Prophecy

Chapter Thirteen

Salisbury Court, London

2nd October, Year of Our Lord 1583

At first I can’t make sense of the sound; an insistent hammering that chips through the cocoon of sleep. I wake to a new burst of pain behind my eyes, though when I reach tentatively to my temple I can feel that the swelling has begun to subside. Fragments of last night drift across the surface of my mind, assembling themselves into a vague memory of Walsingham’s boat dropping me at the end of Water Lane and one of his servants accompanying me as far as the garden door of Salisbury Court. I had hoped to drag myself up the stairs unnoticed, but Courcelles was coming down at the same time; I was almost gratified by how appalled he looked at the state of me. Despite my protests, he led me straight to Castelnau’s office. The ambassador accepted my story of a bar fight with English thugs without question (all we foreigners have suffered some degree of abuse from the Londoners), and could not have been kinder, though I waved aside his fuming threats to involve the law or take it up with the Lord Mayor; all I wanted by then was to collapse into my own bed and close my eyes.

Now I have been woken prematurely — there is barely a glimmer of light through the shutters — by this increasingly urgent knocking. For a moment it falls silent, and I think whoever is there has gone away. ‘Bruno! Let me in, will you?’ comes a whisper, before the tapping begins again, more frantic than before. Cursing under my breath, I struggle out of the bedclothes and unlatch the door to see Leon Dumas shivering in his nightshirt, his eyes bulging like an anxious fish.

‘Quick,’ he says, glancing over his shoulder as he slips inside, though the passageway is empty. ‘God’s blood, what happened to your head?’

‘I was set upon in a tavern. Some London boys didn’t like my accent.’

‘Really?’ He looks even more frightened. ‘I have been spat upon for being French, but this is vicious. Were they drunk?’

‘Very. It got out of hand. I should have ignored them, but I let them get under my skin. It was my own fault.’

‘What were you doing in such a place, Bruno? Were you alone?’ He looks so concerned that I almost want to laugh and reassure him.

‘Yes. I stopped for something to eat on my way back from the library at Mortlake. You know, where I go to work on my book.’

‘It looks terrible.’ He continues to wring his hands, frowning like a helpless mother. ‘Have you seen a physician? I think you ought.’

I shake my head and immediately regret it.

‘It will mend. Was there something you wanted?’

‘Oh. That. Well, it’s —‘ He squeezes his hands together several times, then walks to the window, turns to me with an agonised expression, bites the knuckle of his thumb and walks back. ‘I need your help.’

‘Of course. What’s the matter?’ I ask, striving to sound more patient than I feel.

‘There is something —‘ He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, but I must. It weighs too hard on my conscience.’ He stops again and fixes those enormous eyes on me as if imploring me to extract his confession without his having to speak it aloud. My heart freezes for a moment; he is going to tell me that he has buckled under the strain of his false front and given us up, told someone at the embassy about Walsingham and the letters. Our betrayal is known — it must be. With my head in such poor shape, I can barely think ahead to the consequences for the invasion plot, and for me.

‘I was sworn to secrecy but I’m afraid I will be found out soon, and then it will go worse for me. But I said to myself — Bruno will know what to do.’

‘What has happened, Leon?’ I ask, trying to sound reassuring, though I fear I already know the answer. He appears so tense that I wonder if he might burst into tears.

‘It’s the ring,’ he blurts, finally. ‘The missing one, that Mary Stuart sent to Henry Howard.’

For a moment, I am nonplussed.

‘What about it?’

‘I know where it is.’

To the best of my knowledge, Mary Stuart’s ring is currently in Walsingham’s care. Dumas cannot possibly know this. I stare at him as he chews his knuckles again.

‘It was greed on my part, Bruno, I confess it. But not for myself — all the money I sent home to my parents. They are poor.’ His voice rises in his own defence.

‘What money? What are you talking about?’

