S Parris - Prophecy

‘Then I will go to him shortly,’ I say, feeling the shape of the bag still pressing against my chest under my jerkin. ‘First I must change my shirt.’

She looks at my collar doubtfully.

‘While you are there, tell him I wish to take lessons in your arcane magical arts.’

‘Madame, there is no magic involved, whatever they say in Paris —‘ I begin, earnestly, but then I catch sight of her impish smile.

‘Oh dear, Bruno — you are too easy to tease. I think I will enjoy our lessons.’

I reply with a curt bow, leaving her standing in a ray of light with her jewels glittering, still laughing to herself.

The velvet bag, when it is opened, reveals the items Abigail mentioned to me before: a gold signet ring with an engraved emblem; a tortoiseshell hand mirror, beautifully smooth; a small glass vial of perfume in the shape of a diamond, of the kind that women wear around their necks, with a gold clasp and a chain attached at the top. Love-tokens, clearly expensive, but what can these trinkets tell me of the story of Cecily Ashe and her lover? One by one, I hold them up to the light and examine them. The ring’s design is of a bird with outstretched wings and a curved beak, an eagle perhaps, and around the edge letters are carved in mirror image, so that they would read true when pressed into warm sealing wax. I frown for a moment, trying to decipher the motto, until I realise it is written in French: Sa Virtu M’Atire . ‘Her virtue draws me’ — or perhaps ‘its virtue’. But the word ‘attire’ is mis-spelled — a curious mistake. You would think if you were having a gold ring engraved, you would make sure the goldsmith carved it correctly; nor would any craftsman worth his fee want the expense of making such an error. So, I think, rotating the ring again while my eye follows the letters around, what appears at first glance to be a mistake must be by design, and therefore perhaps the motto has a hidden or coded meaning. If this is the case, it is not giving itself up to me easily; I am no nearer than Abigail to knowing whose emblem this is, though it seems the giver of the ring had a French connection. That hardly helps, of course — half the nobility have some French ancestry and everyone of the gentry class and above learns at least a few words.

The little mirror is the least interesting object. I turn it over in my hands but it yields nothing; the tortoiseshell is so highly polished that you can see your face almost as well in its swirling patterns of tawny brown as you can in the silvered glass. Frustrated, I put it to one side and open the perfume bottle. Raising it to my nose, I understand immediately Abigail’s complaint. Beneath the scent of rosewater is a hint of something bitter, a sour vegetable smell that makes you wince. But Abigail is wrong about a man’s ignorance of perfume; the giver of these gifts was clearly a man of taste and considerable generosity, so why would he present his love with a perfume that was so obviously unappealing? Tipping the bottle, I wet the end of my finger with a tiny drop of the colourless liquid and raise it to my tongue, but as I am about to taste it, there comes a sudden rap at the door.

‘Bruno? Are you in there?’

Dumas. I scrabble to stuff the gifts back into the velvet bag and in my haste I knock the little mirror to the floor, where it lands with an ominous crack.

‘One moment!’ Cursing silently, I retrieve it and turn it over to see with great relief that the glass has not broken, but the fall seems to have damaged the frame; it feels looser, as if the glass might slip out. But there is no time to look closer; I push the bag under the pillow of my bed and unbolt the door for Dumas. He stands, twisting his hands, with the face of a startled hare.

‘My lord ambassador sends for you. I don’t know what it is about. Do you think he has discovered our …’ he falters, looking for the right word.

‘Business? Well, let’s not immediately jump to the worst conclusion, eh.’ I give him a good clap on the shoulder for encouragement as I pass him in the doorway, though the fact that Castelnau has been looking for me all morning worries me, too. Dumas watches while I lock the door of my bedchamber. Secrets must be guarded closely in this house.

Castelnau looks up from his desk as I enter his private office, and his expression seems serious, though not angry.

‘Bruno! What an elusive man you are. Take a seat, will you?’ He indicates a chair by the empty fireplace, inlaid with tapestry cushions. Dumas hovers behind me, shifting from one foot to the other, as if unsure whether he is expected to stay. ‘Leon, you have work to do, don’t you?’

Dumas scurries back to his small desk in the corner. Castelnau waves a hand in his general direction.

‘Don’t worry about him, Bruno. I have no secrets from Leon — do I, Leon?’ He smiles genially. Dumas makes a noise that is somewhere between a squeak and a cough. I send him a hard stare behind the ambassador’s back. I have never seen a man wear his conscience so plainly on his face; if only Courcelles could give him a few lessons in oily insincerity, our operation would be much the safer.

‘Will you take a glass of wine?’ Castelnau says, reaching for a Venetian decanter on his desk. I decline, claiming the hour is too early. The ambassador looks disappointed; nevertheless, he pours himself a generous glass and pulls up the chair opposite mine. ‘You have been on my mind a great deal these past couple of days, Bruno,’ he begins, then pauses to drink a long draught. ‘I know you will have been troubled by what you heard at dinner the other night.’

‘Unless I have misunderstood, my lord, it sounds very much as if Lord Henry Howard is trying to start a war.’

Castelnau sighs. He looks tired; for the first time since I have known him, he is beginning to show his age. I wonder if this is the effect of the Scottish queen’s intrigues or the return of his wife.

‘You have not misunderstood. My wife, as you have seen, is a great supporter of the Duke of Guise, but I want you to know that I do not favour any such enterprise and nor does King Henri — though he has his own difficulties at the moment. I need you on my side, Bruno, to advocate tolerance, diplomacy, negotiation, when they start up their talk of invasion. Stand with me — we need to remain in their confidence. I am doing my best to urge everyone to be patient.’

‘Perhaps they feel they have been patient long enough.’

‘Hm.’ He tips back his glass and drains it, then shakes his head. ‘If only Elizabeth had not been so stubborn about marrying the Duke of Anjou — then our two countries would have had a solid alliance. But I see now that she was making fools of us all. She has never had any desire for marriage. In that, at least, she shows wisdom.’

He adds this last so vehemently that I suspect he is no longer thinking about the queen. From what I have seen of Marie de Castelnau, I find it hard to imagine that his own marriage gives him any peace of mind.

‘Henry Howard is powerful in this country just as the Duke of Guise is in France,’ Castelnau continues. ‘Powerful enough to make their respective sovereigns afraid. But not as powerful as they would like to be. So now they look for a secret alliance with Spain to fund their plans.’

‘A grand Catholic reconquest.’

‘I know you are no zealot for the Catholic Church, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, leaning forward and fixing me with his large, sad eyes, his glass clasped between his hands. ‘But the tide is turning. The Protestant faith is weakening — in France, in the Netherlands, and in this island too. It flourished for a season, but it couldn’t compete. I would wager that by the end of this troubled century it will be remembered only as an experiment, a warning to our sons and daughters. All the omens point to the coming of a new era. We must be ready.’