Prophecy - Страница 19

The little mirror is the least interesting object. I turn it over in my hands but it yields nothing; the tortoiseshell is so highly polished that you can see your face almost as well in its swirling patterns of tawny brown as you can in the silvered glass. Frustrated, I put it to one side and open the perfume bottle. Raising it to my nose, I understand immediately Abigail’s complaint. Beneath the scent of rosewater is a hint of something bitter, a sour vegetable smell that makes you wince. But Abigail is wrong about a man’s ignorance of perfume; the giver of these gifts was clearly a man of taste and considerable generosity, so why would he present his love with a perfume that was so obviously unappealing? Tipping the bottle, I wet the end of my finger with a tiny drop of the colourless liquid and raise it to my tongue, but as I am about to taste it, there comes a sudden rap at the door.

‘Bruno? Are you in there?’

Dumas. I scrabble to stuff the gifts back into the velvet bag and in my haste I knock the little mirror to the floor, where it lands with an ominous crack.

‘One moment!’ Cursing silently, I retrieve it and turn it over to see with great relief that the glass has not broken, but the fall seems to have damaged the frame; it feels looser, as if the glass might slip out. But there is no time to look closer; I push the bag under the pillow of my bed and unbolt the door for Dumas. He stands, twisting his hands, with the face of a startled hare.

‘My lord ambassador sends for you. I don’t know what it is about. Do you think he has discovered our …’ he falters, looking for the right word.

‘Business? Well, let’s not immediately jump to the worst conclusion, eh.’ I give him a good clap on the shoulder for encouragement as I pass him in the doorway, though the fact that Castelnau has been looking for me all morning worries me, too. Dumas watches while I lock the door of my bedchamber. Secrets must be guarded closely in this house.

Castelnau looks up from his desk as I enter his private office, and his expression seems serious, though not angry.

‘Bruno! What an elusive man you are. Take a seat, will you?’ He indicates a chair by the empty fireplace, inlaid with tapestry cushions. Dumas hovers behind me, shifting from one foot to the other, as if unsure whether he is expected to stay. ‘Leon, you have work to do, don’t you?’

Dumas scurries back to his small desk in the corner. Castelnau waves a hand in his general direction.

‘Don’t worry about him, Bruno. I have no secrets from Leon — do I, Leon?’ He smiles genially. Dumas makes a noise that is somewhere between a squeak and a cough. I send him a hard stare behind the ambassador’s back. I have never seen a man wear his conscience so plainly on his face; if only Courcelles could give him a few lessons in oily insincerity, our operation would be much the safer.

‘Will you take a glass of wine?’ Castelnau says, reaching for a Venetian decanter on his desk. I decline, claiming the hour is too early. The ambassador looks disappointed; nevertheless, he pours himself a generous glass and pulls up the chair opposite mine. ‘You have been on my mind a great deal these past couple of days, Bruno,’ he begins, then pauses to drink a long draught. ‘I know you will have been troubled by what you heard at dinner the other night.’

‘Unless I have misunderstood, my lord, it sounds very much as if Lord Henry Howard is trying to start a war.’

Castelnau sighs. He looks tired; for the first time since I have known him, he is beginning to show his age. I wonder if this is the effect of the Scottish queen’s intrigues or the return of his wife.

‘You have not misunderstood. My wife, as you have seen, is a great supporter of the Duke of Guise, but I want you to know that I do not favour any such enterprise and nor does King Henri — though he has his own difficulties at the moment. I need you on my side, Bruno, to advocate tolerance, diplomacy, negotiation, when they start up their talk of invasion. Stand with me — we need to remain in their confidence. I am doing my best to urge everyone to be patient.’

‘Perhaps they feel they have been patient long enough.’

‘Hm.’ He tips back his glass and drains it, then shakes his head. ‘If only Elizabeth had not been so stubborn about marrying the Duke of Anjou — then our two countries would have had a solid alliance. But I see now that she was making fools of us all. She has never had any desire for marriage. In that, at least, she shows wisdom.’

He adds this last so vehemently that I suspect he is no longer thinking about the queen. From what I have seen of Marie de Castelnau, I find it hard to imagine that his own marriage gives him any peace of mind.

