Prophecy (2011) (43 page)

Palace of Whitehall, London

17th November, Year of Our Lord 1583,

Twenty-fifth Year of the Accession of Her Majesty Elizabeth

Regina to the Throne of England

The royal standard is raised aloft; for a moment it ripples sharply in the breeze, crimson and gold against the watery blue of the sky, and the crowd audibly draws breath together. Time seems suspended, fates hang in the balance - until the standard falls and from either end of the tiltyard comes a crescendo of hooves and a blur of primary colours as the contestants gallop towards one another full pelt, the elaborate plumage on their helmets and harnesses coursing out behind them. I brace myself for the moment of impact; I have never learned to like this as a sport, though today of all days I am willing to be swept up in the collective celebration, the pageantry, the near-hysterical atmosphere of adulation for the woman who sits high above the skirmish in her gallery overlooking the Tiltyard, her head dwarfed by an enormous stiff lace collar. From our seats in the stands, her every movement is a scattering of light as her jewels wink in the sun.

Beside me, Castelnau also tenses; the rider nearest us, his horse decked out in an azure-and-white chequered costume, raises his shield expertly to deflect his opponent’s lance; there is a sickening crack as the other is caught squarely in the shoulder; he tries, for agonising moments, to hold his seat but the momentum is too strong and he topples back, landing with a crunch of metal in the sand. A roar of applause breaks out; we the spectators rise to our feet, whooping and stamping, so that the wooden stands shake precariously beneath us. The victorious rider slows his horse and reins it around, trotting casually back up the field before removing his helmet and bowing deeply to the queen in his saddle. From somewhere further east a peal of church bells joins the cacophony.

I glance up at the gallery window. We are too far away to see the royal party in any great detail, though as a foreign dignitary Castelnau has been given advantageous seats for the tournament. But I can make out Elizabeth in the centre, surrounded by her maids of honour, all dressed in white. I lower my head for a moment and close my eyes, not in prayer but in silent tribute to Cecily Ashe. If her conscience had not triumphed over her infatuation with the man she believed to be the Earl of Ormond, the Tudor line might have ended this very morning. And if she had never met Fowler, I think, if she had not harboured a girl’s passing grudge against the queen, if he had been less persuasive or she more guarded, she might have been sitting at Elizabeth’s side now in her white dress. Abigail Morley, too; if she had not been Cecily’s confidante, if she had never met me or passed on the ring, she might be clapping her hands and shrieking with delight in the gallery with the rest of the girls. If, always if.

Glancing around the great crowd in the Tiltyard, I wonder if anyone else has noticed the number of armed guards amid the heralds, the guildsmen in their liveries, the aldermen and lawyers in their gowns of office, the bishops and nobles arrayed behind the queen, wreathed in gold chains. In the past month, the searchers at every port along the south coast have been kept busy picking up young Englishmen and Scots coming out of France or the Low Countries; one who was caught trying to bring a loaded pistol through customs at Rye also carried Catholic relics concealed in his belongings, but Fowler’s stubborn silence persists even in the Tower, so there is no way to be certain whether he was bluffing about finding a replacement assassin or whether, even now, some shadowy figure might be moving among the thousands of spectators or waiting patiently among the thousands more Londoners gathered behind the barriers that have been erected all along Whitehall and the Strand, where the queen will process after the jousts to hear a sermon at St Paul’s. She may carry herself as gracious and poised as ever, but for Walsingham, Burghley and Leicester, until she is safely delivered to her chamber this evening, this day will be one of the most fraught they have known. Walsingham pleaded with her to abandon the public procession, but she insisted her people must see her, radiant, proud and strong, undaunted by threats either from planets or Catholics.

We climb down from the stands, a laborious business among so many guests, all vying to take their places along the route by the Holbein Gate for a better view of the queen as she begins her procession.

‘Marie would have enjoyed this,’ Castelnau remarks, as we shuffle forward in slow increments, pressed on all sides by eminent citizens in their furs.

‘You must miss her,’ I say. We are so close in the crowd that I feel his torso rise and fall as he sighs.

