S Parris - Prophecy

At that moment the figure watching from the house detaches himself from the wall and is revealed to be Claude de Courcelles, his blond hair reflecting shards of light as he bounces down the steps towards us.

‘Madame — your daughter is looking for you to begin her lessons.’ He effects a fussy little bow, impeded by his ruff, and sends me a scathing glance. Marie tosses her head and tuts.

‘Where is her governess? She should be dealing with her. Can I not have a moment’s peace?’ With a rustle of satin, she hitches up her skirts to climb the steps to the house. ‘By the way, Courcelles,’ she says airily, over her shoulder, ‘Bruno is thinking of marrying the Scottish queen. What do you say to that?’

‘My congratulations.’ The secretary offers me a thin smile, hard as ice. ‘Although you may find she prefers a gentleman of independent means .’

‘I hear she is not that choosy,’ Marie calls from the doorway. ‘Apparently she is monstrously fat these days.’

Courcelles and I watch her lithe figure disappear into the recesses of Salisbury Court and exchange a glance. With exaggerated courtesy, he gestures for me to lead the way.

‘You’ve heard the news from court, I suppose?’ Fowler says in his lilting accent, as I slide into the settle opposite him at the Mermaid. The tavern spans the fork between Friday Street and Bread Street on Cheapside, east of the great church of St Paul’s, and is popular with merchants and professionals; most of the men crowded around the wooden tables are dressed in well-cut cloth with feathers in their caps and meet here to argue over deals and contracts, shipments, lawsuits, loans. Behind the hubbub of lively conversation and the occasional oath you catch the chink of coins. The air is warm and yeasty; after casting my eyes around for some moments I have found the Scotsman tucked into a table at the back of the tap-room, sitting in a spill of sunlight scored with diamond shadows from the window panes. The high-backed wooden settles effectively barricade us in our corner from any prying eyes or sharp ears. When I shake my head, he leans in closer, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. ‘I was at Whitehall this morning. They have arrested Sir Edward Bellamy for the murder of the queen’s maid.’

‘Really? Was he the girl’s lover, then?’

‘He says not, but it turns out to be his clothes she was wearing when they found her. The young fool forgot that his monogram was embroidered on the shirt.’

‘But he denies the murder?’

‘Naturally. He says they were old clothes the girl asked him to sell her, but apart from that they had barely spoken before. It’s true that it’s an old trick these maids use for slipping out in disguise, but it seems he is not believed about the rest. They have dragged him kicking and screaming to the Tower and the girl’s father has ridden down from Nottingham breathing hellfire and demanding satisfaction. Poor fellow will have made a loss on his investment.’

Fowler makes a grim face and sits back while a serving girl arrives to fill our pots of beer from an earthenware jug. She attempts to exchange pleasantries but soon concludes that my companion and I are too sober and dull to be out for any merriment. When she has gone, he raises his beer towards me.

‘Your good health, Doctor Bruno. I am glad we finally have the chance to talk. I have heard glowing reports of you from our mutual friend.’ He arches his eyebrow to indicate the secrecy that binds us.

‘Likewise, Master Fowler.’ I clink the pot briefly with his. He gives a curt nod, indicating the table with his eyes, and slides one hand underneath it on to his lap. It takes me a moment to understand him; feeling a little foolish, I draw from inside my doublet the copies of Castelnau’s letters lately made at the house of Thomas Phelippes and slip them across my lap into Fowler’s waiting palm. With practised fingers, he tucks them deftly away inside his clothes and wraps both hands around his tankard of beer. I glance briefly over my shoulder around the tavern, but the exchange appears to have gone unnoticed.

‘Thank you. I shall take these back to Whitehall this afternoon,’ he murmurs, barely audible.

‘May I ask you something?’

‘Please.’ He opens his hands in a welcoming gesture.

‘What exactly do you do at court?’

For the first time, he laughs, and his face relaxes. His fringe falls across his forehead again as he dips his head and he pushes it back, revealing keen blue eyes.

‘I make myself useful. You know how it works at the English court — the same as anywhere else, I suppose. Noblemen send their sons to recommend themselves to the queen in the hope of advancement. The difficulty is that there is only one queen and dozens of hopeful courtiers all chasing her favour.’ He pauses to take a draught. ‘So you end up with a lot of young gentlemen who have nothing to do all day but hang about the galleries and halls in the hope that the queen might pass by at some point and take notice of them. In the meantime, there is ample opportunity for them to gamble away their fathers’ money, or trap themselves in a hasty marriage because they’ve got some girl with child, or bluster their way into dangerous duels. And when they find themselves in trouble, they are often too afraid or ashamed to ask their fathers for help.’

‘Which is where you come in.’

‘Which is where I come in. They are very inexperienced in the world, some of these young lads, and often lonely — they want advice and someone to listen. And I have good connections in the City — I know lawyers who can make unwanted marriage contracts go away, find solutions to bad debts, that kind of thing. People who can arrange loans discreetly. This way, I learn everybody’s business around the court, their affairs, their complaints, their alliances, sometimes even the state of their souls. All those snippets of information that interest our mutual friend.’

‘I can see how that would be useful. And they trust you, these courtiers?’

‘They are grateful to me. I am known to keep a confidence. But I suspect at least half of them don’t even remember my Christian name, which is all to the good.’

I regard him with interest. His face is beardless, his hair mid-brown and his skin pale. Only his eyes are particularly memorable; they burn with an intense light, sharp and alert. With his soft manners, he melts easily into the back ground, the ideal observer. I begin to understand his value to Walsingham.

‘But with all the confidences that come your way, you heard nothing to make you suspect this Sir Edward before he was arrested?’ I ask, keeping my voice low.

‘He was one who lived quietly. He always seemed a gentle sort.’ Fowler looks perplexed for a moment, then drains his pot and raises a hand for more beer.

‘Do they suspect a religious motive for the killing?’

‘I know no more than I have told you. Apparently he has a cousin who was once fined for refusing to attend church, but then most families have one of those. Edward Bellamy was not among those suspected of dangerous papist leanings, if that’s what you mean. But I dare say they will get a confession from him in the Tower, one way or another. They will want this business wrapped up quickly so the queen may sleep easy in her bed.’

His fingers curl slowly into a fist and stretch out again as he says this; I wince. It is better not to think about what they do in the Tower. In the summer I saw a prisoner after the interrogators had finished with him; death would have come as a blessing. This thought triggers another memory.

‘Is he a handsome man, this Sir Edward?’ I ask, as the serving girl reappears with her jug. Fowler looks surprised, and amused.

‘I can’t say I’ve considered him in those terms. It’s not how I usually assess young men.’