Prophecy - Страница 58

I look at him and the thrill of my earlier certainty shrivels to a point and disappears. Despite the self-satisfied twitch of his smile, I think he is speaking the truth. Wanting to persuade myself that he was behind the murders, I have tried to make the facts fit, but I have never found a plausible explanation for the way the murders so overtly tried to imply a Catholic threat. And now that I know the extent of Howard’s regal and dynastic ambitions, I can see that the assassination of Elizabeth would clearly work against his interests, so the theory that he set up Cecily Ashe to poison the queen also crumbles. But if Howard is not the killer, then who?

‘You had better return my book now, Bruno,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘I wouldn’t put it past you to crack the cipher while my back was turned.’

Slowly, I step forward, my arm leaden as I reach out and let him take the book. The rough grain of the leather slides beneath my fingertips as he pulls it from my grasp; I watch him tuck it back into its casket with a sense of desolation, as if I had found a lover only to lose her again in the same moment. Except that I have pursued this book across a continent and a sea with greater devotion than I have shown to any woman; to have held it in my hands and have it snatched away is almost worse than to have gone on blindly seeking it, never knowing if it even existed. Nor can I escape the insistent voice of my own vanity: that, given time, Dee and I between us could surely break the cipher that has defeated Henry Howard for fourteen years. My eyes follow it longingly as Howard locks the casket and clasps it to his chest. My chances of ever touching that book again look remote.

The sword glitters on the altar under the candle flames. If I were to lunge for it now, while Howard busies himself with the casket, I might just be able to grab it before he has a chance to react, though he is nearer. As if he senses my eyes on it, without looking up he reaches out and lays a proprietorial hand on the hilt.

‘You leave me with a dilemma, Bruno,’ he says, as he tucks the casket under his left arm. ‘All of this —‘ he gestures around the chapel, taking in the chart, the brazen head, the altar — ‘you should not have seen. My greatest secret. If it were made known, it would be the final nail in the coffin of my family’s reputation, and would certainly see me in the Tower. You were never a man I wholly trusted, even before this night. So what am I to do with you, now that you have found me out?’ His thumb lightly strokes the hilt of his sword, though he doesn’t yet pick it up.

A coldness ripples along my spine and through my gut; my throat clenches. I had half-expected this, but stubbornly I still hope I might reason with him.

‘Dee has guessed at your secret, and not divulged it — why do you think I would not do the same?’

He must catch the fear in my voice, because he laughs, without humour.

‘Dee has no proof of anything. And he has a healthy respect for the reach of my influence, whereas you, Bruno, appear to have no respect at all.’ He rests his left hand on his hip and shakes his head. ‘I don’t think I have ever witnessed such a cocksure swagger in a man of low birth.’

My eyes flick again to the sword.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Bruno, I’m not planning to run you through, unless you try anything stupid. That would take some explaining to the ambassador.’ He tilts his head to one side again and smiles dangerously. ‘Fortunately, your little charade this evening gives me the perfect opportunity. It’s very common, apparently, for a man who over-indulges in drink to choke to death on his own vomit in the night.’

‘Let me go back to the embassy,’ I plead, my voice emerging as a croak. ‘I will say nothing to anyone.’

‘Nothing?’ His lips trace a faint smile, which vanishes as he picks up the sword decisively. ‘Even when you see Dee imprisoned for sorcery, you would still guard my secret? I suspect not.’ He points the tip at my chest; instinctively, I step back. ‘The maidservant will find you in the morning, stone cold and covered with vomit. God knows that hound’s produced enough to spare. It will be an embarrassment to the French embassy, of course, but between us Castelnau and I will do our best to cover up the scandal. And in the great tumult of what is about to happen in this country, no one will remember the little Italian monk who couldn’t hold his Rhenish.’

He ushers me with the point of the sword towards the far end of the room with the obsidian speculum. The casket with the Hermes book is tucked tightly under his arm.

‘I’ll have to leave you here while I rouse the earl’s trusted servants. I don’t intend to get my own hands messy. You can amuse yourself, I trust. I suppose it doesn’t much matter now what you find here.’

He backs towards the door, the sword still levelled at my chest. For a fleeting moment I consider the possibility of running at him, attempting to wrest it from his grasp, but he is a big man, considerably taller than I, and he would be upon me the moment I moved. The sword may be ornamental, but even in the dying light I can see its edge is vicious.