‘It was better for everyone that she return to Paris. When they arrested Throckmorton and Howard, I knew they would be knocking on our door next. I felt I had a better chance of keeping the embassy in the clear if Marie were not questioned. Besides -‘ he glances around and lowers his voice - ‘my wife has been absent to me for a long time, whether she is under the same roof or not. It was a mistake to bring her here. I do not doubt there are others at Salisbury Court who feel her absence more keenly than I do.’

I look over my shoulder to where Courcelles trails behind, separated from us in the crush by a handful of people. He catches my eye and gives me the sulky, defiant look that has become his permanent expression since Marie left. I wonder if Castelnau guesses that he has sent his wife straight back into the arms of the Duke of Guise, whose ambitions, I feel sure, are only thwarted temporarily. I would wager Courcelles certainly knows it, and tortures himself with the thought daily.

‘Still, we have been fortunate, Bruno,’ Castelnau says, as if to convince himself. ‘My interview with Francis Walsingham was the most uncomfortable moment of my career, I don’t mind telling you. As I feared, it seems they had been watching Throckmorton’s movements for some time, and we do not yet know how much of the correspondence he carried was intercepted. But so far I have not been directly accused of anything. I feel I have got off very lightly,’ he adds, and I hear the tremor in his voice.

More lightly than he knows, I think; when Throckmorton was arrested, as well as the map of safe havens and the list of names, he was also carrying Castelnau’s last, rash letter to Mary, in which he assured her of his loyalty to her cause against Howard’s accusations. It was only my arguments to Walsingham on his behalf, and the queen’s reluctance to create a diplomatic storm with France, that have kept the ambassador from more severe repercussions.

‘Mary was always shrewd enough never to make any outright acknowledgement in her own hand of the plot to free her,’ I reassure him. ‘Let them conclude the whole thing was a reckless fantasy cooked up by her supporters in Paris. If they had anything against you they would have used it by now.’

He shakes his head, his lips pressed into a white line.

‘They have barely started with poor Throckmorton. I dread to think what they are doing to him, and what more may come out. If King Henri should be brought into this, Bruno - can you imagine the consequences?’

I can well imagine the consequences of the French king discovering from the Queen of England that his ambassador has been involved in a Guise plot to topple her. But then King Henri will be fully occupied with the Duke of Guise’s designs on his own throne, I reflect. I pat Castelnau’s shoulder and murmur reassurance.

‘All because I cannot say no to my wife,’ he says bitterly. I could tell him he is far from being alone in this failing, but I doubt it would be much comfort. ‘She thought it was you, you know,’ he adds, turning to me.

‘Thought what was me?’

‘The traitor in our midst - she and Courcelles were adamant you were the one who betrayed us. But you know what I pointed out to them?’

‘What?’ I aim to keep my face as neutral as possible.

‘Where is Archibald Douglas? Eh?’ He nudges me, pleased with his own powers of deduction. ‘No one has seen or heard from him since the arrests. There’s your answer, right there. And he’s just the sort whose loyalty could be bought for a shilling. Don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘No, I never trusted him. Mind you, there is William Fowler arrested on suspicion of the murders of those girls at court, though I cannot imagine how they came to that conclusion. I always thought him such a mild man. And who knows what he might tell them on the rack.’ He sucks in his cheeks. ‘I shall not feel safe from accusation in England, Bruno, not for a long time. That, I suppose, is the price of a guilty conscience. But I tell you this - I shall never again involve myself or His Majesty’s embassy in secret dealings of this nature, no matter who tries to persuade me.’ He sighs. ‘Sometimes I doubt whether it is ever possible to know the truth of another man’s mind behind the face he shows.’

I murmur in agreement, turning my own face aside so that I do not have to look him in the eye.

As we near the end of the Tiltyard, there is a jostling among the crowd; people fuss and complain as someone attempts to shove his way through towards the gate. When he draws level with us, he turns and I realise it is Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, with a face like granite behind his black beard. He jabs one hairy forefinger almost into Castelnau’s face.

‘My sovereign is furious,’ he spits, through his teeth.

Castelnau draws himself up with dignity.

‘When is he not?’

