Prophecy

Chapter Seventeen

City of London

3rd October, Year of Our Lord 1583

Back in my own room, my shirt laced, I grow increasingly troubled by the thought of that letter from Henry Howard, which Courcelles and Marie are reading even now. He will not have told them anything like the truth, but if I were to second guess him, I would expect him to have concocted some story about having discovered my betrayal of them all, some reason why they should keep me within their sight until he finds another chance to remove the threat that he fears I pose for him.

I would give almost anything at this moment for the chance to see Sidney, to have him make light of my predicament by punching me in my painful shoulder, then draw his sword in my defence. But Sidney is miles away in Barn Elms, and with Howard’s men on the lookout for me, I would not wager much on my chances of reaching Walsingham’s house in one piece. Wind buffets the window frames, making them rattle like teeth, and through the panes I can see only churning grey clouds. At this moment my heart feels constricted and I cannot escape the thought that England has been a mistake. I thought it would bring me freedom from persecution, but since I landed on this friendless island it seems I have done nothing but put myself on the wrong side of Catholics who want to kill me. I could have stayed in Naples for that, I think, gloomily, though I know the fault is my own; no one forced me to accept Walsingham’s offer of a place in his network of informers. I chose it because I found him to be a man I respected, and because, as I had told Fowler, I believed that the freedoms Queen Elizabeth had established here were worth defending against the tyranny of Rome. And — let me not fool myself — because I knew that to serve Elizabeth and her Principal Secretary in this way was likely to bring me reward and patronage of a kind no writer can advance without. Now, as I pace the confines of my room, I fear my life will be in danger if I leave the embassy or if I stay here.

But I am not altogether friendless in London; in the absence of Sidney, there is one person a little nearer with whom I can share a confidence. If I can get as far as St Andrew’s Hill and reach Fowler without being attacked, I could at least stick close to him; I would be less vulnerable in company. I picture again poor Dumas grabbed as he passes the mouth of an alleyway down at the wharf, the cord pulled tight around his throat before he can draw breath to scream, his frantic struggle for life unseen even as his limbs give their last few spasms and fall to stillness, before his body is dumped like a sack of refuse in the river. If I can avoid that fate for long enough to find Fowler, I can solicit his opinion on my unfinished theory, formed in my restless half-sleep this morning: that Marie, prompted by the Duke of Guise, was behind the plot to poison Elizabeth on Accession Day. She paid Dumas to steal the ring, while Courcelles, with his winning face, was drafted in to seduce Cecily and provide her with the means to kill; for whatever reason, Cecily lost her nerve and had to be silenced. Perhaps the graphic display pointing to a Catholic threat was meant to turn the court’s attention to the known English Catholic sympathisers in its ranks. Either way, the one element missing from this equation is who actually carried out the murders. I don’t doubt that Marie could be ruthless enough to take a life, but she would lack the physical strength; besides, she would regard butchery as servants’ work. Courcelles has always struck me as the sort of man who would pass out if he cut his finger on his dinner knife, but perhaps he is a better performer than I have given him credit for. Even if that were true, both Marie and Courcelles were standing beside me at the concert when Abigail Morley was murdered, so who was their accomplice, their third man?

I snatch up my doublet in a moment of decisiveness; I will not stay here pacing this room waiting for Howard’s thugs to come and find me. I pull on a cloak over my doublet and then remember that I have left my leather riding boots at Arundel House; I will have to wear the shoes I keep for finer weather, though the recent rain will have left the streets in a mire. Before I leave, I prise up the loose floorboard beneath my bed where I keep the chest with the money I receive from Walsingham. It is not a fortune — not compared with the risks I run for him — but it does at least allow me a standard of living in London that King Henri’s sporadic stipend would not provide. I will need to have new boots made — no one can survive a London winter without them, I have been told. Perhaps I can persuade Fowler to accompany me. In any case, I will retrieve my dagger from Castelnau’s study on my way out and take my chances in the city streets; that at least is better than cowering in my room with endless theories multiplying in my head and no solid evidence to prove or disprove them.

Only the ambassador’s butler sees me slip out through the front door, my cloak pulled up around my head. He can tell Marie and Courcelles that I have left if he pleases; I have decided that if I keep to the main thoroughfares and stay among crowds there is less chance of meeting the same end as Dumas. On the other hand, it is easier to stick a knife in a man’s ribs and disappear in a crowd. I keep the bone-handled knife at my belt, one hand on its hilt, my eyes raking the street to either side.

At the Fleet Bridge, I hear footsteps at my back and whip around so fast that my pursuer will not have time either to hide or to pounce, but the only person I see is a skinny boy who freezes, gaping at me nervously. His eyes flicker to the hand beneath my cloak, and I recognise him as the kitchen boy Jem from Whitehall Palace, the one who had brought the fateful message to Abigail Morley that lured her to her death. I let go of the dagger and step towards him, trying to make my expression less forbidding. He draws a paper out from his jerkin.

‘Jem? How long have you been following me?’

‘From Salisbury Court, please you, sir. She told me to wait outside and catch you whenever you came out. She said I was not to be seen.’

‘Who did?’

‘I am to give you this, sir,’ he says, holding out the paper.

I glance at the seal, but it means nothing. Quickly I tear the paper open and find, to my surprise, a summons from Lady Seaton, the queen’s Lady of the Bedchamber. She is visiting friends at Crosby Hall in Bishopsgate Street and has something to impart to me; I am to find her there by knocking at the trade entrance and asking for her manservant. In any other circumstances, the imperious tone of this note would tempt me to ball it in my fist and throw it aside, but I suspected when I spoke to Lady Seaton that night at Richmond Palace, after the murder of Cecily Ashe, that she knew more than she was willing to say. Why she has suddenly decided to speak to me now, I do not know; neither do I discount the possibility that it might be a trap. The boy hovers uncertainly, unsure as to whether his duty is dispatched.

‘Thank you, Jem. When were you sent with this?’

‘Only this morning, sir. After breakfast.’

‘I wonder you have the stomach to carry any more messages.’

He looks at me with a pained expression.

‘I must eat, sir.’

‘Yes, of course.’

I squint up at the sky; in this thin light it is impossible to guess at the position of the sun, but the hour must be already past three. She will be awaiting me now, if the note is really from her. I wonder briefly about giving the boy a shilling to accompany me through the city but decide against it; anyone who wants to attack me would not think twice about getting the boy out of the way, and I cannot risk any further violence to anyone on my account. I reach into the purse inside my doublet and find a groat; he pockets it gratefully and runs back westwards along Fleet Street, slipping easily among the people and carts. I scan the street uneasily after he has dis appeared, but the Londoners walking towards the Lud Gate press on, heads down, wrapped in cloaks against the wind, passing me by without remark. No one is watching, yet I feel the city’s eyes on me, from doorways and side streets and blank windows, as exposed as surely as if I were walking through the streets naked.

With Lady Seaton’s letter in my hand, I turn and continue towards the gatehouse ahead, its turrets jutting above the high city wall, but my nerves are wound as tight as Dumas’s were on our last journey together; I start like a hare at the slightest movement at the edge of sight. I cast my mind back to the night of the concert at Whitehall, to the hushed conference in Burghley’s room when the boy Jem told his story. He did not seem to me bright enough to be anything other than honest, but there is an outside chance that he knowingly delivered a false message to Abigail to trap her, and that he might now have been used by the same person to draw me. The man in the hat — who was he? Marie and Courcelles’s unknown third man? But if Jem was lying, the man in the hat may not even exist; he might have been given his errand by someone he knew from the court and would not name.

