by S. J. Parris
‘Mary Stuart is never happy,’ I remark, as his keen gaze continues to search the letter that I know comes from Lord Henry Howard, and is on its way to Francis Throckmorton for delivery on his next trip to Sheffield Castle. Idly, I pick up a block of sealing wax from Phelippes’s broad desk, examine it, put it back. In the corner of the room, Dumas is making a hasty copy of one of Castelnau’s letters to Mary before he delivers the original, his nib scratching frantically like a mouse trapped behind a panel. Phelippes reaches over without looking up and replaces the wax in the exact spot it had been, a fraction of an inch to the left, with a little irritated click of the tongue. Then he picks up a book from his desk and leafs urgently through the pages, glancing from it to the paper in his hand. As he lifts the book up, I see that it is Henry Howard’s A Defensative Against the Poison of Supposed Prophecies.
‘Good read?’ I ask.
Phelippes lifts his head sufficiently for me to catch the look of disdain on his face.
‘It’s the cipher,’ he mutters, as if it were hardly worth the effort of explaining this to someone so wilfully stupid. ‘The book is the code. It’s one of the most basic devices. That’s why he sends her a copy. See here, where the numbers are set out in groups of three?’ He tilts the paper towards me enough for me to see what he means, the lines of figures squeezed together in Howard’s cramped handwriting. ‘Page, line, word. You see? Meaningless to anyone who doesn’t know the edition the numbers refer to or doesn’t have a copy, and in theory endlessly varied, because one need never use the same reference for the same word twice. But Howard in particular is lazy. He frequently uses the same page reference for common words rather than looking for other examples. Makes my job easier, anyway.’
‘So you have memorised these page references?’
‘A good number of them, yes.’
If he catches the tone of admiration in my voice, he gives no sign of it, nor does he speak with any trace of pride. He is merely stating facts. He crouches closer over the letter, rifling through the pages of the book at the same time.
‘For instance, I will have to double check some of these words against the book but the gist of this letter is Henry Howard saying he knows nothing about any ring. Apparently Mary sent him a valuable ring that belonged to her mother, with a family crest engraved. In a green velvet casket. Weeks ago, this is. She wanted him to use it as a seal to guarantee his letters were genuine, but he protests he never had any such casket nor ring from her. You’d think they were betrothed, all this giving and receiving of rings.’ Phelippes barks out a sudden laugh, the sound unnatural in his throat.
‘Except that Howard never did receive it,’ I murmur, my mind spinning into action. The ring Mary had sent as a gift to Henry Howard had ended up being given as a love-token to Cecily Ashe — it could only be the same one — but by whom? If all Mary’s correspondence to Howard comes through the French embassy, then the package containing the ring could have been intercepted either before it was passed on to Howard — by Throckmorton, say, or someone at Salisbury Court — or else Howard is lying to Mary, and he was the one who gave the ring to Cecily. Or his nephew, Philip Howard, who I have already marked out as fitting the description Abigail gave of Cecily’s lover. I shake my head; again, the question remains: why give a token so clearly identifiable, one which, if found, would point straight back to the conspirators around Mary Stuart? It seemed almost like a deliberate betrayal of Mary.
The room is oddly still; I glance up and realise that Dumas has stopped his scribbling. Instead he is staring at me, his face white and strained, his eyes bulging more alarmingly than usual. I send him a quizzical frown; he only bites his lip and mouths the word ‘time’.
He is right; he must take the packet of letters to Throckmorton and I have Fowler waiting for me at the Mitre. We work as fast as we can in this back room of Phelippes’s house, but there is always the fear that someone from Salisbury Court will have seen Dumas meet me at the Lud Gate or noticed our detour through the city to Leadenhall, particularly now it seems certain that someone is watching my movements. Already the best part of the day is gone, thanks to Marie and her diversions, but I still have hopes of making my way to Mortlake in pursuit of Ned Kelley, or clues to his whereabouts. Phelippes seems to have frozen at his task; I give a small cough behind my fist but he merely blinks.
