by S. J. Parris
‘At the head of this list, naturally, is my nephew,’ Howard goes on, gesturing to Philip and beaming. ‘We have determined that five thousand Guise troops will land near Arundel on the Sussex coast and come ashore through the earl’s lands. We have almost secured the backing of the Earl of Northumberland, who is friendly to our case and whose seat at Petworth would allow the French army to advance towards London over the South Downs. Meanwhile, we estimate twenty thousand Spanish troops will land on the Lancashire coast, and will be joined by an uprising of the Catholics there. This force will head inland to liberate Queen Mary from Sheffield Castle.’ He stops for breath, and takes a brief sip of wine. ‘They will be joined there by Scottish reinforcements moving south from the border, I believe?’
He looks expectantly at Fowler, who nods.
‘The Marquess of Huntley supports us and has promised men. I await confirmation of the exact number, but I am hopeful that he will turn more of the Scottish lords to our cause once they are persuaded the invasion is in earnest.’
Douglas snorts.
‘And where do you have this intelligence, old son? When were you last in Scotland?’
Fowler blinks at him, unperturbed. ‘I am at least allowed into Scotland.’
Douglas has no retort to this, except a black glare; again I find myself intrigued as to the source of the antagonism between the two Scots.
Mendoza interrupts.
‘Have you settled on a date?’
Howard inclines his head. ‘Commit this to memory, gentlemen – and madame.’ He smiles at Marie. ‘This glorious mission is planned for the thirtieth day of November.’
‘The thirtieth?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself. From the other end of the table, I just catch Fowler’s warning glance. I swallow; all eyes are on me and the silence feels heavy, accusing. I glimpse in memory the fragment of paper hidden in Cecily Ashe’s mirror; the Accession Day date, 17th November. Had the plans changed, or had I misunderstood?
‘The thirtieth not convenient for you, Bruno?’ Howard says, one eyebrow lifting with chilly sarcasm. ‘Do you have some appointment that day? I’m sure we can rearrange it to suit you if need be.’
Amid the smattering of sycophantic laughter, I hold up a hand to placate him.
‘It’s only that it occurred to me,’ I say, deliberately slurring, ‘that an invasion might be most effective if it took place on, say, a public holiday, while the country is distracted by revels. I’d assumed it would be set for Accession Day.’
‘It occurred to you, did it?’ Howard’s voice is stretched tight; his knuckles are white where his hands grasp one another.
‘And,’ I add, bolstering my pretence of drunkenness, ‘would the assassination not have the most profound impact if it took place on that anniversary? The country would be thrown into turmoil.’ I sit back, expectant. The silence is overwhelming. The faces around the table register a universal expression of shock. Fowler keeps his eyes fixed on the table and remains very still, both hands clasped steadily around the stem of his glass. I have the cold dropping sensation that I have made a terrible mistake.
‘Assassination?’ says Philip Howard, eventually, baffled.
‘Who is being assassinated?’ Mendoza asks, looking around the table with a thunderous brow, as if someone has wilfully tried to deceive him. ‘Elizabeth? I was not told –’
‘This was not the agreement, Henry!’ Marie cries, her colour rising; Howard gestures at her to keep her voice down. ‘The Duc de Guise has expressly said –’
‘Don’t say I haven’t offered,’ Douglas chips in laconically, grinning as he picks his nails, so that I am not sure whether he is serious or playing on his own reputation. ‘It’d be nae bother.’
Henry Howard rises to his feet, his eyes burning.
‘Please! Let us keep our heads. There will be no assassination. I think our friend Bruno has drunk too much wine.’
‘Anyway, he is from Naples,’ Marie says, shooting me a look that could turn the wine sour. ‘Where they are notoriously hot-headed. What put this foolishness in your mind, Bruno?’
Howard resumes his seat and leans forward, fixing his dark eyes on mine.
‘Yes, Bruno,’ he says, with icy precision. ‘Where did you get this fanciful idea? Do tell.’
‘Well, perhaps I have not properly understood,’ I falter, ‘but to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England, you must first remove her cousin, no? So I assumed that if – when – the invasion happened, she would be –’ I break off with a shrug, looking around the table, hoping that my pretence of naïveté will convince. Fowler still does not look at me, I presume because he does not want to betray his anger.
