Prophecy. S. J. Parris

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      ‘Oh, yes – how does your book, Howard?’ Castelnau asks, perhaps grateful for the distraction.

      Howard leans forward, an accusing finger raised to the ceiling.

      ‘This murder – this was precisely the point of my book. When the queen herself leans so openly on divination and on conjurors like John Dee, her subjects are encouraged to follow suit. Since she has led them all away from their proper obedience to the pope, is it any wonder they clutch at supposed prophecies and any old grand-dam’s tales of stars and planets? And where there is confusion, there the Devil rubs his hands with glee and sows his mischief. But people do not take heed.’

      ‘You are saying, if I understand you, my lord, that this murder occurred because people have not read your book thoroughly?’ I ask, all innocence. Castelnau flashes me a warning look.

      ‘I am saying, Bruno –’ Howard enunciates my name as if it set his teeth on edge – ‘that all these things are connected. A sovereign who turns her face from God’s anointed church, who claims all spiritual authority for herself but will not walk out of doors without consulting the constellations? Prophecies of the end of days, the coming of the antichrist, rumours of wars – the proper order is overturned, and now madmen are emboldened to slaughter the innocent in the name of the Devil. I’ll wager it will not be the last.’

      Douglas snaps his head up at this, as if the conversation at last promises more of interest than his chicken carcass.

      ‘But if the reports are to be believed,’ I say, carefully, ‘it seems rather that this killer did his work in the name of the Catholic Church.’

      ‘Those who have slipped out from under the authority of Holy Mother Church will always be the first to blaspheme her,’ Howard counters, as quick as if we were fencing, a thin smile curving his lips. ‘As I suppose you would know, Master Bruno.’

      ‘Doctor Bruno, actually,’ I murmur. I would not usually insist, but I happen to know from Walsingham that, while he may have a family title, Henry Howard holds only the degree of Master. Among university men, these things matter. From his expression I can see that I have scored a hit.

      ‘Alors . . .’ Castelnau smiles uncertainly, holding out the wine bottle as a distraction, peering across our glasses to see who needs more drink. Douglas, the least needful of the company, thrusts his glass forward eagerly; as the ambassador passes the bottle down the table, we all jump like startled creatures at the soft click of the door, our nerves set on edge by the secretive nature of these meetings.

      The company breathes with relief as the newcomers enter. Despite the late hour, it seems they have been expected, at least by our host. At first you might take them to be a couple, they step into the room so close and conspiratorial, until the young woman draws down her hood and moves immediately towards Castelnau with her arms outstretched; he stands and greets his young wife with a spaniel look in his eyes. When she moves into the light you see that she is not quite so young as you might at first think; her figure could be a girl’s but her face betrays that she is the wrong side of thirty. Even so, that makes her nearly three decades younger than her husband; perhaps this accounts for the spark in his eyes. She places a delicate hand on her husband’s shoulder, then raises her eyes briefly to look around the table. Marie de Castelnau is petite and slender, like a doll, the sort of woman men rush to protect, though she carries herself with the poise of a dancer, in a way that suggests she is well aware of her own allure. Her chestnut hair is bound up and caught in a tortoiseshell comb at the back of her neck, though loose strands tumble around her heart-shaped face; she brushes one away as she unlaces her cloak and takes in the assembled guests.

      I catch her eye; she holds my gaze for a moment with something like curiosity, then demurely returns her attention to Castelnau, who pats her hand fondly. Walsingham was right: she is very beautiful. I try to smother that thought immediately.

      ‘You have found our dear Throckmorton, then,’ the ambassador says, beaming at the young man who came in after his wife and now hovers by the door, still wearing a travelling cloak. ‘Close that behind you and come, take some wine.’ He gestures broadly to an empty chair. Courcelles is dispatched in search of another bottle; the secretary is not too proud to take on a servant’s duties when secrecy is at stake. For my part, I am surprised that I have been allowed to stay for what is evidently a clandestine meeting; Henry Howard may dislike me, but it seems Castelnau’s faith in my loyalty to France, if not necessarily to Rome, is untarnished. My heartbeat quickens in anticipation.

      ‘He came in by the garden?’ Castelnau asks his wife anxiously.

      ‘I came by Water Lane, my lord,’ the young man called Throckmorton says, as he takes the seat that was offered. He means that he entered the house the back way, from the river, where he would not be seen. Salisbury Court is a long, sprawling building at least a hundred years old, which has its main door at the front on Fleet Street, by the church of St Bride’s, but its garden slopes down as far as the broad brown waters of the Thames; anyone wishing to visit the embassy in private can land a boat at Buckhurst Stairs after dark, pass up Water Lane and be admitted through a gate in the garden wall, without fear of being seen. This Throckmorton seems young; his beardless face is narrow and elfin, framed by fair hair long enough to curl over his collar; he has a pleasant, open smile but his pale eyes dart around nervously, as if he half-expected one of us to assault him while he was looking the other way. Seated, he unfastens his cloak; his eyes linger on me as an unfamiliar face, questioning, though not hostile.

      ‘Doctor Bruno, you have not met Francis Throckmorton, I think?’ Castelnau says, noticing the direction of the young man’s gaze. ‘A most valuable friend to the embassy among the English.’ He nods significantly.

      Howard regards the new arrivals without smiling, then cracks his knuckles together.

      ‘Well then, Throckmorton,’ he says, without preamble. ‘What news from the queen?’

      He means the other queen, of course: Elizabeth’s cousin Mary Stuart, whom they believe is also the rightful queen of England, the only legitimate Tudor heir. They being the extremists of the Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise (Mary’s cousin on her mother’s side), and those English Catholic nobles who see the tide in their own country turning against them, and gather around Castelnau’s table to grumble and agitate for something to be done. Except that, at the moment, Mary Stuart is not queen of anything; her son James VI rules Scotland under Elizabeth’s watchful eye, and Mary is imprisoned in Sheffield Castle, sewing, precisely so that she can’t inspire a rebellion. This measure has apparently done nothing to lessen the number of plots fomenting in her name on both sides of the English Channel.

      Throckmorton lays his hands flat on the table, palms down, and allows his gaze to travel around the company once more, then he draws himself up as if he were about to embark on some great oratory, and smiles shyly.

      ‘Her Majesty Queen Mary asks me to convey that her spirits are greatly lifted by the love and support she receives from her friends in London and Paris, and very particularly by the fifteen hundred gold crowns my lord ambassador so generously sent to aid the comfort of her royal person.’

      Castelnau inclines his head modestly. Howard sits up, amazed.

      ‘You spoke with her?’

      ‘No.’ Throckmorton looks apologetic. ‘With one of her ladies. Walsingham has ruled that she may not have visitors for the present.’

      ‘But she may have letters?’

      ‘Her official letters are all opened and read by her gaolers. СКАЧАТЬ