Prophecy (2011) (38 page)

‘This is Walter, our longest-serving officer at arms,’ announces the man with the chins. ‘He has the best part of our records committed to memory, you know. If - God forbid - we should ever suffer the ravages of a fire, we should be turning to Walter to recreate our archive from here.’ He taps his temple. ‘But he is Scottish by birth and he knows a great deal of the Scots titles too.’

‘Well,’ says the old man, in a rich voice with those curling vowels I have come to recognise, ‘I regret to say age is stealing the names and dates from me piece by piece. But the earldom of Ormond I do still recall, if you are interested?’

I leap to my feet, nodding.

‘Please - anything you know.’

‘Well.’ He clears his throat, as if to embark on a long history. Uncharitably, I find myself hoping this explanation will be brief. ‘The title derives from Ormond Castle in the Black Isle, you know, but the earldom was forfeit in 1455 after a rebellion against the Scots king.’

‘So the title is extinct?’

‘It became a subsidiary title of the Dukes of Ross, but that title was also lost at the beginning of our own century. Now -‘ he pauses, swallows, and raises a shaky finger like a schoolmaster waiting for his pupils’ full attention - ‘the Dukes of Ross were Stewarts, but the earls of Ormond were all of the house of Douglas.’

I scarcely hear the officer at arms naming his price; my fingers reach for my purse and hand over coins almost of their own accord while I continue to stare at this old man without focusing.
Douglas
. The name repeats in my ears; why had I not seen it sooner? Douglas, the proven killer for hire, with that lawless charm he could turn on men and women alike, his rakish smiles and winks, his dirty jokes. Had he thrown in his lot with Marie and the Guise faction because he thought they had the best chance of rising to power after the invasion, or did they just offer him enough money to make the murders worth his while?

I thank the officers and blunder through the gatehouse of the College of Arms into the street. The light is fading now, a chill early dusk settling over the city as thin fog rises up and wraps the buildings, turning the streets unfamiliar. Already lamps are being lit in windows along the street. I pull my cloak up close around my face, my earlier bravado dissipating; here in the darkening streets I am alone and vulnerable, and this new knowledge makes me feel even more exposed. I recall the day Douglas had come upon me so suddenly in the street as if by chance; he must have been following me, even then. The fog will be no deterrent to him, nor will it to Henry Howard’s men, if they have been tracking me, and the watch will not start making its patrols until the bells have rung for eight o’clock. It is a matter of a few hundred yards along St Peter Street to St Andrew’s Hill; if Fowler is at home, we can hire a boat to Walsingham tonight, or at least as far as Whitehall and Lord Burghley.

Feeling bolder, I set out along St Peter Street, keeping close to the shadow of the buildings. A few lone riders head west out of the city along the middle of the street, and the last street traders trudge past with baskets and panniers over their shoulders. The cries of the gulls over the river sound remote and melancholic in the half-light. I walk briskly, my hood up; the creeping fog seems to muffle the sounds of the city, or echo them from unlikely quarters. I have scarcely reached the corner with Addle Hill when an arm grabs me from behind, tightens around my neck, and I am dragged backwards into a gap between two houses; I try to cry out but he is pressing the breath from my throat. My assailant is a tall man, and strong; he almost lifts me off the ground and though I try to kick my legs behind me I cannot reach him. With his free hand he pins my left arm behind my back, but in this manoeuvre I am just able to twist my body enough to draw the dagger at my belt with my right hand. I have one chance at this stroke and a bare fraction of a moment to think about it as he chokes his arm tighter around my neck; I arch my back, curve my right arm and aim the knife behind me at his midriff. He seems to sense the movement just before it happens and tries to dodge it, but he is not fast enough; he lets out a howl of pain and his grip loosens sufficiently for me to pull in a ragged breath, bend my knees and then stand suddenly, so that the top of my head cracks against his chin. When he lets go of my left arm, I am able to wheel around and face him, the knife held out before me; he is limping but un deterred, though I am lighter and quicker, and I move back in a series of feints, drawing him out into the empty street, away from the safety of the shadows. He swings his arm to throw a punch and I duck, at the same time making a lunge with the knife, which I stick in the soft flesh of his upper thigh. As he roars and flails his fist for me again, I kick upwards and catch him in the groin so that he staggers backwards. But he is strongly built and not inclined to give ground; he swings for another blow, I dart back and my foot twists against a rut in the road. I fall backwards, landing hard on the ground with him towering above me; he reaches for his belt, I catch a flash of steel and try to scramble away on my hands and heels but he is almost upon me. Fear floods my body; I brace myself for impact and then, inexplicably, my attacker lurches, as if under the impact of a blow. His hand falls and his solid form appears to crumple; I roll out of the way as he slumps first to his knees and then on to his face, like a broken marionette, and I see that there is a crossbow bolt sticking out of his back. Shaken, I lie still, trying to make sense of this intervention when, almost before I have had a chance to register his presence, a cloaked figure darts from the shadows and runs away fleet-footed up Addle Hill, where he is swallowed by the fog.