But at that moment a floorboard creaks outside the room; I hold up my hand and Dumas stiffens, fist to his mouth.

A soft tap at the door; another dawn visitor. I have never been so popular at Salisbury Court. I motion to Dumas to keep silent in the hope that this newcomer will think I am still asleep, but this response is apparently understood as an invitation; the door eases open and through the crack slips Marie de Castelnau, her hair unbound, dressed in a loose gown that drapes suggestively over the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips. Her feet are bare. She widens her eyes at me and presses a finger to her smiling lips, as if we are mischievous children complicit in a game; she has not yet seen Dumas. With an implausible smile, I direct her with my eyes to where he stands, looking no less amazed than if he had witnessed the second coming. For the moment that it takes them to register the shock of one another’s presence, I am seized by the urge to laugh, but it dries in my throat at the sight of Marie’s face; she seems throttled with fury and the look of hatred she trains on Dumas threatens to burn right through him and set fire to the floorboards. Dumas, for his part, wears the expression of a man who has heated irons held inches from his privy parts. Even if my head were in better shape, I am not sure I could think of any words that would undo the implications of this moment.

Fortunately, it is Marie who gathers her thoughts first.

‘You,’ she says, folding her arms across her chest and mustering some remnants of her usual poise. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to help my husband? I’m sure he has plenty for you to do.’

Dumas continues to stare at her, slack-mouthed, as if she were Lucifer himself.

‘Well, go on, then,’ she says, jerking her head towards the door. ‘I’m writing a letter to a friend in Italy,’ she adds, airily, as Dumas manages to unstick his feet from the floor. ‘I wanted Bruno’s help with the translation. And it must be sent early today, because the messenger leaves this morning. You see?’ Her clipped tone aims to tidy away any potential misunderstanding. Dumas just goes on staring, stupefied, reaching the door as if in a daze. He flings me a last panicked look and backs out tentatively, as if he is unsure whether I will be safe alone with Marie. I jerk my head at him to go; better I catch up with him later.

She watches the door click shut with a small impatient shake of her head, and places her hands on her hips.

‘Why was he here at this time?’

‘Dumas? He gets homesick,’ I say, wishing my brain felt sharper. Dumas had been on the edge of a momentous confession, and Marie’s appearance had robbed me of it; now it would be impossible for me to fix my thoughts on anything until I had shaken the rest from his stammering lips. ‘Sometimes he just wants someone to talk to.’ Effortfully, I tear my gaze from the door and back to her face. Her sharp eyes assess mine for a moment, then stray to the wound on my head.

‘At this hour?’

‘Well — you are here at this hour.’

Her face softens into a sideways smile.

‘Perhaps I get homesick too. And lonely. Don’t you, Bruno?’ She seems to glide towards me, feet silent. ‘In any case, I should think my reasons are not the same as that clerk’s. What’s his name?’

‘Leon Dumas.’ Perhaps it should not surprise me that she doesn’t know the names of her husband’s staff, but it seems to confirm something about her, a lack of interest in anyone not immediately useful to her. ‘But you have a husband,’ I add, trying to keep my voice level. She stands now barely inches from me and raises a hand to my brow, her face concentrated in concern. I flinch even before she touches me, and she laughs.

‘Don’t worry, Bruno, I am not going to hurt you. Yes, I have a husband, and I can see you have never been married, if you think it a cure for loneliness.’

I clench my jaw tight as she runs a finger lightly through my hair just above the wound.

‘Courcelles said you had been attacked — I was worried about you,’ she whispers. I wonder briefly when Courcelles found the opportunity to speak to her between my late arrival and this dawn ambush, but my thoughts are scattered by the touch of her left hand on my breastbone, as her right forefinger continues to trace a line along my temple and down my face. Again, I concentrate on keeping very still, though my nerves are burning and my throat has constricted. Her gown has slipped a little and the naked slope of her shoulder is visible. ‘Bruno —‘ she begins, not quite looking me in the eye — ‘what happened yesterday —‘

‘Please — forget it happened,’ I hear myself say, in a new strangled voice. ‘There is no need to say any more about it.’

