Prophecy - Страница 38

‘Are you all right, Leon?’ I ask, as the boy swerves between puddles and disappears behind houses on the opposite side of the street. Dumas looks at me with an oddly pleading expression, as if there is something he wants to say, then shakes his head tightly, mumbling that he must hurry. I, too, am already late for my meeting with Fowler; earlier this morning I had regretted the necessity of seeing him, adding another distraction to my day, but now I feel something approaching relief. Walsingham’s anger at the palace has taught me that I cannot hope to find this killer alone, and the quiet, composed Scot, with his network of contacts and his knowledge of Salisbury Court, may be just the confidant I need. Walsingham has as good as instructed me to share my information, and the prospect of sharing the burden is no longer unwelcome.

I lay a hand on Dumas’s shoulder and he flinches. We must part ways here, I west to Creed Lane, he south to Paul’s Wharf and Throckmorton’s house.

‘I will see you back at Salisbury Court.’

He looks around briefly, then leans in towards me.

‘They will know now, won’t they? That the letters have been opened?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘The ring. If the casket and the ring has been stolen from inside the package, they will start looking for anyone who might have had the chance to do so.’ He is clutching at my sleeve again, his eyes bright with panic.

‘Slow down, Leon — the ring could have disappeared at any stage in its journey. Or it may not have disappeared at all. There is no reason to think we will be under any more suspicion than we are now.’

But he is not convinced; in fact, he looks more stricken than I have ever seen him. If his fear gets the better of him and he tries to pull out of the arrangement to avoid discovery, we could lose our access to Mary’s correspondence with Salisbury Court and with it any advance information about the invasion plans or concrete evidence of plots against the queen. This must not be allowed to happen; the entire operation depends on Dumas’s peace of mind, and it is up to me to reassure him.

‘We must remain calm, Leon, and give nothing away from our behaviour. You and I will speak of this further. Come to my room when you can,’ I say, clapping him on the shoulder again, ‘but for now, Godspeed.’ And I watch him as he sets off south towards the river, his shoulders hunched against the rain. As I turn to make my own way up the hill, I am certain I see a flicker of movement, a figure darting away into the shadows behind St Katherine’s Church. My stomach twists for a moment, as my hand reaches for the bone-handled dagger I carry always at my belt, the only possession I took from the monastery of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples the night I fled. But as I draw level with the churchyard I can see no one; two men are walking eastwards towards me, deep in conversation, and I pull my shoulders back and breathe deeply. London is full of people going about their business, despite the rain, and I must guard against becoming as nervous as Dumas, leaping at shadows. I pull the peak of my cap down against the weather and walk on, though I keep one hand on the dagger, just in case.

Creed Lane runs to the west of St Paul’s churchyard, and the narrow street is already thronged with people as I approach the sign of the Mitre, jostling one another with sharp insults as they try to protect themselves and their wares from the weather. Just as I reach the door of the tavern, a hand clamps down on my shoulder; again, I start, my hand instinctively tightening around the knife as I turn to find the grinning face of Archibald Douglas only a few inches from mine, his breath already thick with the fumes of drink but his eyes bright and mischievous.

‘Bruno! I thought it was you. Recognised your hat through the crowds. What brings you to this part of town?’

I look at him through narrowed eyes, immediately alert. Douglas has never to my knowledge seen me wearing a hat, and in any case, mine is of black leather, the same as every second man in London. Could it possibly be Douglas following me?

‘Books,’ I say, hastily recovering myself. ‘I wanted to look at the booksellers’ stalls outside St Paul’s.’

‘I’m not sure they sell your kind of books on public stalls,’ he says, winking broadly and hooking his arm around my neck as he pushes the door open. ‘Come on, let me buy you a drink.’

I am wary of his sudden appearance and unprecedented display of bonhomie, but since I was so obviously on my way into the tavern, it is impossible to refuse his offer without looking suspicious myself, so I shrug and allow him to usher me through the door into the steaming tap-room, where the smell of wet wool vies with the warming aromas of pastry and yeasty beer.

Douglas shoulders his way through the press of damp bodies sheltering from the cloudburst, calling for beer as a put-upon girl eases past, splashing from the four tankards she carries, two in each hand, and cursing as she does so.

