S Parris - Prophecy

‘According to our friend Don Bernadino,’ he continues, indicating the Spanish ambassador, ‘the Duke of Guise has successfully persuaded King Philip of Spain to lend money and troops to our enterprise.’ Here he unfolds his paper and waves it as proof. While all eyes are on him, I quietly pour three-quarters of my wine on to the rushes, where the dog leaps upon it.

‘My sovereign is pleased to be part of this great Catholic collaboration to restore England for the glory of God,’ Mendoza says, laying his great hairy hands flat on the table and allowing himself a modest smile, though there is a triumphant glint in his black eyes that makes me think Castelnau was right; it is not God’s glory that interests the Spanish ambassador or his sovereign.

‘We are now preparing in earnest, my friends.’ Howard pauses, allowing his smile to encompass the whole table. ‘I have here a list of English Catholic nobles whose lands comprise safe harbours. Our tireless colleague Master Throckmorton, together with one of Mendoza’s envoys, is even now riding across country to visit every one of them and sound out their support. We will need as many landing places as possible for the troops.’ He passes the paper across the table to Marie, who studies it with an appreciative nod.

‘At the head of this list, naturally, is my nephew,’ Howard goes on, gesturing to Philip and beaming. ‘We have determined that five thousand Guise troops will land near Arundel on the Sussex coast and come ashore through the earl’s lands. We have almost secured the backing of the Earl of Northumberland, who is friendly to our case and whose seat at Petworth would allow the French army to advance towards London over the South Downs. Meanwhile, we estimate twenty thousand Spanish troops will land on the Lancashire coast, and will be joined by an uprising of the Catholics there. This force will head inland to liberate Queen Mary from Sheffield Castle.’ He stops for breath, and takes a brief sip of wine. ‘They will be joined there by Scottish reinforcements moving south from the border, I believe?’

He looks expectantly at Fowler, who nods.

‘The Marquess of Huntley supports us and has promised men. I await confirmation of the exact number, but I am hopeful that he will turn more of the Scottish lords to our cause once they are persuaded the invasion is in earnest.’

Douglas snorts.

‘And where do you have this intelligence, old son? When were you last in Scotland?’

Fowler blinks at him, unperturbed. ‘I am at least allowed into Scotland.’

Douglas has no retort to this, except a black glare; again I find myself intrigued as to the source of the antagonism between the two Scots.

Mendoza interrupts.

‘Have you settled on a date?’

Howard inclines his head. ‘Commit this to memory, gentlemen — and madame.’ He smiles at Marie. ‘This glorious mission is planned for the thirtieth day of November.’

‘The thirtieth ?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself. From the other end of the table, I just catch Fowler’s warning glance. I swallow; all eyes are on me and the silence feels heavy, accusing. I glimpse in memory the fragment of paper hidden in Cecily Ashe’s mirror; the Accession Day date, 17th November. Had the plans changed, or had I misunderstood?

‘The thirtieth not convenient for you, Bruno?’ Howard says, one eyebrow lifting with chilly sarcasm. ‘Do you have some appointment that day? I’m sure we can rearrange it to suit you if need be.’

Amid the smattering of sycophantic laughter, I hold up a hand to placate him.

‘It’s only that it occurred to me,’ I say, deliberately slurring, ‘that an invasion might be most effective if it took place on, say, a public holiday, while the country is distracted by revels. I’d assumed it would be set for Accession Day.’

‘It occurred to you, did it?’ Howard’s voice is stretched tight; his knuckles are white where his hands grasp one another.

‘And,’ I add, bolstering my pretence of drunkenness, ‘would the assassination not have the most profound impact if it took place on that anniversary? The country would be thrown into turmoil.’ I sit back, expectant. The silence is overwhelming. The faces around the table register a universal expression of shock. Fowler keeps his eyes fixed on the table and remains very still, both hands clasped steadily around the stem of his glass. I have the cold dropping sensation that I have made a terrible mistake.

‘Assassination?’ says Philip Howard, eventually, baffled.

‘Who is being assassinated?’ Mendoza asks, looking around the table with a thunderous brow, as if someone has wilfully tried to deceive him. ‘Elizabeth? I was not told —‘

‘This was not the agreement, Henry!’ Marie cries, her colour rising; Howard gestures at her to keep her voice down. ‘The Duc de Guise has expressly said —‘

‘Don’t say I haven’t offered,’ Douglas chips in laconically, grinning as he picks his nails, so that I am not sure whether he is serious or playing on his own reputation. ‘It’d be nae bother.’

Henry Howard rises to his feet, his eyes burning.

‘Please! Let us keep our heads. There will be no assassination. I think our friend Bruno has drunk too much wine.’

‘Anyway, he is from Naples,’ Marie says, shooting me a look that could turn the wine sour. ‘Where they are notoriously hot-headed. What put this foolishness in your mind, Bruno?’

Howard resumes his seat and leans forward, fixing his dark eyes on mine.

‘Yes, Bruno,’ he says, with icy precision. ‘Where did you get this fanciful idea? Do tell.’

‘Well, perhaps I have not properly understood,’ I falter, ‘but to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England, you must first remove her cousin, no? So I assumed that if — when — the invasion happened, she would be —‘ I break off with a shrug, looking around the table, hoping that my pretence of naivete will convince. Fowler still does not look at me, I presume because he does not want to betray his anger.

Howard laughs indulgently; to my ear there is a measure of relief in it.

‘I see — you thought that to crown a new sovereign we must first dispatch the old one? No, no, Bruno — that may be how you conduct things in Naples, but we are not barbarians here.’

I almost point out that he has just announced an invasion of twenty thousand and more troops to wage war on a peaceful nation, but I refrain.

‘This coup, if you will,’ Howard says smoothly, ‘must be conducted according to the rule of law. What you have perhaps failed to understand as a foreigner, Bruno, is that Elizabeth Tudor is not the legitimate queen of England, and never has been. The simple people of our poor country have been deceived into believing that she had the right of succession. They need to have this view corrected. Murdering her in the name of the Catholic faith will only make her a martyr in their eyes — it would be impossible thereafter for any Catholic monarch to restore order or command the people’s affection. No, we must be a little more civilised about it.’ He smiles, pressing the tips of his fingers together.

‘Oh, a civilised coup?’ I say. ‘I have not witnessed one of those — how does it work? Do the troops apologise as they march on a town?’

Despite herself, Marie stifles a giggle; Howard’s smile is wearing thin.

‘The point my uncle wishes to make, Doctor Bruno, if I may,’ Philip Howard cuts in, ‘is that to bring England back to the true Church, we must guide the people gently. It cannot be done with swords and crossbows alone, but only by showing England her error. We are pursuing a holy war here, and I think we are all agreed that no more blood must be spilled than is necessary to do God’s work.’ A quaver creeps into his voice as he lays a sincere hand on his heart.