My thoughts preoccupied in this way, I pass under the Lud Gate, squeezing my way through a flock of sorry-looking sheep and trying not to glance up at the rotten hunk of human meat spiked over the central arch, a reminder to the citizens of the price of treason. Instead of heading down to St Andrew’s Hill, I make my way along Cheapside, the wide stone-paved thoroughfare that bisects the City east to west. Here I grow certain that I am being followed, though each time I turn I fear I am just too slow to catch him, and I have seen nothing to give flesh to my fears, except glimpses of a cloak whisked into a doorway which might have been imagined. It is more that I sense him, his movements shadowing mine, his eyes on my back as I walk. Between the ornate fronts of the goldsmiths’ workshops, their colourful signs creaking and swaying like banners overhead, the alleyways offer ample opportunity to hide, but if I keep to the centre of the road, avoiding those on horseback and the pedlars’ carts, I hope to give myself time and space to react if anyone draws too close.

At the eastern end of Cheapside, where the Stocks Market and the Great Conduit stand, I turn north along Three Needle Street, past the grand facade of the Royal Exchange, the Flemish-designed building that looks as if it has been lifted straight from the Low Countries and dropped in the middle of London. Immediately you see that this is the part of the City where wealth gathers; merchants in expensive furs and feathered caps hurry up and down the steps of the Royal Exchange and the large houses set back from the road behind their walls are either newly built with lavish windows or converted from grand monastic buildings refurbished after the queen’s father had them closed down. Even so, where money gathers so does desperation; beggars with only the merest covering of rags between them and the October damp hover near about the steps, plaintively calling for alms from well-fed, fur-swaddled traders. At least here, with more wealth visible, people also seem to be more vigilant; outside the Exchange are liveried guards with pikestaffs, and some of the well-dressed citizens go about flanked by menservants. If whoever is pursuing me has come this far — and some instinct tells me he is near at hand — he will need to move cautiously.

I find Crosby Hall at the southern end of Bishopsgate Street, a fine new house with a gabled front of red brick and pale stone trim. A narrow alley runs alongside the garden wall and I guess that the trade entrance is to be found here; as I turn the corner, a wave of cold fear washes over me and I draw my dagger, expecting that if the assault is to come, it will be now, away from passers-by. A door clicks; I brace myself ready to lunge, the knife held before me as a young woman with a covered basket emerges from a small gate in the wall and screams with as much vigour as if I had actually stabbed her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, sheathing the knife as I scramble to help her pick up her fallen laundry, but she backs up against the wall and continues shrieking as if all the legions of hell were at her heels. I conclude that my accent is not helping. A large balding man in a smeared kitchen apron sticks his head out of the gate, his fists clenched.

‘What’s all this?’

‘Forgive me — misunderstanding — I am here to see Lady Seaton? My name is Giordano Bruno.’

‘I don’t give two shits for your foreign name, ain’t no Lady Seaton lives here. Now get away before I kick you out on your dirty Spanish arse.’

‘He’s got a knife,’ the girl says, pointing, as she tucks herself behind his meaty shoulder.

I hold my hands up.

‘Lady Seaton is a guest of your master today, I believe. I am told she has an urgent message for me. If you would be so kind as to enquire? I can wait here.’

‘You will wait here and all. You’re not coming in with a knife. Get back in there, Meg, till we sort this one out.’ He holds the gate for the girl and she scuttles back inside. The man gives me a last glare.

‘Say your name again. Slow, like.’

‘Bruno. Tell her, Bruno.’

He nods, and the gate shuts behind him. The alley remains silent. I lean against the wall, swivelling my head from one side to the other, convinced now that I have been tricked, that I am standing in this mud-churned lane quite probably awaiting my execution. Well, I think — I have looked death in the face more than once and I have learned a bit about putting up a fight from my years as a fugitive in Italy. If I have been summoned here to die, I will not make it easy for them.

Time drips past, so that I have given up trying to count the minutes. A gust of wind drives flurries of dead leaves up the length of the alley; some cling to my legs before whirling onward. When the gate opens again I leap against the far wall, hand to my belt. A grey-haired man in a smart black doublet and starched ruff appears in the entrance and looks me up and down.

‘You are Bruno? Lady Seaton’s messenger?’

‘Er — I am.’ I allow my breath to slide out slowly; he does not seem about to run me through. Was the letter genuine after all?

‘Step inside. I am steward to Sir John Spencer.’ He ushers me through the gate into a small courtyard at the rear of the house. Several chickens scratch around the yard, perhaps looking for grain spilled from the sacks waiting to be loaded into storehouses. ‘Wait here. But I’m afraid I must ask you to hand over your weapon while you are inside our walls.’ He reaches out apologetically.

Still I hesitate, but as I glance over his shoulder I see, with a flood of relief so great that my legs almost buckle, the prim figure of Lady Seaton appearing around the corner of the house.

‘Oh, there you are, Bruno — I need you to take a message to the palace for me urgently,’ she calls in that same peremptory tone as before. This is clearly some cover she has devised for having someone of low birth visit her at her friends’; her acting is deplorable, but it seems to have the desired effect. I produce a sweeping bow; the steward glances at me curiously, then does the same and retreats back into the house without demanding my knife. A servant pauses to stare in the course of hefting a wooden pallet across the yard, but returns to his work at one stony look from Lady Seaton.

She offers a vinegary little smile.

‘They have still not caught the brute who killed my girls,’ she begins, with an air of accusation. ‘Sir Edward Bellamy was released without charge after Abigail Morley was found, though you may imagine the whispering at court when he showed his face again, poor man. The stink of accusation takes a long time to clear. People wanted it to be him, you know, so they could sleep easy in their beds. But the court must hold its breath in fear once more, and some of my girls are near hysterical. And the queen grows impatient.’

‘They are hopeful of finding him soon, I believe.’

‘Pah.’ Her mouth shows what she thinks of this claim. ‘They do not know what I know.’

‘What?’

She beckons me over to a corner in the shelter of a low brick storehouse.

‘They released Cecily Ashe’s body to her father for burial last week. The rest of her family came down from Nottinghamshire. There was a service in the Chapel Royal. I took the opportunity to speak to her younger sister.’

I nod to her to continue, aware that I am holding my breath.

‘Of course, the father won’t allow that poor girl anywhere near the court after what happened to Cecily and you can’t blame him, although I dare say it won’t make much odds to her marriage chances — it was Cecily had all the looks in that family, more’s the pity.’ She sniffs. ‘But you know how sisters are with confidences.’

I did not, but I nod in any case, anxious not to interrupt.

‘I got the girl away from her parents and pressed her on what Cecily had written of this beau of hers.’

‘The one you assured me did not exist?’

She purses her lips.

‘Never mind that. Apparently Cecily had been writing to her sister every week — the maids’ letters are supposed to go through me, of course, but they find ways and means to smuggle them out. She was not keen to tell me, but I can be extremely persuasive.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

She nods, as if appeased.

‘Well — this beau. Cecily had written to her sister that she was soon to become a countess.’

‘So he was an earl?’ My blood quickens again; in my excitement I clutch at her sleeve.

‘Unhand me please, Bruno.’ She smooths the silk down, but when she deigns to glance at me I see her eyes are bright with the relish of her tale. ‘So he said. I had to prise it out of the girl with threats in the end. Told her if she didn’t give me the name and any more girls died, I would tell the queen in person that she was responsible for hiding the murderer. That put the fear of God in her, I can tell you. They’re stubborn creatures at fifteen.’

‘I can well imagine.’ I picture the terrified sister cowering before Lady Seaton’s waspish tongue. ‘She gave you a name?’

‘Not a name, but a title. She claims Cecily never told her his name. She confided only that he called himself the Earl of Ormond.’ She leaves a dramatic pause for me to digest this. I shrug to indicate my ignorance.

‘So — do you know this man?’

She turns to look at me directly and her expression is gleeful.

‘That is the whole point, Bruno — there is no one of that title at court!’

‘But then — he could be anybody claiming a false title,’ I say. ‘How will it help us?’

