S Parris - Prophecy

‘I went for the lantern. I was afraid I might hit you, though, sir.’

‘Who are you?’ I hardly dare breathe out, my knife still at Fowler’s throat. The mist softens the stranger’s features, making him look younger still; he is perhaps in his early twenties, with a broad jaw, his beard still sparse.

‘Tanner, sir, Joseph Tanner. At your service.’ He sweeps off his cap and bunches it in his fist. ‘I was sent to look out for you, sir. They said folk were trying to kill you. They were right and all.’ He nods at Fowler, then picks up his sword from the sand and weighs it in his hand with the appraising glance of a connoisseur.

‘You serve Walsingham, then?’ Exhaustion floods me and I am suddenly freezing.

‘I serve Sir Philip Sidney, sir,’ he says, still twisting his cap. Fowler produces a strangled howl of pain through his teeth; I dig my knee into his ribs.

‘Sidney sent you? How long have you been following me?’

‘Since the night you came to Barn Elms, sir, after you was attacked on the road. Sir Philip said I was to mark who tried to follow you and make sure you was never left unguarded. But only to act if I thought your life was in immediate danger.’

‘Why didn’t you make yourself known to me?’

The young man looks awkward.

‘Sir Philip said you mightn’t like the idea, sir. He said you were proud.’

‘Did he.’ I smile; half of me does not like it all, the idea of Sidney deciding behind my back that I couldn’t look after myself and required a bodyguard. The other half must concede that, without the intervention of young Tanner, I would now have Fowler’s sword through me.

‘He also said it’s no more than he would do for you himself, sir, if he didn’t have other duties. Watch your back, I mean, like a friend should.’

‘I will thank him for it.’ I glance down at Fowler, whose face, even in this meagre light, has turned very white. A dark stain spreads over the cloth of his doublet where the crossbow bolt has pierced his shoulder. ‘This man needs a physician, Joseph. We must take him to Whitehall.’

Fowler struggles briefly, but I can feel he is growing weaker. He must not bleed to death here, or too many questions will be left unanswered — not least the matter of whether the Accession Day assassination plot is still active, and who might have been charged with carrying it out. Tanner nods.

‘We’ll have to get him to a boat, sir. We can carry him to Bank End stairs between us, I reckon.’

I admire his optimism; at this moment I do not feel capable of carrying my own cloak as far as the gate, but I struggle to my feet as Tanner drags Fowler upright, occasioning a further protest, but his cries are weaker too; his body seems limp in our arms, and all the heavier for it, as we must manoeuvre him over the gates where we entered. As I bend my back to take his weight while Tanner hoists him up from the inside, I find myself scanning the liquid shadows on both sides in case Douglas should be somewhere nearby, waiting for his chance.

‘There was another one,’ Tanner says apologetically as he hooks Fowler’s undamaged arm around his neck and drags him towards the river. ‘I couldn’t stop him, sir — he took off and I thought it was more important to make sure you were all right. This was the one had the sword.’

The sword I am now carrying, its weight unfamiliar in my hand, but lending me a good deal more confidence than I had on my way here. Perhaps I could learn to use it, I think, feeling it slice through the air as I curve my arm gently downwards. If I am to continue in Walsingham’s service, it would seem a useful skill. As we arrive at the stairs and I descend to call ‘Oars, ho!’, I can only marvel again at the unexpected turns my life has taken. I had thought my tools would be only pen and ink. By the time a boat draws up, I am fully convinced that Douglas has no intention of returning to help his co-conspirator. The man who left only his shoes by the corpse of Lord Darnley has once again slipped away into the mist-draped streets, out of reach.

Three armed guards in palace livery patrol the landing stage at the Privy Bridge outside Whitehall; as our boat approaches, they level their pikestaffs at us and demand our business. Tanner declares himself Sir Philip Sidney’s man and tells them we have urgent need of Lord Burghley. He is permitted to disembark and stands in close conference with one of the guards while the others regard us with suspicion, as I sit with the sword unsheathed in my lap, propping up Fowler, who still has the arrow protruding from his shoulder. We look like refugees from a small skirmish. I have pressed the hem of my cloak around Fowler’s wound to staunch the blood; I am no physician, but I do not think the injury severe enough to threaten his life. On the jetty, I see the guard lift his lantern as Tanner pulls a medallion on a chain from around his neck; it must show some insignia because this seems to satisfy the guard, who confides something briefly to his fellows and motions for Tanner to follow him inside the gate.

We wait in silence. The boat rocks with each wave and bumps against the piles of the landing stage. The boatman looks questioningly at me and grumbles about time wasted; I hand over another penny to keep him quiet. The two remaining guards watch us, leaning against their pikestaffs. Fowler shifts his weight with a low moan.

‘This will make for interesting diplomatic relations with King James when the queen knows of your plot,’ I whisper, to break the silence. ‘Did you think of that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he croaks. ‘Everything has been done in the name of Mary Stuart. She is behind this conspiracy. Let them prove otherwise. Where is their evidence?’

His face cracks into a smile, weak but replete with self-belief. He still thinks his plan is intact.

‘You think Walsingham couldn’t make you repeat what you told me an hour ago?’

‘He can try. But I’ll die with the name Mary on my lips. You can’t stop the wheels turning now. And you , my friend —‘ he pauses, effortfully swallowing before running his tongue over his dry lips — ‘you’d better sleep with one eye open from now on. Archie Douglas doesn’t like to leave loose ends.’ He coughs and a stream of white spittle trails from the corner of his mouth.

Footsteps rattle the landing stage as it bends under the weight of newcomers: Walsingham, with four more armed men, followed by Tanner. The Principal Secretary wears a fur-lined cloak which swishes and wraps around his legs as he halts abruptly by the boat and looks down, his face inscrutable. For a moment he does not speak, simply regards Fowler with that same, unchanging expression.

‘William.’ In his voice, you hear everything his face will not show: regret, anger, disappointment, betrayal — and impatience with himself, for the failure of his own judgement.

‘Sir Francis,’ Fowler replies, his voice so faint as to be barely audible, but the sneer in it is unmissable.

‘He is wounded,’ I say; Walsingham gives a curt nod.

‘Bring him ashore. And take care with his arm,’ he barks to the guards. One of them steps towards the boat, and in that instant Fowler sits upright, pushes me hard in the chest so that I tip back to the floor of the boat, and launches himself over the side, sending a wave of freezing water spilling back after him. The guards glance urgently at one another; in their armour they are helpless. One begins unbuckling his breast-plate; I scan the black water as far as I can to either side but Fowler has disappeared.

‘Hold up your light!’ Walsingham shouts to the boatman, running to the end of the jetty. Almost quicker than thought I glance up at him, unpin my cloak, squeeze my eyes shut and dive after Fowler.