Howard laughs indulgently; to my ear there is a measure of relief in it.
‘I see – you thought that to crown a new sovereign we must first dispatch the old one? No, no, Bruno – that may be how you conduct things in Naples, but we are not barbarians here.’
I almost point out that he has just announced an invasion of twenty thousand and more troops to wage war on a peaceful nation, but I refrain.
‘This coup, if you will,’ Howard says smoothly, ‘must be conducted according to the rule of law. What you have perhaps failed to understand as a foreigner, Bruno, is that Elizabeth Tudor is not the legitimate queen of England, and never has been. The simple people of our poor country have been deceived into believing that she had the right of succession. They need to have this view corrected. Murdering her in the name of the Catholic faith will only make her a martyr in their eyes – it would be impossible thereafter for any Catholic monarch to restore order or command the people’s affection. No, we must be a little more civilised about it.’ He smiles, pressing the tips of his fingers together.
‘Oh, a civilised coup?’ I say. ‘I have not witnessed one of those – how does it work? Do the troops apologise as they march on a town?’
Despite herself, Marie stifles a giggle; Howard’s smile is wearing thin.
‘The point my uncle wishes to make, Doctor Bruno, if I may,’ Philip Howard cuts in, ‘is that to bring England back to the true Church, we must guide the people gently. It cannot be done with swords and crossbows alone, but only by showing England her error. We are pursuing a holy war here, and I think we are all agreed that no more blood must be spilled than is necessary to do God’s work.’ A quaver creeps into his voice as he lays a sincere hand on his heart.
‘My nephew is the saint in the family,’ Henry Howard remarks, drily.
‘But he is right,’ says Mendoza. ‘The pretender Elizabeth must be arrested and publicly tried by a papal court as a traitor and a heretic.’
‘It must be proved to the populace, by due process, that Mary Stuart is the only legitimate heir to the Tudor crown,’ Howard explains, with excessive patience. ‘This is essential if the people are to accept her and her heirs as their rightful monarchs.’
Opposite me, Douglas snaps his head up at this and stares at Howard. Fowler has also raised his head from his private thoughts to do the same, an expression of curiosity creeping over his features. Marie turns and narrows her eyes at Howard. He returns their looks defiantly, but he cannot help a slight colour creeping up his cheeks; he knows he has also said too much.
‘Last time I looked,’ Douglas says, drawing out the words and leaning back in his chair, ‘Mary had just the one heir, and that is King James of Scotland. To my knowledge there has never been any question over his legitimacy or his succession.’ He keeps his tone light, but I catch a steely note in it. ‘His father was a peacock and a drunk who couldn’t keep it in his breeches, but there was no doubting the lineage.’
‘No, indeed,’ Howard says hurriedly. ‘I am only speculating, if you will. Queen Mary is young enough still that she may, once she is restored to her throne, wish to marry again. We cannot rule out the possibility.’ He brushes something invisible from his doublet in order not to have to look at Douglas. I am seized by an urge to laugh at his evident discomfort, but I hold my face firm.
Douglas regards him with a mixture of disgust and incredulity.
‘Christ, man, she’s forty-two and she’s the size of a fucking shire horse – if any man was going to tup her he’d need a serious reward for it.’
‘Being king consort of England might be reward enough for some,’ Fowler observes; somehow, his low steady voice is the more startling for being heard so rarely this evening. I wonder if anyone else notices the fury that flashes across Howard’s face for the briefest moment, before he composes his ingratiating smile once more. From the way Mendoza watches him, his lip curled almost into a smirk, it seems that Howard’s error has not escaped the sharp black eyes of the Spaniard.
By now, Howard’s paper has made its way around the table to me, via Douglas. It shows a rough sketch of the outline of England, with harbours marked around it at various intervals, together with the names of the Catholic lords whose lands border the coast. Most of the names mean nothing to me, but a copy of this would be all Walsingham needs to have Howard arrested and charged. The question is how to obtain one. In the meantime, I bend all my powers of concentration to committing it to memory.