‘I didn’t say it was a false title, just that to my knowledge there is no one known as the Earl of Ormond at court. And I know everyone,’ she adds, as if I had tried to suggest otherwise. ‘I thought it might be something you could look into. I dare say it might be some old family name that has become assimilated into another house or become defunct — the annals of the English nobility are full of half-forgotten subsidiary titles like that.’

‘So — he was English, then?’

She frowns, as if unsure of my point.

‘Well, I assumed so. How else could he have persuaded Cecily that he held an earldom?’

I push my hair back from my face, impatiently revising my theory; Courcelles speaks good English, but his French accent is so pronounced as to make him sound comical to native speakers. Lady Seaton is right; he could never have convincingly posed as an English noble, and Cecily would surely have mentioned either to her sister or to Abigail if this impressive suitor had been a Frenchman. No; much as it frustrates me to have to let go of the idea, though Courcelles’ face may fit, I don’t believe he was posing as the Earl of Ormond.

‘But how would I ever find out about such a title?’

She looks at me as if I am being wilfully stupid.

‘The College of Arms hold all the records. At Derby Place, off St Peter Street. I am sure they would know something.’

‘Where is Ormond?’

‘How should I know, Bruno? I am not a cartographer.’

‘Did you tell Lord Burghley about this?’ I ask, curious.

She sucks in her cheeks again.

‘There is no love lost between Lord Burghley and myself. I never had the sense from him that he cared very much about the maids. Their deaths are a political problem to him, and he will find a political solution, you may be sure. Meanwhile my girls are terrified, Bruno, that this killer has his eye on more of them. My queen is afraid too, though you would never hear her admit it. These murders were grotesque threats against her. And it is poisoning the atmosphere at court — we look at every man now wondering, Is it him? Is it that one? He must be found and put where he cannot harm any more of us.’ She wraps her shawl closer around her shoulders as another gust scuffs up the leaves in the yard. ‘I was not willing to be dismissed yet again as a foolish woman by Lord Burghley. But you had a look about you, with your sharp questions and your sharp eyes. When I saw you with the French ambassador at court I realised at once that you must be one of Francis Walsingham’s recruits. You need not answer that. I am as discreet as the grave.’

I neither acknowledge this nor deny it.

‘I can assure you, my lady, I am doing everything I can to assist with catching this man, and I am grateful to you for your trouble. But I think you are wrong about my lord Burghley. He lost a daughter himself, of about the same age. I think he cares far more than you would credit.’

She ponders this as I nod curtly and move towards the gate.

‘Bruno?’

I turn back, expectant.

‘Don’t forget your manners. My title is quite real, I promise you.’ But there is a mischievous twitch at the corner of her mouth. I make a low bow, apologising, and when I look up, she is already on her way back into the house.

At a run through Bucklersbury, where the density of apothecaries’ shops fills the air with a curious mix of savoury herbs from their remedies, I don’t stop now to glance over my shoulder; if my pursuer is still behind me, let him show himself, for I feel there must be something significant in this information of Lady Seaton’s, I feel I have this elusive killer’s identity almost within my reach. He seduced Cecily Ashe with a handsome face and a title he had borrowed, or invented, or perhaps it is his own genuine title though not one he uses, but if the earldom of Ormond exists, or has ever existed, I will find out who among the remaining suspects might have any connection with it. Already my mind is leaping ahead of the facts and settling on Throckmorton. Though I encountered him only twice at Salisbury Court, I recall him as a personable young man, no great beauty like Courcelles, but good-looking enough to deserve the description. He is English, of good family — might he not have persuaded Cecily that he had a title?

My thoughts are flying faster than my feet; along Great St Thomas Apostle and then cut down Garlick Hill to Thames Street and due west to St Peters. I thank my good fortune as I run that I spent much of the summer wandering the streets of the city, exploring its neighbourhoods, the haunts of its guildsmen and merchants, its wealthiest quarters and its slums. I wanted to know its streets, to piece it together in my head; since I meant to make it my home, I felt I should take the trouble to get to know it. Now, though I will never know it as intimately as those born with the stench of the Thames in their nostrils, I have at least committed to memory a good many of the main thoroughfares, so that I do not always have to stop and ask strangers for directions. London is not a friendly city to foreigners; better never to admit that you are lost.

In St Peter Street I do stop a smartly dressed man to ask if he knows where the College of Arms is to be found; he points me down the road to a large three-storeyed house on the north side. On the west range of the building I find a gatehouse with its portcullis raised; inside the quadrangle a man in a tabard bearing the royal arms steps in front of the main door and asks me my business. I pause, bent over, and rest my hands on my thighs, trying to recover my breath; he watches me with some concern.

‘I need to find some information on a particular title,’ I say, between gasps, when I am able to speak. His eyes narrow.

‘For what purpose?’

‘To see if it exists.’

‘On whose behalf?’

I hesitate. Whose authority would serve me best here? I cannot risk associating myself with Walsingham, and if I claim Burghley he will ask to see some letter or seal of proof — not unreasonably, since my appearance is less than professional.

‘I am personal secretary to the ambassador of France, the Seigneur de Mauvissiere,’ I say, drawing myself upright and pushing my hair out of my face. I lean in and drop my voice. ‘It is a delicate matter.’

A flicker of mild interest passes over his face; he nods and opens the door for me. I find myself standing in a paved entrance hall hung with silk banners in sumptuous colours, a menagerie of lions, eagles, unicorns, gryphons and cockatrices gently undulating in the draught from the open door.

‘You will need to speak to one of the officers of arms,’ the doorman informs me. We both look around; the hall is empty. ‘Hold on.’ He crosses to a door at the far end, his heels clicking on the flagstones, puts his head around and calls to someone inside. A few minutes pass in silence. I smile awkwardly at my guide; he nods encouragingly towards the door. Eventually a stout man appears dressed in the same tabard, his chins bulging over his ruff. He also regards me with suspicion.

‘This gentleman,’ says the doorman, and I do not miss the edge of sarcasm in the description, ‘needs to look up a title. Says he’s from the French ambassador on a personal matter.’

‘Do you have a letter of authority?’ says the man with the chins, who I presume to be the officer of arms.

‘I’m afraid not.’ I pat my doublet, as if for proof.

He presses his lips together and folds his hands. For a moment I think he is going to refuse.

‘I have money,’ I blurt.

The officer gives a wan smile. ‘Oh, you won’t get far without that. What is the nature of your enquiry?’

I glance between them.

‘My lord ambassador’s niece has received a proposal of marriage from an English gentleman who claims to be the heir to a particular earldom,’ I whisper, as if to draw them into the intrigue. ‘But my master does not know of this title and wants to verify the young man’s credentials.’

The two men exchange a knowing smile.

‘That old trick,’ says the older, suggesting he deals with such matters on a daily basis. He holds out a plump hand. ‘The College must generate income to preserve our archive, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ I say, patting the breast of my doublet, where I wear my purse slung under my arm beneath my cloak. The money I had meant for my new boots would have to be sacrificed to a nobler cause. ‘What is the price?’

‘Depends upon how long it takes me to find the record,’ he says, and by way of demonstration he pushes open the door from which he entered to reveal a high room lined floor to ceiling with wooden shelves, each one piled with bound manuscripts and rolls of paper. ‘Records of grants of arms and pedigrees going back a hundred years, since the College was incorporated by King Richard III,’ he says proudly, indicating the collection as if it is his own work. ‘Which is this spurious title, then?’

‘The Earl of Ormond,’ I say. Already it has taken on a sinister sound in my mouth.

‘Oh, then I cannot help you,’ he says, looking crestfallen. ‘You had better save your money.’

‘Why not? It is not a real title?’

‘It is not an English title,’ he says, with careful emphasis. ‘I believe it is Scottish, and we do not keep the records for the Scottish nobility. For that you will need to travel to Edinburgh.’

A dozen expressions must have chased one another across my face in an instant, because he seems to take pity on me.

