S. Parris - Execution

Frances Sidney darted forward and drew a stool from the hearth to offer me.

‘Marston, fetch this man food and drink at once, can’t you see the journey he’s had?’ She spoke sternly to the steward, but she was so young, barely twenty, and her command sounded like a child playing at running a household. The man gave a curt bow, but his look was not one of deference.

‘With respect, madam – I am not sure I should leave you alone with this man. Your father—’

‘My father trusts this man with his life,’ she said hotly. ‘Now go and do as I ask before our guest faints from hunger.’ She turned to me, her hands outstretched. ‘Bruno.’ There was warmth in her smile, as well as sadness. ‘I did not think we would see you again. You left for Paris last autumn, I thought?’

‘I had good reason to return.’ I took her hands in mine and kissed them briefly. ‘But my lady, tell me …’ I stood back and searched her face. ‘I intrude on some private grief? I pray it is not …’ I hesitated again ‘… news from the front?’

She gave a little gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth, then let out a brief, panicked laugh. ‘Oh God, no – you thought …? No, Philip is well, I am sorry to have alarmed you. If anything had happened to him, you would have heard my lament all the way from London Bridge. The whole city would be in mourning. But you are right that you find us a house of sorrow. We have suffered—’ She broke off, pressing her lips together as if afraid of breaking a confidence. ‘That is a story for another time. Sit – you look exhausted. Tell me in truth, though – I will wager you have not travelled from Paris without rest just to visit me.’

‘I must see Sir Francis,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘As soon as possible.’ Lady Sidney’s waiting woman stood by the window, her hands folded neatly behind her back, not observing her mistress, but nevertheless I felt I should be discreet, even in this household where secrets were a native language.

Frances nodded, her face solemn again. ‘Plots?’

‘What else?’

She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and worried its edges between her fingers. ‘Father never sleeps now, you know – he says the Catholic plots are like the Hydra, you cut the head off one and a hundred more grow in its place. He is making himself ill with it, and still Her Majesty remains stubborn, she will not heed his advice nor pass the laws that would make her safer. She wills herself to believe that her subjects love her, and her cousin Scotch Mary would never scheme against her, despite all evidence. But you are in luck – he dines here tonight, or so he has promised. I expect he will be late, as always.’ I caught a peevish edge to her voice; the frustration of a girl sidelined by the men in her life for matters of state. ‘Why cannot the damned Catholics see reason?’ she burst out, so suddenly I flinched, as she brandished the kerchief in her fist towards me as if I were responsible. ‘Can it be so hard for them, to worship as the Queen commands? Then they would keep their lands and titles, they would not be thrown in prison, they could cease their plotting to put that fat Scottish bitch on the throne, and innocent people wouldn’t have to die for their schemes.’

I blinked, unsure how to respond; it was an unexpectedly vehement outburst, turning her face red and blotchy, her eyes bright with tears. I presumed she must be thinking of her husband, dug in with the garrison at Flushing.

‘They would tell you, my lady,’ I said gently, when it seemed the question was not merely rhetorical, ‘that they fear the sin of heresy more than England’s laws. They would say they had rather keep their immortal souls than their titles.’

‘Oh, but they don’t mind staining their souls with the sin of murder , which they say is no sin if it suits their purpose.’ Her eyes blazed at me and for an instant I saw the image of her father, his anger and ruthlessness. ‘Could they not just leave off their relics and rosaries and do as the law commands? It is the same God underneath it all, is it not?’

‘My lady—’ The maid by the window turned and stepped forward, her hands held out as if to break up a fight.

Lady Sidney sighed and seemed to subside. ‘Don’t worry, Alice – I will mind my speech. Besides, Doctor Bruno here is the last person in the world who would report me for heretical words, for he is a famous heretic himself. Is it not so?’

I inclined my head. ‘Depends who you ask. It is not a reputation I sought.’

‘But you are proud of it nonetheless,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘Do not tell my father I said bitch . He dislikes profanity in women, even when it concerns Scotch Mary.’ She regarded me with interest. ‘You left the Roman Church, Bruno, did you not? Philip told me you were once in holy orders. But you ran away to become a good Protestant, at great risk to your life.’

She had half the story, at any rate; or perhaps Sidney had wanted the latter part to be true.

‘I am not confident I can claim to be a good anything, my lady,’ I said. ‘I have been thrown in prison for heresy by both the Roman Church and the Calvinists. My ideas do not seem to please anyone who thinks their beliefs cannot be questioned.’

She looked at me, approving. ‘Well, at least you are even-handed in the giving of offence. What God do you believe in, then? Philip says you have written that the universe is infinite, and full of other worlds. Then you think we are not the centre of God’s creation? But how can that be? It would render the whole of Scripture uncertain. For if there are other worlds, did Christ become flesh for them too?’ She jutted her chin upward, defying me to answer to her satisfaction.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes. ‘My lady, I have barely slept in the past three days, and eaten less. I’m not sure I’m fit at present to dispute theology and cosmology with a mind as rapier-sharp as yours.’

Lady Sidney laughed, and her face again looked like a girl’s. ‘Neatly sidestepped, Bruno. Though you know you may say what you like in this house, we have no Inquisition here.’

No, I thought, though your father does not shy away from their methods when he wants to wring names from some terrified student priest in the name of England’s freedom.

‘You will want to wash and rest before Father arrives. Oh, but wait!’ She clapped her hands together, as if an idea had just occurred – ‘you must pay your respects to Elizabeth before you retire.’

I stared at her. ‘The Queen is coming here?’

Her eyes danced with mischief at my amazement. ‘I mean my daughter. Wait till you see her, she is the spit of Philip, with the same little tuft of hair at the front, you know? Named for her godmother, of course.’ Her tone suggested this had not been her idea. ‘We call her Lizzie.’

‘Then the Queen has forgiven Philip?’ Sidney was one of Elizabeth’s favourite courtiers, and she could turn perverse and sulky as a child if he dared move out of her orbit; she had been staunchly set against him going to war, which had only made him more determined.

‘Fortunately for us. She gave the baby the most generous gifts of jewels and coin. And now Philip is made Governor of Flushing, and makes us all proud with his bravery and service.’ I caught it again, that tremble of her lip, a hint of sarcasm in the words. Frances Sidney was afraid; both her protectors, the men she loved, father and husband, courting death in the service of the Queen. ‘Alice, fetch the baby,’ she said, waving at the older maid.

As soon as the latch had clicked shut and we were left alone, Frances drew up a chair beside me and leaned in, her face grave.

‘Now we may talk. Providence has sent you to my door today, I am sure of it.’ I raised an eyebrow; she pressed on, her tone urgent: ‘My dear friend and companion Clara was murdered by papists two days ago, most horribly.’ Here she left a pause and looked at me with an expectant air.