Prophecy (2011) (25 page)

‘Thank you, Bruno. Here, you cannot go into the night without a lantern. Johanna!’ she calls into the darkness of the stairwell. ‘Fetch a lantern for our guest!’

There is no response. Tutting heavily, Jane stomps away with the baby towards the back of the house. Arthur and I are left looking solemnly at one another in the hallway.

‘You be sure and take good care of your mother until your father comes home,’ I say, bending to ruffle his soft hair. He has his mother’s looks, but Dee’s penetrating eyes.

The boy nods. Jane returns and hands me a lantern with a new candle.

‘Return it when you can,’ she says. ‘Now go with God.’

My cloak is no less damp than when I arrived, in spite of its stint by the fire, and the evening air when I step outside whips through it with a chill that pierces straight to my bones, though the rain has eased for the moment. I shiver, but make a cheerful farewell to Jane. Little Arthur remains on the doorstep waving until I am at their gate. I glance at the upper storey and am almost sure I see a figure standing at the window, silently watching, wrapped in shadow.

It is less than a mile across the spur of land that juts out, making the river loop around Barnes and Mortlake; clouds scud across the face of the moon, driven by the wind, but there is only one main road, little more than a track, that runs along by the water then cuts across. Even in the dark, it would be hard to lose my way between here and Barn Elms. Despite Walsingham’s instructions to send my intelligence through Fowler, the papers I have pressing against my chest are so urgent that it would be folly to delay; I can deliver them into his hands or Sidney’s and be on my way without anyone knowing I was there. The lantern held before me, its light fractured in the standing water collected in ruts on the path, I pull the cloak tighter and close the gate behind me.

I feel rather than hear him, almost the moment I step out on to the muddy lane that will lead me to the river path. He - or perhaps she - is no more than a movement out beyond the edge of sight, a stirring of the air, the soft plash of water disturbed in a puddle. I turn, slowly at first, widening the circle of the lantern’s poor light as I hold my arm out, but whoever he is remains hidden. Yet I know I am not alone, and part of me curses my own recklessness as I quicken my step. What was I thinking, coming so far from the city at night, and especially since there can be no doubt that someone has been following me? But with every step I feel Kelley’s papers scratch against my chest and try to ignore the rush of fear in my blood; we are one step away from discovering who killed Cecily Ashe and Abigail Morley, and I am now convinced that Ned Kelley is the evidence that ties the Howards to the murder plot. I am all but running now, fired by the thought that this might soon be resolved, but he keeps pace with me in the dark, whoever he is; I catch echoes of my own footfalls in the mud but I no longer turn. Instead I keep my eyes to my course, one hand on my knife, the lantern held in front with the other, telling myself that every step brings me nearer to Barn Elms and Walsingham. Once my pursuer sees where I am headed, surely he will drop back out of sight. Walsingham keeps armed guards at his gate; he is obliged to, given how many Catholics would like to send him early to his judgement day.

The damp breath of the night; the solid outlines of the wet trees to either side; the presence that I sense without seeing, who becomes a kind of companion in the silence. I almost begin to believe that he does not mean me harm, that he is only keeping an eye on me, tracing my path. An owl’s shrill cry rips the air overhead and I gasp aloud, startled, my foot briefly stumbling in a rut; from somewhere behind or to the side I think I hear a matching intake of breath. I have run perhaps half a mile when there is a distinct human sound; not quite a word, more of a grunt, the noise of some physical effort. I wheel around, holding up the light, drawing the knife from my belt with my right hand, and as I do, I hear his movement, there comes a faint whistling in the air and some blind instinct tells me to duck; the hand with the knife flies up to my face, just before the blow catches me and knocks me to the ground.

Through the blurring shadows I can just make out the form of him as he looms over me, before the world turns to black.

Barn Elms, south-west London
1st October, Year of Our Lord 1583, Night.

When the light reappears the first thing I see against the swimming shapes is his outline, still bent over me; I struggle and hear a strangled cry escape my lips, but he has me pinned down somehow and a blade of pain is slowly sawing across my forehead from the blackness where my left eye should be. My waterlogged limbs protest and give up. I seem to be sinking into the ground but I can’t move to stop myself.

‘He’s awake.’ The voice seems to come from the man peering into my face; it sounds familiar but I can’t open one eye and the other won’t focus. I wonder in passing if he means to kill me. With some effort, I find I can stretch out my palms flat on either side of me and the ground feels smooth and cool. Then something cold and wet lands on my face and I splutter back into awareness, battling to push myself up on one elbow.

‘Christ alive, Bruno, you gave us the fright of our lives there,’ says the man, and as the crusted blood is sponged from my good eye, he solidifies into the shape of Philip Sidney. I can’t comprehend how he came to be here, so I decide not to try, though I can’t deny I have not been so glad to see him since he rescued me in Oxford.

‘I think you take delight in making me act as your nurse-maid,’ he says cheerfully, as if he is reliving the same memory. ‘So what in God’s name happened to you this time? Do you remember any of it?’

‘I don’t even know where I am.’

