S Parris - Prophecy

Mary’s or Marie’s, I wonder.

‘Well, then, I shall leave you in peace to wait for him,’ I say, moving towards the door.

‘What about you, Doctor Bruno?’

‘Me?’ The question stops me as I reach for the latch, and the roots of my hair prickle; I turn to find his pale eyes fixed on me, questioning.

‘Yes. Whose man are you?’

‘King Henri of France,’ I say, as lightly as I can. ‘He is my patron while I live in England, and I will give myself to whatever cause his ambassador believes to be in France’s best interest.’

He studies me for a moment through narrowed eyes.

‘Then for you it is a matter of politics, not religion? Restoring Mary to her throne, I mean?’

I smile.

‘If there are men whose religion is free of politics, Throckmorton, they are not to be found in the embassies of Europe. They are probably in a desert cave somewhere, praying and wearing animal skins.’

He laughs at this, and gives a little bow as I take my leave, hoping that I have assuaged any doubts he might have harboured about me, at least for the moment. I retrace my steps through empty corridors towards the back of the house, to the small annexe that Castelnau’s predecessor converted into the embassy’s private chapel. Queen Elizabeth permits the celebration of Mass within the embassies of those countries who still cleave to Rome, but participation is strictly limited to embassy staff and servants, and foreign nationals baptised in the Catholic faith. In practise, the embassy chapels are crowded with those English Catholics, friends of the ambassadors, for whom taking the sacrament in their own houses would be punishable by imprisonment or death.

I take up a position in a window seat opposite the door of the chapel and wait so that I can observe them leave. Among my duties for Walsingham I am expected to note who attends Mass here and pass on any unexpected visitors. A slow monotone is just audible from inside, the words indistinct, punctuated at intervals by the muffled responses of the communicants. A fly buzzes idly against the glass, lemon-coloured light pours through in oblique lines, illuminating the rushes on the floor.

Minutes pass, I lose track of how many, the intonations continue, then silence falls and finally the door opens and they pour out, whispering among themselves with a slightly frantic relief like children released from school: the butler, the housekeeper, the cook, the rest of the household servants. Then those who were sitting nearer the altar: Courcelles, Archibald Douglas (which surprises me; I had not known he attended Mass), Lord Henry Howard, naturally, and behind him, a tall young man with a long, equine face and high forehead, then Castelnau and his wife, followed by a diffident Spanish priest, who scuttles by with his head lowered and his hands clasped before him. Though Mass is legal for those who live here, they all carry themselves as if they have been caught out in some immorality, glancing sidelong at me and scurrying past with downcast eyes; all except Marie, who flashes me a coquettish smile.

‘Ah, Bruno — I’m afraid you’ve missed Mass today,’ the ambassador says, pausing with an apologetic smile, as if it were his fault; Courcelles offers a derisive snort.

‘My apologies — I have only just come in,’ I say, with a brief bow. ‘Throckmorton is waiting in your office, my lord.’

‘Throckmorton?’ Castelnau stops abruptly and exchanges a look with Howard. ‘What on earth?’

I only shrug and shake my head.

‘He has some urgent matter to discuss, I suppose.’

‘Then I had better hear it.’ Castelnau quickens his pace.

Howard pauses to glower at me, his gaze scanning me from head to foot with his now-familiar contempt. I meet his eye, because I want him to know that I am not intimidated either by his person or his position, and as I do so a sudden anger burns in me at the idea of this man coolly hiring thugs to attack Doctor Dee and his servant on the road from Oxford, the idea of him poring over the stolen book by the light of a candle, intent on the pursuit of immortality. But this, too, is only speculation; I compose my expression. Howard looks away and my attention shifts to the young man with him. He appears in his mid-twenties, expensively dressed in a velvet doublet with a wide starched ruff like any other courtier of his age, but there is something unexpectedly familiar about his face, with its thin moustache that looks as if it has been painted on with a fine brush.

‘Haven’t we met?’ I ask him, when he turns and meets my stare with his dark eyes. He seems surprised to be so bluntly addressed; behind him, Howard draws a sharp breath at my breach of etiquette. The young man’s hesitation is so slight as to almost go unnoticed, except that he bites his lip and his eyes flit away from mine for the space of a blink.

‘I don’t think we have had the pleasure of being introduced,’ he replies. His voice is politely bland.

‘My nephew Philip Howard, Earl of Arundel,’ Howard says brusquely; then, gesturing to me, ‘this is the ambassador’s house guest, Giordano Bruno, the Neapolitan.’ He says ‘house guest’ as if he were presenting me as Castelnau’s whore. The young man nods and offers an expressionless smile, and it is then that I place him: he was one of the two young courtiers that shoved past me and Abigail yesterday at the Holbein Gate. Not the one who called me a Spanish whoreson, but the tall friend who stopped him from coming back and adding injury to his insult. I am certain that the young earl recognises me too; maybe he denies it out of embarrassment at his friend’s behaviour. Englishmen love to abuse foreigners in the street, as I have learned more times than I can count since I arrived, but here, as the guest of a foreign embassy, perhaps he prefers not to be associated with such bravado. I only bow, and say nothing.

‘Oh, Bruno — I almost forgot,’ Castelnau says, turning back as he reaches the end of the corridor. ‘Tomorrow there is to be a grand concert at the Palace of Whitehall, with new music by Master Byrd sung by the choir of the Chapel Royal. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth has graciously invited all the ambassadors of the countries of Catholic Europe, perhaps in order to demonstrate that while she retains such a prominent Catholic as her court Master of Music, she cannot be regarded as an enemy of the faith.’

He smiles; Howard grunts his disdain.

‘In any case,’ Castelnau continues, flapping a hand to show he is in a hurry, ‘Marie and I would be glad if you would accompany us. I have been remiss in not presenting you at court sooner.’

I open my mouth to thank him, but he is already sweeping on his way to Throckmorton. I lean against the wall. To be officially introduced to the court of Elizabeth, perhaps even to the queen herself — what might this mean for me? In the end, I reflect, I am no different from any of the young courtiers Fowler described, hanging about vainly hoping for that source of all patronage and benefit to shine the beams of her favour in my direction. But there is also the possibility that I could make contact with Abigail, warn her of what Dee found in the vial of perfume, press her again for anything more she might remember. The key to this mystery lies at the heart of Elizabeth’s court, in its most intimate chambers, and now I have the chance to take at least one step closer to that inner sanctum.

Palace of Whitehall, London

30th September, Year of Our Lord 1583

Lamps are lit on either side of the stairs, though it is not yet dusk, the sun hanging low over the city to the west, scattering amber light over the water. Marie steps lightly down to the boat, a short cloak of white fur wrapped around her shoulders over her evening gown of peacock green silk, her hand resting lightly on her husband’s arm as she skips from the last step into the craft; her clear laugh rings out as she almost loses her balance and clutches at the hand of one of the oarsmen to steady herself. She seems giddy tonight, bubbling with high spirits, flushed with the prospect of an evening at court. Hardly surprising, I think; she is a beautiful woman, with the blush of youth still on her skin, who loves more than anything to be admired, and there is little enough opportunity for that around Salisbury Court. No wonder she feels the need to exercise her charms on me and Courcelles. The ambassador’s secretary steps down to stand beside me now, watching Castelnau and his wife as they settle themselves into the embassy barge for the trip upriver to Whitehall. He is dressed in some fussy suit of dark red; an evening breeze with just a catch of autumn chill lifts his fine blond hair away from his face, and I notice again how exceptionally handsome he is, though I find something too feminine about his full mouth, his almost beardless chin, his laconic pout. He glances sideways at me and back to the river.