S Parris - Prophecy

‘That is my lord of Arundel’s private library,’ he says, almost without moving his lips. ‘Please, let us not delay. The earl and my lord Howard are expecting you.’ I do not miss the emphasis on ‘private’, but my heart is hammering in my throat as I glance back at the door. Before we reach the end of this passageway, the steward knocks for the sake of formality on a door set into the panelling and proceeds with a bow into a warmly lit room, not broad but with a high decorated ceiling and two tall windows, reaching almost from the floor to the top of the panelled walls. Here a long table is set with silverware and wrought branching candlesticks, all reflecting skittering beads of light from the flames. I note, with relief, that the stone floor is thickly scattered with scented rushes. This is exactly as I had hoped. We are late, it seems; the party is already gathered and, as we enter, the gentlemen rise to greet us. Philip Howard moves from his seat, his hand outstretched. Beside him, a shaggy white dog, a Talbot hound by its appearance, stands warily, its nose thrust forward quivering, almost the height of its master’s hip.

‘Madame de Castelnau, Seigneur de Courcelles, bien-venus ,’ he says, with a graceful bow. ‘And Master Bruno. Benvenuto .’

‘Be sure to give Bruno his proper title, Philip,’ Henry Howard remarks, sitting down again, having barely risen in the first place. ‘He is a doctor of theology, and he is most offended when people forget. Dear God, Bruno — what has happened to your head? I had heard of your reputation as a brawler, but I thought you had left that behind in Italy along with your religious vows.’

I touch my fingertips to the wound at my temple — much improved since the day before, but still a raised welt of dried blood that must have looked alarming.

‘You should see the other fellow,’ I say.

Philip smiles uncertainly. I sense that he feels a familial obligation to treat me with disdain, but does not quite share his uncle’s conviction in the matter. I incline my head politely in return. I am not surprised to find that it is Henry Howard and not the young earl who takes the head of the table. Though the Duchy of Norfolk was forfeit when Henry’s brother the duke was caught in his plot to marry Mary Stuart, and the Arundel title now comes through Philip’s mother, it is quite clear to any onlooker that Henry Howard is de facto head of the Howard clan, and that his nephew defers to him in status and judgement. And also in deed, I wonder, looking at Philip as he now gestures around the table. My spirits sink at the sight of Don Bernadino de Mendoza seated at Henry Howard’s right hand; the Spanish ambassador merely grunts a brief acknowledgement of our party’s arrival, before ripping into a hunk of bread with his teeth. Archibald Douglas is here, and Fowler too, and at the foot of the table, opposite Henry Howard, a pale young woman in a blue dress, her fair hair bound under a plain hood. She seems to sense my enquiring gaze, meets my eye for the space of a blink, then looks quickly away.

‘Now we are all present, I think,’ Philip says, casting around the room. ‘I was most sorry to learn of my lord ambassador’s illness, madame. I trust he is comfortable and will soon find his health improved.’

Marie’s eyes narrow.

‘I thank you. I had not realised he had informed you already.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Philip folds his hands together and glances at me. ‘His clerk came this morning with a message, sending your husband’s apologies and explaining that he had asked Doctor Bruno to attend in his stead.’

‘Weak constitution,’ Mendoza observes through his half-chewed bread, to no one in particular.

I smile graciously at Philip. That was smart of Castelnau, I think, to make my presence official in advance. But by ‘his clerk’, does the earl mean Dumas? Did the ambassador send him with a message here as well as the delivery to Throckmorton? And if so, who was the last to see Dumas before he failed to return?

Philip Howard points me to a chair on the far side of the table, tucked against the wall, adjacent to the pale young woman, who glances up at me shyly as I take my seat and this time risks the faintest of smiles. The dog pads over and rests its muzzle in her lap; she strokes its head absently.

‘I don’t believe you are acquainted with my wife Anne, Doctor Bruno?’ Philip says.

‘ Piacere di conoscerla ,’ I say, bowing low so that they will not see my face. A wife! It takes me a moment to absorb this information. A wife throws my speculations about the Howards and the murders off course; I had all but convinced myself that the Earl of Arundel must be the handsome, impressive young courtier who had wooed Cecily Ashe, and that he had done so at his uncle’s behest to further the assassination plot. But if Philip Howard is married already, this cannot be. I take my seat, frowning.

‘You all right there, Bruno?’ Douglas, seated opposite me, grins affably, reaching for his glass. ‘You had a face on you for a moment there like a man trying to shit a turnip.’

‘A little stomach trouble,’ I say, composing my expression into a smile. ‘Probably hunger.’ I must give nothing away. What I must do is model myself on the man opposite.

‘Aye, we’re all bloody hungry waiting for you,’ Douglas says, waving his glass in the air for a refill. Immediately, a servant peels away from the far end of the room, where bottles and dishes are laid out on a wooden buffet, and stands at his elbow with a bottle of wine. When he has poured for Douglas, I hold my glass aloft too, by its delicate stem, and drink off the contents almost in one. Douglas watches as if impressed, and grins wider.

Supper passes uncomfortably, as Mendoza bombards Marie and Courcelles with questions about the factions at the French court, interrogating them closely about the degree of support for the Duke of Guise among the French nobles and the waning of King Henri’s favour among the people. Frequently he hints at King Philip of Spain’s growing admiration for the young Duke of Guise, while Marie simpers and bats her eyelashes at him as if the success of the conspiracy depends upon the power of her attractions. Courcelles seems torn between his anxiety to please the Spanish ambassador and his instinctive possessiveness over Marie’s attentions. The silences in their conversation are broken by one or other of us attempting stilted small talk about court gossip or variations on the same compliments about the food. These, at least, are sincere; the Earl of Arundel clearly keeps a talented chef.

‘Italian,’ whispers Anne Howard, when I mention as much to her. The countess is softly spoken, eats little and prefers to toy with her food, studying it as closely as if it were a memory test, rather than look directly at me, but by diligent attention and gentle questioning I learn from her that she is of a fragile disposition, often sickly and rarely attends court. Though this, she confides, leaning into me, is less because of her health than because Her Majesty, now that she stands on the brink of her autumn years, is jealous over the attentions of her courtiers and forbids wives from attending all but the occasional celebration. The only women the queen tolerates, Anne explains, are her own maids of honour, chosen for their modesty and virtuous reputations. She tells me this without a trace of irony, so I refrain from comment. Asked, in a light-hearted tone, whether she fears sending her handsome young husband into this fray, she responds with a pretty laugh, and tells me that she has known the earl since childhood, that she was in fact his foster sister and they were contracted in marriage at fourteen. She explains this as if their shared history is a self-evident guarantee against her husband straying; I would regard it as the opposite, but naturally I do not say so.