‘Don’t try and get up.’ He stands, stretches his long arms over his head, but the wet cloth keeps up its gentle momentum over my face. Someone else is here, I realise, but I can’t turn my head to see. ‘You’re at Barn Elms,’ Sidney continues, from the other side of the room. ‘You were damned lucky, Bruno, if the truth be known - one of the servants found you there on the road from Mortlake on his way back from a day off. He didn’t know it was you, of course, but when they brought you back to the house, Frances recognised you. Didn’t you, my dear?’

‘Yes, Philip,’ says a soft, girlish voice from above me. So Sidney’s wife is my nurse. When she lifts the cloth away to rinse it, I catch a glimpse from the corner of my eye; the water she wrings out is bright crimson.

‘You’d probably have died otherwise, I’d wager,’ Sidney says, with his usual matter-of-factness. ‘Did you see him? He hit you with something heavy, but it looks worse than it is, I think. Did he rob you?’

‘
Merda
!’ I struggle to sit up, pushing the sheet back and almost sending the bowl of water flying; white light splinters behind my eyes but I grip the bedpost until it passes. I have been undressed while I was blacked out, and I am wearing only my shirt and underhose. ‘The papers! Where are they?’

‘What papers? Steady on, you’ll start the bleeding up again.’

‘Who took my doublet off me?’ I force myself unsteadily to my feet, but the room tips and blurs again.

‘I did, you bloody fool,’ Sidney says. ‘I’ve been sitting with you since they brought you in. Walsingham was here a good part of the time too. We thought you might not make it.’ He pauses for a moment. ‘Still,’ he says, his voice brusque again, lest I think him sentimental, ‘should have known it takes more than a bash on the head to do for you. But you had nothing with you. No papers, no purse. Not a thing. And your doublet and shirt were undone.’

I sink back on to the bed, pressing my palm gingerly to my temple.

‘I was bringing them to Walsingham. He must have taken them.’

‘Who?’

I glance at Frances and shake my head minutely and then wince. Even this movement makes it feel as if my brains have come loose in my skull.

‘My dear, go and fetch your father, if he’s free, would you? Tell him Bruno’s speaking again. Most obliged.’ He points imperiously to the door. His wife bobs meekly and leaves with her bowl of bloodied water. The door swings softly shut behind her. ‘She’s terribly obedient, you know,’ Sidney observes with mild interest, as if we were discussing a horse.

The room is furnished with a large comfortable bed hung with white linen curtains, now bespattered with my blood. A tapestry of a hunt scene sways softly on one wall and candles have been lit in sconces on every side to bathe the walls in a cheerful glow, but to my bruised eyes the light appears to swim, like sun through water, and the objects around me sway and waver. I reach up to touch my swollen brow and my legs begin to tremble as I realise, as if taking a second blow, the full weight of what happened. That my pursuer left me alive may have been an oversight on his part; perhaps he thought he had killed me, but it now seems beyond doubt that he is willing to do so.

I have barely begun recounting the events at Dee’s to Sidney when the door crashes to the wall and Walsingham strides into the room, with such a degree of urgency that for a moment I think he means to sweep me into his arms. He stops just short of this, but I can focus enough to see the concern etched in his face, and feel flattered.

‘Make no mistake, Bruno, I shall find the man who did this to you,’ he says, showing me his balled fist before enclosing it softly in his left hand.

‘Or woman,’ I say, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. Walsingham raises an eyebrow.

‘Really? Explain.’ He nods to Sidney to shut the chamber door.

So I tell him about Jane Dee’s mysterious visitor; about Ned Kelley’s chest, the books and the drawings; I explain about Johanna Kelley’s connection to the Howard family, and how my assailant must have known that I had taken something incriminating from Dee’s house. Walsingham frowns and bites his lip when I tell him the papers have been taken; when I have finished, he draws a hand down the length of his face and nods.

‘If this wife of Kelley’s is stealing food for him, he can’t be far from the place,’ says Sidney, folding his arms. ‘Either he was watching the house or she followed you herself, knowing what you’d found, is my guess.’

‘I wish I could have seen those pictures,’ Walsingham says, with a grimace. ‘First this business with Mary’s ring, then Kelley and this Johanna woman - is Henry Howard really at the heart of all this?’

‘Can’t we find some pretext to arrest him?’ Sidney demands. ‘Perhaps he will be willing to answer questions if he is afraid.’

‘And what pretext do you suggest?’ Walsingham turns on him; it is rare to hear the Principal Secretary raise his voice, and I curse myself again for having lost the papers that might have helped him bring this to a close. ‘We have nothing to charge him with - nothing! And if the queen moves against the Howards without sound evidence, the rest of the Catholic nobles will close ranks against her, which is the last thing we want if there are envoys trying to stir them to armed rebellion. God’s blood!’ He pounds his left palm with his fist, pacing the room like a bear on a chain while Sidney and I watch, tense. ‘I cannot go on protecting John Dee from his own folly!’ he bursts out eventually, as if to himself. ‘Conjuring spirits! He lays himself open to being abused. And if it turns out he has been harbouring a murderer in his house -‘ He rubs his beard, takes a deep breath and turns back to me, attempting to impose his customary self-control. ‘Bruno, what do you make of this so far?’