‘Almost there,’ he says mildly, still staring fixedly at the letter, and I realise he is memorising the numbers. I would love to ask him his technique but do not want to break his concentration. When he has jotted down what he needs, he refolds Howard’s letter and arranges the instruments of his other skill, the forging of seals: several bars of wax, a candle, a selection of small silver-bladed knives, some no bigger than the nib of a quill. He takes a moment to compare the new wax, matching the colour carefully to the original seal. I watch, mesmerised, as his quick fingers deftly reattach it, part heating the underside and adding just enough fresh wax to press it home without cracking the surface or disturbing the cords set into the original wax. Any careless move at this crucial stage could damage Howard’s seal so that the tampering became evident; Mary’s sharp eyes would be looking for any such sign of treachery. I find I am holding my breath in sympathy, anxious not to make any move or sound that might distract Phelippes, but he seems oblivious; for a thick-set man, he has surprisingly delicate fingers, long and white like a seamstress’s. With his little knife he prods and tweaks the soft wax until he is satisfied with its appearance. He replaces the letter inside the oilskin wrapping of the package Dumas must deliver to Throckmorton imminently.
At the edge of my vision I can see Dumas fidgeting; he is anxious to be gone. When he has handed over the letter he has been copying and the packet for Throckmorton has been resealed satisfactorily, Phelippes ushers us out of the back door of his house, bidding us good day with an awkward twitch of his shoulders, eyes still turned to the ground.
We cross a yard and emerge into a side street that leads us out by the little churchyard of St Katherine Cree. A cold gust throws a handful of raindrops into our faces and Dumas shivers, a violent tremor that rattles through his thin body. He seems unusually tense; as we step out into the street, our collars pulled up against the squall, a boy dashes suddenly from the mouth of an alley and Dumas leaps a foot into the air like a rabbit, clutching at my sleeve.
‘Are you all right, Leon?’ I ask, as the boy swerves between puddles and disappears behind houses on the opposite side of the street. Dumas looks at me with an oddly pleading expression, as if there is something he wants to say, then shakes his head tightly, mumbling that he must hurry. I, too, am already late for my meeting with Fowler; earlier this morning I had regretted the necessity of seeing him, adding another distraction to my day, but now I feel something approaching relief. Walsingham’s anger at the palace has taught me that I cannot hope to find this killer alone, and the quiet, composed Scot, with his network of contacts and his knowledge of Salisbury Court, may be just the confidant I need. Walsingham has as good as instructed me to share my information, and the prospect of sharing the burden is no longer unwelcome.
I lay a hand on Dumas’s shoulder and he flinches. We must part ways here, I west to Creed Lane, he south to Paul’s Wharf and Throckmorton’s house.
‘I will see you back at Salisbury Court.’
He looks around briefly, then leans in towards me.
‘They will know now, won’t they? That the letters have been opened?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The ring. If the casket and the ring has been stolen from inside the package, they will start looking for anyone who might have had the chance to do so.’ He is clutching at my sleeve again, his eyes bright with panic.
‘Slow down, Leon — the ring could have disappeared at any stage in its journey. Or it may not have disappeared at all. There is no reason to think we will be under any more suspicion than we are now.’
But he is not convinced; in fact, he looks more stricken t
han I have ever seen him. If his fear gets the better of him and he tries to pull out of the arrangement to avoid discovery, we could lose our access to Mary’s correspondence with Salisbury Court and with it any advance information about the invasion plans or concrete evidence of plots against the queen. This must not be allowed to happen; the entire operation depends on Dumas’s peace of mind, and it is up to me to reassure him.
‘We must remain calm, Leon, and give nothing away from our behaviour. You and I will speak of this further. Come to my room when you can,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder again, ‘but for now, Godspeed.’ And I watch him as he sets off south towards the river, his shoulders hunched against the rain. As I turn to make my own way up the hill, I am certain I see a flicker of movement, a figure darting away into the shadows behind St Katherine’s Church. My stomach twists for a moment, as my hand reaches for the bone-handled dagger I carry always at my belt, the only possession I took from the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples the night I fled. But as I draw level with the churchyard I can see no one; two men are walking eastwards towards me, deep in conversation, and I pull my shoulders back and breathe deeply. London is full of people going about their business, despite the rain, and I must guard against becoming as nervous as Dumas, leaping at shadows. I pull the peak of my cap down against the weather and walk on, though I keep one hand on the dagger, just in case.
