Prophecy - Страница 28

But he continues to weave his way towards the dais, keen to secure us a vantage point near where the queen will be sitting, the better to catch her eye; as I follow him through the crush, to my delight I spot Sidney standing with his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, the two of them head and shoulders above everyone else. Sidney’s hair sticks up more wildly than usual, as if he has just stepped out of a strong wind; I try to catch his eye as his gaze travels the hall. When he eventually notices me he smiles warmly, but he makes no move in my direction, and I remember with a pang that here in public, especially under Castelnau’s nose and with Courcelles watching me like a cat, I must keep a wary distance from those closest to Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester is imposingly aristocratic in an elaborately embroidered doublet of plum velvet; he keeps his arms folded tightly across his chest as he too scans the crowd, his face with its high cheekbones and thin lips set in an earnest expression, his eyes alert. Presently he leans in to Sidney and says something that makes them both laugh; I turn away, biting down the regret that I can’t join my friend. It strikes me that, of all my acquaintance in England, there is barely anyone I can talk to openly. In this great jostle of over-dressed men, I feel suddenly isolated, and weary of acting a part.

But these thoughts are dispelled as the musicians cease their tune and into the silence that follows there rises one clear note of eight trumpets together. As if at some unspoken command, the crowd falls back to either side to create a path from the main entrance to the raised seats at the far end of the room, and I see that a carpet has been laid up the centre of the hall. Castelnau eases us through so that we stand at the front, nudging Marie forward. A hush descends on the hall, before the trumpets ring out their signal again and the double doors are flung open; the courtiers drop as one to their knees, and, glancing up, I see the white skirts of a girl scattering rose petals over the carpet to either side as she processes slowly up the aisle formed by the kneeling guests.

Raising my head as far as I dare, I look up past this girl and set eyes, for the first time, on the Queen of England. Since even before I arrived in her realm, I have carried the image of Elizabeth Tudor in my mind as a symbol of possibility: the Protestant monarch who has dared to defy three successive popes over the twenty-five years of her reign. It is foolishly presumptuous, I know, but I always believed that, if I could only find a way to make her listen or read my words, she would feel some instinctive affinity with me. Like me, she has been excommunicated for heresy and declared an enemy of the Church for her ideas; the Holy Office seeks her death as it does mine; despite the best efforts of her more rational advisers such as Walsingham and Burghley, she encourages men like John Dee, and takes a keen interest in his esoteric pursuits. If any sovereign is suited to be the patron of a heretic philosopher with unorthodox and provocative views, it is surely this open-minded, unashamedly intellectual woman who, behind the generous smiles she bestows now on her fawning courtiers, must have a will of steel to have ruled so long alone in a world of men.

Elizabeth Tudor walks at a stately pace, upright in her bearing and surprisingly graceful in her movements, given her years and the obvious weight of her ornate gown, with its skirts of thick scarlet-and-gold brocade, the scarlet bodice all embroidered with tiny garnets and pearls. At her neck she wears a small ruff of starched lace, with a stiff collar, a delicate structure of wire and finer lace, standing up behind her head; three long ropes of pearls are fixed at either side of her collar and hang in tiers across her front. Her dark red hair is an extraordinary confection, piled high and pinned in loops on top of her head, so that she must hold her neck almost without moving to maintain her balance. I suspect it is a wig. Her entire posture is an exercise in regal control. Behind the white veneer of ceruse that coats her face, her expression is inscrutable, her eyes, lips and brows painted in like a mask. She is not beautiful, but in her face is a refinement that goes beyond beauty, a look of purpose and self-possession that makes beauty seem trivial. In her hands she carries a fan of tall red feathers with a mother-of-pearl handle and she moves, as do her ladies, in a fine cloud of perfumed powder. For one ridiculous moment I find myself hoping she will glance to her left and see me, but she continues without haste towards the seats, smiling at the kneeling crowd, but always maintaining that inward-looking poise. As they pass in her wake, I notice the maids of honour, all dressed in long gowns of white silk, following her steps impeccably while their eyes stray feverishly around the room, alighting here and there on young men before flitting coyly away. Behind the maids march the older attendants, the seven Ladies of the Bedchamber, among them Lady Seaton, who happens to glance down as I look up; our eyes meet and she frowns with what I take for curiosity, before returning her gaze to the front, arranging her face back into its habitual, slightly sour expression.

