Prophecy

Chapter Fourteen

Arundel House, London

2nd October, Year of Our Lord 1583

Wind gusts sideways across the river, scuffing the brown water into serried rows of white peaks, buffeting the ambassador’s private wherry and making its lantern swing wide arcs of orange light as dusk and the swollen clouds seem to press a lid down over the city of London.

The Earl of Arundel’s town residence is one of these grand red-brick houses bristling with tall chimneys whose abundant lawns stretch down to the river’s edge, where a high wall keeps them from the sight, if not the smell, of the Thames and its motley traffic. Though only a short distance upriver from Salisbury Court, the journey provides ample time for Courcelles to make clear his feelings about my role this evening.

‘It’s preposterous,’ he blurts, half rising out of his seat so that the boat pitches alarmingly to one side while we scull past the gardens of the Inner Temple, a drift of leaves blowing down over the wall to rest on the water’s surface as the wind curls along the river and shakes the branches of the overhanging trees. Marie, beside him, lays a restraining hand on his arm. I took the precaution of allowing him to step into the boat after her, knowing he would take the seat at her side; I will have enough to tax my concentration this evening without fending off Marie’s sly touches, her feet searching for mine under the table. Tonight, I intend to stay as far away from her as possible.

Courcelles swats her hand away impatiently. ‘Well, it is! If my lord ambassador is taken ill, I should rightly attend in his place.’

‘You are attending,’ I say, casting my eyes across to the south bank. ‘What is the problem?’

‘The problem, Bruno —‘ Courcelles is obliged to pause as the wind blows his fine hair into his mouth. When he has extricated it, he perches on the edge of his seat and jabs a finger at me. ‘The problem is that I am his personal secretary. I know his business better than anyone at the embassy. I should be the one to represent his views to the party this evening. What are you, exactly?’

I deduce from his palpable indignation that Castelnau has taken him aside before we left and made clear that he is sending me to this parley in his stead. No wonder Courcelles feels usurped. I raise an eyebrow.

‘No doubt you are about to remind me.’

‘I will tell you,’ he continues, the pointing finger trembling with pent fury. ‘You are a fugitive, living at my lord ambassador’s expense because our weak sovereign has some misplaced affection for you, based on your shared disregard for the Holy Church! Not even a Frenchman!’ he adds, shaking his head as if this single offence were beyond contemplation.

‘Enough, Claude,’ Marie says, in a bored voice.

‘Why?’ Courcelles is too riled to back down. ‘Is he going to write to King Henri and report my words?’

‘Who knows who Bruno writes to, in his secret little room,’ she says, batting her lashes at me with an insouciant smile.

‘My lord ambassador asked me to voice one or two things on his behalf, that is all,’ I say, turning back to the far shore as if I were unconcerned either way. ‘I’m sure he would not object, Courcelles, if you were to offer your opinions as well.’

‘What does it matter, Claude?’ Marie pulls her velvet cloak tighter around her shoulders. ‘Everyone will have a chance to speak, I’m sure.’

‘It is a question of protocol,’ Courcelles exclaims, his voice rising to a squeak. ‘If the ambassador is indisposed, I am his next in command, and I should be officially dispatched to represent the interests of France in my lord ambassador’s place. Not this — impostor.’

‘It’s a supper party, Claude,’ she says, as if to a sulking child. ‘Not a council of war.’

‘Isn’t it?’ He rounds on her; immediately she slaps his arm, nods to the boatman, makes a frantic silencing motion with her lips. The boatman appears not to have heard, but you can never be too careful, is what Marie’s gesture implies. You never know who might be an informer. I focus on the water eddying under the oars. Castelnau may think I am there as his eyes and voice, but I have a bigger plan. In my mind, everything converges on Arundel House and the Howard family: the invasion plot, the murders of Cecily Ashe and Abigail Morley, Ned Kelley, Mary Stuart and — here I hardly dare to hope — the lost book of Hermes Trismegistus, the book stolen with violence from John Dee fourteen years ago. This unexpected chance to penetrate the Howards’ domain must not be wasted; I must contrive a means of uncovering the secrets I am now convinced lie hidden somewhere behind the wall of mellow brick that looms up on our right as the boatman steers us in towards a narrow landing stage with a set of steps leading up to an archway and an iron gate. I have a plan half-formed at the back of my mind; to work smoothly, it will require a generous handful of good fortune, the candle and tinderbox concealed in my pocket and some impeccable play-acting on my part.

