Prophecy. S. J. Parris

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      ‘Then I had better see him,’ I reply evenly, though my pulse quickens. I think first of Walsingham, then Sidney, then Dee; any one of them might want to contact me as a matter of urgency, but Walsingham would surely not arouse suspicion by sending an obviously secretive message directly to the embassy, and Sidney is still on his honeymoon, as far as I know. That leaves Dee, and my gut clenches; has Ned Kelley done something to him?

      Courcelles presses his lips together and points me in the direction of the stables at the side of the house. There I find a skinny boy of about twelve years old sitting miserably on a straw bale, picking at his fingernails while the stable hands jeer at him in French. He shows signs of having been in a scuffle.

      ‘I am Bruno. You have something for me?’

      He leaps to his feet as if stung, and pulls a crumpled letter out from inside his jacket. He wears no livery but he is not poorly dressed. He beckons me closer and passes me the letter as if it contained secret intelligence.

      ‘From Abigail Morley.’ His voice is barely a whisper. ‘She said I must only put it in your hands, sir, though they tried to take it from me.’ He glances resentfully at the stable boys, who twist awkwardly and look away.

      ‘You did well.’ I find a coin for his trouble and see him out of the side gate, before pausing in a pool of shadow, away from curious eyes, to tear open the letter. It is written in an elegant, curling hand; Abigail asks me to meet her tomorrow at eleven in the morning at the Holbein Gate, Whitehall. She says she is afraid.

      Chapter Five

       Whitehall Palace, London 28th September, Year of Our Lord 1583

      Another morning of empty blue skies and warm light; I take a wherry upriver to Whitehall, landing at Westminster Stairs, the nearest public jetty to the palace. The River Thames is wide and calm, jewelled with reflections of the sun and white ripples where the breeze ruffles the water’s surface, and I lean back in the boat as the oarsman heaves his way through the flotilla of small craft transporting goods and passengers up and down London or eastwards, out towards the docks.

      From the stairs I walk back up King Street past the boundary walls of the palace to the Holbein Gate, a vast, imposing structure that spans the main thoroughfare out of London to the west, joining the sprawling privy apartments and state chambers of Whitehall with the tiltyard and the park of St James on the other side. Three storeys of red brickwork and white stone, with an octagonal tower at each corner in the English style, and grand rooms above the main archway, the gatehouse is patrolled by palace guards and always densely crowded, as all travellers on the road must be funnelled through it to pass in either direction. Abigail has chosen wisely; often the best place to pass unobserved is in a crowd.

      From somewhere nearby a church bell chimes the hour of eleven and I wait, hesitant, by the passageway through the eastern tower of the gatehouse, which is reserved for those on foot. Through the central archway, carts pulled by horses or mules churn up clouds of dust from the dry road as traders bring their goods into the palace or on towards the city. People bustle past with bundles or packs and I press myself back against the wall, out of the way; suddenly an old woman with no teeth thrusts a filthy hand into my face, demanding money or food and I jump back, startled. I know from experience that if I reach for a penny, a hundred more beggars will stream in an instant from the shadows with their hands out, but there is such desperation in her face that I cannot refuse; she folds her fingers with their swollen joints painfully around the coin I slip into her palm, clutches at my jacket and pulls me towards her.

      ‘When hempe is spun, England’s done,’ she croaks into my face, so that I have to reel back from her stinking breath. ‘Take heed, sir. The signs are all about us.’ She points one trembling, crooked finger to the sky, then releases me and scuttles back into the crowd.

      I stare after her, puzzling over her words, when another figure wrapped in a thin cloak approaches and guiltily I regret my generosity; here they come already, and I don’t have enough coins to part with them all. But this woman sidles up to me, reaching inside her clothes, and from the depths of her hood whispers my name in an educated voice.

      ‘Abigail!’

      ‘Shh. We must not be seen. Walk with me into the passage for a moment.’

      We step into the shadow of the tower archway; immediately the deep chill of damp stone settles on my skin. The passage through the tower is not wide and we are jostled and shoved, with the occasional curse, as we huddle at one side. Abigail keeps her hood pulled up around her face.

      ‘They have the wrong man,’ she whispers, without preamble. ‘I didn’t know who else to tell.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Because Sir Edward Bellamy tried to court me once, and we laughed about it – I mean, Cecily and I. It was cruel of us, but he is such a poor figure of a man. No woman would want him, for all his lands, unless she were past caring.’ She rubs self-consciously at her throat as she says this. ‘But Sir Edward is a gentleman and does not deserve to have this pinned on him. He was not her secret sweetheart, I would swear to it.’

      ‘But her lover was not necessarily her killer. It need only have been someone who knew she had a tryst that evening. The lover could have been one of Sir Edward’s friends, perhaps?’

      The bottom half of her face is visible below the hood; she chews her lip doubtfully.

      ‘I just do not believe he could kill anyone, or be party to it. He is so mild-mannered.’

      ‘Quiet men have murdered before.’

      She shakes her head decisively.

      ‘It doesn’t feel right. He sold Cecily his old clothes so she could disguise herself as a boy – that much I believe. But I think the palace guard were just glad to make an easy arrest so the queen will think they are doing their job. Anyway, I did not ask you here for that. There is something else.’

      She beckons me closer and from inside her cloak draws out a little velvet bag tied at the top with ribbon.

      ‘Lady Seaton went through Cecily’s things to give her father when he came.’ She speaks so low that her face is almost touching mine to make herself heard. Her breath is warm on my cheek. ‘But I suspected she was looking for something that might give away Cecily’s affair. She found nothing. She didn’t know about the cushion.’

      ‘What cushion?’

      ‘It was one of Cecily’s most beloved things – a little cushion that she embroidered as a child. A bible text, flowers, you know the sort of thing. She kept it on her bed – I thought it was just a sentimental keepsake, for when she was homesick, but one day she showed me how she would unpick the seam and hide her secret gifts inside the cushion cover.’

      She holds out the bag; I weigh it in my hand. It is light and chinks softly as I move it.

      ‘These are the presents from her admirer, everything she had sewn inside the cushion. I don’t know what use they may be – I can see no clue in them, but perhaps you might find something. Especially since everyone seems determined to find Sir Edward guilty – it would be a terrible thing if he were to take the punishment for it.’ She tugs at my sleeve, and there is something childlike in the gesture. ‘There is a design on the ring, an emblem. It is not the Bellamy arms, though it is СКАЧАТЬ