‘I am summoned -‘ Mendoza lowers his voice further, the effort of suppressing his fury turning his face puce - ‘I, Don Bernadino de Mendoza, am summoned to stand before a committee of Privy Councillors to account for myself like a schoolboy! Are you?’

‘Not yet,’ Castelnau says evenly, as we funnel through the gate and into the street, where official stewards and more armed guards usher us into orderly lines to pass under the Holbein Gate to a place behind the barriers.

‘The queen accuses King Philip of conspiring against her,’ Mendoza continues. ‘You realise I could be expelled over this?’

‘As could I.’

‘But I do not see you being questioned. And yet it was someone at Salisbury Court who betrayed our plans to Walsingham.’

‘Walsingham arrested Throckmorton. They searched his house. As I understand it, he was carrying as many letters between you and Mary as he was from me. Perhaps your letters were less cautious.’ Castelnau remains admirably calm. Mendoza bristles and turns his glare on me.

‘I am not the one who keeps a known enemy of the Catholic Church under my roof. I have said this before, Michel - you are being played for a fool. If I am banished from England, my sovereign will make sure you and your king pay a high price for it.’

I am about to defend myself, when I glance across the street to the crowd on the other side and my heart misses a beat; among the massed faces, I am certain that I saw him: the briefest instant, a flash of recognition, that mocking grin under the peak of an old cap, the laconic wink, and then he is gone, slipped away in the tide of people. I blink, try to find him again, but there is no sign, so that I wonder if I conjured his face out of my night-terrors. But I cannot take the risk; I duck behind Castelnau, pushing my way through irritated spectators to the fringe of the human stream, until I can grab at the sleeve of the nearest guard.

‘Find Walsingham,’ I gasp, shaking him.

‘Eh? Who are you? Get your hands off me.’ He moves to lower his pikestaff; I hold my hands up.

‘Please - you must get to Sir Francis Walsingham. Tell him Douglas is here. Tell him the queen must not pass through the streets - you must find him urgently. Her life is in danger. Tell him the Italian says so.’

He looks at me in confusion for a long moment as he weighs up how seriously to take this; I nod frantically, urging him to act. Eventually, he raises his pike and calls out, ‘Make way, there! Make way, quickly now!’

By the time I am assured he means to convey my message, I have lost Castelnau and Mendoza in the crowds. I slip into the press of people unnoticed, my eyes darting from face to face, my hand, as ever, resting on the handle of my knife under my cloak.

Later, in the Great Court at Whitehall Palace, I stand in the shadows with my neck craned back, breathing frosty air as fireworks scatter orange-and-gold sparks against the ink-blue curtain of the sky, plumes of coloured fire that flare briefly and dissolve into smoke as the guests coo and squeal like children. This display is almost the finale of the day’s celebrations; once it is over, we will retire to the Great Hall to watch a series of pageants, variations on the theme of Elizabeth’s greatness and likeness to various mythical heroines. I wanted to go home, but Castelnau would not hear of it; what is required, I am told, is a show of faultless devotion to the queen for as long as the ambassador is obliged to try and win back a place in her favour. But Elizabeth is still alive, and that is worth celebrating; her procession, though delayed through my intervention, went ahead at her insistence, but passed without incident, and from the sounds of riotous street parties from beyond the walls and the incessant clamour of church bells across the city, her subjects are united in noisy celebration of their devotion. Perhaps Douglas was never there today; perhaps this is how I will live now, imagining his face in every crowd, skittish as poor Leon Dumas, and look how much good that did him.

I raise my eyes beyond the glitter of the fireworks to the infinite sky beyond. The night is clear and the stars so bright they seem to pulse. What would I need to calculate their distance, I wonder?

‘How many new worlds have you discovered, Bruno?’

I start from my reverie and wheel around to see Sidney leaning against a wall, a glass of wine in his hand. Guiltily, I glance about me to see if Castelnau is nearby, but there is no sign of him.

‘Infinite numbers,’ I say, feeling my shoulders relax.

‘Where is God to be found, then, if there is no sphere of fixed stars?’ He speaks in a whisper. ‘Beyond where the universe ends?’

‘An infinite universe by definition does not end, you dullard,’ I point out with a grin.