A servant in Arundel livery attends us at the top of the water stairs, his head bowed as he holds open the gate. I stand back, allowing Courcelles his moment of gallantry in handing Marie out of the boat. She climbs two steps, hitching her skirts up away from the slime that covers the stones at low tide where the river licks them, then turns to me as if she has remembered something.

‘Your friend the clerk, Bruno — what was his name again?’

‘Dumas,’ I say, though I am sure she knows this. ‘What of him?’

‘It appears he has run away. My husband sent him on an errand this morning and he has not returned. I wondered if you knew where he might have absconded?’

‘I have seen nothing of Dumas —‘ since this morning, I am about to add, but check myself in front of Courcelles, who regards me as always with his chin tilted slightly upwards, as if he is trying to avoid a bad smell ‘— today,’ I finish.

It is true, and has been a source of growing concern; several times this afternoon I have been to Dumas’s little room under the eaves, only to find it locked. I have found excuses to disturb Castelnau in his office at intervals too, to find Dumas’s desk still empty, until I was afraid my intrusions would look suspicious. By late afternoon, even the ambassador had grown troubled by his clerk’s absence and talked about sending servants out to look for him; he feared Dumas might have fallen victim to some anti-foreign assault, as I am supposed to have done, but my anxiety is more particular. He had been in a state of great agitation this morning, consumed by guilt and fear over his part in stealing Mary Stuart’s ring; this much I knew. But what exactly did he fear? He had taken the ring for money, he said, but Dumas had never struck me as an opportunistic thief, so had someone paid him to steal it? The same person who then gave it to Cecily as a lover’s gift? Denied by Marie the chance to confess and ask my advice, as he had wanted, what might Dumas have done in his state of desperation? Had he confessed his guilty secret to someone else? Had he named the person and, more importantly, did that person know? I feared for his safety, as I feared equally that a piece of the puzzle has disappeared with him.

‘Perhaps he has run away,’ Courcelles says smoothly. ‘What he knows from my lord ambassador’s letters might be worth a great deal of money to some people, and ser vants are always desperate for coins. You can never trust that sort.’ There is a provocative note in his voice that makes me look twice at him; could he know something about Dumas, or is he merely trying to rattle me? But I am never sure of the degree of complicity between him and Marie. How much might she have overheard outside my door this morning?

‘Dumas is an honest man,’ I snap back, stepping precariously out of the boat and almost losing my balance on the wet stairs. ‘More honest than many I know.’ Courcelles makes no move to assist me. Marie shivers.

‘Oh, stop bickering,’ she says, impatient. ‘He is only a clerk. He’ll either turn up or he won’t. Let’s get out of this wind.’

We are led by a steward through the Great Hall of Arundel House, past the rich linenfold panelling and the ornamental armour, into a narrow passageway with walls painted green and gold. At the far end I can see a heavy oak door, left ajar just far enough to glimpse inside a stack of shelves lined with handsomely bound books.

‘What is that room?’ I call to the steward, gesturing to the end of the corridor. He pauses and half turns, not pleased to have been detained.

‘That is my lord of Arundel’s private library,’ he says, almost without moving his lips. ‘Please, let us not delay. The earl and my lord Howard are expecting you.’ I do not miss the emphasis on ‘private’, but my heart is hammering in my throat as I glance back at the door. Before we reach the end of this passageway, the steward knocks for the sake of formality on a door set into the panelling and proceeds with a bow into a warmly lit room, not broad but with a high decorated ceiling and two tall windows, reaching almost from the floor to the top of the panelled walls. Here a long table is set with silverware and wrought branching candlesticks, all reflecting skittering beads of light from the flames. I note, with relief, that the stone floor is thickly scattered with scented rushes. This is exactly as I had hoped. We are late, it seems; the party is already gathered and, as we enter, the gentlemen rise to greet us. Philip Howard moves from his seat, his hand outstretched. Beside him, a shaggy white dog, a Talbot hound by its appearance, stands warily, its nose thrust forward quivering, almost the height of its master’s hip.

‘Madame de Castelnau, Seigneur de Courcelles, bien-venus,’ he says, with a graceful bow. ‘And Master Bruno. Benvenuto.’