My head still feels as if it is stuffed with wool; his voice seems to come from somewhere distant, but I gather my ragged thoughts as best I can.

‘Find Ned Kelley,’ is the best I can manage. ‘Henry Howard, Philip Howard, the dead girls - somehow they are all connected, but only Kelley can link them.’

Walsingham looks at me expectantly, but my vision blurs again and I have to lean back against the bedpost.

‘I will send men after Kelley,’ he says, eyeing me carefully. ‘And someone to watch over Jane Dee, make sure she receives no more unwelcome visitors. John has said little, except to swear neither he nor Kelley has any connection with the murders. Now I understand why he doesn’t want to talk about the nature of his relationship with Kelley - but I must question him again about these drawings. And I’ll have this Johanna taken in and questioned while we are about it. Meanwhile you, Bruno, have had a lucky escape, and I blame myself for allowing you to pursue this alone. You need to rest.’

‘I need to get back to the embassy,’ I say, alarmed and standing up too fast. ‘I am under enough suspicion there already - I can’t disappear for a night. What time is it?’

‘Nine,’ Sidney says. ‘You’d better stay here, old friend - you’ll frighten the life out of the ambassador looking like that.’

‘Bruno’s right,’ Walsingham says, stepping closer to examine my wound in the candlelight. ‘His position at Salisbury Court is crucial to us now. I’ll have someone take you back by river. Tell them you were set upon for being foreign.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’ I touch my eye again. My head feels enormous. With some effort, I stand and wait for the seasickness to pass.

‘Bruno.’ Walsingham places his hand on my shoulder, fatherly. ‘You acted with your customary blend of courage and recklessness tonight. Those papers would have been like gold, and I am as distressed as you over their loss. But I would have been more distressed if we had lost you for their sake. From now on, I want you to confine your investigations to Salisbury Court. Keep yourself armed, and if you must make longer journeys or deliver messages, go accompanied. Make use of Fowler - you are there to work together. No gadding about the countryside in the dark trying to do it all alone -
capisce
?’

I nod, painfully.

‘Good.’ He smiles, but it only lasts an instant. ‘I will arrange a boat, and come with you as far as Whitehall. See if I can persuade Dee to tell me any more.’ He strides to the door, purposeful again, then turns back to me. ‘Do you think there is any truth in it, Bruno? This pursuit of commerce with spirits? It was said in Paris that you knew something of these arts.’

Squinting, I try to focus until I can see his features sharply. His expression is neutral, curious. ‘It is forbidden by every statute of the church,’ I say, eventually. ‘Theirs and yours.’

‘I
know
it is forbidden, Bruno - I write the laws,’ he says, impatient. ‘This is why no one will admit to it, while the country crawls with these so-called scryers and cunning-men, duping the poor and ignorant. And sometimes the educated,’ he adds, with a wry curl of the lip. ‘But do you believe some men could truly have this gift, to speak with spirits - angels or demons, or whatever you want to call them? Have you ever known such a thing, or are such beliefs only remnants from our benighted past?’ He searches my face, his hand still resting on the door. I can feel Sidney’s eyes on me too, expectant; I know he was drawn to such knowledge when he was a student of Dee’s, but since he assumed his position at court he has kept a politic distance. My poor bruised brain feels ill-equipped for the subtleties such an answer requires.

‘If, as I believe,’ I say, weighing my words, ‘this universe is infinite, then it follows that it must contain more than we can have so far managed to comprehend or write down. The sacred scriptures, not just of our own religion but of others besides, all speak of beings who stand between us and the divinity. Through the ages, right across the world, men have claimed to speak with them, and so to know the future. I can’t judge the truth of their claims, but I am certain of this - if there are men who have such a gift, Ned Kelley is not one of them. And neither is John Dee.’

‘Are you?’ Walsingham asks.

I hear Sidney suck in a breath through his teeth.

‘Not I, your honour.’ I do not add the word ‘yet’, though it echoes in my head.

Walsingham considers me for a moment, then nods brusquely, and sweeps through the door, gesturing for us to follow. Sidney lays a hand on my arm.

‘Careful, Bruno.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Whatever the truth about this Kelley and the murders, Dee will not come out of this business well. What he has been doing is as good as witchcraft, you know that. People burn for less. The queen won’t let that happen, but she will have to distance herself from him, and you could be tainted by association.’

‘Then Howard will have achieved his aim,’ I say, gripping his sleeve. ‘Dee will be disgraced and cast out. We must find some evidence that will tie Howard to this beyond any doubt, or Dee will be destroyed.’

‘You are convinced Howard is behind the murders, then?’

‘I just don’t know. So much points to him, and yet there is so much that doesn’t make sense.’ I pause, remembering Fowler’s warning. ‘But I must guard against persuading myself that it’s Howard just because I want it to be him.’ I raise my hand again to the wound at my temple. ‘God, I am a fool. If I hadn’t lost those papers -‘

‘If this fellow had had a better aim, you’d be dead,’ Sidney reprimands. ‘Forget the papers. Get closer to Howard if you can. At some point he must show his hand.’

‘Or kill me first,’ I say, looking at the smear of blood on my fingertips.