S Parris - Prophecy

Douglas shoulders his way through the press of damp bodies sheltering from the cloudburst, calling for beer as a put-upon girl eases past, splashing from the four tankards she carries, two in each hand, and cursing as she does so.

‘Watch you don’t get your pockets picked in here,’ he says to me, over his shoulder, then he pauses, looks over my head across the other side of the room, makes a face and mutters, ‘Fuck.’ When he reaches a corner table, he motions to the other drinkers to shove up along the bench, let us sit down; grumbling, they obey. There is something oddly compelling about Douglas’s presence; though I don’t like him, neither do I want to be on the wrong side of him, and since he is so entangled with the conspirators at Salisbury Court, it would be foolish of me not to use this opportunity to take a close look at him. Still, I can’t escape the sense that it is he who has decided to take a look at me.

When we are seated and drinks set in front of us, he leans in, beckoning me closer.

‘You’ll never guess who I just saw over the other side of the room.’ Without waiting for me to answer, he breathes, in a gust of beer fumes, ‘William Fowler.’

‘Fowler? Really?’ I concentrate on the tankard in front of me. Poor Fowler. I wonder if he noticed me come in with Douglas, having kept him waiting for more than half an hour. I can only hope he understands that, in our business, plans have to change at a moment’s notice.

‘Aye. What do you make of him?’

‘Who, Fowler?’ Douglas’s question pulls my attention back; he is tilted forward eagerly, and his eyes are fixed sharply enough on mine. I shrug. ‘I barely know him. He seems like a quiet sort.’

‘Aye.’ Douglas nods, and takes a noisy draught. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? Keeps to himself, right enough.’ He taps the table with an ink-stained forefinger. ‘My lord Howard suspects someone is tampering with the correspondence. To Queen Mary, I mean.’

‘What makes him say that?’ I am forced to lean nearer to him; between his Scots accent and my Italian one, and the general hubbub of talk in the tavern, the conversation is not easy to follow.

‘He says there are things missing. Disappearing, you know. So he concludes someone has a hand in the packets that come from Sheffield Castle.’

‘What things?’

Douglas shakes his head. ‘Letters and packets that should have come to him from Mary. He didn’t say any more than that. But naturally he’s looking at Salisbury Court.’ He lets this fall casually, glancing away to the next table as he says it, but immediately my sinews stiffen.

‘Howard has no reason to suspect anyone at the embassy,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. Bitter experience has taught me that when you are accused of anything, regardless of whether you are innocent or guilty, it is almost impossible to deny the accusation without sounding as though you are protesting too hard. It was for this reason that I chose to run away from my monastery rather than stay and face an interrogation by the Father Inquisitor.

Douglas laughs aloud then, a big open-throated guffaw.

‘Come now, Bruno, don’t pretend to be simple. You’re famed for defying the Holy Office. You’re a defrocked monk, for Christ’s sake! As far as Howard is concerned —‘ here he lowers his voice — ‘you’re an enemy of the Catholic faith, not an ally. I’m not saying that’s my view, I just think you should know what Howard feels. He’s furious with Castelnau for allowing you into those meetings at the embassy.’

‘Well, I hate to disappoint him, but my first loyalty now is to whoever puts a roof over my head and bread in my hand.’

‘Aye, I’ll drink to that,’ he says ruefully, raising his tankard.

‘I know nothing of Mary’s letters, save what I learn around the table with the rest of you.’ I look him in the eye as frankly as I know how. ‘Are you of the Catholic faith yourself?’

A smile curves one side of his mouth.

‘Aye. I suppose you could say I’ve thrown my lot in with the Catholics. But I think of myself as a pragmatist. I know how to read the weather, my friend, and I don’t need any stargazer or ancient prophecy to tell me Elizabeth’s star is waning.’ He glances suddenly to each side, but no one appears to be paying attention to our conversation. ‘I know how to make my services indispensable to those on the way up, then I call in the favours when they’re established. Henry Howard has no illusions about my piety, but he knows I wouldn’t jeopardise my own position. Queen Mary vouches for me and that’s good enough for him. No — it’s Fowler I’ve wondered about. He has a lot of friends at court. Castelnau thinks that works in our favour, but I have my doubts.’