‘But this is just the problem, Bruno,’ she whispers, her breath warm on my chin. ‘I can’t forget. I can think of nothing else. I don’t know how you have done this to me.’ Her body snakes closer to me in a fluid, instinctive movement, fitting herself to the angle of my hip. Enough. My head clears as if doused by cold water; I step back and grasp her gently by the shoulders.

‘Please, Marie, I have done nothing knowingly, and you should not be here.’

‘That you have not done it knowingly makes it all the sweeter,’ she murmurs, and through her small shoulders I can feel the pent force as she strains to press herself against me, and the heat of her body. Again, I am wracked by confusion; her desire seems real enough, but I cannot shake off the suspicion that this is a performance, a trap she means to spring. Even if it is not intentionally a trap, I think, it would soon become one. I must get her out of my room before I have any cause to reproach myself.

‘Marie,’ I say gently, and she lifts her head to look me in the eye, her expression hesitant, her lips parted and breathless. Dio mio. It takes every atom of self-control I possess not to simply lean in and kiss that hot mouth. ‘This cannot be. In your heart you know it. It would only cause pain — not just to your husband, but to you and to me. Please, I implore you — try not to think of me like this, as I try not to think of you.’

She shakes her head, but at least she does take a token step back.

‘More pain than I feel already, Bruno? To see you every day, to live in the same house and eat at the same table and know that you do not want me as I want you? If there is a greater pain than this, I do not know of it.’

Because you have never known what it is to want something and not immediately have it in your possession, I think, looking at her. For her the attraction lies solely in my continuing refusal; I am not so vain as to imagine otherwise.

‘In any case,’ she goes on, averting her eyes, ‘I do not know how to live with this any longer. I begin to think that if you will not love me, then we cannot go on existing under the same roof. One of us must return to Paris.’

I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath, trying to muster a diplomatic answer. Now she speaks of love; if she truly means this, it is nothing more than an illusion she has created in her own mind. She has persuaded herself that she loves me, because I have refused her. But then, perhaps what we call love is only ever self-delusion. And if she is acting a role, is this all part of a larger ruse to get me out of the way? If she decides one of us must return to Paris, she can only mean me, and as far as I can see, there is nothing for me in Paris except the gathering strength of the Duke of Guise and his Catholic faction, waiting to welcome the Inquisition as soon as they have the chance. I wonder who might have put her up to it; whoever has the most to gain from removing me just as the invasion plot gathers momentum. Henry Howard? The Duke of Guise himself? Whoever it is, they must not succeed.

‘I would never willingly cause you pain,’ I begin. My head is aching. ‘But neither do I wish to insult your husband. I don’t know what my choice is, Marie — you want me to become your lover, here, under his roof? Do you think that could ever be managed without the entire household knowing that he was being cuckolded by his house guest? Already, we have Leon Dumas speculating on why you would be coming to my chamber in the dawn, so —‘ I gesture to her flimsy gown, feeling myself blush — ‘so informally attired. There are other servants who would be less discreet. It would be an impossible situation.’

Immediately I know I have said the wrong thing; her face darkens, her eyes flare and she darts a furious glance towards the door, as if Dumas might be standing outside taking notes.

‘You think he would say something to my husband? Or to the other servants? What could he say? I gave him a good reason for my visit, what cause could he have for idle gossip?’ Her voice is tight with anger. I rub my brow. Does she really believe that the household staff would not find it worth commenting on, that the mistress of the house should visit the lodger under cover of darkness, barely dressed, while her ageing husband snores in his bed?

‘Dumas will not say a word, he is a good man and would not want to spread rumours,’ I say, squeezing her arm re assuringly. ‘But you see how it would go for us if there were a story for the servants to tell? You would not want to dishonour your husband in his own house, I’m sure, whatever else you may feel about him.’

