Prophecy - Страница 36

‘Well, the ignorant have to fill their time somehow. Now, these wheels can be turned to create different series of connections —‘

‘It was one of the things the Duke of Guise used to stir up unrest against the king,’ she interrupts again. ‘He said you were manipulating Henri by sorcery, converting him to your heresies so that he would protect you from the Inquisition. That was one of the reasons King Henri banished you from court. Did you know that?’

‘King Henri didn’t banish me,’ I say, needled. ‘I wanted to visit England. The idea was mine.’

She laughs, mocking.

‘If that’s what you want to believe. Henri was afraid of the Duke of Guise. The French people do not want a weak king, Henri knows this. They want a sovereign who will defend the Catholic faith, not one who humours Protestants and dabbles in witchcraft. Oh, yes, there was much talk about you in Paris, Bruno, even after you left. Some said you killed a man in Rome.’ She tilts her chin and raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to confess.

‘Do I look like a murderer to you, madame?’ I smile, but my palms are prickling with sweat. Philip Sidney had made a joking reference to this once, but he had heard the story in Italy; I had not thought it had pursued me through Europe and across the sea.

She laughs again, this time with more warmth.

‘No. But then you do not look like I imagine a sorcerer either, nor a heretic, nor a monk.’

‘Because I am none of those things, madame.’

‘Oh, do stop the madame. It makes me feel a hundred years old. I am Marie. Just Marie.’ She studies her fingernails for a moment, then raises her eyes to meet mine again, a curious half smile playing about her lips. ‘Who are you, Bruno? No one knew in Paris. No one knows at Salisbury Court. Everyone wants you at their supper table, for your wit and your daring ideas, and all the women try to catch your eye, but you keep your distance from everyone, you will not let anyone close enough to see you truly. So stories grow to fill the spaces in our knowledge.’

‘I am only the man you see before you,’ I say, spreading my arms and holding out my hands as if to prove that I have nothing concealed. ‘No mystery.’

She looks at me for a long time, as if trying to read something encrypted in my eyes. Determined not to seem suspicious, I hold her gaze. There is only the sound of the logs crackling in the hearth and the rise and fall of our breathing. I realise afresh how very beautiful she is, how confined she seems here and how dissatisfied with her lot: her ageing husband, preoccupied with affairs of state, and her young daughter. I remembered how brittle her movements had seemed when I saw her with her child, how forced, as if she were performing the role of mother unwillingly. For a moment I consider the path set out for a young woman of noble birth: how briefly she is allowed to shine, to be publicly paraded and admired among her own kind, for precisely as long as it takes to find her a suitable husband. Her wedding day is the zenith of her short flowering; after that she is expected to fade again into the background, to cover her hair and content herself with the reflected glory of her husband and children. For a woman like Marie, such self-effacement must fit like a hairshirt.

This game she is playing with me — the flirtatious comments, the touches, the knowing way she parcels out her attentions between me and Courcelles — is all a means of creating some drama for herself, now that she is no longer centre stage. Briefly I pity her, until I remember how callously she had talked of holy war at the dinner table, and how she wears the Duke of Guise’s emblem as a badge of honour — the same emblem that was found with both the dead maids. Whether she knows it or not, Marie is somehow connected to the murders. But perhaps even this enthusiasm for the Franco-Spanish invasion is for her just another way to feel she is acting on the world, instead of hearing about it through the muffled walls of her tapestried rooms.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she says eventually, shaking her head with that same amused smile. ‘Whatever you are, Bruno, you are more than you seem on the outside. Though the outside is perfectly acceptable.’ She spreads out the paper with the diagram across both our laps and makes a show of studying it, tracing her finger slowly over the circles, her arm pressed against mine. My body is rigid with the effort of not responding. ‘Did you teach King Henri magic?’ she whispers, as if this proximity might persuade me to open up.

‘No.’

‘Does Elizabeth want you to teach her magic? Is that what your secret talks were about?’

‘No.’ So this is what she wants to discover, is it? I wonder if someone has put her up to it — Henry Howard, perhaps, to discredit the queen.

‘It is common knowledge she keeps an astrologer.’