It is only when the queen has mounted the dais and taken her throne with her maids gathered around her that I notice Abigail Morley is not among the women and immediately my chest clenches.

Walsingham, Burghley and a number of other grave-looking, silver-bearded men in black — the statesmen of the Privy Council, I presume — take up their positions at the sides of the dais, hands clasped behind their backs as if they were on duty. If Walsingham notices me, he gives no indication. Elizabeth gestures for her subjects to rise, which they do with varying degrees of stiffness, and when the rustling has died away, she stretches out a hand.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ she begins, in a clear voice, pitched low for a woman but carefully measured, familiar with public speeches. ‘I have invited you here to enjoy some new compositions by Master Byrd, sung by the choristers of our Chapel Royal. The beauty of music, both sacred and secular, transcends all bounds of race and religion, and is for all.’ With this, she gives a nod, and the main doors of the hall open once more.

‘She says this to appease the Puritans,’ Courcelles whispers at my back. ‘There are plenty in her council who think polyphonic music among the worst sins of Rome.’

I nod, but my attention is on the man now walking up the central aisle towards the dais; short, with brown hair swept back from his forehead and a neatly trimmed beard, only his darting eyes betray a restless energy as he leads the choir — thirty men and twelve boys — towards the alcove in front of the grand window where the musicians had played. This William Byrd is watched around the clock by Walsingham’s agents; he makes no secret of his Catholic faith, and his pos ition as Gentleman of the Chapel Royal only protects him so far. But the fact that Elizabeth not only disregards his religious disobedience but continues to exalt him so publicly is read by some as a sign of ambiguity in her own faith, or merely as an indication that she knows her own mind and will not be bullied by extremists of any faction.

An expectant silence falls over the court as Byrd waits for his choristers to settle themselves in lines. When he is satisfied, he raises both hands and pauses at full stretch, his arms taut as a bowstring; the audience holds its breath and for the space of a heartbeat we all seem suspended in time, caught between one moment and the next. Then Byrd lowers his hands in a sweeping gesture and a note breaks forth from the smallest boy, pure and clear as birdsong, its sweetness echoing to the beams of the roof. Barely has he begun his note when the other voices join him, layering their harmonies piece by piece over one another, the bass notes holding firm and melancholy beneath the soaring, liquid music of the boys’ voices. The song is a prayer for the queen, though the words slide through the melodies like water pouring over a fountain of glass. The effect is so beautiful, so otherworldly, that the hairs on my neck prickle and stand up. I glance sideways at Marie and her expression takes me by surprise; her head is tilted back, her eyes closed, her lips softly parted, as if she is allowing the music to ravish her. Seeing her so seemingly transported, I revise my opinion of her; I had thought her too superficial to be moved by beauty, unless it was her own reflection in a glass. Perhaps I have judged her too harshly. Then I have to look away; there is something so provocative about the curve of her exposed throat, the moistness of her open mouth, her pale eyelids, that I experience a sudden surge of desire that rebels against my will and my better judgement. I cannot allow myself to indulge those thoughts about my host’s wife.

Searching for distraction, I allow my gaze to wander again around the hall, observing the faces, the variety of responses, from immersion to undisguised boredom; suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I am aware of a commotion near the dais. Standing on tiptoe, I am near enough to see that one of the Yeomen of the Palace Guard, evidently in a state of some urgency, has approached Lord Burghley and is whispering frantically in his ear. Edging back, I insinuate myself between Courcelles and Castelnau so that I have a clearer view of Burghley through the heads of the audience. His face is drained of colour; I see him cast around and gesture for Walsingham, a small, tight movement of the hand. Walsingham excuses himself, squeezing past his companions on either side to join Burghley, who draws him close in whispered conference. Eventually Walsingham looks up, his eyes rake the crowd for a moment, and as soon as I catch the frozen expression on his face, I feel a sudden lurch in the stomach, a certainty of horror.