They arrested one of those pamphleteers today, did you see?’ Douglas says, after a remark of Fowler’s about the weather having turned is left hanging in the empty air.
‘Which pamphleteers?’ Courcelles asks.
‘You must have seen them, Claude,’ Fowler says, folding his hands together. ‘Shoved into your hand for a penny in any marketplace or tavern. With their apocalyptic prophecies, forecasting the end of Elizabeth’s reign, even her death. Saying these murders at court are signs of devilry, or the apocalypse. Treason now to write or publish them.’ He sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in that fellow’s shoes.’
‘I don’t frequent marketplaces or taverns,’ Courcelles says, with a flick of his hair. ‘So the gossip of apprentices and serving girls tends to pass me by.’
‘The common people in this country are fascinated by predictions of their imminent doom,’ Mendoza pronounces. ‘I have never seen anything like it. Even the servants in my own embassy begin to have their heads turned by these prophecies, if they venture out to the English taverns. It is to do with insecurity I think. But all to our advantage, if the people believe the apocalypse is upon them.’
Howard flashes him a warning look, then glances briefly at Anne. She appears to be occupied with the dog.
‘This lad they caught was only the printer,’ Douglas continues. ‘The word is they found an illegal printing press in a private house up Finsbury way. They’ll prick the poor bastard for the names of the authors before they hang him. That could go badly for people we know.’
Henry Howard holds up a hand in warning, making a sharp motion for Douglas to be silent; the Scotsman looks puzzled, until Anne Howard raises her head and says, in a small voice, ‘Murders?’
Philip Howard and his uncle exchange glances. ‘You remember, my dear, I mentioned the sad death of one of the queen’s maids?’ Philip says, his voice soothing. ‘There was speculation at court – there always is – that it might have been murder. You know how rumours can spread.’
Douglas splutters into his glass, spraying wine across the table; Anne looks from him to her husband, frightened. It strikes me that she cannot know the first thing about how rumours spread, if she is not even aware of the murders at court, one of them committed barely half a mile from her own house. Does her husband keep her locked away here, I wonder, like a damsel in a courtly romance? While the company regards her awkwardly, I take advantage of the distraction to slip my hand under the table and pour away my glass of wine on to the floor under my chair. The rushes soak it up silently, as they have the previous two I have quietly tipped out at opportune moments when the company’s attention was engaged elsewhere. To my knowledge, no one has so far noticed this, though I am pleased to note Henry Howard’s slight frown of disapproval every time Douglas and I beckon the boy with his bottle. It is essential that Howard thinks I am at least as drunk as Douglas – though when I glance at the Scotsman, aside from his high colour he shows no ill effects from the quantity of wine he has already put away. The man must have the constitution of an ox.
‘My wife suffers badly with nervous illness and other complaints,’ Philip Howard explains to the company in general, as if he had heard my unvoiced question. ‘She doesn’t want to be troubled by the petty goings-on and intrigues of the court.’
Anne continues to stroke the dog’s ears, glancing at her husband with a mild expression. Marie’s face darkens; I can well imagine what she would say to such a husband. At least she knows enough of diplomacy to keep her mouth closed. I watch Anne as she passes a piece of beef to the dog under the table; her skin is so white that under the candles it seems to give off its own light, like a snowy dawn. Perhaps a sickly wife need not be an impediment to a dashing young courtier; Philip Howard could easily engage a young woman’s affections with the promise that his wife was of a fragile constitution and he might soon be on the lookout for a new one. And what kind of man refers to the gruesome murders of two young women as ‘petty goings-on’? My suspicions of the Howards recover their earlier force. Mendoza says nothing, which surprises me; he has been the first to voice his opinions on every other topic this evening.
When the dishes have finally been cleared away, Anne Howard excuses herself, claiming tiredness, though to my mind there is something rehearsed about her departure. I wonder if she has any inkling of why her husband and his uncle have gathered this unlikely group around their dinner table; perhaps she knows but prefers to muffle herself in ignorance, as with the news from court. The servants place a new jug of wine on the table, within reach of me and Douglas, and refresh the candles. Henry Howard rises from his seat and takes one of the servants aside at the door; in the expectant hush that follows, Howard’s low murmuring is overlaid with another sound, a curious wet rasping. I realise everyone has turned to look at me. When I glance down, I see that the dog is between my feet, licking at the floor with evident relish. I watch him, half apprehensive, half curious. I do not want him to give away my trick; on the other hand, I have not seen a dog with a taste for Rhenish before. Philip cranes his neck to see what I am looking at.
‘Oh, that dog. My wife is always throwing him scraps at table,’ he remarks, dismissively. ‘The creature thinks it is some sort of prince in this house. For want of a child, you see.’ The contempt in his voice makes clear whose fault the lack of a child must be.
Henry Howard returns to his place; the last of the ser vants closes the door. There is a shift in the quality of the silence; in an instant we are alert, straighter, leaning forward expectantly. I blink hard, and shake my head; though I have not drunk anything like the quantity of wine they think I have, still I have been obliged to drink more than usual, and my thoughts are more sluggish than I would wish them.
‘The developments with Queen Mary since we last convened have been greatly encouraging,’ Howard begi
ns, drawing out a folded sheet of paper from inside his doublet. Douglas leans across and pours me another glass of wine before filling his own; Howard looks up, peevish, at the sound, but as a good host he refrains from comment.
‘According to our friend Don Bernadino,’ he continues, indicating the Spanish ambassador, ‘the Duke of Guise has successfully persuaded King Philip of Spain to lend money and troops to our enterprise.’ Here he unfolds his paper and waves it as proof. While all eyes are on him, I quietly pour three-quarters of my wine on to the rushes, where the dog leaps upon it.
‘My sovereign is pleased to be part of this great Catholic collaboration to restore England for the glory of God,’ Mendoza says, laying his great hairy hands flat on the table and allowing himself a modest smile, though there is a triumphant glint in his black eyes that makes me think Castelnau was right; it is not God’s glory that interests the Spanish ambassador or his sovereign.
‘We are now preparing in earnest, my friends.’ Howard pauses, allowing his smile to encompass the whole table. ‘I have here a list of English Catholic nobles whose lands comprise safe harbours. Our tireless colleague Master Throckmorton, together with one of Mendoza’s envoys, is even now riding across country to visit every one of them and sound out their support. We will need as many landing places as possible for the troops.’ He passes the paper across the table to Marie, who studies it with an appreciative nod.