‘There is someone who might be able to help you, though. Wait here.’ And he strides importantly away through another door. His footsteps fade and I am suddenly so overcome by tiredness that I have to sit down on the foot of the marble staircase that leads up from the entrance hall.

‘To be honest,’ says the doorman, who remains propped against the wall, apparently too interested in my quest to return to his post, ‘most times, the ones that claim to be earls probably aren’t. I mean, your actual earls don’t need to make a song and dance about it.’

I raise my head from between my hands. ‘Thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.’

After an interval I hear the officer’s footsteps returning; behind him shuffles a white-haired man dressed in the same livery, who carries himself with an upright, military bearing despite his slow progress.

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

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

I leap to my feet, nodding.

‘Please — anything you know.’

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

‘So the title is extinct?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Good God,’ he says eventually.

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

Fowler shakes his head, his jaw set tight.

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

‘But did you ever suspect him?’

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

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

Fowler’s mild expression hardens.

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

‘Douglas murdered him?’

He lowers his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How would we persuade him, though? It would be sure to make him suspicious.’

Fowler considers for a moment.

‘I will tell him Mendoza wants to speak with him — that ought to prick his curiosity. He knows Mendoza’s influence over Mary is growing — unlike poor Castelnau’s. And Mendoza is always around the court.’

‘I don’t know.’ I am doubtful of this new plan; it strikes me that Fowler is over-sensitive when it comes to Douglas, though he is right that the journey to Walsingham and back will take hours.

‘Think how much better it would look for us if we were to deliver the man himself direct to Burghley,’ he hisses.

‘Where to, gents? Here, take this.’ The boatman throws a rope out from the bow; it falls with a wet slap on the jetty, where I pick it up and haul it in tight.

‘Across the river,’ Fowler says, before I have a chance to speak, as he climbs in and arranges his coat. ‘Drop us at St Mary Overy’s dock.’

‘Oh, aye? Trip to Southwark is it, gents?’ The lamplight exaggerates his lascivious wink. I follow Fowler precariously into the boat. The cushions seem to have soaked up all the damp and cold in the air and transferred them to my breeches. ‘You’ll come back a few shillings the poorer, I’ll warrant! Make sure you don’t get bitten by a Winchester goose, eh.’ He winks again and cackles as he pushes off with an oar.

‘A goose?’ I frown at Fowler, bemused. He breaks into a thin smile.

‘It’s an expression for catching the pox. A Winchester goose is a bawd — named because the ward is nominally under the jurisdiction of the Bishop of Winchester, who licences the whorehouses.’

I squint across to where the south bank of the Thames is obscured by mist. Southwark, the borough outside the city walls and its laws, where a demi-monde of brothels, gambling dens and taverns offering illegal fights — animal and human — has spread like a fungus along the river bank. Those who trade in contraband goods and illegal books off the boats do so in the inns of Southwark; pirates, brigands, whores, travelling players and undercover priests rub shoulders with aldermen, lawyers and courtiers disguised to taste the borough’s forbidden fruit. Castelnau warned me to stay away from Southwark almost as soon as I arrived in England; streets where they’d cut a foreigner’s throat for entertainment, he said, especially a man who looked like me. I saw enough of streets like that when I was a fugitive in Italy, so I had largely heeded his advice. Little surprise that Fowler expects to find Douglas here. As the boatman turns the wherry and pulls on the oars to direct us back downstream, I experience a deep sense of foreboding. If I can be attacked in a main street in the city before darkness has even fallen, where there is still the chance of being discovered by the watch, surely it is outright folly to head for the most lawless part of the city under cover of night. I glance at Fowler’s profile; he looks out over the water, determined and intense, his gaze concentrated on the far bank, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. At least I will have someone to watch my back this time, I think, and wonder again who might have fired the bolt that saved me earlier.

The landing stairs at St Mary Overy’s dock are slimy and narrow; I pay the boatman his shilling and follow Fowler upwards as he negotiates with one hand against the dank wall of the quay, his lantern held out in the other. One mis-step and we could be plunged into the black water lapping beneath. We emerge at the top on to a muddy, open area where two narrow streets branch away southwards, each lined with two— and three-storey houses crowded together and canted forward so that their gables threaten to meet in the middle, like the foreheads of two people conversing. A number of these houses are distinctively whitewashed to mark them out as brothels. Fowler motions to the right; I follow him, keeping so close that I am in danger of tripping him in the fog. Despite the cold, plenty of people are abroad; rowdy groups of young men, arms slung around one another’s necks and roaring sea-shanties or their own filthy versions of war ballads; women in garish colours, usually in pairs and pitifully underdressed against the cold, and more sinister figures, those who stand in doorways with their cloaks pulled up around their faces, watching and waiting. Where there are whores and gambling, there will always be great demand for meat and drink, and this street boasts an abundance of taverns, each spilling out its scent of roasting meat and warm beer every time its door is opened. If I did not feel in such immediate fear for my life, I would enjoy the atmosphere of Southwark, I think; there is a kind of frisson to the night, as if those of us who slink through the fog are tacit comrades in our pursuit of illicit pleasures.

Halfway along this street, Fowler ducks under an archway between two buildings and down a narrow alley that opens into a small courtyard with houses on three sides. By the entrance to the building on the left, a girl with her bodice half-unlaced lolls against the door frame, winding a strand of hair around one finger. She regards us with mild interest through eyes cloudy with drink as we pass, looking us both up and down, but Fowler ignores her and pushes open the door. It gives on to the tap-room of a tavern with a low ceiling and blackened beams, ill-lit and thick with the smells of tobacco smoke and unwashed bodies.

‘How do you know to find him here?’ I whisper to Fowler as he presses between tables where men argue or slump over their beer.

‘This is where the disaffected Scots drink,’ he hisses back. ‘It’s how he stays abreast of what’s going on back home.’

I guess from his tone that it is not only Douglas who scavenges information in this filthy room. At the far end of the tap-room Fowler lifts the latch of another door and holds it open for me to step through.

In the back room, Douglas sits at a small table opposite another man, intent on a card game. A pile of coins sits in the middle by the stack of discarded playing cards and a pitcher of beer. Beside it, an oil lamp flickers in the draught from the open window in the back wall. Douglas sucks on a long-stemmed clay pipe that coughs out sour smoke; but for the open window, the room would be as foggy as the night outside. Both men have a girl on their knee; plump, giggling, interchangeable creatures with thick face paint and bare shoulders. Douglas glances up at the interruption, briefly acknowledges me and Fowler, and nods to the table.

‘With you in a moment, friends,’ he mutters, holding the cards in his hand up to confide in his young companion. She points at one; Douglas laughs.

‘Lucky I’m playing this hand, then, and not you, love.’

He peels away and lays down a jack of hearts; I watch his long, broad hands with a macabre fascination, the delicate way he holds the card between thumb and forefinger. Those hands that squeezed Cecily Ashe and Abigail Morley around their slender white necks until the life choked out of them. The same hands that cut signs into their breasts, and marked the sign of the messenger on Dumas for a joke. My mouth is suddenly washed with sour bile at the image; it is all I can do to hold myself back from lungeing at him.

His opponent curses in a thick Scots accent, and Douglas scoops the pot of coins towards himself.

‘Sorry, Monty,’ he says, laughing. ‘I’ll give you another chance later. Piss off for the now, though — these gentlemen have private business to discuss, by the look of their faces.’

The other man grumbles, but shunts the girl off his knee and pushes past us.

‘You and all,’ says Douglas to the girl on his own lap, who pouts and fusses but eventually accepts a coin and a slap on her behind to make herself scarce. He taps his pipe on the side of the table, stuffs it with fresh tobacco and spends a few moments trying to make it take light from his tinderbox. When he is finally puffing out gusts like a blocked chimney, he turns to me.

‘Will you take a drink, gentlemen?’ He gestures to the pitcher. ‘I’ll send for another if we’ve run out.’