She sighs. ‘Michel is a good man. And he adores me, so he is often persuaded to go against his own judgement for my sake. We need him if this invasion is to succeed. You are right, Bruno, I cannot afford to lose his support now.’

This is not exactly the point I have made, but I say nothing.

‘But he is sixty years old, Bruno. He cannot be a husband to me in the way I need. You understand me.’ Her voice grows silky; again, I feel the sharp heat in my groin, the dry throat. ‘I want only to know that you feel the same,’ she adds, her voice barely audible, her eyes reeling me in.

‘I — you must know that I do,’ I say, thinking that this is the only politic answer. If I reject her outright, she will see that I am sent back to Paris; she has as good as said so. ‘But you are right. I do not want to see the invasion plans fail because we could not set aside our own selfish desires for a short while. Your husband’s support is essential and he must not be distracted at this stage. It would let everyone down.’

She regards me with genuine surprise, which turns slowly to cautious approval.

‘You know, I had wondered about your commitment to the invasion plan, Bruno. I confess that there were those among us who have doubted the truth of your loyalty to the Catholic interest — Howard and the Earl of Arundel, Claude, even me at times. I am glad to hear you prove them wrong.’

I incline my head in acknowledgement.

‘And as for the other matter,’ she says with a secret smile, lowering her voice again, ‘if you mean it, then we will find a way. The Duke of Guise will have no use for my husband in any case, once Mary Stuart is queen of England and Guise has asserted power in Paris.’

Her certainty about this future Catholic empire, and the ease with which she talks of disposing of her husband, chill me, even while my body remains in thrall to her proximity. I regard her with a fascinated revulsion, as she leans forward and kisses me softly, though chastely, on the mouth. I neither respond nor withdraw but remain perfectly impassive, at least outwardly, hoping that I have bought myself a little more time.

‘Speak to your friend the clerk,’ she says imperiously, at the door. ‘Make sure he doesn’t say a word.’

‘I will.’

She gives me a last, knowing smile, pouts a kiss and pauses in the doorway for a moment, glancing to left and right along the corridor to make sure she is not seen. Then she is gone, leaving the door banging behind her and a trace of ambergris perfume in the air of my room. I wash my hands slowly over my face and sit on the bed to compose myself. Balancing my interests here with regard to Marie and her husband will demand greater feats of diplomacy from me than anything the ambassador himself could face at court. In the meantime, I must corner Dumas alone and draw from him the rest of his garbled confession about Mary Stuart’s ring.

I have no opportunity during the rest of the morning; once I have broken my fast, I take a book and lurk as unobtrusively as I may in the passage that leads to Castelnau’s office, in the hope that Dumas will emerge at some point so that I can accost him. But the ambassador must have him tethered to his desk, for there is no sign of him for the best part of two hours, though Courcelles passes me twice on his way to and from a consultation with the ambassador; both times he looks me up and down pointedly and asks if I have sufficient light to read, and if I would not be more comfortable in the gallery? The third time he appears, he offers to interrupt Castelnau and send me in; hurriedly, I assure him I have no wish to bother the ambassador, and slink away to my room, Courcelles watching me retreat with his usual shrewd-eyed face of suspicion.

