Prophecy - Страница 6

Walsingham tilts his head to one side and considers me.

‘You talk sense, Bruno. But let us keep such speculation between ourselves. Her Majesty will hardly be reassured to think that someone familiar to her own household may be behind this, and I must attempt to put her mind at rest.’

‘There is speculation enough in the palace as it is,’ Burghley says, his lips pursed. ‘The chaplain raised such a noise when he found her that by the time the news reached me, half the servants had already been to gape at the spectacle and embellished it in their own fashion before passing it on. We cannot hope to keep the details quiet now. Already the lower servants murmur of devilry, that this is the work of the antichrist, come to fulfil the prophecy of the end times.’

‘The prophecy?’ I look from one to the other of them, amazed.

Walsingham catches the alarm in my voice, and laughs softly.

‘Did you think it was only learned men like yourself and Doctor Dee who knew of these prophecies? No, no — in England, Bruno, this year of Our Lord 1583 has been the talk of the common people long before it dawned. Even the poorest household has an almanac predicting the Great Conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, the first of its kind in a thousand years, the dire consequences that will follow, the floods and famines and tempests and droughts, the marvels in the heavens — oh, there have been pamphlets and interludes circulating in the taverns and the market squares for as long as I can recall, promising that the prophecy of the end times will find its fulfilment in these days.’

‘The wars of religion in these last years have only fuelled the fire,’ Burghley adds, his jaw set tight.

‘“When you shall hear of wars, and rumours of wars, be not troubled: for such things must needs be, but the end is not yet,”’ I muse, quoting the Gospel of Saint Mark.

‘These present wars began in universities and in kings’ bedchambers, not in the movements of the heavens,’ Walsingham chips in sharply. ‘None the less, the result has been to whip the populace into a frenzy of fear, and when unlettered people grow fearful, they fall back on old superstitions. I don’t know what it is about the English, but they have a peculiar weakness for prophecies and predictions.’

‘We have had five people arrested this year in London alone for disseminating printed prophecies of the queen’s death,’ Burghley adds sagely.

‘The people take this nonsense about the Great Conjunction seriously — and not just the humbler sort of folk,’ Walsingham says, his eyes flitting to the dead girl’s breast. ‘It will be all the easier for the secret priests to crawl out of their dogholes and turn the people back to Rome if they believe the second coming is at hand.’

‘She held a rosary,’ Burghley says, almost in a whisper. ‘An effigy of the queen killed, and in the other hand a rosary. The message is clear, is it not? The triumph of Rome and Her Majesty’s death?’

‘Someone wishes us to think along those lines, certainly.’ Walsingham sets his jaw and a nerve twitches in his cheek. ‘And the sign of Jupiter, too. Her Majesty is skittish enough touching these movements of the planets, thanks to John Dee. Now she will insist her fears are grounded.’ He sighs. ‘I should go to her without delay. Bruno — you can begin by talking to anyone close to Lady Cecily who might cast some light on her movements. Say you are Lord Burghley’s man. William, you will point Doctor Bruno to the right people? And have the serjeants-at-arms search every private apartment in the building, as well as the kitchens, the chapel and every common space. If this killer is still hereabouts, he will have a bloody shirt and knife he may have tried to hide somewhere.’

Burghley nods, running his hand over his head again, and looks suddenly weary. He must be a good ten years older than Walsingham, perhaps in his mid-sixties already, though he has the appearance of better health. He glances at me sidelong, his eyebrows knit in concern.

‘You will find the ladies-in-waiting somewhat hysterical, Doctor Bruno,’ he remarks drily. ‘Understandable, of course, though I was hard pushed to get any sense out of them. Still — perhaps a younger man with fine dark eyes and a pleasing smile might have better luck.’ He smiles grimly and pats me on the shoulder as he holds the chamber door open for me.

‘That is the nearest you will get to a compliment from Burghley, Bruno,’ Walsingham says, following behind me.

‘I assumed he was talking about you, your honour.’

Burghley throws a look of amusement over his shoulder.

‘At least he knows how to flatter, this one,’ he observes. ‘Let us hope he can turn it to good use with these women.’