I glance at Fowler and he nods encouragement; puzzled, I realise he means for me to put forward our ruse. His dislike of Douglas extends even to addressing him directly, it seems.

‘We’re not stopping,’ I begin. ‘We are on our way to Whitehall and have a boat waiting — we came to see if you would join us?’

‘Whitehall, is it?’ He puffs thoughtfully. ‘And what business have you at Whitehall that would draw me away from this august company?’

‘Henry Howard is meeting Mendoza there and has asked us to be part of the company, to discuss what happens after the invasion,’ I say. My voice sounds too loud for the room. Douglas regards me through narrowed eyes and breathes in smoke as if he finds it nourishing.

‘Really? Mendoza? At Whitehall?’ He sounds idly curious as he examines the bowl of his pipe. ‘That doesn’t sound very likely to me, Bruno. Are you sure all these blows to your head haven’t confused you?’

I lower my eyes for a moment, cursing myself for having listened to Fowler; I should have insisted that this approach would only serve to make Douglas more suspicious. I glance over my shoulder for support from Fowler, but his eyes are fixed on Douglas.

‘This was the message I had,’ I say, trying not to falter.

‘When did you get this message — while you were staying at Arundel House? Did you find anything interesting there, by the way?’

His voice is still cheery, but there is an edge to it. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Well, it’s just that I could tell you were giving all that wine to the dog. You think I can’t tell a real drinker from a fraud? So I guessed you must have a good reason for wanting to get yourself in for the night. What were you looking for? Evidence of Howard’s treason?’

‘Why would I want that?’

‘Same reason any of us want it. To see him in the Tower.’ I look at him, unable to untangle the implication of his words. Is this a confession that he has shackled himself to the Guise cause? What reason could he have for wanting Henry Howard arrested for treason?

‘I —‘ I begin, but cannot think of what to say next. ‘Bruno has been to the College of Arms this afternoon,’ Fowler says softly, behind me. I whip around to him, confused. What game is he playing now?

‘Oh, aye?’ Douglas looks amused. ‘There’s a fancy hobby for a man like you, Bruno, armorial history. Turn up anything of interest there, did you?’

I am tired of his tone and his sense that it is he who is toying with us.

‘Yes, I did. I looked up the Earl of Ormond’s line.’

‘Really? Why was that?’

I glance at Fowler; this is not what I had intended at all, to face Douglas down in a seedy tavern. There may be two of us, but there is no knowing how many of the men drinking on the other side of the door are his friends and cohorts. My shoulders tense; I feel now that we have turned badly off-course.

‘It’s a family title of yours, is it not?’

The room falls very still.

‘Mine?’ Douglas still smiles, but this time through his teeth. He lays down his pipe. ‘Oh, very probably. There are as many branches of the Douglas family in Scotland as there are stars in the sky, Bruno — we’ve won and lost more titles than you’ve said Masses in your sorry life. Why does it interest you?’

‘Because I believe the young maids at court were killed by a man claiming to be the Earl of Ormond,’ I say, drawing my dagger. Behind me, I hear the sleek rush of steel as Fowler pulls his sword from its scabbard.

Douglas throws his chair back abruptly and jumps up, his body poised to spring either way in an instant. From the speed of his reaction I see that, despite his apparent devotion to debauchery, he is strongly built and carries himself like a man in good physical condition. But after a moment, he bursts out laughing.

‘Oh, and you’ve decided that’s me, have you? Because of a title belonging to some ancient forebear, that anyone might have borrowed? You think that would stand up in a court of law?’ His laughter sounds aggressively false in the small room.

I move cautiously around the table towards him, as he backs against the wall, his hands held up, palms upwards.

‘If you are innocent, there is nothing to fear,’ I say, and realise with a chill that this is Walsingham’s argument when he questions Catholic suspects.

Douglas continues to smile uncertainly. Eventually he lowers his hands, but I can see his body is still tensed and alert.

‘Put the knife down, Bruno, and stop being a fool.’

‘You’re coming upriver with us, Douglas — you don’t have a choice.’ I make my voice as commanding as I can, my knife still held out in front of me, pointed at him. Douglas turns to Fowler, a pleading expression on his face.

‘Yes — put the knife down, Bruno.’

Fowler’s voice remains gentle and expressionless, even as I slowly turn, amazed, still unsure that I have heard correctly, to find his sword levelled at me from the other side of the table. Douglas relaxes his shoulders. A long silence unfolds as we continue to look at one another.

‘Come on, Bruno — you think a pretty wee girl like that Cecily would take a ring off a grizzled old drunk with a face like this?’ Douglas asks eventually, pointing at himself. ‘You’re joking. No, I could never pass myself off as an earl, despite the family name.’ He grins and folds his arms, as if he is watching an interlude, but my eyes are fixed on Fowler. He continues to look at me with that level, unperturbed expression and I realise, as I have not before, that he might easily be described as handsome. His face is perfectly symmetrical, his features neat and regular, and his eyes are clear and earnest.

‘You.’ There seems little else to say.

He inclines his head a fraction but doesn’t move the sword.

‘The Earl of Ormond, at your service,’ he says, in the impeccably clipped tones of the English aristocracy. ‘You put us in a difficult position, Bruno,’ he adds, in his own accent. ‘I was relying on you to find something that would incriminate Howard or the Earl of Arundel in time to get them arrested before this invasion plan gathered too much momentum abroad. But you started poking about in the wrong corners.’

I grip my knife; Fowler still points his sword at me. He would run me through before I could reach Douglas, even with the table between us, I estimate, and relax my arm slightly. Douglas, apparently satisfied that I am not about to lunge, reaches for his pipe and sets about relighting it.

‘I don’t understand,’ I say eventually. ‘You want the other conspirators arrested? You meant for the invasion to fail?’

Fowler glances at Douglas, who shrugs as if he could not care either way.

‘You might as well satisfy his curiosity,’ he says, sucking hard on the pipe stem, his breath emerging in short, urgent puffs as he tries to coax the leaf to take light. ‘It’s not as if he can tell anyone now.’

‘The last thing we want is for Mary Stuart to be released from prison,’ Fowler says, smoothly. ‘She must come nowhere near the English throne. She must be condemned for treason.’

‘So — courting Cecily Ashe, killing her — all this was to frame the conspirators and betray Mary?’ I shake my head. ‘Then who do you want on the throne — Elizabeth? I thought you meant for her to be poisoned?’

Fowler looks at me pityingly.

‘We want the true heir on the throne, Bruno. The king who will unite this divided realm, under the guidance of his trusted advisors. The one descendant of Henry Tudor whose legitim acy has never been in dispute.’

It takes a moment for me to realise who he means.

‘King James of Scotland?’ I turn to Douglas. ‘You have done all this for him? What about his mother?’

‘Old, ill, overweight, out of touch, a bag of resentments and revenge,’ Fowler says. ‘No one wants a woman like that at the helm of a nation already precariously divided.’

‘No one wants a woman at all,’ Douglas offers, with a chesty laugh.

‘But the English Catholics have used Mary as a rallying cry for too long to suddenly change their minds,’ I protest. ‘There would be riots if Elizabeth died and she were not released.’

‘You insult us, Bruno.’ Fowler breaks into a hint of a smile, showing his even teeth. ‘We are canny enough to take that into account. That’s why it was so important that this invasion plot go far enough that the main conspirators could be picked up by Elizabeth’s authorities. That deals with Mary, the Howard family and Castelnau and his wife — all tried for treason, all imprisoned or executed by Elizabeth. Before she is tragically struck down by a mysterious illness on her own Accession Day.’

‘Without the Howards, the English Catholics couldn’t organise a game of cards,’ Douglas adds, gesturing to the pile on the table. ‘Elizabeth dies, no heir, the English are rudderless — then bring on the only person who can restore order and harmony to the country, together with the Scottish lords and advisors he most trusts.’ He smiles and indicates himself and Fowler.