Creed Lane runs to the west of St Paul’s churchyard, and the narrow street is already thronged with people as I approach the sign of the Mitre, jostling one another with sharp insults as they try to protect themselves and their wares from the weather. Just as I reach the door of the tavern, a hand clamps down on my shoulder; again, I start, my hand instinctively tightening around the knife as I turn to find the grinning face of Archibald Douglas only a few inches from mine, his breath already thick with the fumes of drink but his eyes bright and mischievous.
‘Bruno! I thought it was you. Recognised your hat through the crowds. What brings you to this part of town?’
I look at him through narrowed eyes, immediately alert. Douglas has never to my knowledge seen me wearing a hat, and in any case, mine is of black leather, the same as every second man in London. Could it possibly be Douglas following me?
‘Books,’ I say, hastily recovering myself. ‘I wanted to look at the booksellers’ stalls outside St Paul’s.’
‘I’m not sure they sell your kind of books on public stalls,’ he says, winking broadly and hooking his arm around my neck as he pushes the door open. ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink.’
I am wary of his sudden appearance and unprecedented display of bonhomie, but since I was so obviously on my way into the tavern, it is impossible to refuse his offer without looking suspicious myself, so I shrug and allow him to usher me through the door into the steaming tap-room, where the smell of wet wool vies with the warming aromas of pastry and yeasty beer.
Douglas shoulders his way through the press of damp bodies sheltering from the cloudburst, calling for beer as a put-upon girl eases past, splashing from the four tankards she carries, two in each hand, and cursing as she does so.
‘Watch you don’t get your pockets picked in here,’ he says to me, over his shoulder, then he pauses, looks over my head across the other side of the room, makes a face and mutters, ‘Fuck.’ When he reaches a corner table, he motions to the other drinkers to shove up along the bench, let us sit down; grumbling, they obey. There is something oddly compelling about Douglas’s presence; though I don’t like him, neither do I want to be on the wrong side of him, and since he is so entangled with the conspirators at Salisbury Court, it would be foolish of me not to use this opportunity to take a close look at him. Still, I can’t escape the sense that it is he who has decided to take a look at me.
When we are seated and drinks set in front of us, he leans in, beckoning me closer.
‘You’ll never guess who I just saw over the other side of the room.’ Without waiting for me to answer, he breathes, in a gust of beer fumes, ‘William Fowler.’
‘Fowler? Really?’ I concentrate on the tankard in front of me. Poor Fowler. I wonder if he noticed me come in with Douglas, having kept him waiting for more than half an hour. I can only hope he understands that, in our business, plans have to change at a moment’s notice.
‘Aye. What do you make of him?’
‘Who, Fowler?’ Douglas’s question pulls my attention back; he is tilted forward eagerly, and his eyes are fixed sharply enough on mine. I shrug. ‘I barely know him. He seems like a quiet sort.’
‘Aye.’ Douglas nods, and takes a noisy draught. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? Keeps to himself, right enough.’ He taps the table with an ink-stained forefinger. ‘My lord Howard suspects someone is tampering with the correspondence. To Queen Mary, I mean.’
‘What makes him say that?’ I am forced to lean nearer to him; between his Scots accent and my Italian one, and the general hubbub of talk in the tavern, the conversation is not easy to follow.
‘He says there are things missing. Disappearing, you know. So he concludes someone has a hand in the packets that come from Sheffield Castle.’
‘What things?’
Douglas shakes his head. ‘Letters and packets that should have come to him from Mary. He didn’t say any more than that. But naturally he’s looking at Salisbury Court.’ He lets this fall casually, glancing away to the next table as he says it, but immediately my sinews stiffen.
‘Howard has no reason to suspect anyone at the embassy,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. Bitter experience has taught me that when you are accused of anything, regardless of whether you are innocent or guilty, it is almost impossible to deny the accusation without sounding as though you are protesting too hard. It was for this reason that I chose to run away from my monastery rather than stay and face an interrogation by the Father Inquisitor.
