S Parris - Prophecy

The silence persists throughout the house; it is as if the apocalypse has occurred while I was out, the other inhabitants of Salisbury Court gathered up and only I left behind. I do not encounter another soul or hear so much as a footfall on my way to Castelnau’s private office at the back of the house, and when I knock on his door, the only sound is the echo of my knuckles on the wood.

When I push open the door, however, I see a figure outlined against the window; he starts and turns, expectant, and I recognise him as the young man Throckmorton, the courier. When he sees me, his elfin face tightens, wary.

‘Good day, Master Throckmorton. My lord ambassador is out?’ I keep my voice light. I see his eyes flicker for the merest instant to Castelnau’s desk. He bows slightly, and clasps his hands behind his back.

‘The household is hearing Mass at present. I am waiting for him to return.’

‘Ah. You do not join them?’

‘I have only just now arrived,’ he says, and again his gaze strays almost unconsciously to the ambassador’s desk. ‘I was not expected today, so I did not like to interrupt.’ He smiles, but it appears strained.

‘I had thought you on the road to Sheffield,’ I say; our haste in delivering the letters two days ago was, I believed, because Throckmorton rode for Sheffield the following morning. What has happened to delay him — some concern over the correspondence, perhaps?

‘I had to postpone my journey. Unforeseen circumstances. I ride on the second.’ He is cautious with me in his turn. Even here in the embassy, it is wise not to speak too openly. I decide to take a chance.

‘Because of Mendoza’s news?’

‘You know of that?’ He looks immediately suspicious.

‘I was here when he visited Castelnau yesterday.’ I affect a lack of concern, picking up a quill from the ambassador’s desk, turning it between my fingers and replacing it, all the while not looking at him. ‘Interesting developments.’

I glance at Throckmorton; he seems relieved, and visibly relaxes.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he says. ‘With Spanish troops and money, we have a real chance of success. I had not expected King Philip to agree so quickly.’

So my speculation was correct. Throckmorton has the same gleam in his eyes that I observed in Marie de Castelnau when she talked of the glorious enterprise of restoring England to Catholic rule. His smooth face with its clear, wide-set eyes is lit with a boy’s excitement at the prospect of some adventure, his enthusiasm clearly undampened by any personal experience of war or massacre. Where does a young man like this, with his cultured accent, his well-cut doublet of dark green wool and his expensive leather boots, acquire a taste for enforcing his religion with Spanish warships?

‘Your family has suffered a great deal, then, I suppose?’ I lift the lid of an enamelled inkwell and affect to give it all my attention.

‘My family?’ He sounds bemused. ‘Why would you say that?’

I turn to look at him.

‘Only that I imagined all Englishmen who conspire against their queen must have reason to resent the Protestants. Like my lord Howard.’

Throckmorton tilts his head to one side.

‘You don’t think a man would want to fight for his beliefs alone? For what he holds to be true?’

I shrug.

‘It is possible. But revenge or gain are stronger motives, from what I have observed.’

He regards me with suspicion for a moment.

‘Perhaps you have never believed anything with enough passion to fight for it.’

I smile, ignoring the implied slight. It is true, I would like to tell him, that I have never considered the lives of innocent people a price worth paying for any belief of mine, but I must maintain my fiction.

‘I do, of course, or I would not be here. But then I was raised a Catholic. I was only curious as to what makes a young Englishman turn against his own country.’

He looks a little abashed at this; I sense I have touched a sensitive area.

‘My family were all loyal Protestants, Doctor Bruno,’ he says, with a hint of defiance. ‘My uncle, Sir Nicholas, was a diplomat for Elizabeth, in France and Scotland, where he became a friend of Mary Stuart. Though he never shared her faith, he supported her right to succeed Elizabeth and publicly opposed her imprisonment.’

I nod, as if impressed.

‘I studied in France after Oxford,’ he continues, ‘and there I met many Englishmen in exile who favoured the cause of Queen Mary. Through them I was introduced to Madame de Castelnau.’ You might have missed it, if you were not paying close attention, the almost imperceptible softening of his voice. Perhaps he is driven not by revenge, but by subtler motives. I want to smile, but I keep my face earnest and attentive. He would not be the first man — or woman — to change his religion for the sake of desire. Presumably Marie used her considerable powers to draw him into the embassy cabal.

‘So you converted to the Catholic faith in France?’ These seminaries of Rheims and Paris are the thorn in Walsingham’s side, cauldrons of Catholic missionary zeal brewing up plots and conspiracies heated by the youthful rage of English students craving a taste of rebellion. First Fowler, now Throckmorton; both sons of good families, both resisting the prosperous but uninspiring course mapped for them. One becomes a spy, the other a traitor, all in the name of adventure, the desire to prove themselves. I was about this Throckmorton’s age when I defied the Inquisition and fled my monastery in Naples; I cannot pretend that the prospect of risk doesn’t quicken the blood.

‘God by his grace showed me the way to the true Church.’ Throckmorton says this as if it is a phrase he has carefully learned from another language. ‘I came back to England to be of what service I could to Queen Mary’s cause. Madame de Castelnau recommended me to her husband.’ Again, the slight change in tone when he mentions her, the lowering of the eyes, the faint spread of a blush.

‘Do your family suspect?’

‘My father and uncle are both dead. I wish my uncle in particular could have lived to see these times.’ His voice grows wistful. ‘He was suspected of involvement in the Duke of Norfolk’s plans to marry Queen Mary, in ‘69, you know.’

‘Henry Howard’s brother? Really?’ I forget for an instant to disguise my interest, but he is less guarded now that he has warmed to his theme.

‘He was their go-between for a while, I understand. The whole family fell under suspicion for it, but they never found any evidence to charge him. I was fifteen at the time, but I remember it well.’ His face tightens again at the memory.

‘A family tradition, then.’ I smile, to put him at ease, but he barely notices, glancing anxiously past me to the door.

‘If Mendoza does not replace me.’

‘Replace you?’

Throckmorton scowls.

‘He fears my face will become too familiar around Sheffield Castle. He says he’s worried I’ll be searched and the correspondence discovered, so he talks of using one of his own couriers. But they don’t know the terrain like I do, and they don’t know how to get the messages to Mary’s women.’ He bridles at the suggestion; I see he fears being deprived of his role.

‘Perhaps he also wishes to keep his correspondence separate from the French?’ I offer. ‘Maybe he doesn’t trust this embassy, and thinks you are too much Castelnau’s man?’

Again his eyes slide inadvertently to the desk, but he reins them quickly back and begins to pick at a loose thread on his sleeve.

‘This is why I need to speak to the ambassador. There is bad blood between him and Mendoza, as I’m sure you know, but that must not be allowed to infect these plans. I am Mary’s man, if I am anyone’s.’