‘Be sure to give Bruno his proper title, Philip,’ Henry Howard remarks, sitting down again, having barely risen in the first place. ‘He is a doctor of theology, and he is most offended when people forget. Dear God, Bruno — what has happened to your head? I had heard of your reputation as a brawler, but I thought you had left that behind in Italy along with your religious vows.’

I touch my fingertips to the wound at my temple — much improved since the day before, but still a raised welt of dried blood that must have looked alarming.

‘You should see the other fellow,’ I say.

Philip smiles uncertainly. I sense that he feels a familial obligation to treat me with disdain, but does not quite share his uncle’s conviction in the matter. I incline my head politely in return. I am not surprised to find that it is Henry Howard and not the young earl who takes the head of the table. Though the Duchy of Norfolk was forfeit when Henry’s brother the duke was caught in his plot to marry Mary Stuart, and the Arundel title now comes through Philip’s mother, it is quite clear to any onlooker that Henry Howard is de facto head of the Howard clan, and that his nephew defers to him in status and judgement. And also in deed, I wonder, looking at Philip as he now gestures around the table. My spirits sink at the sight of Don Bernadino de Mendoza seated at Henry Howard’s right hand; the Spanish ambassador merely grunts a brief acknowledgement of our party’s arrival, before ripping into a hunk of bread with his teeth. Archibald Douglas is here, and Fowler too, and at the foot of the table, opposite Henry Howard, a pale young woman in a blue dress, her fair hair bound under a plain hood. She seems to sense my enquiring gaze, meets my eye for the space of a blink, then looks quickly away.

‘Now we are all present, I think,’ Philip says, casting around the room. ‘I was most sorry to learn of my lord ambassador’s illness, madame. I trust he is comfortable and will soon find his health improved.’

Marie’s eyes narrow.

‘I thank you. I had not realised he had informed you already.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Philip folds his hands together and glances at me. ‘His clerk came this morning with a message, sending your husband’s apologies and explaining that he had asked Doctor Bruno to attend in his stead.’

‘Weak constitution,’ Mendoza observes through his half-chewed bread, to no one in particular.

I smile graciously at Philip. That was smart of Castelnau, I think, to make my presence official in advance. But by ‘his clerk’, does the earl mean Dumas? Did the ambassador send him with a message here as well as the delivery to Throckmorton? And if so, who was the last to see Dumas before he failed to return?

Philip Howard points me to a chair on the far side of the table, tucked against the wall, adjacent to the pale young woman, who glances up at me shyly as I take my seat and this time risks the faintest of smiles. The dog pads over and rests its muzzle in her lap; she strokes its head absently.

‘I don’t believe you are acquainted with my wife Anne, Doctor Bruno?’ Philip says.

‘Piacere di conoscerla,’ I say, bowing low so that they will not see my face. A wife! It takes me a moment to absorb this information. A wife throws my speculations about the Howards and the murders off course; I had all but convinced myself that the Earl of Arundel must be the handsome, impressive young courtier who had wooed Cecily Ashe, and that he had done so at his uncle’s behest to further the assassination plot. But if Philip Howard is married already, this cannot be. I take my seat, frowning.

‘You all right there, Bruno?’ Douglas, seated opposite me, grins affably, reaching for his glass. ‘You had a face on you for a moment there like a man trying to shit a turnip.’

‘A little stomach trouble,’ I say, composing my expression into a smile. ‘Probably hunger.’ I must give nothing away. What I must do is model myself on the man opposite.

‘Aye, we’re all bloody hungry waiting for you,’ Douglas says, waving his glass in the air for a refill. Immediately, a servant peels away from the far end of the room, where bottles and dishes are laid out on a wooden buffet, and stands at his elbow with a bottle of wine. When he has poured for Douglas, I hold my glass aloft too, by its delicate stem, and drink off the contents almost in one. Douglas watches as if impressed, and grins wider.

Supper passes uncomfortably, as Mendoza bombards Marie and Courcelles with questions about the factions at the French court, interrogating them closely about the degree of support for the Duke of Guise among the French nobles and the waning of King Henri’s favour among the people. Frequently he hints at King Philip of Spain’s growing admiration for the young Duke of Guise, while Marie simpers and bats her eyelashes at him as if the success of the conspiracy depends upon the power of her attractions. Courcelles seems torn between his anxiety to please the Spanish ambassador and his instinctive possessiveness over Marie’s attentions. The silences in their conversation are broken by one or other of us attempting stilted small talk about court gossip or variations on the same compliments about the food. These, at least, are sincere; the Earl of Arundel clearly keeps a talented chef.