‘We were talking of what should be done with Elizabeth after the invasion,’ Howard says, clearly anxious to change the subject.
‘Yes. The Duc de Guise is adamant that she must be tried for heresy by a Papal court,’ says Marie. I glance up from the paper for a moment; her eyes are shining with the special fervour she reserves for religious fanaticism and seduction. ‘This way it will send a message to the other Protestant leaders of Europe. Submit to the authority of the Catholic Church or this will be your fate.’ She smiles with the anticipation of triumph.
‘The duke has the unwavering support of Spain in this course,’ Mendoza says, half-bowing to Marie; she simpers in return. ‘It would be the single most eloquent act the united Catholic powers could perform, an act that would echo across Europe and beyond. Particularly in the Low Countries,’ he adds, with venom.
‘And if the Inquisition find her guilty, as they will? You propose she should be executed as a heretic, with all that that entails?’ Fowler asks her, his face earnest as ever.
Marie shrugs. ‘That is hardly for me to say. There is an established punishment for heresy. I do not see why she should be exempt just because she is a royal bastard who calls herself a queen.’
‘The people won’t like that,’ Philip says, rubbing his lower lip.
‘There are precedents,’ replies his uncle. ‘Besides, the people are primed for cataclysmic change. Think of these pamphlets Douglas mentioned. The Great Conjunction, prophecies of the end of the age. The people cling to this superstitious folly, so we turn it to our advantage. Persuade them that the end prophesied in the heavens is the end of the false Protestant religion, bringing a new era of peace in a united Catholic Europe. In their hearts it’s what they all want, even if they don’t know it.’ He makes a little flourish in the air with his hand, as if he has just signed off a contract whose business is now ended. It is this sense of entitlement, the way he directs other people’s lives, that hardens my dislike of him. I am willing to bet he is already picturing himself enthroned beside Mary Stuart.
Marie sits forward again as if to speak, but at that moment the dog under the table produces an unmissable liquid belch and everyone turns to look at me.
‘Doctor Bruno,’ Howard says, forcing his smile again. ‘The paper, if you please?’ He stretches out his hand for the map I am still studying. Reluctantly, I pass it back along the table.
‘We have not yet given you opportunity to fulfil your duty and share with us the ambassador’s thoughts,’ Howard continues. ‘Please do so – if you feel able.’ His civility could wither the grapes on the vine as he makes a point of looking at my wine glass. My pulse quickens; my plan now rests on my performance in the next few minutes. I can feel the force of Mendoza’s scorn as he glowers from the other end of the table.
So I stumble, glass in hand, through Castelnau’s by now well-worn arguments against rushing the invasion plot – the Duke of Guise is acting without the authority or approval of King Henri, there is still the chance of a treaty between Elizabeth and Mary, the diplomatic processes have not been exhausted, too much power would be handed to Rome, etcetera – but I deliver them in such a slurring show of drunken rambling that Howard turns his face away from me in disgust. Courcelles, I note from the corner of my eye, appears delighted with my display; I picture him scampering gleefully back to Castelnau to report what happens when you trust your affairs to a renegade Italian instead of your own private secretary, as protocol demands. I would mind the affront to my own dignity, but there is too much at stake to worry about that; besides, I am unlikely to be invited back to Arundel House in the near future in any case. Fowler simply watches me with his steady, concerned expression, his fingers steepled together and pressed to his lips.
I end this virtuoso display with an expansive hand gesture that sends my wine glass crashing to the floor beside me, as I intended it should, to account for the quantity of wine spilled on the rushes. The dog whimpers and retreats into the corner of the room. It doesn’t look well. Henry Howard can barely contain his outrage; his moustache twitches unnervingly as he sucks in his cheeks.
‘Don’t worry, Doctor Bruno – the servants will see to that in the morning,’ Philip Howard says, with utmost courtesy, waving a hand.
‘And thank you for conveying my lord Castelnau’s views in your own unique way,’ Henry adds, as if he is holding his breath. Mendoza only laughs, and pushes his chair back.