‘Watch you don’t get your pockets picked in here,’ he says to me, over his shoulder, then he pauses, looks over my head across the other side of the room, makes a face and mutters, ‘Fuck.’ When he reaches a corner table, he motions to the other drinkers to shove up along the bench, let us sit down; grumbling, they obey. There is something oddly compelling about Douglas’s presence; though I don’t like him, neither do I want to be on the wrong side of him, and since he is so entangled with the conspirators at Salisbury Court, it would be foolish of me not to use this opportunity to take a close look at him. Still, I can’t escape the sense that it is he who has decided to take a look at me.

When we are seated and drinks set in front of us, he leans in, beckoning me closer.

‘You’ll never guess who I just saw over the other side of the room.’ Without waiting for me to answer, he breathes, in a gust of beer fumes, ‘William Fowler.’

‘Fowler? Really?’ I concentrate on the tankard in front of me. Poor Fowler. I wonder if he noticed me come in with Douglas, having kept him waiting for more than half an hour. I can only hope he understands that, in our business, plans have to change at a moment’s notice.

‘Aye. What do you make of him?’

‘Who, Fowler?’ Douglas’s question pulls my attention back; he is tilted forward eagerly, and his eyes are fixed sharply enough on mine. I shrug. ‘I barely know him. He seems like a quiet sort.’

‘Aye.’ Douglas nods, and takes a noisy draught. ‘That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? Keeps to himself, right enough.’ He taps the table with an ink-stained forefinger. ‘My lord Howard suspects someone is tampering with the correspondence. To Queen Mary, I mean.’

‘What makes him say that?’ I am forced to lean nearer to him; between his Scots accent and my Italian one, and the general hubbub of talk in the tavern, the conversation is not easy to follow.

‘He says there are things missing. Disappearing, you know. So he concludes someone has a hand in the packets that come from Sheffield Castle.’

‘What things?’

Douglas shakes his head. ‘Letters and packets that should have come to him from Mary. He didn’t say any more than that. But naturally he’s looking at Salisbury Court.’ He lets this fall casually, glancing away to the next table as he says it, but immediately my sinews stiffen.

‘Howard has no reason to suspect anyone at the embassy,’ I say, trying to keep my voice level. Bitter experience has taught me that when you are accused of anything, regardless of whether you are innocent or guilty, it is almost impossible to deny the accusation without sounding as though you are protesting too hard. It was for this reason that I chose to run away from my monastery rather than stay and face an interrogation by the Father Inquisitor.

Douglas laughs aloud then, a big open-throated guffaw.

‘Come now, Bruno, don’t pretend to be simple. You’re famed for defying the Holy Office. You’re a defrocked monk, for Christ’s sake! As far as Howard is concerned —‘ here he lowers his voice — ‘you’re an enemy of the Catholic faith, not an ally. I’m not saying that’s my view, I just think you should know what Howard feels. He’s furious with Castelnau for allowing you into those meetings at the embassy.’

‘Well, I hate to disappoint him, but my first loyalty now is to whoever puts a roof over my head and bread in my hand.’

‘Aye, I’ll drink to that,’ he says ruefully, raising his tankard.

‘I know nothing of Mary’s letters, save what I learn around the table with the rest of you.’ I look him in the eye as frankly as I know how. ‘Are you of the Catholic faith yourself?’

A smile curves one side of his mouth.

‘Aye. I suppose you could say I’ve thrown my lot in with the Catholics. But I think of myself as a pragmatist. I know how to read the weather, my friend, and I don’t need any stargazer or ancient prophecy to tell me Elizabeth’s star is waning.’ He glances suddenly to each side, but no one appears to be paying attention to our conversation. ‘I know how to make my services indispensable to those on the way up, then I call in the favours when they’re established. Henry Howard has no illusions about my piety, but he knows I wouldn’t jeopardise my own position. Queen Mary vouches for me and that’s good enough for him. No — it’s Fowler I’ve wondered about. He has a lot of friends at court. Castelnau thinks that works in our favour, but I have my doubts.’

‘I heard you already made yourself indispensable to Queen Mary once,’ I say, partly to change the subject. Too much speculation on Fowler’s trustworthiness among the regulars at Salisbury Court could lead to unwelcome attention.