‘Italian,’ whispers Anne Howard, when I mention as much to her. The countess is softly spoken, eats little and prefers to toy with her food, studying it as closely as if it were a memory test, rather than look directly at me, but by diligent attention and gentle questioning I learn from her that she is of a fragile disposition, often sickly and rarely attends court. Though this, she confides, leaning into me, is less because of her health than because Her Majesty, now that she stands on the brink of her autumn years, is jealous over the attentions of her courtiers and forbids wives from attending all but the occasional celebration. The only women the queen tolerates, Anne explains, are her own maids of honour, chosen for their modesty and virtuous reputations. She tells me this without a trace of irony, so I refrain from comment. Asked, in a light-hearted tone, whether she fears sending her handsome young husband into this fray, she responds with a pretty laugh, and tells me that she has known the earl since childhood, that she was in fact his foster sister and they were contracted in marriage at fourteen. She explains this as if their shared history is a self-evident guarantee against her husband straying; I would regard it as the opposite, but naturally I do not say so.

Dishes are carried in, richly scented and steaming: capons stuffed with fruit; venison; coneys in fragrant sauces, piled with thyme and rosemary; calves’ foot jellies and pies of larks and blackbirds with delicate latticed pastry. Servants duck and weave past one another balancing their trays, while the young man with the bottle silently and discreetly circles the table, making sure that no one’s glass remains empty for too long. Mendoza eats and drinks with the same voracious appetite he brings to all his dealings, talking constantly through bulging mouthfuls as remnants of his supper gather in his beard. I note that Henry Howard barely touches his wine; neither does the earl, or his wife. Douglas and I, on the other hand, appear to be keeping the serving-boy permanently busy, one or other of us constantly lifting our empty glass to him with a subtle nod. Fowler drinks modestly and says little, though now and again he catches my eye with a neutral acknowledgement from the other end of the table; I smile briefly and return my attention to Anne Howard.

Given the company, I had expected a more direct approach to the matter of the invasion, but as more bottles are opened, dishes are cleared and new courses brought, it seems that, for the moment, this is no more than a supper party. I wonder if the determined silence is because of Anne’s presence, or the servants’, and at what point, if at all, the table will turn to a council of war. Some sort of almond custard is placed in front of me. The small talk begins to wear thin.

‘They arrested one of those pamphleteers today, did you see?’ Douglas says, after a remark of Fowler’s about the weather having turned is left hanging in the empty air.

‘Which pamphleteers?’ Courcelles asks.

‘You must have seen them, Claude,’ Fowler says, folding his hands together. ‘Shoved into your hand for a penny in any marketplace or tavern. With their apocalyptic prophecies, forecasting the end of Elizabeth’s reign, even her death. Saying these murders at court are signs of devilry, or the apocalypse. Treason now to write or publish them.’ He sucks air through his teeth and shakes his head. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in that fellow’s shoes.’

‘I don’t frequent marketplaces or taverns,’ Courcelles says, with a flick of his hair. ‘So the gossip of apprentices and serving girls tends to pass me by.’

‘The common people in this country are fascinated by predictions of their imminent doom,’ Mendoza pronounces. ‘I have never seen anything like it. Even the servants in my own embassy begin to have their heads turned by these prophecies, if they venture out to the English taverns. It is to do with insecurity I think. But all to our advantage, if the people believe the apocalypse is upon them.’

Howard flashes him a warning look, then glances briefly at Anne. She appears to be occupied with the dog.

‘This lad they caught was only the printer,’ Douglas continues. ‘The word is they found an illegal printing press in a private house up Finsbury way. They’ll prick the poor bastard for the names of the authors before they hang him. That could go badly for people we know.’

Henry Howard holds up a hand in warning, making a sharp motion for Douglas to be silent; the Scotsman looks puzzled, until Anne Howard raises her head and says, in a small voice, ‘Murders?’

Philip Howard and his uncle exchange glances. ‘You remember, my dear, I mentioned the sad death of one of the queen’s maids?’ Philip says, his voice soothing. ‘There was speculation at court — there always is — that it might have been murder. You know how rumours can spread.’