A low moan bubbles up from the body beside me; he is not yet dead, but soon will be if no one helps him. A different fear sweeps through me; if I am found here it will be assumed I have killed him. I sheathe my knife, rise unsteadily to my feet and take a last look at this stranger who would certainly have dispatched me if my equally mysterious guardian angel had not been at hand. The air clings damply to my face. Who was the man who fired the crossbow, and how long has he been following me? I glance around, peering again into the fog up Addle Hill where the man disappeared; the street is silent. In the distance, I see a wavering pinprick of light from someone’s lantern approaching from the east: I brush myself down and hasten away in the opposite direction before anyone finds me here.

Fowler pours a cup of hot wine and hands it to me, frowning with concern. I crouch on a low stool by the fire in his small, neat parlour, while he stands, leaning with one hand on the mantel above.

‘But look - Henry Howard is an ally of the invasion conspiracy, Bruno,’ he says, when I have finished recounting my ambush in the street. ‘If he is sending men to attack you, you must tell Castelnau.’

‘Castelnau has no influence over Howard. He is useful to the conspirators only for as long as the embassy provides a clearing house for their correspondence with Mary Stuart.’ I take a mouthful of wine and warm my hands around the cup. ‘There is no respect for Castelnau nor for the French king among any of them. Henry Howard has plainly decided I am a danger and must be silenced. I will only be safe when he is arrested.’

Fowler clicks his tongue impatiently. It is the first time I have seen his placid demeanour ruffled.

‘I know what you are going to say,’ I pre-empt, holding up a hand to silence his unvoiced criticism. ‘You warned me that my escapade at Arundel House might end badly, and you were right. I should have listened. But it so nearly paid off.’

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

‘That is the nature of our work. At least you were willing to take a risk.’ There is a note almost like regret in his tone. ‘But it is a great shame you lost that genealogy from Arundel House,’ he adds, inclining his head. ‘It would have sent Howard straight to the block in his brother’s footsteps.’

‘I had no choice. If I had not swum to the boat I would have been killed on the spot. You have sent Walsingham word of last night’s dinner, I suppose? The date and the list of safe harbours?’

‘Of course,’ he murmurs. ‘I took word to Phelippes first thing this morning. But of course I had no written proof to offer. Good God, Bruno - Henry Howard.’ He shakes his head and gives a low whistle, half in admiration. ‘Imagine the reach of that man’s ambition - I can scarcely credit it. You think he even had designs on King James of Scotland? Extraordinary.’

‘He is ruthless. I have all the proof I need of that.’ I rub my neck. ‘But I have not told you the half of it yet.’

Fowler raises his eyebrow and pulls up a cushion, where he sits cross-legged, awaiting the rest of my account. It is true that I have not told him everything; in the account of my night at Arundel House I left out any mention of Henry Howard’s occult pursuits. Nor did I tell him about the mysteri ous stranger who felled my attacker in St Peter Street just now. This is partly out of pride, but also because I have an instinctive sense of unease about what happened. I have suspected I was being followed long before Howard decided he wanted me dead; perhaps there is a chance that the person who saved me tonight did not do so out of gallantry but to prolong the game.

Taking another draught of wine, I tell him about Lady Seaton’s summons and my trip to the College of Arms. When I reach the part about the old Scottish officer’s information, he places a hand over his mouth and simply stares at me.

