S Parris - Prophecy

‘Nor I,’ I add hastily. ‘I only wondered — you know: if he had seduced the girl or forced her.’

Fowler is still looking at me with a curious expression.

‘Now that you mention it — I don’t suppose he would be accounted handsome to women. He has a slight disfigurement — what we call in English a hare lip — and he is rather sickly looking. Not that a spell in the Tower will do much for his looks, either.’ He picks up his beer and we consider this in silence for a moment. Then he leans in closer. ‘But we must concentrate on our own business. Any further news from the embassy, besides these?’ He pats his breast, where he has tucked the letters inside his doublet.

‘Nothing much since last night.’

Leon Dumas and I had walked to Thomas Phelippes’s house after dinner with the packet for Throckmorton to take to Sheffield Castle, Dumas fretting and griping the whole way and continuing to do so all the while Phelippes was expertly removing the seals from Castelnau’s letters to Mary so that we could make our own copies for Fowler to pass on to Walsingham. To my eyes the resealed letters bore no trace of having been intercepted, but Dumas was almost feverish with anxiety when he set off again to Paul’s Wharf to make his delivery; I had to buy him a drink and wait for him to calm down before I was willing to send him on his way.

‘Turn up on his doorstep in this state and you may as well hang a sign around your neck saying “I’ve given all these to the Privy Council first”,’ I told him. Dumas had wrung his hands. ‘What if she can tell they’ve been opened?’ he bleated. ‘Queen Mary, I mean? Castelnau will kill me!’

‘By the time they get to Mary, they will have been through so many people’s hands, how could anyone point to you?’ I sighed. ‘Besides, Castelnau could not kill a soul,’ I added. ‘Although I wouldn’t put it past some of his friends.’

Now, the originals have been taken to Throckmorton in time for his departure tomorrow and Dumas is on his way back to the embassy. Thus far, the system is working smoothly. I wrap my hands around my mug and lower my voice.

‘The ambassador sends Mary a long letter — four pages, all in code. But his clerk has managed to take a copy of the new cipher, so that should be straightforward. It’s in the package you have. And Lord Henry Howard sends her a copy of his book against prophecy in which he signs himself “ votre frere “.’

Fowler nods. ‘How touching. He would have been her brother by marriage, if his own brother’s plot had succeeded. Was there anything concealed inside the book?’

‘No. Phelippes checked when he opened the package.’

Fowler grows thoughtful. ‘Then the book itself must contain some message, or some significance. One of us will have to read it. You are the scholar, I believe.’

I roll my eyes in mock protest. ‘I’ll find myself a copy. At least I will be better armed to argue with him over dinner next time.’

Fowler smiles, but lifts a finger in warning. ‘Be very careful around Howard, Bruno. He believes his family has suffered more than any from the Protestant reforms and he is quite willing to be ruthless in return. The Howards forfeited the lands and titles of the Duchy of Norfolk when his brother was executed, and he has been biding his time for revenge.’

‘And now he wants a war.’

Fowler grimaces.

‘It begins to look that way. None of them really cares about Mary Stuart, they all use her as an excuse to pursue their own interests. But they are quite willing to plunge England into war to achieve them. Has Mendoza visited Salisbury Court yet?’

‘The Spanish ambassador? I am not sure I would recognise him.’

‘Oh, you’ll know Don Bernadino de Mendoza if you see him. Looks like a bear, voice like a war drum. As soon as he comes to speak privately with Castelnau, let me know and I can tell our mutual friend. If Howard and the Duke of Guise can secure Spanish money, all this talk of invasion might grow into more than words.’

‘Isn’t the talk of treason enough, if the queen knew?’

He gives a brisk shake of his head. ‘The queen will not make accusations against Howard or Mary Stuart — nor the ambassadors of France or Spain, for that matter — without absolute proof that they mean her or the country harm. They are all too powerful. And I mean proof that can be held in front of their faces in a court of law. Our friend wants this business to progress far enough that someone spells out their intentions on paper and signs their name to it.’

‘It’s a dangerous game to play.’ I find myself unreasonably irritated by the easy assurance with which he asserts Walsingham’s intentions, as if he is privy to Master Secretary’s innermost thoughts on a daily basis. I recognise also that this is only jealousy on my part; an irrational wish that I were as intimate with Walsingham, or as trusted.

‘Certainly.’ Fowler presses his lips together until they almost disappear. ‘Though it’s no game. I understand from my sources in Paris that Guise is already mustering troops, to be deployed whenever they have the word that England is ready.’

His sources in Paris. He talks as if he is an old hand at this intelligence business, though he can’t be more than twenty-six or —seven.

‘Have you served him long? Our friend, I mean.’

He shrugs.

‘A few years.’

‘And how did you come to be involved in all this?’ I ask, waving a hand vaguely to indicate the web that Walsingham weaves around himself, and which we do not name.

His mouth curves into a half smile.

‘Adventure, at first, I suppose. My father is a respectable Edinburgh burgess who intended me for the law. But when I arrived in Paris a few years ago to pursue my studies, I was surprised by the number of disaffected young Englishmen I found there — converts out of Oxford and Cambridge, tempers running high, all ready to whip up a Catholic rebellion against the English queen.’ He pauses to take a drink. ‘Of course, it’s easy to talk about revolution among your fellows from the safety of a Paris tavern, and it was mostly bluster, but I soon came to see that one or two among them were sincere, and knew something of significance. All I had to do was sit quiet and nod in the right places, and they assumed I was of their mind.’ He glances cautiously around. ‘But I was also sharp enough to realise that what I learned among them might be of considerable value to others, so I waited until I gathered a hoard of useful tidbits and then I presented myself at the English ambassador’s house. It was he who put me in touch with our mutual friend. Afterwards I returned to Scotland and set myself to work cultivating friendships among the few prominent Scottish Catholic lords, those who favour Mary Stuart. I travel back to Edinburgh now and again to keep up with the politics there. It’s essential to our friend to know their intentions, and it seems I have successfully passed myself off among the Catholics there and here as one who supports their cause.’

‘Very enterprising of you.’

He inclines his head as if to say, Perhaps.

‘It was the first time in my life I felt I’d chosen a path for myself, instead of following what my father laid out for me. That was exciting to me.’ He shrugs, implying that I am welcome to think what I like of this.

‘And what of your religion?’

‘Religion?’ He looks surprised. ‘It was never my principal motive, strange as that may sound. Yes, I was raised in the Protestant Church, but I have often felt I have more in common with moderate Catholics than with the more extreme devotees of my own faith. Excessive religion of any kind is dangerous, in my view. Elizabeth Tudor understands this, I think.’