LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

‘The Duke of Anjou never really wanted to marry Elizabeth – she’s at least twenty years older than him, for pity’s sake. I mean – would you?’ He looks at the men around him, inviting scorn; Douglas responds with a lascivious cackle. ‘And the minute she sniffed her subjects’ unrest at the idea,’ Howard continues, ‘she sent him packing. She will make no marriage now – and even if she does, it will never be with a Catholic prince. She has seen where that leads.’

      ‘Nor will she have an heir now, at the age of fifty,’ Marie de Castelnau points out, scorn in her voice. ‘France’s best hope is to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England and from there let her work on her son as a mother and as a Catholic sovereign, to bring him back to his natural obedience. Et voilà!’ She holds her hands out to us with a delighted smile, as if she has performed a conjuring trick, though her hands are empty. ‘The whole island united again under Rome.’

      ‘Et voilà?’ I look at her, incredulous. ‘Problem solved? You talk as if they were chess pieces – move this one here, take this one off the board, let this one see he is threatened. Fin de partie. Is it so simple, madame, do you think?’

      Marie presses her lips together until they turn white, but she returns my stare, defiant. Howard glares.

      ‘You presume to speak –’ he splutters, but Castelnau holds up a hand. He looks tired.

      ‘Go on, Bruno,’ he says gently. ‘You have hardly spoken. I would like to hear what you have to say. You knew King Henri’s mind as well as any of his councillors.’

      I can feel Fowler’s eyes on me. Without turning in his direction, I know he is willing me to be circumspect, not to compromise my privileged position at this table by appearing hostile. Yet Castelnau expects me to be outspoken; he would be suspicious if I did not take the role of devil’s advocate, I think.

      ‘I say only that these queens are not dolls to be moved around at will.’ As I say it, I have a sudden image of the Elizabeth doll clutched in the dead hand of Cecily Ashe, the needle sticking from its breast. I shudder; the memory makes me falter. ‘This glorious reunification under Rome could not be achieved without great bloodshed in England. I hear no one mention that.’

      ‘Such things are taken for granted, you damned fool,’ Howard growls.

      ‘Do you make bread without crushing the grain?’ Marie says, half-smiling, still pinning me with her stare. She has neat, white teeth; it seems she is not afraid to use them.

      ‘The Queen of the Scots will not shy away from spilling blood when it suits her, I assure you,’ Douglas declares confidently to the room, rousing himself from his own thoughts to pour another large glass of wine, which he drinks off almost in one go. ‘Now, I could tell you a story about the Queen of the Scots.’ He laughs into his empty glass.

      ‘Really? Is it the one about the pie?’ Courcelles says, with a stagey roll of the eyes.

      ‘Aye.’ Douglas’s eyes light up. ‘After her husband died, there was a great feast –’

      Courcelles holds up a hand.

      ‘Perhaps on another occasion. I think Madame de Castelnau might not appreciate it.’

      ‘Oh. Aye. Sorry.’ Douglas glances at Marie and touches his fringe with a self-mocking grimace.

      A brief, uncomfortable silence follows; everyone turns to look at him and I sense that I have missed something. A glance passes between Marie and Henry Howard but I cannot read its meaning. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement among the moving shadows that sculpt out the lines of her face, her eyes bright and determined, her lips softly parted, glistening. She sees me watching her and lowers her eyes modestly, but she glances up again to see if I am still looking.

      ‘The seminaries in France are still working tirelessly to send missionary priests here undercover, my lords, and the Catholic network for their continued support remains strong,’ Fowler says, and the company turns to regard him. ‘We may pray that their endeavours succeed in bringing souls back to the Holy Roman Church –’

      ‘Yes, Fowler, I admire your piety, and I’m sure we are all praying for the same thing,’ Howard cuts across him, impatient. ‘But they are gutting every Jesuit missionary they catch on the scaffold at Tyburn like pigs on a butcher’s block, as a warning to potential converts. It is time to accept that this country will not be made Catholic again by politicking nor by preaching. Only by force.’

      ‘Then – forgive me if I seem slow – but you are talking about an invasion?’ I turn, wide-eyed, from Howard to Castelnau. It is not really a question; the ambassador’s face answers with a look of helpless sorrow.

      ‘Michel – is this wise, that he sit here with us?’ Howard snaps his fingers towards me, impatient now. ‘We all know this man is wanted by the Holy Office on charges of heresy. Tell me – where do you think his loyalties naturally fall, in this enterprise? Hm? With Rome, or with his fellow excommunicate Elizabeth?’

      ‘Doctor Bruno is a personal friend of my king,’ Castelnau says quietly, ‘and I will vouch for his loyalty to France myself. His ideas might occasionally seem a little …’ he searches for the diplomatic term ‘… unorthodox, but he remains a Catholic. He attends Mass regularly with my family here in the embassy chapel, and always observes the terms of his excommunication. Which is something we may resolve in time, eh, Bruno?’

      I assume what I hope is an expression of piety and nod gravely.

      Howard scowls but says nothing more, and I feel a sudden rush of affection for the ambassador, and a corresponding pang of regret for my own deception. Whatever unfolds in this case, I determine that Walsingham will know the ambassador argued for peace. Castelnau, like King Henri of France, is a moderate, the sort of Catholic who believes that faith should be able to accommodate a variety of viewpoints. He is a man of integrity, in his way; he would not choose war, but perhaps he will not be given a choice. His wife, on the other hand, looks as if she can’t wait.

      ‘Listen,’ she says now, clasping her hands and allowing her bright eyes to sweep around the company before adding, ‘my lords, friends,’ with a calculated lowering of her lashes. ‘We have come together around this table from different backgrounds, but we all share one common goal, do we not? We all believe that Mary Stuart is the rightful heir to the English throne, and that she would restore the Catholic faith that unites us, is it not so?’

      There is a swell of murmured assent from the company, some more enthusiastic than others; I catch Fowler’s eye again and look quickly away.

      ‘Besides, Mary Stuart on the English throne would better serve the interests of our respective nations,’ Marie continues briskly, stretching out her elegant fingers and affecting to examine the colourful array of rings she wears. ‘This joins us in our purpose as much as our religion. We must take care to remember what makes us natural allies, even when we may disagree, or we shall lose all hope of success.’ Here she looks up and aims the full beam of her smile at me, before turning it on the rest. I watch the ambassador’s wife with fresh curiosity. Whatever her reputation for piety, there can be no doubting her political acumen; beneath the smiles and the modest blushes lies a steely force of will that contrasts with her husband’s habit of trying to balance all interests harmoniously. I steal a glance at Castelnau; he pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and looks weary. It seems the balance of power in the embassy has subtly shifted since Marie’s return.

      ‘Shall I fetch fresh candles, my lord?’ Courcelles murmurs; without our realising it, the feeble flames have almost died and we are sitting in near darkness.

      ‘No.’ Castelnau pushes his chair back and rises heavily. ‘We will retire. My wife is not long returned from Paris and she needs to rest. Tomorrow evening my chaplain will say Mass here before supper. Goodnight, gentlemen. I think, Claude, that Monsieur Douglas may need a guest room.’ He nods down the table to where Douglas appears to have fallen asleep face down on his hands. Courcelles makes a little moue of disgust.

      Our host holds the dining-room

Скачать книгу