LITMIR.BIZ

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have found our dear Throckmorton, then,’ the ambassador says, beaming at the young man who came in after his wife and now hovers by the door, still wearing a travelling cloak. ‘Close that behind you and come, take some wine.’ He gestures broadly to an empty chair. Courcelles is dispatched in search of another bottle; the secretary is not too proud to take on a servant’s duties when secrecy is at stake. For my part, I am surprised that I have been allowed to stay for what is evidently a clandestine meeting; Henry Howard may dislike me, but it seems Castelnau’s faith in my loyalty to France, if not necessarily to Rome, is untarnished. My heartbeat quickens in anticipation.

      ‘He came in by the garden?’ Castelnau asks his wife anxiously.

      ‘I came by Water Lane, my lord,’ the young man called Throckmorton says, as he takes the seat that was offered. He means that he entered the house the back way, from the river, where he would not be seen. Salisbury Court is a long, sprawling building at least a hundred years old, which has its main door at the front on Fleet Street, by the church of St Bride’s, but its garden slopes down as far as the broad brown waters of the Thames; anyone wishing to visit the embassy in private can land a boat at Buckhurst Stairs after dark, pass up Water Lane and be admitted through a gate in the garden wall, without fear of being seen. This Throckmorton seems young; his beardless face is narrow and elfin, framed by fair hair long enough to curl over his collar; he has a pleasant, open smile but his pale eyes dart around nervously, as if he half-expected one of us to assault him while he was looking the other way. Seated, he unfastens his cloak; his eyes linger on me as an unfamiliar face, questioning, though not hostile.

      ‘Doctor Bruno, you have not met Francis Throckmorton, I think?’ Castelnau says, noticing the direction of the young man’s gaze. ‘A most valuable friend to the embassy among the English.’ He nods significantly.

      Howard regards the new arrivals without smiling, then cracks his knuckles together.

      ‘Well then, Throckmorton,’ he says, without preamble. ‘What news from the queen?’

      He means the other queen, of course: Elizabeth’s cousin Mary Stuart, whom they believe is also the rightful queen of England, the only legitimate Tudor heir. They being the extremists of the Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise (Mary’s cousin on her mother’s side), and those English Catholic nobles who see the tide in their own country turning against them, and gather around Castelnau’s table to grumble and agitate for something to be done. Except that, at the moment, Mary Stuart is not queen of anything; her son James VI rules Scotland under Elizabeth’s watchful eye, and Mary is imprisoned in Sheffield Castle, sewing, precisely so that she can’t inspire a rebellion. This measure has apparently done nothing to lessen the number of plots fomenting in her name on both sides of the English Channel.

      Throckmorton lays his hands flat on the table, palms down, and allows his gaze to travel around the company once more, then he draws himself up as if he were about to embark on some great oratory, and smiles shyly.

      ‘Her Majesty Queen Mary asks me to convey that her spirits are greatly lifted by the love and support she receives from her friends in London and Paris, and very particularly by the fifteen hundred gold crowns my lord ambassador so generously sent to aid the comfort of her royal person.’

      Castelnau inclines his head modestly. Howard sits up, amazed.

      ‘You spoke with her?’

      ‘No.’ Throckmorton looks apologetic. ‘With one of her ladies. Walsingham has ruled that she may not have visitors for the present.’

      ‘But she may have letters?’

      ‘Her official letters are all opened and read by her gaolers. But her women bring my correspondence in and out secretly, hidden in their undergarments.’ He blushes violently at the thought, and hurries on. ‘She is confident that her keepers have not yet found a means to read these. And she is permitted to have books.’ He gives Howard a significant look. ‘In fact, she most particularly asks that you send her a copy of your new book against prophecies, my lord Howard. She finds herself most eager to read it.’

      ‘She shall have it by your next delivery,’ Howard says, leaning back, his satisfaction evident in his smile.

      ‘She is also particularly anxious,’ Throckmorton continues, looking hopefully from Douglas to Fowler, ‘to have news from her son. To know the King of Scotland’s mind.’

      Castelnau gives a short, bitter laugh. ‘Wouldn’t we all like to know that? Where will young James nail his colours, when he is finally made to choose?’ He produces an exaggerated shrug.

      ‘He does not write to his mother directly, then?’ Howard frowns.

      ‘Infrequently,’ Throckmorton says. ‘And when he does, he writes in the language of diplomacy, so that she can’t be sure of his intentions. She fears that his loyalties are not wholly where they ought to lie.’

      ‘King James is seventeen,’ Fowler says, in that quiet, authoritative voice, so that everyone has to lean towards him. He dresses plainly, with no ruff, just a shirt collar protruding above his brown woollen doublet. In a small way, this pleases me; I have an instinctive mistrust of dandies. ‘He has only just emerged from the shadow of his regents – what seventeen-year-old, having tasted independence, would willingly hand over the reins again to his mother? He will need a more material advantage than filial sentiment if he is to be persuaded to support her cause. Besides,’ he adds, ‘he was not one year old when he last saw her. She may believe they have a natural bond, but James knows he stands to gain more from a queen on a throne than from one in prison.’

      ‘Well, Monsieur Throckmorton, you may assure Queen Mary that at this very moment, her son entertains at his court an ambassador of the Duke of Guise,’ Madame de Castelnau interrupts, looking out from under her fringe of lashes, ‘who will offer him the friendship of France if he will acknowledge his proper duty as Mary’s son.’

      There are murmurs of surprise at this from around the table. Fury flashes briefly over Castelnau’s face – this is clearly the first he has heard of it and, as far as he is concerned, France’s friendship is not in Guise hands to give – but I watch him master his anger, ever the professional diplomat. He does not want to reprimand his wife in public. She does not look at him, but there is a quiet triumph about the set of her mouth as she lowers her eyes again to the table.

      ‘In any case,’ the ambassador says brightly, as if he has been having an entirely different conversation, ‘there is every reason to believe we will soon have a treaty that will give Queen Mary her liberty peacefully, restore her to her son and allow France to preserve our friendship with both England and Scotland.’

      ‘Treaties be damned!’

      Henry Howard throws back his chair and pounds a fist on the table, so suddenly that again we all jolt in our seats. The candles have burned down so far that his shadow leaps and quivers up the panels behind him and creeps over the ceiling, looming like an ogre in a children’s tale.

      ‘In the name of Christ, man, the time for talking is over! Do you not understand this, Michel?’ Howard bellows, leaning forward with both hands on the table to face down the ambassador, while Courcelles makes little ineffectual flapping gestures at him to lower his voice. ‘Are you so comfortable now at the English court that you do not feel which way the wind is blowing in Paris?’

      ‘The King of France still hopes to forge a political alliance with Queen Elizabeth, and it is my job to make every effort to secure this while I represent his interests,’ Castelnau says, keeping his patience. But Howard will not be placated.

      ‘The French people want no such alliance with a Protestant heretic, and your King Henri knows it – he feels the might of the Catholic League rising up at his back. No more treaties or marriages or seeking to appease and befriend the pretender Elizabeth – there is only one path left to us now!’ He thumps the table again for good measure so that the plates rattle.

      ‘As I recall,’ Castelnau says stiffly, maintaining his composure, ‘you were my greatest ally not so long ago when it came to

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