I sense that my performance has ruptured the tension in the room; people are fidgeting, as if impatient to leave. The candles have burned almost to stumps; I cannot guess at the hour, but it grows late, and it is time for my finale. I clasp my face with my hand, then slump forward on the table over my crooked arm, allowing my mouth to hang open.
‘Is he all right?’ says Philip Howard, after a moment. A hand tentatively nudges me.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Henry Howard explodes. ‘They have no self-control, you see. It’s what I’ve always said. Indulging the pleasures of the flesh.’ He curls his mouth around these last words with evident revulsion.
I wonder who he means by ‘they’. Dominicans? Heretics? Italians? Then Marie’s voice, sharp and impatient:
‘How are we supposed to get him back to Salisbury Court in this state?’
‘Well, I’m not carrying him,’ Courcelles says quickly. ‘Besides, he’d likely vomit in the boat.’
There is some conferring in low voices; I resist the temptation to open an eye. Finally, Philip says, ‘There is nothing else for it. He must stay here and sleep it off. We have room. He can walk back to the embassy tomorrow when he’s in better shape.’
Inwardly, I give a little cry of triumph.
‘I could almost pity him, poor fool,’ Howard says. Though I cannot see the sneer on his face, I can hear it and picture it vividly. ‘He has disgraced himself and the ambassador. That will be the last time he is offered any kind of responsibility. The man thinks he’s untouchable with King Henri’s patronage.’
‘That will not benefit him much longer.’ Mendoza’s voice is thick with scorn.
‘Shh, Uncle – he might be able to hear you.’
‘Him? He’s out cold. Get him upstairs, someone. Fowler – you at least seem sober. Would you mind?’
A scraping of chairs, followed by a crunching sound, as someone steps on the fragments of broken glass scattered around my chair. I feel a pair of strong arms grasp me around the torso.
‘Come on, you can’t stay here,’ Fowler says gently, hoisting me to my feet; there is a kind of tenderness in the way he lifts my limp arm and wraps it around his shoulder. Henry Howard, I note as I dare to open my eyes a bleary crack, stands with his arms folded, his lips pressed together, the model of disapproving piety. But Henry Howard has his own weaknesses, and tonight I intend to discover them and bring back evidence.
‘Howard,’ Mendoza hisses, and through half-closed lids I see him gesture abruptly to the door.
By watching the progress of my feet and Fowler’s through my eyelashes, I make a note, as I am bundled along a passage and up a flight of stairs, of the way back to the corridor with the dining room. Philip Howard goes officiously before us with a candle to show the way, while I lean on Fowler’s shoulders and allow myself to be half-dragged, half-carried to a room where I am dropped on to a bed.
‘Will he be all right, do you think?’ Philip asks nervously, from the doorway.
‘He’ll be right enough after a sleep,’ says Fowler, sitting on the bed beside me and pulling off my boots one after the other. ‘A jug of good wine never killed anyone.’ He rolls me on to my side; I allow him to move me like a dead weight. ‘You might give him a piss pot in case he wakes in the night,’ he adds, matter of factly.
Some scuffling follows; I hear footsteps in the corridor, and eventually someone – presumably the earl himself, since the servants have all been dismissed – places a pot beside the bed. It is by now safe to assume that I will never receive a return invitation from the earl and countess.
‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure he is comfortable,’ Fowler says; the earl murmurs something and from the other side of the room I hear footsteps die away. I decide the best policy is to feign a state of unconsciousness. Fowler leans across the bed and lays a hand on my shoulder.
‘Quite a performance, Bruno,’ he breathes, his mouth almost touching my ear. ‘And risky. What is it you want?’
I open my eyes to find his face barely inches from mine, looking for all the world as if he is about to kiss me.
‘Whatever I can find,’ I whisper. He regards me for a moment and in the candlelight his face is full of doubt; I can see he thinks this an unnecessary danger. Resentment tightens in my chest; Fowler is a partner of sorts in this enterprise, but it is not for him to direct me or question my methods.
‘That list of havens would be a prize indeed,’ he whispers back, eventually. ‘But Howard took it with him – you can be sure he will keep it somewhere secure. And you could mar everything if you are caught.’
