Prophecy - Страница 53

Howard resumes his seat and leans forward, fixing his dark eyes on mine.

‘Yes, Bruno,’ he says, with icy precision. ‘Where did you get this fanciful idea? Do tell.’

‘Well, perhaps I have not properly understood,’ I falter, ‘but to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England, you must first remove her cousin, no? So I assumed that if — when — the invasion happened, she would be —‘ I break off with a shrug, looking around the table, hoping that my pretence of naivete will convince. Fowler still does not look at me, I presume because he does not want to betray his anger.

Howard laughs indulgently; to my ear there is a measure of relief in it.

‘I see — you thought that to crown a new sovereign we must first dispatch the old one? No, no, Bruno — that may be how you conduct things in Naples, but we are not barbarians here.’

I almost point out that he has just announced an invasion of twenty thousand and more troops to wage war on a peaceful nation, but I refrain.

‘This coup, if you will,’ Howard says smoothly, ‘must be conducted according to the rule of law. What you have perhaps failed to understand as a foreigner, Bruno, is that Elizabeth Tudor is not the legitimate queen of England, and never has been. The simple people of our poor country have been deceived into believing that she had the right of succession. They need to have this view corrected. Murdering her in the name of the Catholic faith will only make her a martyr in their eyes — it would be impossible thereafter for any Catholic monarch to restore order or command the people’s affection. No, we must be a little more civilised about it.’ He smiles, pressing the tips of his fingers together.

‘Oh, a civilised coup?’ I say. ‘I have not witnessed one of those — how does it work? Do the troops apologise as they march on a town?’

Despite herself, Marie stifles a giggle; Howard’s smile is wearing thin.

‘The point my uncle wishes to make, Doctor Bruno, if I may,’ Philip Howard cuts in, ‘is that to bring England back to the true Church, we must guide the people gently. It cannot be done with swords and crossbows alone, but only by showing England her error. We are pursuing a holy war here, and I think we are all agreed that no more blood must be spilled than is necessary to do God’s work.’ A quaver creeps into his voice as he lays a sincere hand on his heart.

‘My nephew is the saint in the family,’ Henry Howard remarks, drily.

‘But he is right,’ says Mendoza. ‘The pretender Elizabeth must be arrested and publicly tried by a papal court as a traitor and a heretic.’

‘It must be proved to the populace, by due process, that Mary Stuart is the only legitimate heir to the Tudor crown,’ Howard explains, with excessive patience. ‘This is essential if the people are to accept her and her heirs as their rightful monarchs.’

Opposite me, Douglas snaps his head up at this and stares at Howard. Fowler has also raised his head from his private thoughts to do the same, an expression of curiosity creeping over his features. Marie turns and narrows her eyes at Howard. He returns their looks defiantly, but he cannot help a slight colour creeping up his cheeks; he knows he has also said too much.

‘Last time I looked,’ Douglas says, drawing out the words and leaning back in his chair, ‘Mary had just the one heir, and that is King James of Scotland. To my knowledge there has never been any question over his legitimacy or his succession.’ He keeps his tone light, but I catch a steely note in it. ‘His father was a peacock and a drunk who couldn’t keep it in his breeches, but there was no doubting the lineage.’

‘No, indeed,’ Howard says hurriedly. ‘I am only speculating, if you will. Queen Mary is young enough still that she may, once she is restored to her throne, wish to marry again. We cannot rule out the possibility.’ He brushes something invisible from his doublet in order not to have to look at Douglas. I am seized by an urge to laugh at his evident discomfort, but I hold my face firm.

Douglas regards him with a mixture of disgust and incredulity.

‘Christ, man, she’s forty-two and she’s the size of a fucking shire horse — if any man was going to tup her he’d need a serious reward for it.’

‘Being king consort of England might be reward enough for some,’ Fowler observes; somehow, his low steady voice is the more startling for being heard so rarely this evening. I wonder if anyone else notices the fury that flashes across Howard’s face for the briefest moment, before he composes his ingratiating smile once more. From the way Mendoza watches him, his lip curled almost into a smirk, it seems that Howard’s error has not escaped the sharp black eyes of the Spaniard.

