Prophecy - Страница 34

‘That I do not know.’ I have grown so used to deception that even when I am able to answer a question honestly, I sound implausible. ‘But I think it unlikely.’

‘Why do you say that?’

I hesitate.

‘For the sake of his wife. And because for the moment he would not want to give King Henri more reason to fear the Duke of Guise.’

‘And because he still thinks he can engineer a satisfactory outcome between all parties, no? He imagines he is controlling this enterprise — balancing one set of interests against another?’

‘Perhaps.’ I recall what Fowler had said about Castelnau trying to please too many people.

‘It is touching, his faith in diplomacy.’ Mendoza shakes his head. ‘I shall almost be sorry to see him disillusioned. But you are an astute man, Bruno. Astute enough not to yoke yourself to a monarch whose days are numbered.’

‘Do you mean Elizabeth or Henri?’

‘Either. Both. A new day is dawning. Men like you and Castelnau will need to decide where you stand. If you have any influence over him, you would counsel him well not to let his king hear what is discussed in the embassy. Entendido?’

He draws himself up to his full imposing height and puffs out his chest, his beard bristling. He does not intimidate me, but I am in no state at present to argue with him. I merely nod my agreement and take the opportunity to slip away backwards into the milling crowd.

‘Bruno.’

I turn in the direction of the murmur, and there, leaning against the wall between the hanging tapestries, is William Fowler, dressed in a neat suit of grey wool, with a matching cap clutched between his hands.

‘What did Howard want?’

‘To remind me again how much he hates me,’ I say, glancing over my shoulder at Howard as he and Mendoza confer, their dark heads together, while the courtiers around them press towards the queen. My head is spinning; I am not sure what to make of my brief exchange with Henry Howard. He must fear that Dee has told me something I could use against him and was warning me that he has the power to bring me and Dee down together, but I cannot escape the implication that he has been watching me closely. The thought makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle; was it Howard, then, or someone working for him, who saw me with Abigail at the Holbein Gate? Instinctively I glance over my shoulder again; for the first time since this business began, I feel a chill of real fear.

‘But has something happened?’ Fowler whispers, edging closer around the back of a couple of spectators. ‘I saw you come in looking white as a corpse. I wondered if perhaps —‘

I give a tight shake of the head, to indicate that I cannot speak of it there.

‘The queen’s advisors were coming and going half the concert too,’ Fowler persists. ‘I noticed Walsingham leave.’ There is a note of anxiety in his voice, which I recognise because I have felt it myself; it is the fear of missing some important moment, of being left out. This time it is I who know more than him, I who am in Walsingham’s confidence, and despite the circumstances, this pleases me.

‘Bruno, are you all right?’ he persists. ‘You look terrible. Does it have something to do with Howard?’

‘Meet me tomorrow,’ I hiss, through my teeth. ‘Two o’clock. Not the Mermaid — some other place.’

He thinks for a moment, then sidles even closer.

‘The Mitre, Creed Lane. The back room.’ He slips past me as he says this and melts into the crowd in that way of his, like a grey cat into the shadows.

I work my way between shoulders towards Castelnau’s party. The ambassador is still fighting for a position near the queen; Marie and Courcelles are huddled together, whispering. Courcelles is the first to notice me, with a wrinkle of his delicate nose.

‘Where have you been?’ he demands.

I gesture with my head towards the royal party, as if nothing is amiss.

‘Queen Elizabeth herself?’ Marie says, apparently impressed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders with a little shiver. The wind is up over the river, carrying the first scent of frost. The boat’s lanterns sway in time with the soft ripple of the sculls in and out of the water. I think of Abigail’s killer rowing away downriver, leaving her lifeless body floating in the kitchen channel, her red hair spread out around her, waving like water weed.

‘Did you hear that, Michel?’ Marie nudges her husband and nods back to me, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight. ‘The Queen of England wants to learn Bruno’s memory system, and it was I who asked first. How very fashionable you have become, Bruno!’

Courcelles eyes me coldly.

‘But the queen did not know you would be attending the concert. It seems strange that her people should have been awaiting you with such alacrity.’

‘She has heard of me through Sir Philip Sidney,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘He knows something of my work and has apparently mentioned it to Her Majesty.’

