Read Online Prophecy (2011) by S. J. Parris - Free Book Online
Authors: S. J. Parris
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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
‘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
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