‘Or who can best manipulate him,’ I say. ‘But Elizabeth is past bearing an heir now, so King James will inherit the throne anyway. Why so much risk to hasten the day?’

‘Elizabeth could easily live another thirty years,’ Fowler says. ‘Or some Catholic plot will unseat her in favour of Mary — if not this one, then another. The Spanish would move in — my lord the king could be shut out of the succession altogether. There was greater risk to his sovereignty in waiting. One must take charge of one’s destiny, Bruno, instead of waiting for Providence to show its hand, do you not agree?’

I shake my head, incredulous.

‘My God, this was an elaborate plan. But contingent on so many elements, it was bound to fail.’

‘It would have succeeded, if not for the girl.’ He clenches his teeth and the muscles in his jaw stand out.

‘Cecily.’ I stare at him. ‘So you drew her into your plot by making her fall in love with you. But she changed her mind, is that it?’

‘She seemed spirited enough. The queen had intervened to stop a budding romance some months previously because she didn’t consider the young man in question a significant enough match. The girl was furious and itching for revenge — I nurtured that and offered her the opportunity. But she was hot-headed — she didn’t have the patience to wait until the right moment.’ An expression of regret registers in his eyes for a moment, but I am not fooled; any sorrow he feels is only for the failure of his own plans.

‘So you had to kill her. But the display — the astrological signs, the witch’s doll — all that was to cast suspicion on the Catholics? Didn’t you run the risk of tightening security around the queen or being discovered yourself?’

He makes a dismissive sound with his lips.

‘Once Cecily Ashe changed her mind about helping me, she had to be silenced, that was beyond doubt. And you could hardly hope that the death of one of the queen’s own maids would go without scrutiny, so we decided we may as well use it overtly to sow fear and confusion in the court and the city. A frightened populace will be all the more eager to embrace a strong leader.’

‘It worked,’ Douglas remarks, tapping his pipe on the side of the table. ‘The way people were talking in the taverns, you’d think they expected Beelzebub to rise up out of the Thames and burn the city to the ground. Shitting themselves, they were, especially after the second one.’

‘I hadn’t intended to kill the second girl,’ Fowler says, sounding almost apologetic. ‘But when I saw her talking to you at the Holbein Gate, Bruno, I started to worry. Cecily never knew my real name, but I was afraid she might have told her friend enough detail to identify me, and I guessed Walsingham must have asked you to look into the death. So I had to make sure she didn’t talk either. I thought if we copied the first murder, it would smack of astrology and conjuring — people would think it was the work of a deranged madman trying to fulfil the apocalyptic prophecies.’

‘Deranged wouldn’t be so far wrong. So it was you following me, then, all that time. Then you were the man with the hat at the Whitehall concert?’ I am struggling to piece this together.

Fowler shakes his head.

‘That was Douglas. I was waiting on the river in a boat. Once the concert had started, I knew it would be quiet at the kitchen dock. The girl came down as the message instructed. After I had dispatched her, I took off the old smock I had over my own clothes and rowed around to the Privy Bridge, where I was admitted to join the concert.’

‘And Ned Kelley? Where does he fit in, with his visions and his drawings of the murdered girls?’

Fowler frowns; he and Douglas exchange an uncomprehending look.

‘Who is Ned Kelley?’ Fowler asks. I stare from one to the other; both are skilful dissemblers, as I know only too well by now, but they appear convincingly at a loss. Perhaps Henry Howard was telling the truth about Kelley after all.

‘Never mind. But there is one thing I don’t understand,’ I say, as I struggle to take it all in. ‘Without Cecily, Elizabeth still lives. What happens to your plan now?’

‘Accession Day is a while off,’ Fowler says, with a half smile. ‘Time enough to set other wheels turning.’

‘You have another assassin?’

‘There’s no shortage of hot-blooded young men in France ready to martyr themselves for the Catholic cause — especially among those exiled supporters of Mary in Paris, where our friend the Master of Gray has been living these past few years, making friends. Poison would have been more elegant, but one expendable youth with a pistol in the crowd, especially one with links to Mary …’ He trails off as if the subject bores him.

‘I hope that’s cleared things up for you, Bruno,’ Douglas says, brusquely, rising and brushing the drift of ash from his clothes. ‘But that’s probably enough talking, eh.’

‘Wait — what about Dumas?’ I ask, my voice rising with the need to keep them talking.

‘Before you came along and hired him with Walsingham’s money, I’d slipped him a few coins to give me an idea of the ambassador’s correspondence. When he told me Mary Stuart was sending private packets to Henry Howard through Throckmorton, I gave him a considerable sum to look out for their contents — any gifts or jewellery, anything I could use to make it look as if the girl had ties to Mary,’ Fowler says. Douglas flashes him an impatient look but Fowler seems to feel he owes me this explanation, perhaps in recognition of the misguided trust I once placed in him. ‘But I could see he was unequal to the strain of so much secrecy. He sold his loyalties too widely and he didn’t have the temperament for intrigue. I knew he’d crumble and tell you about the ring eventually. He swore he hadn’t when he was begging for his life, but I didn’t believe him.’

‘Was I next on your list of people to be silenced?’ I ask, moving almost imperceptibly away from him towards the window. Keeping his eyes on mine, he matches my movement.

‘I was relying on you to convey the necessary evidence of the invasion plot to Walsingham first,’ he says, matter-of-factly. ‘I even thought you might find a way to blame Howard for the murders — you seemed determined to. But I knew you’d discover the truth about the ring eventually and then I would have to decide what to do with you.’

‘What did King James promise you both?’ I ask, looking from one to the other. ‘How many lives would you have cut down, to secure his throne? He must have offered you the moon.’

‘James knows nothing of this yet,’ Fowler says, as if proud of the fact. ‘He is young and confused enough in his religion to fall easy victim to stirrings of conscience. We will present him with a throne when he has no choice but to take it, and thank us.’

‘Whereas you don’t know what conscience means, do you? What is your religion — aside from power?’

Fowler laughs unexpectedly at this, a rich, open laugh, and he sounds for the briefest moment like the man I had believed him to be.

‘There is no version of faith that cannot be interpreted to fit the desired political ends. I would have thought you’d learned that much on your travels, Bruno. Personally, I would advise young James to favour the Catholic Church, but only because that is where the balance of power lies in Europe, although —‘

‘Enough now, William.’ Douglas brings his hand down flat on the table. ‘We need to finish this business.’

‘There’s a bar full of people the other side of that door,’ I say, raising my voice; it wavers a little mid-sentence. Douglas tilts his head and grins.

‘Do you not know where you are, Bruno? The Liberty of the Clink, this ward is called. Half a mile to the south-west, we’d be under the jurisdiction of the High Sheriff of Surrey. Half a mile north, across the river, they abide by the laws of the City of London. But this little patch of ground is governed by the Bishop of Winchester, and he doesn’t care. We’re all outside the law here, son. We could leave your body in the street outside a bawd-house and people will just step over you as you rot.’

Fowler adjusts his grip on the sword; I have barely the space of a heartbeat to make my decision. Before he can respond, I grab the oil lamp from the table and hurl it at him; he tries to jump back but the flame catches his sleeve and he lowers the sword as he bats at it with his free hand. Just as Douglas lunges at me from the other direction, I lift one end of the bench beside the table and push it at him; furious, he throws it aside but he is obstructed for the instant it takes me to pull myself to the window sill and hurl myself out. I land with a clatter among milk churns in a muddy storage yard; on the far side a gate leads out to a side street. Douglas jumps from the window just as I slam the gate behind me and take off blindly through the misty streets with no notion of where I am heading.