No matter; I will catch Dumas’s eye when the household gathers at midday for dinner. My head still aches badly but the wound is mending well. In the absence of anything useful to be done until I can lure him out from under the ambassador’s nose, I attempt to work a little on some notes for my book, but my mind will not fix on anything besides Dumas’s story and the line of Marie de Castelnau’s collar bone. So it was Dumas who took the ring. He spoke of money and greed; did he then spy the ring when Mary’s correspondence with Howard came through Castelnau’s office, and take his opportunity to pocket it and sell it on? Then whoever bought it from him was either the person who gave it to Cecily Ashe, or one link nearer to that person. Inwardly, I curse Marie again for her ill-timed appearance and for her unwanted attentions, even as I almost smile at the irony; never, during my lonely years as a Dominican monk, did I imagine the day would come when I would curse a beautiful woman for believing herself in love with me. But I fear her visit this morning will make Dumas’s life difficult too; I don’t believe he is given to gossiping among the servants, and in any case, he is too fearful at the moment to dare risk offence. His face when Marie entered was a mask of pure terror; for her part, she was clearly furious to have been caught out in her illicit venture, and will find it hard to believe that Dumas can be trusted. There are more than enough stories of servants attempting to extort money from their masters over such matters. I can only hope she will not take it into her head to pre-empt anything he might say by trying to discredit him with Castelnau. I push my papers away and prop my elbows on the desk, leaning my head on my hands. Marie’s unwanted interest in me has now made Dumas’s position as well as my own vulnerable to her whims.

These thoughts, and multiple variations on them, keep me occupied until the hour of dinner, when I am surprised and a little alarmed to find Dumas not present. The meal is simple, boiled chickens with a stew of vegetables, as Castelnau and his wife are invited in the evening to the supper at Arundel House that Fowler had mentioned, hosted by the Earl of Arundel and Henry Howard. There has been no mention yet of my being invited, though I am almost frantic to have myself included; what better means of studying Howard and his nephew at close quarters? But I can hardly beg the ambassador to take me in front of his wife and secretary. Courcelles’s idle chatter at table makes clear that he will be in attendance this evening. He is almost the only person who makes conversation over dinner; the ambassador seems withdrawn and anxious, and only speaks to affirm some piece of business or answer one of his questions. Marie sits at her husband’s right hand, but keeps her eyes pointedly fixed on me from under her lashes, so determinedly that I am obliged to keep my own on my plate so it doesn’t look as if we are engaged in some kind of staring contest. Whenever I glance up and her gaze locks on to mine, she gives me a secret smile — one that does not escape Courcelles, I notice, whose glowering I also affect to ignore.

When the meal is over, Castelnau motions to me as the servants bring him a bowl of water and a linen towel.

‘Join me in my office when you have washed your hands, will you, Bruno? I would speak with you. Alone,’ he adds, with a nod at Courcelles. His chair scrapes back with a brusque movement and he strides from the room without a word to his wife.

The outer door is closed by the time I reach his study, so I knock for the sake of formality, and turn the latch as I hear his barked ‘Entrez!‘ from within. The ambassador is already seated at his desk; he gestures for me to close the door and draw up a chair opposite him, as he purposefully lays down his quill and turns over the paper he has been writing. I note that Dumas’s desk is unoccupied, his chair still pushed back as if he left in a hurry.

‘Bruno.’ Castelnau folds his hands together on the desk. There is a weariness in the gesture that is mirrored in his face; he looks drawn and pale, bruised shadows heavy under his eyes. ‘I have been worrying about this attack on you last night.’

‘It was my own folly, really. A lesson learned.’ I touch my finger to my brow and smile ruefully, in the hope that he will let the matter drop; I would prefer not to be questioned too closely on the events of the previous day.

‘But can you be sure this was not a personal attack?’ he says, his frown deepening. ‘I mean, aimed at us? At the embassy?’

I take a deep breath.

‘They were strangers, my lord. A gaggle of London apprentices after a day’s drinking. They didn’t know me — they saw a foreigner and a target for abuse to amuse one another, that’s all. I was called a Spanish whoreson,’ I add, to bolster the tale. ‘I should have let it pass, but instead I insulted them back, and they set upon me.’

He gives me a long look, then shakes his head sadly.

‘This city,’ he says, as if it were responsible for the weight of all his burdens. ‘My fears are getting the better of me, Bruno, I begin to see enemies where there are none. I worry that these preparations for war will be discovered. It makes me anxious when people inside this embassy are attacked in the street for no good reason. Where did you say you were?’