‘Good God,’ he says eventually.

‘I can’t believe I didn’t think of Douglas sooner. Perhaps because he was too obvious as a killer. But he always seemed so detached from the scheming of all the others.’

Fowler shakes his head, his jaw set tight.

‘He plays that part well, the laconic mercenary. But Douglas is shrewder than anyone when it comes to his own advancement. It’s how he’s survived so long.’

‘But did you ever suspect him?’

‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘I suppose he crossed my mind because of his history, but I didn’t consider him seriously because I couldn’t see what motive he could have had. He must have been sizing up the different factions among the plotters all along, deciding which had the better chance of power after the invasion.’

‘Why do you and he hate each other so much?’ I ask, when I have drained my glass.

Fowler’s mild expression hardens.

‘He is a man utterly without principle. He curries favour among the Scottish lords that surround the young King James and plays them off against one another. He thinks nothing of taking a life. But most especially -‘ here a shadow crosses his face and his voice drops to barely more than a whisper - ‘he took from me my closest friend.’

‘Douglas murdered him?’

He lowers his eyes.

‘No. Though he may as well have done - he is dead to me now. Patrick, Master of Gray. We were friends from childhood, but Douglas has turned him away from me and drawn him into his own influence to further his cause with James.’

There is such quiet bitterness in his tone, this young man who rarely betrays any emotion, that I find myself wondering at the nature of this friendship. Fowler seems to feel its loss deeply. Watching him, I am struck by an unexpected affection for this man who has become, by necessity, my confidant. How little we know of another’s inner life; perhaps the self-effacing Fowler carries a hidden weight of pain beneath his outward composure.

‘I must take all this to Walsingham without delay,’ I say. ‘Only he can protect me from Howard’s thugs. But I fear tonight has shown beyond doubt that I cannot travel alone. Will you come with me upriver?’

He hesitates. I wonder if he is afraid; he does not look like much of a fighter.

‘We should not be seen too often in one another’s company -‘ Then he appears to relent, and stands to straighten his clothes. ‘But you are right, Bruno - who else would you take? Come - I will fetch us lanterns and cloaks. Do you have money for the boatman?’

I nod. He disappears, leaving me to try and soak up the last warmth from the fire before I am obliged to step out again into that seeping London fog that works its way inside your bone marrow and chills you from the inside out.

Fowler has strapped on a sword belt under his cloak, I notice. We walk in silence down the incline towards Puddle Wharf, holding our lanterns aloft, though they make little difference in the smoky air. The moonlight is almost obscured by clouds and the city feels muted and otherworldly, as if under a shroud.

‘We have no evidence against Douglas except this scrap of gossip from Lady Seaton,’ I remark as we reach the empty landing stage. ‘He will argue that anyone could have picked a defunct title out of the lists.’

Fowler leans out, scans the river and calls, ‘Oars, ho!’ He turns to me while we wait to see if this has any effect. ‘At this stage, I do not think we have any choice. Douglas is notorious for slipping through the net in Scotland, but Scottish justice can be bought and sold. He has never yet come up against the determination of Walsingham. If anyone can extract a confession, it is he.’

I say nothing; we both know only too well some of the Principal Secretary’s methods for extracting confessions. Walsingham always maintains that God allows him to keep a clear conscience in this matter; that he would rather put one innocent man to the rack than risk the lives of many more by allowing a potential plot to go unchecked. He knows I disagree with him here, and that I question the value of any information wrested from a man whose limbs are being pulled from their sockets; coming from a country ruled by the lash of the Holy Office, I know only too well how easily a man threatened with pain will say whatever he thinks will please the one who can command it to stop. But Walsingham has made the case to his own conscience and found it satisfactory.

Fowler calls again; after some moments, the soft plash of oars comes through the night, followed by the blurry light of a boatman’s lantern. As the wherry nears us, Fowler turns suddenly and grips my arm.

‘I have a better idea - what if we were to take Douglas himself straight to Whitehall? Only - I know him of old. He has a knack of scenting trouble on the wind and making himself scarce - by the time we reach Walsingham and he decides to send armed men to find him, Douglas will have disappeared into the cracks, I could almost guarantee it.’