Douglas laughs aloud then, a big open-throated guffaw.
‘Come now, Bruno, don’t pretend to be simple. You’re famed for defying the Holy Office. You’re a defrocked monk, for Christ’s sake! As far as Howard is concerned —‘ here he lowers his voice — ‘you’re an enemy of the Catholic faith, not an ally. I’m not saying that’s my view, I just think you should know what Howard feels. He’s furious with Castelnau for allowing you into those meetings at the embassy.’
‘Well, I hate to disappoint him, but my first loyalty now is to whoever puts a roof over my head and bread in my hand.’
‘Aye, I’ll drink to that,’ he says ruefully, raising his tankard.
‘I know nothing of Mary’s letters, save what I learn around the table with the rest of you.’ I look him in the eye as frankly as I know how. ‘Are you of the Catholic faith yourself?’
A smile curves one side of his mouth.
‘Aye. I suppose you could say I’ve thrown my lot in with the Catholics. But I think of myself as a pragmatist. I know how to read the weather, my friend, and I don’t need any stargazer or ancient prophecy to tell me Elizabeth’s star is waning.’ He glances suddenly to each side, but no one appears to be paying attention to our conversation. ‘I know how to make my services indispensable to those on the way up, then I call in the favours when they’re established. Henry Howard has no illusions about my piety, but he knows I wouldn’t jeopardise my own position. Queen Mary vouches for me and that’s good enough for him. No — it’s Fowler I’ve wondered about. He has a lot of friends at court. Castelnau thinks that works in our favour, but I have my doubts.’
‘I heard you already made yourself indispensable to Queen Mary once,’ I say, partly to change the subject. Too much speculation on Fowler’s trustworthiness among the regulars at Salisbury Court could lead to unwelcome attention.
He grins broadly then, slapping his hand on the table and calling across the melee for more drink.
‘You refer to the unfortunate and untimely death of Queen Mary’s late second husband, Lord Darnley, at Kirk o’Field, I take it?’ He drains his
tankard and then regards its empty interior with mild disappointment for a moment. ‘It is said they found my shoes at the scene the next morning. Is that proof, I ask you? Could have been anyone’s shoes — it’s not as if I’d embroidered my bloody name on them. But you try telling that to the Privy Council of Scotland. Of course, there was my erstwhile servant who testified against me on the scaffold, but a man will say anything with a rope around his neck, won’t he? Ah, thank you, my lovely.’ He turns the beam of his smile upon the serving girl, who sets down two new pots of beer before us. I have barely touched my first, but he appears not to have noticed.
‘What was the story about the pie?’ I ask.
Another great bark of laughter.
‘Ah, the pie. I’ll tell you. Mary Stuart, when she learned her husband was dead, invited a host of ladies to attend a ball at her court and they danced the night long, all of them stark naked,’ he whispers, pausing for effect. ‘And you know what they did next? Cut off all their hair.’
‘Their hair?’ I repeat, frowning.
‘On their quims, you numpty.’ He gestures to his crotch, in case I am in any doubt. ‘Then they put the hair inside a fruit pie and fed it to the gentlemen guests, for their amusement. That’s the woman they want to put on the throne.’ He pushes his fringe out of his eyes and nods, apparently delighted with his tale.
‘Is that true?’
He lays a hand flat over his heart.
‘True as I’m sitting here, son.’
‘Gentlemen. I bid you good afternoon. I thought it was you.’
I start and look up at the unexpected voice; Fowler has appeared through the shifting huddle of damp coats to stand by our table. He smiles uncertainly.
‘Oh, hello. Here’s a coincidence. Master Fowler — good day to you.’ Douglas raises his cup and smiles, politely enough, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. Fowler inclines his head with no obvious warmth. There seems to be some unacknowledged mistrust or animosity between the two Scots, giving the lie to the idea that compatriots far from home will always be drawn to one another. I attempt to convey apology to Fowler with my eyes, but with professional sang-froid he just murmurs, ‘Bruno,’ with a nod, before turning his attention back to Douglas.