‘Some tavern near Mortlake. You know, my lord, that I go there to use the library of John Dee. He welcomes visiting scholars, and he has many books that I would not find elsewhere.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He dismisses this with a wave of his hand. ‘His library is renowned. But perhaps you should not go there for a while, Bruno. I have enough to worry about without fearing for your safety.’

‘I will stay away from taverns, that much is certain,’ I say, rubbing the side of my face. ‘But my lord, the English drink too much and they hate foreigners — this is true of every corner of London. And every street now buzzes with talk of prophecies and planets and the end of days — all these fears are compounded and they turn on anyone who looks different, because they are afraid.’

Castelnau smiles weakly.

‘And these are the people Henry Howard and my wife think will rise up gladly and join with French and Spanish troops to overthrow their queen.’ He shakes his head again.

‘You are losing faith in the invasion plan?’

‘I never had faith in it, Bruno, you know this. And the Spanish involvement makes me deeply unquiet.’

‘You think they mean to use it to advance their own power?’

‘Philip of Spain believes himself to be the chief defender of the Catholic faith in Europe. But he also believes he has a claim on the English throne, through his late wife, Elizabeth’s half-sister. You may be sure he’s not committing money and men just to hand Mary Stuart the crown.’ He grimaces. ‘And if the Spanish support for Guise and his followers goes beyond this invasion …’ His voice trails off.

‘You mean he might fund a Guise coup in Paris.’ I finish the sentence for him. It is not a question. A silence unfolds as our thoughts follow the same path: the Duke of Guise could take the French throne with Spanish support, creating a formidable alliance of hardline Catholics to rise up, united, against the weaker countries of Protestant Europe.

‘Exactly. Listen,’ Castelnau says, after we have taken a moment to consider the implications of this: ‘I need you to do something for me.’

I hold out my palms to either side.

‘However I may be of service, my lord ambassador.’

‘Go to this supper tonight at Arundel House in my place, will you?’

‘In your place? Are you ill, my lord?’

An almost silent sigh escapes him, making his shoulders tremble.

‘Yes. I feel a shadow of myself these past days. I do not sleep any more, Bruno. I don’t remember the last time I slept an untroubled night. It must have been before my wife returned from Paris.’ He lets this fall with unmistakable bitterness.

‘The rapid progress of this invasion plot has placed a great deal of strain on you, my lord,’ I say, with a degree of genuine sympathy. ‘You should rest.’

‘How can I rest, Bruno?’ he cries, raising his hands. ‘The Duke of Guise is a fanatic for the Catholic cause. He would slaughter every last Protestant in Europe with his bare hands if he had the time, singing hymns to God as he did it and believing he was carving himself a place in heaven. Henry Howard is of the same mind, except that he also wants revenge against the House of Tudor. And now, Mendoza and Philip of Spain have joined the party because they sniff the chance for Spain to take the spoils at minimal cost, with France so divided. And here am I in the middle of them all, trying to represent my king’s interests, to argue for clemency and moderation, while my wife throws her lot in firmly with Guise.’ He shakes his head.

‘I am not surprised you don’t sleep, my lord.’

He knits his fingers together again and leans forward, pointing his two forefingers straight at me.

‘There is more. Henry Howard is concerned that his correspondence with Mary is being tampered with.’

‘What makes him say that?’ Sweat prickles under my arms but I keep my face clear.

‘Mary is supposed to have sent him something that he never received.’ He frowns in concentration as his fingers pluck ceaselessly at the strands of his quill. ‘Naturally, his suspicions fall on Salisbury Court.’

‘But those letters pass through many hands on their journey,’ I say.

‘Precisely. Young Throckmorton’s, for a start. But it troubles me greatly that Howard now looks at us with mistrust. His influence among the English Catholics cannot be underestimated, Bruno. It is he who will galvanise them, persuade them to risk their lives and estates to help this invasion succeed. If he decides to shut me out by sending his letters via Mendoza, we lose any influence we may have over this plot and any hope of arguing for a moderate response.’

