S Parris - Prophecy

‘The respectful way to invade a country and depose its sovereign — you may have to remind me how that goes.’

Castelnau smiles, but his heart is not in it. He looks so drawn that I fear he may have taken some serious sickness.

‘You know what I mean, Bruno. Just do your best to curb my wife’s zeal for disembowelling Protestants when the glorious day comes.’ Another sigh wracks his chest. He presses his hands to his mouth as if in prayer and for a long while he stares straight ahead in silence, apparently focused on nothing. I am not sure whether I am dismissed or not, and am about to clear my throat when he suddenly says, ‘Do you think my wife is making a cuckold of me, Bruno?’

‘Your wife?’ I repeat, like a fool, while my mind scrambles to catch up with the question.

‘Marie. She has a lover, I am certain of it.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I ask, carefully. He is shrewd enough to try and catch me off-guard, if it is me he suspects. As so often, I harden my face into an absence of expression.

‘I have suspected since she returned from Paris. Her moods — she has often seemed flighty, easily distracted. Younger, I suppose.’ He scratches at his beard. ‘Marie has not come willingly to my bed since Katherine was born, and I am not the kind of husband to demand her submission. But she is young still. I forget this sometimes. It was inevitable, I suppose.’

‘But — you have some evidence of her infidelity?’ I ask.

‘The other night — it was foolish of me,’ he begins, not meeting my eye. ‘I had another wakeful night and I felt — not unreasonably, I think — that I was entitled to some comfort from my own wife.’ He says all this to the backs of his hands. Castelnau has a strong sense of personal dignity; it must be painful to him to share a story which ends with his own humiliation. For a moment I wonder why he is telling me all this, if not to accuse me. ‘I don’t usually abase myself to her in that way, but — as you say, the pressure …’ He tails off sadly, his head still bowed.

‘And so —‘ I prompt, after another silence.

‘I went to her chamber. I knocked, tentatively. I don’t think I even entertained thoughts of lying with her then — I only wanted some gentleness, a woman’s touch. A soft hand on my brow. Not too much to ask of one’s wife, is it, Bruno?’

I remember vividly the touch of that hand on my own brow only hours earlier; my skin prickles with the memory of it. I shake my head.

‘Not at all, my lord.’

He pauses again and takes a breath, as if steeling himself for the next part.

‘She was with someone?’

‘No. Well, possibly. She was not there, was the point. Not in her own bed.’

‘So where was she?’

‘I don’t know, Bruno,’ he says, his voice edged with im patience. ‘I didn’t comb the house to find out whose bed she was in. It was enough that she was not in her own. Who knows if she was even in the house at all?’

‘Perhaps she got up in the night to tend to her daughter, then?’ I offer.

Castelnau gives me a sceptical look.

‘You don’t know my wife very well, do you, Bruno?’ he says. ‘She has never been that kind of mother. Katherine has a nurse who sleeps in her chamber. Perhaps I should employ one for Marie as well.’

‘Do you suspect anyone?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

He shakes his head.

‘Anyone and everyone now, Bruno. You have seen my wife. She conducts herself as if to give every man some hope of success — I do not blame her for this, it is just her manner. She is an accomplished flirt — I cannot pretend this was not what drew me to her in the first place. Henry Howard pays her court, of course, but I had thought enough of his probity to believe that he wanted only to secure her support in religious matters. I don’t know, Bruno. I suspect everyone from the kitchen boy to the Earl of Arundel to my own clerk.’ He gestures towards Dumas’s empty chair, then rests his elbows on the desk and presses his forehead into his hands. ‘Watch her for me tonight, will you? If I am not present, she may behave with less restraint. You may glimpse to whom she shows improper affection.’

With difficulty, I drag my thoughts back from Marie’s sinuous body pressing against me, her hand on my chest. Poor Castelnau. Whatever the temptation or the consequences, I determine that I will not be the one to confirm his suspicions.

‘My lord ambassador, I will do as you wish. But if I might advise — there is no profit in allowing yourself to be tormented by phantoms. While you have no proof against Marie, confine your worries to real problems.’

He smiles thinly.

‘You counsel well, Bruno.’ He reaches unexpectedly across the desk and places one of his large, black-furred hands over mine. ‘I don’t mind telling you this now, but I did not want you in my house at first, though you were under the patronage of my sovereign. Supporting a known heretic, under my roof! I thought you had played upon Henri’s weak nature to win his affection. But I quickly conceded my error. You are a good man, Bruno, and I am gladder than ever that you were sent to my house. There is no one in England I would confide in so readily.’ He gives my hand a squeeze.

‘Thank you. I am honoured.’ But I must look away first. I am not the good man he believes me to be, and his confidences, that I so readily pass on to Walsingham, may well be his downfall. But at least, I tell myself, I am not the one having his wife. ‘Where is Leon?’ I ask casually, nodding towards the empty desk.

‘Leon? Oh, I sent him out this morning to catch Throckmorton before he left for Sheffield. I have written a personal letter to Queen Mary, refuting Howard’s accusations and assuring her of my personal loyalty. I do not want Mary to believe this embassy is not fit to handle her secret correspondence. And I do not want to be sidelined in this enterprise in favour of Mendoza. We must avoid that at all costs.’ He sets his jaw and glances again at Dumas’s chair. ‘I had expected Leon back by dinner time. I hope he has not taken advantage of an unscheduled outing to stop off in a tavern. I don’t want him ending up in your state.’

‘I don’t think that is Leon’s way,’ I say mildly, though I feel a distinct pricking of unease. Where is Dumas? Where might he have gone in his over-wrought mood? I dig my nails into the palm of my hand; if only Marie had not interrupted his confession.

‘No, you are right,’ Castelnau says, pushing his chair back and crossing to the door. ‘There are plenty of clerks who would, mind. I am fortunate in Leon — he is a diligent boy, if a little prone to nerves. Well, Bruno,’ he says, holding the door open for me, ‘thank you for listening to an old man’s troubles.’

‘My lord ambassador,’ I murmur, inclining my head.

He smiles, his face seeming to collapse inwards under the weight of tiredness.

‘Tonight, Bruno, you will be my ambassador. Don’t let me down.’

As the door closes behind me, Courcelles appears out of the shadows in the corridor a little too quickly.

Arundel House, London

2nd October, Year of Our Lord 1583

Wind gusts sideways across the river, scuffing the brown water into serried rows of white peaks, buffeting the ambassador’s private wherry and making its lantern swing wide arcs of orange light as dusk and the swollen clouds seem to press a lid down over the city of London.

The Earl of Arundel’s town residence is one of these grand red-brick houses bristling with tall chimneys whose abundant lawns stretch down to the river’s edge, where a high wall keeps them from the sight, if not the smell, of the Thames and its motley traffic. Though only a short distance upriver from Salisbury Court, the journey provides ample time for Courcelles to make clear his feelings about my role this evening.