‘I heard you already made yourself indispensable to Queen Mary once,’ I say, partly to change the subject. Too much speculation on Fowler’s trustworthiness among the regulars at Salisbury Court could lead to unwelcome attention.

He grins broadly then, slapping his hand on the table and calling across the melee for more drink.

‘You refer to the unfortunate and untimely death of Queen Mary’s late second husband, Lord Darnley, at Kirk o’Field, I take it?’ He drains his tankard and then regards its empty interior with mild disappointment for a moment. ‘It is said they found my shoes at the scene the next morning. Is that proof, I ask you? Could have been anyone’s shoes — it’s not as if I’d embroidered my bloody name on them. But you try telling that to the Privy Council of Scotland. Of course, there was my erstwhile servant who testified against me on the scaffold, but a man will say anything with a rope around his neck, won’t he? Ah, thank you, my lovely.’ He turns the beam of his smile upon the serving girl, who sets down two new pots of beer before us. I have barely touched my first, but he appears not to have noticed.

‘What was the story about the pie?’ I ask.

Another great bark of laughter.

‘Ah, the pie. I’ll tell you. Mary Stuart, when she learned her husband was dead, invited a host of ladies to attend a ball at her court and they danced the night long, all of them stark naked ,’ he whispers, pausing for effect. ‘And you know what they did next? Cut off all their hair.’

‘Their hair?’ I repeat, frowning.

‘On their quims, you numpty.’ He gestures to his crotch, in case I am in any doubt. ‘Then they put the hair inside a fruit pie and fed it to the gentlemen guests, for their amusement. That’s the woman they want to put on the throne.’ He pushes his fringe out of his eyes and nods, apparently delighted with his tale.

‘Is that true?’

He lays a hand flat over his heart.

‘True as I’m sitting here, son.’

‘Gentlemen. I bid you good afternoon. I thought it was you.’

I start and look up at the unexpected voice; Fowler has appeared through the shifting huddle of damp coats to stand by our table. He smiles uncertainly.

‘Oh, hello. Here’s a coincidence. Master Fowler — good day to you.’ Douglas raises his cup and smiles, politely enough, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. Fowler inclines his head with no obvious warmth. There seems to be some unacknowledged mistrust or animosity between the two Scots, giving the lie to the idea that compatriots far from home will always be drawn to one another. I attempt to convey apology to Fowler with my eyes, but with professional sang-froid he just murmurs, ‘Bruno,’ with a nod, before turning his attention back to Douglas.

‘What brings you here, Archie?’ he asks.

‘Oh, business,’ Douglas says airily. ‘Always business, Fowler, you know me. And our friend Bruno has been browsing for books in Paul’s Churchyard. Speaking of which —‘ he reaches inside his doublet and pulls out a sheet of paper, folded and crumpled — ‘did either of you see this?’ He smooths it out on the table before him; another pamphlet, this time with a woodcut of the astrological sign of Saturn. Douglas pushes it across to me and I open it, with Fowler reading over my shoulder. Inside is a crude drawing of a dead woman, a sword protruding from her breast. The gist of the text is that the second murder of a royal maid must be read as a clear sign from God that Elizabeth’s reign, and with it what the anonymous writer calls the ‘Protestant experiment’, is nearing its end. The killings, with their markings that so clearly refer to the Great Conjunction and its apocalyptic prophecies, are signs of God’s wrath towards the heretic queen, who in her rebellion against God looks for guidance to magicians and servants of the Devil like John Dee rather than to the wisdom of the pope. If it is not the Devil himself carrying out these murders by his own hand, then it is certainly someone moved and guided by Satanic powers.