Prophecy (2011) (29 page)

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

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

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

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

‘Which pamphleteers?’ Courcelles asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks expectantly at Fowler, who nods.

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

Douglas snorts.

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

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

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

Mendoza interrupts.

‘Have you settled on a date?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry Howard rises to his feet, his eyes burning.

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

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