Prophecy - Страница 48

No matter; I will catch Dumas’s eye when the household gathers at midday for dinner. My head still aches badly but the wound is mending well. In the absence of anything useful to be done until I can lure him out from under the ambassador’s nose, I attempt to work a little on some notes for my book, but my mind will not fix on anything besides Dumas’s story and the line of Marie de Castelnau’s collar bone. So it was Dumas who took the ring. He spoke of money and greed; did he then spy the ring when Mary’s correspondence with Howard came through Castelnau’s office, and take his opportunity to pocket it and sell it on? Then whoever bought it from him was either the person who gave it to Cecily Ashe, or one link nearer to that person. Inwardly, I curse Marie again for her ill-timed appearance and for her unwanted attentions, even as I almost smile at the irony; never, during my lonely years as a Dominican monk, did I imagine the day would come when I would curse a beautiful woman for believing herself in love with me. But I fear her visit this morning will make Dumas’s life difficult too; I don’t believe he is given to gossiping among the servants, and in any case, he is too fearful at the moment to dare risk offence. His face when Marie entered was a mask of pure terror; for her part, she was clearly furious to have been caught out in her illicit venture, and will find it hard to believe that Dumas can be trusted. There are more than enough stories of servants attempting to extort money from their masters over such matters. I can only hope she will not take it into her head to pre-empt anything he might say by trying to discredit him with Castelnau. I push my papers away and prop my elbows on the desk, leaning my head on my hands. Marie’s unwanted interest in me has now made Dumas’s position as well as my own vulnerable to her whims.

These thoughts, and multiple variations on them, keep me occupied until the hour of dinner, when I am surprised and a little alarmed to find Dumas not present. The meal is simple, boiled chickens with a stew of vegetables, as Castelnau and his wife are invited in the evening to the supper at Arundel House that Fowler had mentioned, hosted by the Earl of Arundel and Henry Howard. There has been no mention yet of my being invited, though I am almost frantic to have myself included; what better means of studying Howard and his nephew at close quarters? But I can hardly beg the ambassador to take me in front of his wife and secretary. Courcelles’s idle chatter at table makes clear that he will be in attendance this evening. He is almost the only person who makes conversation over dinner; the ambassador seems withdrawn and anxious, and only speaks to affirm some piece of business or answer one of his questions. Marie sits at her husband’s right hand, but keeps her eyes pointedly fixed on me from under her lashes, so determinedly that I am obliged to keep my own on my plate so it doesn’t look as if we are engaged in some kind of staring contest. Whenever I glance up and her gaze locks on to mine, she gives me a secret smile — one that does not escape Courcelles, I notice, whose glowering I also affect to ignore.

When the meal is over, Castelnau motions to me as the servants bring him a bowl of water and a linen towel.

‘Join me in my office when you have washed your hands, will you, Bruno? I would speak with you. Alone,’ he adds, with a nod at Courcelles. His chair scrapes back with a brusque movement and he strides from the room without a word to his wife.

The outer door is closed by the time I reach his study, so I knock for the sake of formality, and turn the latch as I hear his barked ‘Entrez!‘ from within. The ambassador is already seated at his desk; he gestures for me to close the door and draw up a chair opposite him, as he purposefully lays down his quill and turns over the paper he has been writing. I note that Dumas’s desk is unoccupied, his chair still pushed back as if he left in a hurry.

‘Bruno.’ Castelnau folds his hands together on the desk. There is a weariness in the gesture that is mirrored in his face; he looks drawn and pale, bruised shadows heavy under his eyes. ‘I have been worrying about this attack on you last night.’

‘It was my own folly, really. A lesson learned.’ I touch my finger to my brow and smile ruefully, in the hope that he will let the matter drop; I would prefer not to be questioned too closely on the events of the previous day.

‘But can you be sure this was not a personal attack?’ he says, his frown deepening. ‘I mean, aimed at us? At the embassy?’

I take a deep breath.

‘They were strangers, my lord. A gaggle of London apprentices after a day’s drinking. They didn’t know me — they saw a foreigner and a target for abuse to amuse one another, that’s all. I was called a Spanish whoreson,’ I add, to bolster the tale. ‘I should have let it pass, but instead I insulted them back, and they set upon me.’

He gives me a long look, then shakes his head sadly.