He continues to regard me with that same sceptical expression. I am conscious that to insist too much on my story will only compound his suspicions. I care little what Courcelles thinks for himself, but I cannot have him dripping doubt into Castelnau’s ear, now that my place at Salisbury Court has become so essential to Walsingham.

‘Did you have the sense that something was going on tonight, though?’ Courcelles persists, addressing his question to the whole group. ‘All those guards. And the queen’s advisors running in and out. The Earl of Leicester whispering in her ear. It was odd — as if something was amiss but they were trying to pretend all was as normal.’

Castelnau looks perturbed. ‘I noticed nothing amiss.’

‘Nor I,’ I say, hastily.

‘You were not there,’ Courcelles points out.

‘It is a shame they made you miss the whole concert, though,’ Castelnau says thoughtfully, in a manner that suggests he is not wholly persuaded by my story. ‘I have not heard its like. They must have had a great many questions to ask you, eh?’

‘The queen is enthusiastic about my art of memory, it seems, but her advisers had heard some unfortunate rumours regarding my methods.’

‘That it’s black magic by any other name?’ Courcelles says, one eyebrow arched. ‘All of Europe has heard those rumours.’

‘Something of the sort.’ I shoot him a withering smile, but it is lost in the dark. ‘In any case, they wanted to put their minds at ease that I was not a danger to the royal person or to the reputation of her court.’

‘It is a marvellous opportunity,’ Castelnau says thoughtfully. ‘They do seem to like you, these English. I suppose it is your reputation as a rebel against the pope.’ His eyes drift to the middle distance and I wonder if he is still questioning my excuse, or calculating how my favour at court might work to bolster his own standing with the queen.

‘Perhaps, my lord.’ I begin to fear that I may eventually trip myself up with my cat’s cradle of lies.

‘Well, the queen will have to wait her turn,’ says Marie, leaning forward with a disarming smile. ‘I requested that you tutor me before she did, and I stake a prior claim.’ She lays a hand on my arm. ‘We shall begin tomorrow morning, while Katherine is with her tutor. No — I shall hear no excuses, Bruno.’ She turns to her husband, her eyes eager, her hand in its green silk glove still resting lightly just above my wrist. ‘Won’t that be something for this tedious English court to talk about, Michel — that the wife of King Henri’s envoy shares a teacher with the Queen of England!’

‘I thought you disapproved of the Queen of England?’ Castelnau says mildly.

‘I thought you disapproved of Bruno,’ Courcelles adds, with a pointed look.

I return his glance with equanimity, but his words offer a useful warning. I do not know Marie de Castelnau. I do not know her intentions with regard to me, nor the root of her interest in my work; I know only that she is fiercely committed to the Catholic cause of Mary Stuart and the Duke of Guise. For so many reasons, I must not let her catch me off-guard even for a moment. I hope briefly that the ambassador might forbid it, on grounds of propriety.

Castelnau appears to be thinking, then allows the beam of his patriarchal smile to sweep slowly across me and his wife. ‘If it would interest you to learn, my dear, I’m sure Bruno would see it as a service. Heaven knows we could all do with a better memory.’

This appears to be the last word on the matter. Marie gives my wrist a little squeeze before settling back among the cushions, lamplight playing over the satisfied curve of her mouth as the oars continue to splash their steady rhythm through the black river. From under the fine curtain of his hair, Courcelles continues to study me with his fox eyes, just waiting for one false move. I watch the water part over the blades in silver rivulets and picture again the marble-cold face of Abigail Morley, who died tonight partly because of me.

Chapter Nine

Salisbury Court, London

1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583

As if waiting for its cue, October blows in on gusts of a bitter east wind. The cornflower-blue skies over the city now churn with bruised, angry-looking clouds and the dead leaves scratch the paths and window panes. A fire has been lit in the small parlour where Marie wishes to conduct our first lesson; I have had no choice but to agree, though I am itching to get to Mortlake in pursuit of Ned Kelley. Last night I slept badly, the image of Abigail’s soaked and mutilated body laid out in my dreams and my waking thoughts, my conscience tormented by the thought that I should have done more to protect her. If I had gone to Walsingham sooner, instead of being so determined to prove myself alone, would she have been safer? Such questions are fruitless, yet they prodded at my mind all night, sharp and insistent, like devils in woodcuts of hell prodding with their pitchforks at the souls of sinners.