Douglas splutters into his glass, spraying wine across the table; Anne looks from him to her husband, frightened. It strikes me that she cannot know the first thing about how rumours spread, if she is not even aware of the murders at court, one of them committed barely half a mile from her own house. Does her husband keep her locked away here, I wonder, like a damsel in a courtly romance? While the company regards her awkwardly, I take advantage of the distraction to slip my hand under the table and pour away my glass of wine on to the floor under my chair. The rushes soak it up silently, as they have the previous two I have quietly tipped out at opportune moments when the company’s attention was engaged elsewhere. To my knowledge, no one has so far noticed this, though I am pleased to note Henry Howard’s slight frown of disapproval every time Douglas and I beckon the boy with his bottle. It is essential that Howard thinks I am at least as drunk as Douglas — though when I glance at the Scotsman, aside from his high colour he shows no ill effects from the quantity of wine he has already put away. The man must have the constitution of an ox.

‘My wife suffers badly with nervous illness and other complaints,’ Philip Howard explains to the company in general, as if he had heard my unvoiced question. ‘She doesn’t want to be troubled by the petty goings-on and intrigues of the court.’

Anne continues to stroke the dog’s ears, glancing at her husband with a mild expression. Marie’s face darkens; I can well imagine what she would say to such a husband. At least she knows enough of diplomacy to keep her mouth closed. I watch Anne as she passes a piece of beef to the dog under the table; her skin is so white that under the candles it seems to give off its own light, like a snowy dawn. Perhaps a sickly wife need not be an impediment to a dashing young courtier; Philip Howard could easily engage a young woman’s affections with the promise that his wife was of a fragile constitution and he might soon be on the lookout for a new one. And what kind of man refers to the gruesome murders of two young women as ‘petty goings-on’? My suspicions of the Howards recover their earlier force. Mendoza says nothing, which surprises me; he has been the first to voice his opinions on every other topic this evening.

When the dishes have finally been cleared away, Anne Howard excuses herself, claiming tiredness, though to my mind there is something rehearsed about her departure. I wonder if she has any inkling of why her husband and his uncle have gathered this unlikely group around their dinner table; perhaps she knows but prefers to muffle herself in ignorance, as with the news from court. The servants place a new jug of wine on the table, within reach of me and Douglas, and refresh the candles. Henry Howard rises from his seat and takes one of the servants aside at the door; in the expectant hush that follows, Howard’s low murmuring is overlaid with another sound, a curious wet rasping. I realise everyone has turned to look at me. When I glance down, I see that the dog is between my feet, licking at the floor with evident relish. I watch him, half apprehensive, half curious. I do not want him to give away my trick; on the other hand, I have not seen a dog with a taste for Rhenish before. Philip cranes his neck to see what I am looking at.

‘Oh, that dog. My wife is always throwing him scraps at table,’ he remarks, dismissively. ‘The creature thinks it is some sort of prince in this house. For want of a child, you see.’ The contempt in his voice makes clear whose fault the lack of a child must be.

Henry Howard returns to his place; the last of the ser vants closes the door. There is a shift in the quality of the silence; in an instant we are alert, straighter, leaning forward expectantly. I blink hard, and shake my head; though I have not drunk anything like the quantity of wine they think I have, still I have been obliged to drink more than usual, and my thoughts are more sluggish than I would wish them.

‘The developments with Queen Mary since we last convened have been greatly encouraging,’ Howard begins, drawing out a folded sheet of paper from inside his doublet. Douglas leans across and pours me another glass of wine before filling his own; Howard looks up, peevish, at the sound, but as a good host he refrains from comment.

‘According to our friend Don Bernadino,’ he continues, indicating the Spanish ambassador, ‘the Duke of Guise has successfully persuaded King Philip of Spain to lend money and troops to our enterprise.’ Here he unfolds his paper and waves it as proof. While all eyes are on him, I quietly pour three-quarters of my wine on to the rushes, where the dog leaps upon it.

‘My sovereign is pleased to be part of this great Catholic collaboration to restore England for the glory of God,’ Mendoza says, laying his great hairy hands flat on the table and allowing himself a modest smile, though there is a triumphant glint in his black eyes that makes me think Castelnau was right; it is not God’s glory that interests the Spanish ambassador or his sovereign.

‘We are now preparing in earnest, my friends.’ Howard pauses, allowing his smile to encompass the whole table. ‘I have here a list of English Catholic nobles whose lands comprise safe harbours. Our tireless colleague Master Throckmorton, together with one of Mendoza’s envoys, is even now riding across country to visit every one of them and sound out their support. We will need as many landing places as possible for the troops.’ He passes the paper across the table to Marie, who studies it with an appreciative nod.

