Prophecy - Страница 41

Fowler shrugs.

‘He tolerates me because Castelnau has persuaded him I have useful connections at the Scottish court and, as you know, any intelligence about King James’s inclinations with regard to his mother’s claim is worth a great deal to the conspiracy. I do not think Howard mistrusts me as such, but he never seems at ease when I am there. I sense that he doubts the loyalty of anyone who does not share the ferocity of his own motives.’

‘Then he must doubt all of us,’ I reflect. ‘No one else has such a personal vendetta against Elizabeth and her government as he.’

He nods, with feeling.

‘What’s more, as you saw the other night, he has lost patience with Castelnau’s insistence on diplomatic relations. With Spanish money committed, Howard may be tempted to dispatch with the French embassy altogether and pursue his course with Mendoza.’ He presses his lips together. ‘In the Spanish ambassador he has found an ally as ruthless as he.’

I picture Howard huddled with Mendoza at the Whitehall concert, their dark heads bent close together, the contempt they both turned on me when I approached. I am about to reply when a movement catches my eye; I turn, but the churchyard is a constant tide of bodies, eddying around one another, many with their hoods pulled up or hats pulled down against the wind. It is impossible to tell one from another, and yet for a moment there, I sensed that prickling sensation of being watched. Is he here? Or am I growing as skittish as Leon Dumas?

‘Well, we may learn more tomorrow night at Arundel House,’ Fowler mutters, as we pass the magnificent doors of the south transept and turn our steps away from the churchyard. ‘The Earl of Arundel is giving a supper party for the usual guests.’

‘I fear I am not top of the Howards’ invitation list.’

‘I’m sure the ambassador can find a way to include you. Speak to him. And let us keep our wits sharp. Which way are you walking?’

I pause, glancing towards the mouth of a narrow alley that leads between timber-framed buildings to a lane that will take me down to Paul’s Wharf. ‘To the river. I will see you soon, no doubt.’

‘Are you heading west? Perhaps we could take a boat together?’

‘Mortlake. But I think it will be quicker if I go alone. I mean no offence,’ I add, quickly, ‘only I am late already. And we should be careful.’ I glance over my shoulder.

‘Mortlake? You are not going to see Walsingham?’ He drops his voice again.

‘No. An acquaintance who lives nearby.’

He gives me a long look through narrowed eyes, as if he suspects this is not the whole truth. Perhaps he imagines I am attempting to pass him by, taking some juicy scrap of information to Walsingham that I have kept back from him. Such doubts has our master bred into us; instinctively we sift every man’s words for double meanings, even those we are supposed to trust.

‘God speed, then — you have a long journey.’ Fowler hesitates, as if he has grown suddenly shy. ‘I am glad we spoke of these matters, Bruno. Ours can be a lonely task at times, do you not feel? It is my hope that we can combine our wits and energies to find Walsingham the proof he needs to bring all these intriguers to justice. Well. You know where I am if ever you need a confidant, or some company.’ Then he claps me on the back, pulls up his collar and walks away briskly towards Carter Lane, while I turn towards the river as fat raindrops begin to spit emphatically from the darkening sky.

Chapter Eleven

Mortlake, south-west London

1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583

Out on the river, I find a moment of calm to unravel my tangled thoughts for the first time in what seems like days. The rain clouds have hastened the dusk, and I sit in the prow of the little wherry wrapped in my cloak and a curtain of thin drizzle, lulled by the rhythm of the oars, looking out at the lights winking from windows of the riverside buildings. I have been fortunate in finding one of the few boatmen who doesn’t feel the need to fill the journey with idle chatter; his lantern sways on its hook as he pulls against the tide and in the absence of voices, my thoughts return again to Marie’s behaviour this morning. My refusing her, with the best of intentions, has left me at her mercy, should she decide to make trouble for me. Perhaps it would have been easier to offer her some encouragement, allow her some small measure of what she wanted. In that moment of closeness, when she had leaned in to kiss me, my body had remembered what it was to be touched. It was some months since I had kissed a woman, and that had not ended well. What I had told Marie was true — my years in the Dominican order had at least taught me to master desire, to subdue the stubborn cravings of the body. But no amount of self-discipline can blot out loneliness from the heart. The life I have chosen — or had forced upon me, I am never sure which — offers little opportunity for intimacy of any kind. A writer, especially a writer in exile, must learn to be self-contained, to be content within his own mind, and for the most part I am so. But there is always, somewhere inside, however muted, the dull ache of a longing that I sometimes fear will be a lifelong companion. If I were a different man, I might have had no qualms about Marie; a man like Douglas, I imagine, would not think twice about taking any woman who offered herself. But apart from my loyalty to Castelnau, there is a coldness in Marie that instinctively repels me, even while her obvious attractions draw me in. Inevitably, my thoughts drift back to Sophia Underhill, the last woman I had held in my arms, the one whose mind and beauty had pierced my careful defences only a few months ago. I wonder where she is now and whether she has found some happiness.