By now, Howard’s paper has made its way around the table to me, via Douglas. It shows a rough sketch of the outline of England, with harbours marked around it at various intervals, together with the names of the Catholic lords whose lands border the coast. Most of the names mean nothing to me, but a copy of this would be all Walsingham needs to have Howard arrested and charged. The question is how to obtain one. In the meantime, I bend all my powers of concentration to committing it to memory.

‘We were talking of what should be done with Elizabeth after the invasion,’ Howard says, clearly anxious to change the subject.

‘Yes. The Duc de Guise is adamant that she must be tried for heresy by a Papal court,’ says Marie. I glance up from the paper for a moment; her eyes are shining with the special fervour she reserves for religious fanaticism and seduction. ‘This way it will send a message to the other Protestant leaders of Europe. Submit to the authority of the Catholic Church or this will be your fate.’ She smiles with the anticipation of triumph.

‘The duke has the unwavering support of Spain in this course,’ Mendoza says, half-bowing to Marie; she simpers in return. ‘It would be the single most eloquent act the united Catholic powers could perform, an act that would echo across Europe and beyond. Particularly in the Low Countries,’ he adds, with venom.

‘And if the Inquisition find her guilty, as they will? You propose she should be executed as a heretic, with all that that entails?’ Fowler asks her, his face earnest as ever.

Marie shrugs. ‘That is hardly for me to say. There is an established punishment for heresy. I do not see why she should be exempt just because she is a royal bastard who calls herself a queen.’

‘The people won’t like that,’ Philip says, rubbing his lower lip.

‘There are precedents,’ replies his uncle. ‘Besides, the people are primed for cataclysmic change. Think of these pamphlets Douglas mentioned. The Great Conjunction, prophecies of the end of the age. The people cling to this superstitious folly, so we turn it to our advantage. Persuade them that the end prophesied in the heavens is the end of the false Protestant religion, bringing a new era of peace in a united Catholic Europe. In their hearts it’s what they all want, even if they don’t know it.’ He makes a little flourish in the air with his hand, as if he has just signed off a contract whose business is now ended. It is this sense of entitlement, the way he directs other people’s lives, that hardens my dislike of him. I am willing to bet he is already picturing himself enthroned beside Mary Stuart.

Marie sits forward again as if to speak, but at that moment the dog under the table produces an unmissable liquid belch and everyone turns to look at me.

‘Doctor Bruno,’ Howard says, forcing his smile again. ‘The paper, if you please?’ He stretches out his hand for the map I am still studying. Reluctantly, I pass it back along the table.

‘We have not yet given you opportunity to fulfil your duty and share with us the ambassador’s thoughts,’ Howard continues. ‘Please do so — if you feel able.’ His civility could wither the grapes on the vine as he makes a point of looking at my wine glass. My pulse quickens; my plan now rests on my performance in the next few minutes. I can feel the force of Mendoza’s scorn as he glowers from the other end of the table.

So I stumble, glass in hand, through Castelnau’s by now well-worn arguments against rushing the invasion plot — the Duke of Guise is acting without the authority or approval of King Henri, there is still the chance of a treaty between Elizabeth and Mary, the diplomatic processes have not been exhausted, too much power would be handed to Rome, etcetera — but I deliver them in such a slurring show of drunken rambling that Howard turns his face away from me in disgust. Courcelles, I note from the corner of my eye, appears delighted with my display; I picture him scampering gleefully back to Castelnau to report what happens when you trust your affairs to a renegade Italian instead of your own private secretary, as protocol demands. I would mind the affront to my own dignity, but there is too much at stake to worry about that; besides, I am unlikely to be invited back to Arundel House in the near future in any case. Fowler simply watches me with his steady, concerned expression, his fingers steepled together and pressed to his lips.

I end this virtuoso display with an expansive hand gesture that sends my wine glass crashing to the floor beside me, as I intended it should, to account for the quantity of wine spilled on the rushes. The dog whimpers and retreats into the corner of the room. It doesn’t look well. Henry Howard can barely contain his outrage; his moustache twitches unnervingly as he sucks in his cheeks.

‘Don’t worry, Doctor Bruno — the servants will see to that in the morning,’ Philip Howard says, with utmost courtesy, waving a hand.