‘At the head of this list, naturally, is my nephew,’ Howard goes on, gesturing to Philip and beaming. ‘We have determined that five thousand Guise troops will land near Arundel on the Sussex coast and come ashore through the earl’s lands. We have almost secured the backing of the Earl of Northumberland, who is friendly to our case and whose seat at Petworth would allow the French army to advance towards London over the South Downs. Meanwhile, we estimate twenty thousand Spanish troops will land on the Lancashire coast, and will be joined by an uprising of the Catholics there. This force will head inland to liberate Queen Mary from Sheffield Castle.’ He stops for breath, and takes a brief sip of wine. ‘They will be joined there by Scottish reinforcements moving south from the border, I believe?’

He looks expectantly at Fowler, who nods.

‘The Marquess of Huntley supports us and has promised men. I await confirmation of the exact number, but I am hopeful that he will turn more of the Scottish lords to our cause once they are persuaded the invasion is in earnest.’

Douglas snorts.

‘And where do you have this intelligence, old son? When were you last in Scotland?’

Fowler blinks at him, unperturbed. ‘I am at least allowed into Scotland.’

Douglas has no retort to this, except a black glare; again I find myself intrigued as to the source of the antagonism between the two Scots.

Mendoza interrupts.

‘Have you settled on a date?’

Howard inclines his head. ‘Commit this to memory, gentlemen — and madame.’ He smiles at Marie. ‘This glorious mission is planned for the thirtieth day of November.’

‘The thirtieth?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself. From the other end of the table, I just catch Fowler’s warning glance. I swallow; all eyes are on me and the silence feels heavy, accusing. I glimpse in memory the fragment of paper hidden in Cecily Ashe’s mirror; the Accession Day date, 17th November. Had the plans changed, or had I misunderstood?

‘The thirtieth not convenient for you, Bruno?’ Howard says, one eyebrow lifting with chilly sarcasm. ‘Do you have some appointment that day? I’m sure we can rearrange it to suit you if need be.’

Amid the smattering of sycophantic laughter, I hold up a hand to placate him.

‘It’s only that it occurred to me,’ I say, deliberately slurring, ‘that an invasion might be most effective if it took place on, say, a public holiday, while the country is distracted by revels. I’d assumed it would be set for Accession Day.’

‘It occurred to you, did it?’ Howard’s voice is stretched tight; his knuckles are white where his hands grasp one another.

‘And,’ I add, bolstering my pretence of drunkenness, ‘would the assassination not have the most profound impact if it took place on that anniversary? The country would be thrown into turmoil.’ I sit back, expectant. The silence is overwhelming. The faces around the table register a universal expression of shock. Fowler keeps his eyes fixed on the table and remains very still, both hands clasped steadily around the stem of his glass. I have the cold dropping sensation that I have made a terrible mistake.

‘Assassination?’ says Philip Howard, eventually, baffled.

‘Who is being assassinated?’ Mendoza asks, looking around the table with a thunderous brow, as if someone has wilfully tried to deceive him. ‘Elizabeth? I was not told —‘

‘This was not the agreement, Henry!’ Marie cries, her colour rising; Howard gestures at her to keep her voice down. ‘The Duc de Guise has expressly said —‘

‘Don’t say I haven’t offered,’ Douglas chips in laconically, grinning as he picks his nails, so that I am not sure whether he is serious or playing on his own reputation. ‘It’d be nae bother.’

Henry Howard rises to his feet, his eyes burning.

‘Please! Let us keep our heads. There will be no assassination. I think our friend Bruno has drunk too much wine.’

‘Anyway, he is from Naples,’ Marie says, shooting me a look that could turn the wine sour. ‘Where they are notoriously hot-headed. What put this foolishness in your mind, Bruno?’

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.

‘And thank you for conveying my lord Castelnau’s views in your own unique way,’ Henry adds, as if he is holding his breath. Mendoza only laughs, and pushes his chair back.

I sense that my performance has ruptured the tension in the room; people are fidgeting, as if impatient to leave. The candles have burned almost to stumps; I cannot guess at the hour, but it grows late, and it is time for my finale. I clasp my face with my hand, then slump forward on the table over my crooked arm, allowing my mouth to hang open.

