S Parris - Prophecy

‘I would never willingly cause you pain,’ I begin. My head is aching. ‘But neither do I wish to insult your husband. I don’t know what my choice is, Marie — you want me to become your lover, here, under his roof? Do you think that could ever be managed without the entire household knowing that he was being cuckolded by his house guest? Already, we have Leon Dumas speculating on why you would be coming to my chamber in the dawn, so —‘ I gesture to her flimsy gown, feeling myself blush — ‘so informally attired. There are other servants who would be less discreet. It would be an impossible situation.’

Immediately I know I have said the wrong thing; her face darkens, her eyes flare and she darts a furious glance towards the door, as if Dumas might be standing outside taking notes.

‘You think he would say something to my husband? Or to the other servants? What could he say? I gave him a good reason for my visit, what cause could he have for idle gossip?’ Her voice is tight with anger. I rub my brow. Does she really believe that the household staff would not find it worth commenting on, that the mistress of the house should visit the lodger under cover of darkness, barely dressed, while her ageing husband snores in his bed?

‘Dumas will not say a word, he is a good man and would not want to spread rumours,’ I say, squeezing her arm re assuringly. ‘But you see how it would go for us if there were a story for the servants to tell? You would not want to dishonour your husband in his own house, I’m sure, whatever else you may feel about him.’

She sighs. ‘Michel is a good man. And he adores me, so he is often persuaded to go against his own judgement for my sake. We need him if this invasion is to succeed. You are right, Bruno, I cannot afford to lose his support now.’

This is not exactly the point I have made, but I say nothing.

‘But he is sixty years old, Bruno. He cannot be a husband to me in the way I need. You understand me.’ Her voice grows silky; again, I feel the sharp heat in my groin, the dry throat. ‘I want only to know that you feel the same,’ she adds, her voice barely audible, her eyes reeling me in.

‘I — you must know that I do,’ I say, thinking that this is the only politic answer. If I reject her outright, she will see that I am sent back to Paris; she has as good as said so. ‘But you are right. I do not want to see the invasion plans fail because we could not set aside our own selfish desires for a short while. Your husband’s support is essential and he must not be distracted at this stage. It would let everyone down.’

She regards me with genuine surprise, which turns slowly to cautious approval.

‘You know, I had wondered about your commitment to the invasion plan, Bruno. I confess that there were those among us who have doubted the truth of your loyalty to the Catholic interest — Howard and the Earl of Arundel, Claude, even me at times. I am glad to hear you prove them wrong.’

I incline my head in acknowledgement.

‘And as for the other matter,’ she says with a secret smile, lowering her voice again, ‘if you mean it, then we will find a way. The Duke of Guise will have no use for my husband in any case, once Mary Stuart is queen of England and Guise has asserted power in Paris.’

Her certainty about this future Catholic empire, and the ease with which she talks of disposing of her husband, chill me, even while my body remains in thrall to her proximity. I regard her with a fascinated revulsion, as she leans forward and kisses me softly, though chastely, on the mouth. I neither respond nor withdraw but remain perfectly impassive, at least outwardly, hoping that I have bought myself a little more time.

‘Speak to your friend the clerk,’ she says imperiously, at the door. ‘Make sure he doesn’t say a word.’

‘I will.’

She gives me a last, knowing smile, pouts a kiss and pauses in the doorway for a moment, glancing to left and right along the corridor to make sure she is not seen. Then she is gone, leaving the door banging behind her and a trace of ambergris perfume in the air of my room. I wash my hands slowly over my face and sit on the bed to compose myself. Balancing my interests here with regard to Marie and her husband will demand greater feats of diplomacy from me than anything the ambassador himself could face at court. In the meantime, I must corner Dumas alone and draw from him the rest of his garbled confession about Mary Stuart’s ring.

I have no opportunity during the rest of the morning; once I have broken my fast, I take a book and lurk as unobtrusively as I may in the passage that leads to Castelnau’s office, in the hope that Dumas will emerge at some point so that I can accost him. But the ambassador must have him tethered to his desk, for there is no sign of him for the best part of two hours, though Courcelles passes me twice on his way to and from a consultation with the ambassador; both times he looks me up and down pointedly and asks if I have sufficient light to read, and if I would not be more comfortable in the gallery? The third time he appears, he offers to interrupt Castelnau and send me in; hurriedly, I assure him I have no wish to bother the ambassador, and slink away to my room, Courcelles watching me retreat with his usual shrewd-eyed face of suspicion.

No matter; I will catch Dumas’s eye when the household gathers at midday for dinner. My head still aches badly but the wound is mending well. In the absence of anything useful to be done until I can lure him out from under the ambassador’s nose, I attempt to work a little on some notes for my book, but my mind will not fix on anything besides Dumas’s story and the line of Marie de Castelnau’s collar bone. So it was Dumas who took the ring. He spoke of money and greed; did he then spy the ring when Mary’s correspondence with Howard came through Castelnau’s office, and take his opportunity to pocket it and sell it on? Then whoever bought it from him was either the person who gave it to Cecily Ashe, or one link nearer to that person. Inwardly, I curse Marie again for her ill-timed appearance and for her unwanted attentions, even as I almost smile at the irony; never, during my lonely years as a Dominican monk, did I imagine the day would come when I would curse a beautiful woman for believing herself in love with me. But I fear her visit this morning will make Dumas’s life difficult too; I don’t believe he is given to gossiping among the servants, and in any case, he is too fearful at the moment to dare risk offence. His face when Marie entered was a mask of pure terror; for her part, she was clearly furious to have been caught out in her illicit venture, and will find it hard to believe that Dumas can be trusted. There are more than enough stories of servants attempting to extort money from their masters over such matters. I can only hope she will not take it into her head to pre-empt anything he might say by trying to discredit him with Castelnau. I push my papers away and prop my elbows on the desk, leaning my head on my hands. Marie’s unwanted interest in me has now made Dumas’s position as well as my own vulnerable to her whims.

These thoughts, and multiple variations on them, keep me occupied until the hour of dinner, when I am surprised and a little alarmed to find Dumas not present. The meal is simple, boiled chickens with a stew of vegetables, as Castelnau and his wife are invited in the evening to the supper at Arundel House that Fowler had mentioned, hosted by the Earl of Arundel and Henry Howard. There has been no mention yet of my being invited, though I am almost frantic to have myself included; what better means of studying Howard and his nephew at close quarters? But I can hardly beg the ambassador to take me in front of his wife and secretary. Courcelles’s idle chatter at table makes clear that he will be in attendance this evening. He is almost the only person who makes conversation over dinner; the ambassador seems withdrawn and anxious, and only speaks to affirm some piece of business or answer one of his questions. Marie sits at her husband’s right hand, but keeps her eyes pointedly fixed on me from under her lashes, so determinedly that I am obliged to keep my own on my plate so it doesn’t look as if we are engaged in some kind of staring contest. Whenever I glance up and her gaze locks on to mine, she gives me a secret smile — one that does not escape Courcelles, I notice, whose glowering I also affect to ignore.