He pauses to take a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb as he lowers his eyes to the desk. He has plucked the quill almost bald. When he speaks again, he drops his voice until it is barely more than a whisper. ‘But we must not exclude the possibility that this invasion plot will fail. The Spanish may not come up with the promised funds or troops. The English Catholics may prove harder to rouse than Howard hopes. Or someone among their number may betray them. These things happen,’ he says, as if he thinks I am about to protest.

‘And if the plot should be discovered, for any of those reasons …’ I say, thinking aloud.

‘Then King Henri must not be seen to have any association with it,’ Castelnau finishes the sentence for me. ‘Or any future alliance with Elizabeth would be untenable. But neither should he oppose it outright, just in case it should succeed, or he will lose any support from the French Catholics and Guise will topple him easily.’ He swears an oath, softly, under his breath. ‘In any case, Bruno, if there is to be a Catholic reconquest of England, it must be done with as little violence as can be managed, and for that reason you and I must hold on to the trust of those who are directing it for as long as we can.’ He places his hands flat on the desk and straightens up, with some effort. ‘I do not feel well enough to face Howard and Mendoza tonight. I will send my apologies, and you will go to Arundel House in my place. Scrutinise everything that is said and report it back to me. Put forward on my behalf the arguments in favour of a moderate, respectful approach, but be sure never to sound less than positive about the idea of putting Mary back on the throne. Howard will be left in no doubt as to my faith in you.’

‘The respectful way to invade a country and depose its sovereign — you may have to remind me how that goes.’

Castelnau smiles, but his heart is not in it. He looks so drawn that I fear he may have taken some serious sickness.

‘You know what I mean, Bruno. Just do your best to curb my wife’s zeal for disembowelling Protestants when the glorious day comes.’ Another sigh wracks his chest. He presses his hands to his mouth as if in prayer and for a long while he stares straight ahead in silence, apparently focused on nothing. I am not sure whether I am dismissed or not, and am about to clear my throat when he suddenly says, ‘Do you think my wife is making a cuckold of me, Bruno?’

‘Your wife?’ I repeat, like a fool, while my mind scrambles to catch up with the question.

‘Marie. She has a lover, I am certain of it.’

‘What makes you say that?’ I ask, carefully. He is shrewd enough to try and catch me off-guard, if it is me he suspects. As so often, I harden my face into an absence of expression.

‘I have suspected since she returned from Paris. Her moods — she has often seemed flighty, easily distracted. Younger, I suppose.’ He scratches at his beard. ‘Marie has not come willingly to my bed since Katherine was born, and I am not the kind of husband to demand her submission. But she is young still. I forget this sometimes. It was inevitable, I suppose.’

‘But — you have some evidence of her infidelity?’ I ask.

‘The other night — it was foolish of me,’ he begins, not meeting my eye. ‘I had another wakeful night and I felt — not unreasonably, I think — that I was entitled to some comfort from my own wife.’ He says all this to the backs of his hands. Castelnau has a strong sense of personal dignity; it must be painful to him to share a story which ends with his own humiliation. For a moment I wonder why he is telling me all this, if not to accuse me. ‘I don’t usually abase myself to her in that way, but — as you say, the pressure …’ He tails off sadly, his head still bowed.

‘And so —‘ I prompt, after another silence.

‘I went to her chamber. I knocked, tentatively. I don’t think I even entertained thoughts of lying with her then — I only wanted some gentleness, a woman’s touch. A soft hand on my brow. Not too much to ask of one’s wife, is it, Bruno?’

I remember vividly the touch of that hand on my own brow only hours earlier; my skin prickles with the memory of it. I shake my head.

‘Not at all, my lord.’

He pauses again and takes a breath, as if steeling himself for the next part.

‘She was with someone?’

‘No. Well, possibly. She was not there, was the point. Not in her own bed.’