‘Is he all right?’ says Philip Howard, after a moment. A hand tentatively nudges me.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Henry Howard explodes. ‘They have no self-control, you see. It’s what I’ve always said. Indulging the pleasures of the flesh.’ He curls his mouth around these last words with evident revulsion.

I wonder who he means by ‘they’. Dominicans? Heretics? Italians? Then Marie’s voice, sharp and impatient:

‘How are we supposed to get him back to Salisbury Court in this state?’

‘Well, I’m not carrying him,’ Courcelles says quickly. ‘Besides, he’d likely vomit in the boat.’

There is some conferring in low voices; I resist the temptation to open an eye. Finally, Philip says, ‘There is nothing else for it. He must stay here and sleep it off. We have room. He can walk back to the embassy tomorrow when he’s in better shape.’

Inwardly, I give a little cry of triumph.

‘I could almost pity him, poor fool,’ Howard says. Though I cannot see the sneer on his face, I can hear it and picture it vividly. ‘He has disgraced himself and the ambassador. That will be the last time he is offered any kind of responsibility. The man thinks he’s untouchable with King Henri’s patronage.’

‘That will not benefit him much longer.’ Mendoza’s voice is thick with scorn.

‘Shh, Uncle — he might be able to hear you.’

‘Him? He’s out cold. Get him upstairs, someone. Fowler — you at least seem sober. Would you mind?’

A scraping of chairs, followed by a crunching sound, as someone steps on the fragments of broken glass scattered around my chair. I feel a pair of strong arms grasp me around the torso.

‘Come on, you can’t stay here,’ Fowler says gently, hoisting me to my feet; there is a kind of tenderness in the way he lifts my limp arm and wraps it around his shoulder. Henry Howard, I note as I dare to open my eyes a bleary crack, stands with his arms folded, his lips pressed together, the model of disapproving piety. But Henry Howard has his own weaknesses, and tonight I intend to discover them and bring back evidence.

‘Howard,’ Mendoza hisses, and through half-closed lids I see him gesture abruptly to the door.

By watching the progress of my feet and Fowler’s through my eyelashes, I make a note, as I am bundled along a passage and up a flight of stairs, of the way back to the corridor with the dining room. Philip Howard goes officiously before us with a candle to show the way, while I lean on Fowler’s shoulders and allow myself to be half-dragged, half-carried to a room where I am dropped on to a bed.

‘Will he be all right, do you think?’ Philip asks nervously, from the doorway.

‘He’ll be right enough after a sleep,’ says Fowler, sitting on the bed beside me and pulling off my boots one after the other. ‘A jug of good wine never killed anyone.’ He rolls me on to my side; I allow him to move me like a dead weight. ‘You might give him a piss pot in case he wakes in the night,’ he adds, matter of factly.

Some scuffling follows; I hear footsteps in the corridor, and eventually someone — presumably the earl himself, since the servants have all been dismissed — places a pot beside the bed. It is by now safe to assume that I will never receive a return invitation from the earl and countess.

‘Don’t worry — I’ll make sure he is comfortable,’ Fowler says; the earl murmurs something and from the other side of the room I hear footsteps die away. I decide the best policy is to feign a state of unconsciousness. Fowler leans across the bed and lays a hand on my shoulder.

‘Quite a performance, Bruno,’ he breathes, his mouth almost touching my ear. ‘And risky. What is it you want?’

I open my eyes to find his face barely inches from mine, looking for all the world as if he is about to kiss me.

‘Whatever I can find,’ I whisper. He regards me for a moment and in the candlelight his face is full of doubt; I can see he thinks this an unnecessary danger. Resentment tightens in my chest; Fowler is a partner of sorts in this enterprise, but it is not for him to direct me or question my methods.

‘That list of havens would be a prize indeed,’ he whispers back, eventually. ‘But Howard took it with him — you can be sure he will keep it somewhere secure. And you could mar everything if you are caught.’

I am well aware of this, but having him point it out only makes me angry.

‘I will not be caught,’ I whisper. ‘And if you delay too long here we will rouse their suspicions.’

‘Henry and Mendoza have retired together for a private conversation,’ he hisses. ‘I would give much to eavesdrop on that. But for God’s sake be careful.’

‘Trust me.’

He squeezes my shoulder.

‘Good luck, then, Bruno. You are bolder than I, that is certain.’

The candle is blown out, the door clicks shut, and I roll on to my back, grinning to myself in the dark, alert and waiting.