All I can do is run now, into the opaque night. I hear him — or both of them — close behind; several times I think I hear their breathing, or perhaps it is only my own, disappearing into the white mist as my heart hammers in my ears. The streets are no more than lanes here, ungravelled, churned by hooves and cartwheels; as I run, the cold air makes my eyes stream, but from the sounds and the drift of the mist I think I am running towards the river. Around a corner I collide with two men who bellow their indignation but are too drunk to do anything more; I disentangle myself and pray that they trip up my pursuers. At the end of this narrow street the houses give way to open ground; the mist is thinner and I can make out the shape of trees to my left. But there are pounding footsteps from behind and I plunge on, away from the buildings; a few yards ahead the ground appears to give way and I almost fall into an inlet, one of the channels cut inland from the river bank. A fierce stink of refuse and sewage comes off it; I skid to a halt and run along its bank instead, looking at the ground, until I find a narrow wooden bridge built across.

I keep on running, my chest aching fit to burst, determined not to glance behind me as a large building looms out of the mist on my right, like a high circular tower with walls of flint. A thick, sharp scent of animal excrement and blood rises from the ground, where straw is trodden into the mud underfoot. Of course; I must be at Paris Garden, the Southwark bear ring. This might afford me a place to hide. Keeping close to the wall, I scuttle around until I find a low double gate where the animals are brought in from their enclosures. This is easy enough to climb over, and I emerge into a broad ring, hung with skeins of mist. In its centre, a sturdy stake fixed into the ground, with chains wreathed limply over it, and in a circle all around, three tiers of wooden seating with a canopy overhead. Exhausted, I haul myself over the brick wall dividing the arena from the stalls and throw my aching body to the floor beneath the first row of benches. Face down, I listen to my ribs heaving against the floor, my ears pricked for the slightest sound.

It seems only a moment before I hear the timbers creak somewhere on the opposite side of the ring. Then the low murmur of voices, seemingly from the entrance behind me, though the mist distorts my perception.

‘That side.’ Douglas’s voice, low and urgent. ‘I’ll take the other.’ I hear footsteps on the wooden steps behind me; I decide that keeping still will help me more at this stage than trying to crawl away on my belly. The tap of steel on wood; the boards creak as he approaches, feeling with the point of his sword under the benches to either side. This must be Fowler, then. In a fair fight, man to man, I think I could overpower him, but he has a sword and I have only my short-handled dagger. Only the sons of gentlemen were taught to duel with swords where I grew up, nor was it part of my training as a Dominican novice; learning to fight with my fists and a knife became part of a necessary education when I lived as a fugitive in Italy, but it would be no match for a good swordsman with a sharp blade.

A bead of orange light bobs through the milky air; as the probing sword taps its way along the boards, I pre-empt my discovery by rolling out and kicking swiftly upwards, aiming for the lantern. I catch his arm; he curses, but keeps hold of it. I scramble to my feet and dart away over the wooden benches, climbing up to the next tier.

‘Over here!’ Fowler calls, and I see a second point of light pause in the stands opposite, then start a descent. But the scuffling I heard earlier came from above, on this side. There is no time to think about this now; Fowler moves nimbly over the benches and more than once I feel the whip of air as his sword shreds the mist only inches behind me. I climb downwards again until I reach the wall, meaning to roll myself over it into the arena. I have trapped myself here, I realise, cursing my own stupidity; I will be forced to fight the two of them like the bears that usually take to the ring here, backed up against the stake with a mob of baying dogs snapping at them from either side. I place one foot up on the barrier to jump over, but a hand catches my cloak and yanks me back; I lose my footing and fall over the side into the arena, landing hard on my side. The ground is sand and though I am winded I roll over as he jumps the barrier and lands a mere two feet from my head; he raises the sword, I cross my arms in front of my face and, in that moment, as I wait for the blade to fall, I find my mind grown suddenly lucid; in that moment I know for certain that the myths of the priests and the preachers are so many stories for children; that death, when it strikes, will not come as judgement but as liberation; in this moment I see myself standing as if on a threshold between worlds, on the brink of the known universe, ready to ascend through the orbits of the planets in their spheres, out to the infinite universe beyond with its million suns, that Hermes Trismegistus called the Divine Mind. I see my life briefly illuminated, and my body relaxes to receive the blow, when this trance-like state is pierced by a sharp whistle, a motion so fast it blurs past my eyes, and a blood-curdling howl from Fowler, whose sword falls from his hand, grazing my leg as he topples sideways, clutching his arm.

My instinct returns; I throw myself on him and pin him down; a crossbow bolt protrudes from his shoulder. He bellows for Douglas but the only response is a frantic scrabbling of feet towards the entrance. The other lantern lies motionless on the ground where it was dropped. Fowler struggles under me, moaning softly and clutching at his shoulder, but I draw my knife to his throat and he falls limp. There are footsteps in the seats overhead and then the thud of someone landing in the arena. I look up and flinch, as a tall young man in a leather jerkin crouches beside me and examines Fowler.

‘I went for the lantern. I was afraid I might hit you, though, sir.’

‘Who are you?’ I hardly dare breathe out, my knife still at Fowler’s throat. The mist softens the stranger’s features, making him look younger still; he is perhaps in his early twenties, with a broad jaw, his beard still sparse.

‘Tanner, sir, Joseph Tanner. At your service.’ He sweeps off his cap and bunches it in his fist. ‘I was sent to look out for you, sir. They said folk were trying to kill you. They were right and all.’ He nods at Fowler, then picks up his sword from the sand and weighs it in his hand with the appraising glance of a connoisseur.

‘You serve Walsingham, then?’ Exhaustion floods me and I am suddenly freezing.

‘I serve Sir Philip Sidney, sir,’ he says, still twisting his cap. Fowler produces a strangled howl of pain through his teeth; I dig my knee into his ribs.

‘Sidney sent you? How long have you been following me?’

‘Since the night you came to Barn Elms, sir, after you was attacked on the road. Sir Philip said I was to mark who tried to follow you and make sure you was never left unguarded. But only to act if I thought your life was in immediate danger.’

‘Why didn’t you make yourself known to me?’

The young man looks awkward.

‘Sir Philip said you mightn’t like the idea, sir. He said you were proud.’

‘Did he.’ I smile; half of me does not like it all, the idea of Sidney deciding behind my back that I couldn’t look after myself and required a bodyguard. The other half must concede that, without the intervention of young Tanner, I would now have Fowler’s sword through me.

‘He also said it’s no more than he would do for you himself, sir, if he didn’t have other duties. Watch your back, I mean, like a friend should.’

‘I will thank him for it.’ I glance down at Fowler, whose face, even in this meagre light, has turned very white. A dark stain spreads over the cloth of his doublet where the crossbow bolt has pierced his shoulder. ‘This man needs a physician, Joseph. We must take him to Whitehall.’

Fowler struggles briefly, but I can feel he is growing weaker. He must not bleed to death here, or too many questions will be left unanswered — not least the matter of whether the Accession Day assassination plot is still active, and who might have been charged with carrying it out. Tanner nods.

‘We’ll have to get him to a boat, sir. We can carry him to Bank End stairs between us, I reckon.’

I admire his optimism; at this moment I do not feel capable of carrying my own cloak as far as the gate, but I struggle to my feet as Tanner drags Fowler upright, occasioning a further protest, but his cries are weaker too; his body seems limp in our arms, and all the heavier for it, as we must manoeuvre him over the gates where we entered. As I bend my back to take his weight while Tanner hoists him up from the inside, I find myself scanning the liquid shadows on both sides in case Douglas should be somewhere nearby, waiting for his chance.

‘There was another one,’ Tanner says apologetically as he hooks Fowler’s undamaged arm around his neck and drags him towards the river. ‘I couldn’t stop him, sir — he took off and I thought it was more important to make sure you were all right. This was the one had the sword.’

