S Parris - Prophecy

‘You had better take care, Bruno,’ he says, eventually, when it becomes clear that I am not going to respond. ‘The reputation you enjoyed in Paris as a black magician already begins to spread in whispers through the English court.’ He gestures at the people around us.

‘I wonder how that could have come about,’ I say, with flat sarcasm.

‘Oh, rumour travels with winged sandals, like Mercury, does it not?’ He smiles like a cat. ‘Stand too close to John Dee and you may find he drags you down with him. There is enough fear and mistrust of stargazers and magicians at court for that. The people clamour to be told the future, then they turn like a pack of dogs on the one who shows them. Even monarchs.’

‘Is that a warning, my lord?’

‘Let us call it a piece of advice.’

‘If I should encounter any stargazers or magicians, I will pass it on.’

He is about to reply, but at this moment the voices of the choir fade to their valedictory note and the assembled crowd erupts into enthusiastic applause. The queen gestures for William Byrd to step up to the dais, where, on bended knee, he is permitted to kiss her extended hand before standing to face the court and take a bow. Amid the continued applause, he leads his choir in procession back through the throng as the high double doors are flung open for their departure.

When the choir has departed, Queen Elizabeth rises to her feet and the court drops as one to its knee, until she holds up a hand and motions for us to stand again. The musicians resume their places and take up a gentle background tune as the queen, assuming a gracious smile, as far as her tight face-paint will allow, arranges her train and beckons her maids to take it up, before stepping down with dignity from the dais; it is apparently her custom after such occasions to take some time to mingle with her subjects, allow them to bow and flatter and even, if they dare, petition her. At this cue, eager courtiers press forward, jostling one another for the chance to exchange a few words with their sovereign. Fortunes have been won and lost on the strength of such brief conversations, if the queen is in a mood to be pleased by a well-turned compliment or an appealing face; it is an opportunity not to be missed, and these Englishmen know it. I watch with growing admiration the way she moves among them; if Leicester has told her that another murder has been committed within the walls of her palace this evening, she gives no sign of it, and her resolve seems designed to ensure that the courtiers and guests gathered in the hall should have no inkling of it either. I notice that Leicester keeps close behind her, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Mendoza appears at Howard’s side, lays a hand on his shoulder and casts a dismissive glance at me.

‘Ah, el hereje,’ he remarks, with a nod, as if it pleases him to have invented a nickname for me. He speaks in Spanish, in a low voice muffled further by his copious beard. ‘Look there, where your ambassador struggles so anxiously for an audience with the English queen.’

I follow the movement of his head to see Castelnau, pushing as politely as he can towards Elizabeth, his expression almost pathetically hopeful as he attempts to catch her eye.

‘He would tread on his own child’s head just for one of her smiles,’ Mendoza sneers. ‘He still thinks he will broker a treaty between France and England, does he not?’ He fixes his small, black eyes on me.

‘I am not the person to ask, senor.’

‘Don’t give me that, Bruno! You were a confidant of the king of France and it pleases the ambassador to involve you in affairs of state, though God only knows why. Tell me — has Castelnau told the French king that Guise is amassing troops against England?’

‘That I do not know.’ I have grown so used to deception that even when I am able to answer a question honestly, I sound implausible. ‘But I think it unlikely.’

‘Why do you say that?’

I hesitate.

‘For the sake of his wife. And because for the moment he would not want to give King Henri more reason to fear the Duke of Guise.’

‘And because he still thinks he can engineer a satisfactory outcome between all parties, no? He imagines he is controlling this enterprise — balancing one set of interests against another?’

‘Perhaps.’ I recall what Fowler had said about Castelnau trying to please too many people.

‘It is touching, his faith in diplomacy.’ Mendoza shakes his head. ‘I shall almost be sorry to see him disillusioned. But you are an astute man, Bruno. Astute enough not to yoke yourself to a monarch whose days are numbered.’

‘Do you mean Elizabeth or Henri?’

‘Either. Both. A new day is dawning. Men like you and Castelnau will need to decide where you stand. If you have any influence over him, you would counsel him well not to let his king hear what is discussed in the embassy. Entendido ?’

He draws himself up to his full imposing height and puffs out his chest, his beard bristling. He does not intimidate me, but I am in no state at present to argue with him. I merely nod my agreement and take the opportunity to slip away backwards into the milling crowd.

‘Bruno.’

I turn in the direction of the murmur, and there, leaning against the wall between the hanging tapestries, is William Fowler, dressed in a neat suit of grey wool, with a matching cap clutched between his hands.

‘What did Howard want?’

‘To remind me again how much he hates me,’ I say, glancing over my shoulder at Howard as he and Mendoza confer, their dark heads together, while the courtiers around them press towards the queen. My head is spinning; I am not sure what to make of my brief exchange with Henry Howard. He must fear that Dee has told me something I could use against him and was warning me that he has the power to bring me and Dee down together, but I cannot escape the implication that he has been watching me closely. The thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle; was it Howard, then, or someone working for him, who saw me with Abigail at the Holbein Gate? Instinctively I glance over my shoulder again; for the first time since this business began, I feel a chill of real fear.

‘But has something happened?’ Fowler whispers, edging closer around the back of a couple of spectators. ‘I saw you come in looking white as a corpse. I wondered if perhaps —‘

I give a tight shake of the head, to indicate that I cannot speak of it there.

‘The queen’s advisors were coming and going half the concert too,’ Fowler persists. ‘I noticed Walsingham leave.’ There is a note of anxiety in his voice, which I recognise because I have felt it myself; it is the fear of missing some important moment, of being left out. This time it is I who know more than him, I who am in Walsingham’s confidence, and despite the circumstances, this pleases me.

‘Bruno, are you all right?’ he persists. ‘You look terrible. Does it have something to do with Howard?’

‘Meet me tomorrow,’ I hiss, through my teeth. ‘Two o’clock. Not the Mermaid — some other place.’

He thinks for a moment, then sidles even closer.

‘The Mitre, Creed Lane. The back room.’ He slips past me as he says this and melts into the crowd in that way of his, like a grey cat into the shadows.

I work my way between shoulders towards Castelnau’s party. The ambassador is still fighting for a position near the queen; Marie and Courcelles are huddled together, whispering. Courcelles is the first to notice me, with a wrinkle of his delicate nose.

‘Where have you been?’ he demands.

I gesture with my head towards the royal party, as if nothing is amiss.

‘Queen Elizabeth herself?’ Marie says, apparently impressed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders with a little shiver. The wind is up over the river, carrying the first scent of frost. The boat’s lanterns sway in time with the soft ripple of the sculls in and out of the water. I think of Abigail’s killer rowing away downriver, leaving her lifeless body floating in the kitchen channel, her red hair spread out around her, waving like water weed.