‘Henry Howard is powerful in this country just as the Duke of Guise is in France,’ Castelnau continues. ‘Powerful enough to make their respective sovereigns afraid. But not as powerful as they would like to be. So now they look for a secret alliance with Spain to fund their plans.’

‘A grand Catholic reconquest.’

‘I know you are no zealot for the Catholic Church, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, leaning forward and fixing me with his large, sad eyes, his glass clasped between his hands. ‘But the tide is turning. The Protestant faith is weakening — in France, in the Netherlands, and in this island too. It flourished for a season, but it couldn’t compete. I would wager that by the end of this troubled century it will be remembered only as an experiment, a warning to our sons and daughters. All the omens point to the coming of a new era. We must be ready.’

‘Then you think this war inevitable, my lord?’ I rub my brow with my thumb, confused. ‘In that case, why argue against it?’

‘No. I think the reassertion of Catholic supremacy inevitable,’ he says, his face stern. ‘King Henri has given too much freedom to the Protestants in Paris, and I do not think he can resist the rise of the Duke of Guise. But perhaps both sovereigns can be persuaded to submit to the Catholic powers without war. That is my hope. So you see my difficulty, Bruno. I must not appear too firmly set against this invasion, in case Guise gains power in Paris. But neither must I commit myself or France to it — as a diplomat I must urge all parties to peaceful means.’ He shakes his head at this conundrum and looks away to the window. I understand what Fowler meant when he said Castelnau was trying to please too many people.

I am framing a reply when the door is suddenly flung open with such force that the timbers shudder on their hinges. On the threshold stands a man who almost fills the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, black beard bristling. His scowl could blister the paint on the portraits that line the walls. Dumas visibly shrinks further into his corner. Castelnau assumes the smooth face of diplomacy and rises to his feet, addressing the visitor in Spanish.

‘Don Bernadino. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

‘Save your flattery for the English, Castelnau. We both know that it is neither. But I bring you news that will light a fire under your backside.’ The Spanish ambassador turns and skewers me with his black glare. ‘Who is this?’

‘Giordano Bruno of Nola, at your honour’s service,’ I offer, also in Spanish, as I stand and bow.

Mendoza’s eyes narrow; he nods slowly.

‘So this is King Henri’s Italian heretic. I have heard them talk of you. I suppose you think you are safe here.’ He turns back to Castelnau, his eyes blazing scorn, and points a stubby forefinger at his face. ‘This is your problem, Michel — you keep men like this in your house, feed them at your table, and then you wonder why no one will take you or your sovereign seriously. My King Philip —‘ here he stabs the finger forcefully into his own chest — ‘is pouring out Spanish money and men to fight heresy, while your King Henri opens his purse to patronise it!’ He directs a furious look at me; I return it as blandly as I can while letting him see that I am not cowed. ‘Send him out,’ Mendoza says, with a flick of his hand, as if he were in charge. ‘And him.’ He points at Dumas, trembling behind his little desk in the corner. ‘What I have to say is not for the ears of servants.’

Castelnau nods me towards the door with an apologetic expression. Dumas follows, arranging his papers into a pile as he stands while Mendoza looks on, huffing impatiently.

Outside, in the corridor, Dumas turns his anxious eyes on me. ‘What do you suppose his news is?’ he whispers.

‘If I had to guess, I’d say Philip of Spain has agreed to invest in Mary Stuart’s enterprise. If I am right …’ I let the sentence fall away. ‘The stakes are much higher than we imagined. We must not fail now, Leon.’

Entering the first-floor gallery on the way back to my room, I encounter Marie and Courcelles standing together in a bay window, their heads bent close, talking quietly. They fall silent as soon as they see me; Courcelles stumbles back with a guilty look. It is a gesture I recognise; perhaps this is how all men behave around Marie. There is something in her way of talking and touching that makes you feel you have been inappropriately intimate. She, on the other hand, seems blithely unaware of this, or she affects to.

‘Well, Bruno?’ she calls lightly, as I quicken my steps, hoping to pass them without being detained. ‘Did you ask him?’

‘Ask him what, madame?’

‘Honestly, Bruno — I begin to think I should be teaching you about memory. About our lessons.’

‘Ah. I’m afraid I did not have the time. We were interrupted.’