The sword I am now carrying, its weight unfamiliar in my hand, but lending me a good deal more confidence than I had on my way here. Perhaps I could learn to use it, I think, feeling it slice through the air as I curve my arm gently downwards. If I am to continue in Walsingham’s service, it would seem a useful skill. As we arrive at the stairs and I descend to call ‘Oars, ho!’, I can only marvel again at the unexpected turns my life has taken. I had thought my tools would be only pen and ink. By the time a boat draws up, I am fully convinced that Douglas has no intention of returning to help his co-conspirator. The man who left only his shoes by the corpse of Lord Darnley has once again slipped away into the mist-draped streets, out of reach.

Three armed guards in palace livery patrol the landing stage at the Privy Bridge outside Whitehall; as our boat approaches, they level their pikestaffs at us and demand our business. Tanner declares himself Sir Philip Sidney’s man and tells them we have urgent need of Lord Burghley. He is permitted to disembark and stands in close conference with one of the guards while the others regard us with suspicion, as I sit with the sword unsheathed in my lap, propping up Fowler, who still has the arrow protruding from his shoulder. We look like refugees from a small skirmish. I have pressed the hem of my cloak around Fowler’s wound to staunch the blood; I am no physician, but I do not think the injury severe enough to threaten his life. On the jetty, I see the guard lift his lantern as Tanner pulls a medallion on a chain from around his neck; it must show some insignia because this seems to satisfy the guard, who confides something briefly to his fellows and motions for Tanner to follow him inside the gate.

We wait in silence. The boat rocks with each wave and bumps against the piles of the landing stage. The boatman looks questioningly at me and grumbles about time wasted; I hand over another penny to keep him quiet. The two remaining guards watch us, leaning against their pikestaffs. Fowler shifts his weight with a low moan.

‘This will make for interesting diplomatic relations with King James when the queen knows of your plot,’ I whisper, to break the silence. ‘Did you think of that?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he croaks. ‘Everything has been done in the name of Mary Stuart. She is behind this conspiracy. Let them prove otherwise. Where is their evidence?’

His face cracks into a smile, weak but replete with self-belief. He still thinks his plan is intact.

‘You think Walsingham couldn’t make you repeat what you told me an hour ago?’

‘He can try. But I’ll die with the name Mary on my lips. You can’t stop the wheels turning now. And you, my friend —‘ he pauses, effortfully swallowing before running his tongue over his dry lips — ‘you’d better sleep with one eye open from now on. Archie Douglas doesn’t like to leave loose ends.’ He coughs and a stream of white spittle trails from the corner of his mouth.

Footsteps rattle the landing stage as it bends under the weight of newcomers: Walsingham, with four more armed men, followed by Tanner. The Principal Secretary wears a fur-lined cloak which swishes and wraps around his legs as he halts abruptly by the boat and looks down, his face inscrutable. For a moment he does not speak, simply regards Fowler with that same, unchanging expression.

‘William.’ In his voice, you hear everything his face will not show: regret, anger, disappointment, betrayal — and impatience with himself, for the failure of his own judgement.

‘Sir Francis,’ Fowler replies, his voice so faint as to be barely audible, but the sneer in it is unmissable.

‘He is wounded,’ I say; Walsingham gives a curt nod.

‘Bring him ashore. And take care with his arm,’ he barks to the guards. One of them steps towards the boat, and in that instant Fowler sits upright, pushes me hard in the chest so that I tip back to the floor of the boat, and launches himself over the side, sending a wave of freezing water spilling back after him. The guards glance urgently at one another; in their armour they are helpless. One begins unbuckling his breast-plate; I scan the black water as far as I can to either side but Fowler has disappeared.

‘Hold up your light!’ Walsingham shouts to the boatman, running to the end of the jetty. Almost quicker than thought I glance up at him, unpin my cloak, squeeze my eyes shut and dive after Fowler.

Again, the shock of the cold strips me of breath and as I kick back to the surface, it takes a moment to regain my bearings.

‘There!’ calls the boatman, hanging precariously over the side with his lantern aloft and pointing; I turn, snatching shallow mouthfuls of air, to see through the white webs of mist a sleek black shape break the water’s surface a little way downriver. I strike out after him; although the current is carrying him, he cannot make much progress with the arrow still in his shoulder, even if he had been exaggerating his weakness. In a few strokes I have almost caught him; he seems to flag and his head begins to sink below the surface. Filling my chest with air, I plunge after him; there, in the silent, swirling blackness, my hands grasp blindly and make contact with something solid. Fingers close over my arm; I battle for the surface, but he has a fistful of my sleeve and won’t let go, and his weight is greater than mine. I fight to get one arm under his shoulder, kicking wildly to try and lift him up with me, but he claws at me with his other hand and I realise, too late, that he was not trying to escape but to avoid the punishment to which I’d delivered him, to protect his secrets from Walsingham’s expert probing by taking them with him to the bottom of the river. Perhaps he even anticipated that I would throw myself impetuously after him. His hand gropes at my face; he does not mean either of us to reach the air again. I flail against him, and my hand collides with the wooden shaft of the crossbow bolt, still jutting from his shoulder; I wrench it hard to one side, his grip loosens and I give an almighty kick with my legs, reaching the air just as my lungs begin to burn. Snatching breath, I gulp down a quantity of foul Thames water and choke violently; I fear I shall go under again, but something bumps against my shoulder and I clutch at it in desperation with my right hand, my left still clinging to a fragment of Fowler’s garment as his weight drags him back under.

‘Take hold!’ cries a voice, and I blink the water away to see the boat, now with two of the guards at the helm; it is one of the oars that they have pushed out to me. My hand slips, but he manages to drag me close enough to the boat to grasp a handful of my doublet at the back; between them, they haul me over the side like a landed fish, where I am doubled over, coughing up water.

‘F-F —‘ I cannot make my voice obey me, my teeth are rattling too hard; instead I point frantically to the water, where one of the guards pokes impotently at the waves with his oar. I lurch forward; they must not give up now, Fowler must not be allowed to triumph by choosing his own way out. I have let too many vital pieces of evidence slip away from me in pursuit of him; he will not rob me of this final proof. Half-crazed with anger, I am almost ready to throw myself over again in pursuit, but the guard who pulled me out takes a firm hold of my arm, just as his companion shouts out and the ripple of light spreads over a black shape, bobbed to the surface. Fowler, despite his best efforts, is more buoyant than he anticipated. The guards pull the boat nearer, and reach over to grab the sodden bundle, almost overturning the little craft in their efforts.

‘Is he dead?’ I manage.

‘Don’t know. Sit back,’ says one, who has evidently dealt with such matters before. He turns Fowler over and presses hard several times on his stomach. There is no response. The guard leans down harder, tries again, and lifts Fowler’s torso upright as a feeble spluttering breaks from his lips, followed by a watery stream of vomit. By the time the other guard has pulled us back against the tide to the landing stage, I am satisfied that Fowler is still tethered to this world by a fragile thread.

The guards manhandle him on to the boards and lift him between them; Walsingham gives him a cursory glance as they pass.

‘Does he live?’

‘Aye, your honour.’

He nods, then stretches out one leather-gloved hand to me. Shaking, I step on to the jetty and my legs buckle beneath me. Walsingham crouches beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder.

‘If I didn’t know better, Bruno, I’d swear you’d made a pact with the Devil himself. You’re indestructible. But I don’t think the Devil would have the nerve to take the bet. He’d be afraid you’d outwit him.’

I try to reply but I am so cold I cannot stop the violent convulsions shaking my frame. Walsingham smiles, and gives my shoulder a fatherly squeeze.

‘Oh, I know you don’t believe in the Devil any more than you believe in God,’ he whispers. ‘You’ve done well, Bruno, once again. I will put you into the care of the Earl of Leicester, and when you are warm and rested, I’ll hear this story.’

He rises to his feet; I tug at his cloak and draw him back.

‘I believe in evil,’ I manage, through my teeth, when his face is level with mine.

He nods once; stands, turns and is gone. A guard with a torch holds out his hand to help me up, crooks my numb arm around his shoulders, and leads me into the palace.