‘So where was she?’

‘I don’t know, Bruno,’ he says, his voice edged with im patience. ‘I didn’t comb the house to find out whose bed she was in. It was enough that she was not in her own. Who knows if she was even in the house at all?’

‘Perhaps she got up in the night to tend to her daughter, then?’ I offer.

Castelnau gives me a sceptical look.

‘You don’t know my wife very well, do you, Bruno?’ he says. ‘She has never been that kind of mother. Katherine has a nurse who sleeps in her chamber. Perhaps I should employ one for Marie as well.’

‘Do you suspect anyone?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

He shakes his head.

‘Anyone and everyone now, Bruno. You have seen my wife. She conducts herself as if to give every man some hope of success — I do not blame her for this, it is just her manner. She is an accomplished flirt — I cannot pretend this was not what drew me to her in the first place. Henry Howard pays her court, of course, but I had thought enough of his probity to believe that he wanted only to secure her support in religious matters. I don’t know, Bruno. I suspect everyone from the kitchen boy to the Earl of Arundel to my own clerk.’ He gestures towards Dumas’s empty chair, then rests his elbows on the desk and presses his forehead into his hands. ‘Watch her for me tonight, will you? If I am not present, she may behave with less restraint. You may glimpse to whom she shows improper affection.’

With difficulty, I drag my thoughts back from Marie’s sinuous body pressing against me, her hand on my chest. Poor Castelnau. Whatever the temptation or the consequences, I determine that I will not be the one to confirm his suspicions.

‘My lord ambassador, I will do as you wish. But if I might advise — there is no profit in allowing yourself to be tormented by phantoms. While you have no proof against Marie, confine your worries to real problems.’

He smiles thinly.

‘You counsel well, Bruno.’ He reaches unexpectedly across the desk and places one of his large, black-furred hands over mine. ‘I don’t mind telling you this now, but I did not want you in my house at first, though you were under the patronage of my sovereign. Supporting a known heretic, under my roof! I thought you had played upon Henri’s weak nature to win his affection. But I quickly conceded my error. You are a good man, Bruno, and I am gladder than ever that you were sent to my house. There is no one in England I would confide in so readily.’ He gives my hand a squeeze.

‘Thank you. I am honoured.’ But I must look away first. I am not the good man he believes me to be, and his confidences, that I so readily pass on to Walsingham, may well be his downfall. But at least, I tell myself, I am not the one having his wife. ‘Where is Leon?’ I ask casually, nodding towards the empty desk.

‘Leon? Oh, I sent him out this morning to catch Throckmorton before he left for Sheffield. I have written a personal letter to Queen Mary, refuting Howard’s accusations and assuring her of my personal loyalty. I do not want Mary to believe this embassy is not fit to handle her secret correspondence. And I do not want to be sidelined in this enterprise in favour of Mendoza. We must avoid that at all costs.’ He sets his jaw and glances again at Dumas’s chair. ‘I had expected Leon back by dinner time. I hope he has not taken advantage of an unscheduled outing to stop off in a tavern. I don’t want him ending up in your state.’

‘I don’t think that is Leon’s way,’ I say mildly, though I feel a distinct pricking of unease. Where is Dumas? Where might he have gone in his over-wrought mood? I dig my nails into the palm of my hand; if only Marie had not interrupted his confession.

‘No, you are right,’ Castelnau says, pushing his chair back and crossing to the door. ‘There are plenty of clerks who would, mind. I am fortunate in Leon — he is a diligent boy, if a little prone to nerves. Well, Bruno,’ he says, holding the door open for me, ‘thank you for listening to an old man’s troubles.’

‘My lord ambassador,’ I murmur, inclining my head.

He smiles, his face seeming to collapse inwards under the weight of tiredness.

‘Tonight, Bruno, you will be my ambassador. Don’t let me down.’

As the door closes behind me, Courcelles appears out of the shadows in the corridor a little too quickly.