‘This city,’ he says, as if it were responsible for the weight of all his burdens. ‘My fears are getting the better of me, Bruno, I begin to see enemies where there are none. I worry that these preparations for war will be discovered. It makes me anxious when people inside this embassy are attacked in the street for no good reason. Where did you say you were?’

‘Some tavern near Mortlake. You know, my lord, that I go there to use the library of John Dee. He welcomes visiting scholars, and he has many books that I would not find elsewhere.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He dismisses this with a wave of his hand. ‘His library is renowned. But perhaps you should not go there for a while, Bruno. I have enough to worry about without fearing for your safety.’

‘I will stay away from taverns, that much is certain,’ I say, rubbing the side of my face. ‘But my lord, the English drink too much and they hate foreigners — this is true of every corner of London. And every street now buzzes with talk of prophecies and planets and the end of days — all these fears are compounded and they turn on anyone who looks different, because they are afraid.’

Castelnau smiles weakly.

‘And these are the people Henry Howard and my wife think will rise up gladly and join with French and Spanish troops to overthrow their queen.’ He shakes his head again.

‘You are losing faith in the invasion plan?’

‘I never had faith in it, Bruno, you know this. And the Spanish involvement makes me deeply unquiet.’

‘You think they mean to use it to advance their own power?’

‘Philip of Spain believes himself to be the chief defender of the Catholic faith in Europe. But he also believes he has a claim on the English throne, through his late wife, Elizabeth’s half-sister. You may be sure he’s not committing money and men just to hand Mary Stuart the crown.’ He grimaces. ‘And if the Spanish support for Guise and his followers goes beyond this invasion …’ His voice trails off.

‘You mean he might fund a Guise coup in Paris.’ I finish the sentence for him. It is not a question. A silence unfolds as our thoughts follow the same path: the Duke of Guise could take the French throne with Spanish support, creating a formidable alliance of hardline Catholics to rise up, united, against the weaker countries of Protestant Europe.

‘Exactly. Listen,’ Castelnau says, after we have taken a moment to consider the implications of this: ‘I need you to do something for me.’

I hold out my palms to either side.

‘However I may be of service, my lord ambassador.’

‘Go to this supper tonight at Arundel House in my place, will you?’

‘In your place? Are you ill, my lord?’

An almost silent sigh escapes him, making his shoulders tremble.

‘Yes. I feel a shadow of myself these past days. I do not sleep any more, Bruno. I don’t remember the last time I slept an untroubled night. It must have been before my wife returned from Paris.’ He lets this fall with unmistakable bitterness.

‘The rapid progress of this invasion plot has placed a great deal of strain on you, my lord,’ I say, with a degree of genuine sympathy. ‘You should rest.’

‘How can I rest, Bruno?’ he cries, raising his hands. ‘The Duke of Guise is a fanatic for the Catholic cause. He would slaughter every last Protestant in Europe with his bare hands if he had the time, singing hymns to God as he did it and believing he was carving himself a place in heaven. Henry Howard is of the same mind, except that he also wants revenge against the House of Tudor. And now, Mendoza and Philip of Spain have joined the party because they sniff the chance for Spain to take the spoils at minimal cost, with France so divided. And here am I in the middle of them all, trying to represent my king’s interests, to argue for clemency and moderation, while my wife throws her lot in firmly with Guise.’ He shakes his head.

‘I am not surprised you don’t sleep, my lord.’

He knits his fingers together again and leans forward, pointing his two forefingers straight at me.

‘There is more. Henry Howard is concerned that his correspondence with Mary is being tampered with.’

‘What makes him say that?’ Sweat prickles under my arms but I keep my face clear.

‘Mary is supposed to have sent him something that he never received.’ He frowns in concentration as his fingers pluck ceaselessly at the strands of his quill. ‘Naturally, his suspicions fall on Salisbury Court.’

‘But those letters pass through many hands on their journey,’ I say.

‘Precisely. Young Throckmorton’s, for a start. But it troubles me greatly that Howard now looks at us with mistrust. His influence among the English Catholics cannot be underestimated, Bruno. It is he who will galvanise them, persuade them to risk their lives and estates to help this invasion succeed. If he decides to shut me out by sending his letters via Mendoza, we lose any influence we may have over this plot and any hope of arguing for a moderate response.’