‘This is not astrology,’ I tap the diagram. ‘It is a means of organising the mind.’

Her fingertip lingers over the central circle.

‘Are these the names of demons?’

I force a laugh; it comes out as a strangled squeak.

‘Again, no. These are the thirty-six decans of the zodiac, three faces for each sign. They are also symbols, memory pictures, if you like.’

She murmurs some of the names softly, like a litany: Assican; Senacher; Acentacer; Acecath; Viroaso. The hairs on my neck prickle at the words in her mouth; the air seems to settle on us like velvet. Then she turns and slowly raises a hand to my face, her thumb running softly along my cheekbone, then along my lower lip, and there is such longing in her eyes that it startles and confuses me. The firelight is reflected as dancing points of light in the depths of her pupils; I am caught, motionless. Just as her face begins to move inevitably towards mine, and I know that I am helpless to resist the pull of it, a log collapses in the grate with a great crack and flare, spitting cinders over the stone hearth. We both jump at the noise; the spell is broken and I take the opportunity to stand abruptly, snatching the paper away in my haste.

‘Marie … I can’t. Your husband — I am a guest in his house. It would be —‘ The sentences hang there, unfinished.

She twists on the settle, her body squirming first one way, then the other; when she looks up, her eyes are flashing. Her pride is wounded, and so she turns her anger on me; her cheeks are flushed and her mouth pressed into a white line.

‘One word to my husband,’ she says, her voice tight as wire. ‘I only have to say one word of this, that you tried to touch me, and you would be thrown out of this house. Where would you go then?’ When I do not respond, she raises her head, defiant. ‘Back to Paris in disgrace. I could destroy you if I chose.’

‘I suppose you could. But what would that satisfy? I have done nothing to hurt you, Marie.’

She says nothing, only looks away, her teeth clenched.

‘What is it you want from me?’ I say, as gently as I can.

She shakes her head, still turned resolutely towards the fire. I cannot read her; my suspicion remains that she meant to use her charms to coax some secret or other from me, believing I would be weak enough to give in, but there is always the outside chance that she felt something sincere, or believed she did. Either way, no woman takes being scorned lightly, and a woman whose pride is hurt can be dangerous. I kneel on the floor before her, placing my hand lightly over hers. She does not remove it, though she still will not look at me.

‘Marie.’ I pause, choosing my words carefully. ‘I was a monk for thirteen years. I have learned a little about mastering desire. And however beautiful you are, and you are —‘ here she deigns to look at me, finally, though her eyes are still cold — ‘I owe the duty of loyalty and respect to your husband and to King Henri, who is his master and mine. Nor would I wish to lose your respect.’ If I ever had it, I add, silently.

She purses her lips, as if weighing my speech, and eventually seems to approve it with a curt little nod. A thin wave of relief washes through me; I know as well as she how difficult she could make my life at Salisbury Court if she set her mind to it. For a moment I remain kneeling while I consider how to proceed, unwilling to make any sudden move that might inflame her anger again.

‘Perhaps it is best we leave the lesson for today?’ I suggest timidly; she nods and at that moment there comes a sharp knock at the door. I jump back, letting go of Marie’s hand, but not fast enough to be missed by Courcelles, who strides in without waiting for an invitation, his sharp eyes taking in the tableau at one sweep. Marie at least has the grace to look guilty for a moment, before a malicious smile curves across her face as she looks up at him.

‘Lesson going well?’ he asks, in a voice like satin wrapped around a steel blade.

‘Yes, thank you, Claude,’ Marie says lightly. ‘Did you want something?’

‘Yes, madame — the child Katherine’s governess has asked me to fetch you. She refuses to settle to her lesson.’

I watch Marie’s face and note that her first, uncensored reaction is irritation. I see it tighten her features, before she remembers herself and arranges her expression into an approximation of motherly concern.

‘Does she expect me to do everything? What is she employed for?’ she says, standing and smoothing down her dress. She hesitates briefly, as if unsure whether to acknowledge me or not, then juts her chin forward and sweeps from the room without glancing at either of us. Courcelles turns to me with a look that could crack marble.