Lady Margaret Seaton, Queen Elizabeth’s Lady of the Bedchamber, does not seem hysterical when I am shown into the private chamber where she waits; if anything, she seems impressively composed, you might almost say guarded. Lord Burghley introduces me as a trusted assistant, before backing politely through the double doors and closing them behind him. Lady Seaton wears black as if she is already in mourning and sits back among her cushions, regarding me with shrewd eyes. She is older, some way through her forties, closer to the queen’s own age, and though her fine skin begins to show the marks of time it is clear that she must have been considered a beauty in her youth. Two younger women sit on floor cushions on either side of her chair, clutching at her hands, both dressed in gowns of white silk and weeping copiously. At length she raises a hand and the girls make an effort to dampen their sobs.

‘What are you?’ she asks, in a clear voice. There is something accusatory in her tone; I sense that her apparent dislike is not personal, but that she is acutely conscious of her station and would prefer to have been sent someone with more authority.

‘I am an Italian, my lady. Lord Burghley has asked me to see if you can recall anything that —‘

‘I mean by profession. You are not a courtier, I don’t think. Are you a diplomat?’

‘Of sorts, my lady.’

She rearranges her broad skirts, rustling the silks ostentatiously while avoiding my eye.

‘How odd, that Burghley should send a foreigner. But continue.’

‘The young lady, Cecily Ashe — do you have any idea who she might have been meeting in the ruined chapel this evening?’

‘The papists have done this, you know,’ Lady Seaton snaps, leaning forwards. At the same time, I note that the red-headed girl kneeling by the left side of her chair bites her lip and drops her eyes to the floor.

‘Why do you say so, my lady?’

‘Because of the sacrilegious nature of it.’ She looks at me as though this should be obvious. ‘I suppose you are one, or have been?’

‘Once. But His Beatitude Pope Gregory had me excommunicated and wishes to burn me. This is why I now live under Her Majesty’s kindlier skies.’

‘I see.’ Her expression changes to one of curiosity. ‘What did you do to upset him?’

‘I have read books forbidden by the Holy Office. I abandoned the Dominican order without permission. I have written that the Earth turns around the Sun, that the stars are not fixed and that the universe is infinite.’ I shrug. ‘Among other things.’

She considers this with a slight wrinkle of her nose, as if a bad smell had drifted into her orbit.

‘Good heavens. Then I’m not surprised. To answer your question, I have no idea why Cecily should have been in that chapel. I last saw her at about four o’clock this afternoon, when she was engaged under my supervision with the other maids of honour in preparing the queen’s jewels for the evening. There was to be a musical recital in the great hall after supper. Master Byrd was to play.’ Here she pauses, and there is a minute tremor in her voice. The red-haired girl stifles a sob. ‘Cecily retired to dress with the other girls before Evensong, and that was the last time I set eyes on her.’

‘But evidently she slipped away to meet someone, disguised as a boy. Do you know who that might have been?’

Lady Seaton’s eyes narrow.

‘Preposterous,’ she says, eventually, though her voice remains steady. ‘The very suggestion. These girls are under my direct authority, Master —‘

‘Bruno.’

‘— yes, so the idea that I should be so lax with their honour and reputations is deeply distasteful to me, especially in the circumstances. Her Majesty does not tolerate immorality at her court. Whatever your customs in Italy, the Queen of England’s maids of honour do not engage in trysts in broad daylight for all to see.’

I am tempted to ask whether they always wait until dark, but sense that she would not respond well to mockery. The red-haired girl darts a furtive glance upwards and catches my eye for a moment before quickly looking away, evidently distressed.

‘I can only assume that she was crossing the courtyard and was dragged into the chapel garden by her assailant,’ Lady Seaton asserts, nodding a full stop, as if this is the last word on the matter. Then her face softens into something like regret. ‘Cecily was a particular favourite of Her Majesty’s, you know. She liked Cecily to read to her from Seneca in the evenings. Cecily had the best Latin of any of the girls.’

‘Seneca?’

‘Oh, yes, Master Bruno — no need to look so astonished. Our sovereign is highly educated and she expects the same standards of her attendants. She will not have girls who can’t read to her and understand what they read.’