At the door he pauses, one hand on the latch.

‘I read your book on memory, you know,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I can confess this now — I considered it the work of an exceptional mind. I am almost sorry things have to end in this way, but a man must look to his own survival in these times. And my destiny is greater than yours. Goodbye, Giordano Bruno.’ He gives me a long look, then backs out of the door. I hear the sound of a key turning, and the unmistakable scrape of the bookcase sliding back into place. I push my hands through my hair, take a deep breath, and try to examine the room with a clear head, though my blood is racing and I feel faintly nauseous.

The candles have burned almost down to their holders, but still their flames dance and weave in currents of cold air. The atmosphere in the hidden chapel is chill enough that I can see my own breath cloud in front of me as I try to slow it down. By my reckoning, this chapel has been created by partitioning the room that is now the library, closing off the furthest wall, meaning that we are at the very end of one wing. The bricked-up windows on the wall opposite the door bear this out. But this constant draught must mean that there is another opening somewhere, and the only possibility is behind the speculum. Snatching one of the candles from the altar, my theory is confirmed as I approach the edge of the speculum and its flame is almost snuffed out.

I have very little time. The thick sheet of polished obsidian is broad and taller than a man — a man from Naples, at any rate — and is set into a solid block of wood at the base to keep it upright and give it balance. I put my shoulder against it and push with all my weight. It shifts a fraction of an inch and there is no doubt that the cold air is coming through the gap between the speculum and the wall. I wedge my foot behind the wooden base and attempt to push it outwards, leaning my back against the wall, keeping one eye constantly on the door that leads to the library, expecting at any moment to hear the sound of a key turning.

Straining every muscle, I push the base of the speculum with both legs until I have shunted it far enough away from the wall to reveal a fireplace, boarded up with wooden planks. My heart sinks, but when I hold the candle close, shielding its flame with my hand, I see that the nails are only loosely hammered in; it would be little work to prise them free, if only I had time. I scrabble for the knife that I kicked under the black cabinet, easing it towards me with my fingertips. Setting the candle out of the direct draught, I force the blade behind the nail of the topmost board and it comes loose easily; I am able to work my fingers in behind and pull the whole board away from the fireplace. I repeat this with the second, my hands shaking with the need for haste and my fingertips bleeding from the splinters. In a few minutes, I have removed three of the boards, leaving a space big enough to fold myself into and climb through into the fireplace. I have no idea how wide the chimney breast will prove to be, or if it is even possible to climb it, but I have no other choice. I sheathe the knife and bend myself double to fit through the gap, reluctantly leaving the candle behind and thanking Fortune that I have the physique of a Neapolitan; one of these tall, broad Englishmen like Howard or Sidney would not stand a chance.

Inside the chimney breast the darkness is complete and wraps around me heavy as broadcloth, the smell of soot and must thick in my nostrils. I feel the rising panic in my chest that always comes when I find myself in tight spaces, the furious quickening of my heart and breath, the slick of sweat on my palms, the blind terror of being enclosed. Willing myself to stay calm, I feel the brickwork above my head, patting methodically all around until I encounter what I hoped to find — a metal bracket set into the inside of the chimney, to aid the children when they climb to sweep it clean. No one has been up this chimney for years, I think, as I brace myself with one foot against the back of the fireplace and grip the bracket to pull myself up into the narrow flue, groping blindly above my head for the next one. Cobwebs cling to my mouth and nose; I try to bend my mind to some memory exercises to distract me from the sensation that the walls around me are growing narrower as I climb, feeling for footholds where I can as loose bricks crumble and scatter to the ground below. Soon I can feel the sides pressing against my shoulders; I take a mouthful of sooty air, and it tastes sharper, colder, with the crisp metallic edge of autumn. I can only pray that there is no ornate pot on the top of this chimney, closing me in. The climb has been shorter than I anticipated; I can feel night air on the top of my head, which helps to damp down the fear that rises as my shoulders become wedged for a moment where the flue tapers. With some judicious wriggling, I manage to raise one arm above my head and feel for the top of the chimney; half-squeezing, half-dragging myself, I emerge through the opening, rubbing filth from my eyes as the wind off the river slaps against my face, its perfume of Thames mud and sewage never more welcome.