Usually when my thoughts tend along this path, I can rein them back by setting my mind to work through the ordered paces of my memory wheel. This evening the images all meta-morphose into a picture of Marie’s lips; as a remedy, it is not especially effective.

As a result, I arrive in Mortlake as soaked in melancholy as in drizzle. Dusk has fallen and along the river bank the shapes of dwellings and trees grow indistinct, blurred by rain against a grey sky. I shiver, and feel suddenly very far from home. I must take hold of myself, I say sternly; my one firm purpose here is to find a killer, and self-pity is a distraction for weak minds.

At first there is no answer from Dee’s house; I stand at the door for some minutes as the rain grows steadily harder, and a cold anxiety creeps up to my throat. Perhaps the whole household has been taken for questioning; perhaps Ned Kelley has returned and is keeping the door barred. I shade my brow with my hand and try to peer through one of the small casements to the side of the front door, but there is no light within. Just as I am contemplating looking for a window I can force or break to climb in, there is a creak and the door opens a crack to show the flame of a candle.

‘Mistress Dee, it is I, Giordano Bruno, come to hear if there is news from court.’ I rush back to the porch, relieved. The face of a woman scowls at me from the darkness within. It is not Dee’s wife. ‘I beg your pardon. Is your mistress at home?’

She turns away; I hear footsteps, voices in hushed conference, then the door is opened wider but no more graciously. Behind the sullen servant I catch sight of Jane Dee, who steps forward into the light as the door is closed behind me, the toddler Arthur hanging on to her skirts, his small oval face tilted warily up to me.

‘Doctor Bruno.’ She smiles, but the strain shows around her eyes. The baby on her hip rubs its eyes with a small fist, knocking its linen cap awry; Jane expertly rights it with one hand, her expression tightening back to anxiety. She is about thirty years of age, not beautiful but with a kind, open face; Dee depends on her utterly and has joked that I must never think of marrying unless I can find another woman like Jane. I have the greatest respect for her; there are not many wives who would tolerate a house filled with the smell of boiling horse dung and the best of the household income going on manuscripts and astronomical instruments. Her hair is bound up untidily, with strands coming loose where the infant clutches at them, and she looks pale, older than her years. She raises her face to me and attempts another smile.

‘Do you bring news about my husband?’

‘No.’ I hold out my hands, a show of emptiness. ‘I came because I hoped you might have heard some.’

She glances briefly at the maid, who still hovers by the door, something irritatingly furtive in her posture. Jane gestures to me with her head, shifts the baby to her other hip, and I follow her and Arthur along a passageway and into a chilly parlour, where a fire is dying in the hearth. Jane pokes it and a feeble shower of sparks issues up the chimney; for a brief moment the logs gamely struggle back into life. She looks at me apologetically.

‘Take off your wet cloak, Doctor Bruno, and stand here by our sad apology for a fire, if you will. They came for him late last night.’ She brushes her hair from her face and bounces the infant gently to soothe it. Arthur sits down cross-legged, close to his mother’s feet, his eyes still fixed on me. ‘Five men in royal colours, said it was urgent. They bundled him out into a boat, hardly gave him a chance to fetch his cloak.’ Her mouth presses into a white line.

‘Were they rough?’ I lower my voice, glancing at the boy. Jane shakes her head tightly.

‘No. But they were armed, if you can believe it. Why would she send armed men for my husband, Doctor Bruno, who has never done anyone a stroke of harm in his life?’