Prophecy. S. J. Parris
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‘I may not choose my husband for love, but I shall make damned sure I choose my lover carefully. What? Would you look so shocked?’ she adds, in response to my expression, which makes her giggle all the more. ‘No need to be such a prude, even if you were once a monk.’
‘Are you going to stand there blocking the way all day, then?’ grumbles a heavy-set man in a coarse smock as he lumbers past, knocking Abigail hard enough that she stumbles into my arms as I try to stop her falling. Startled, she regains her balance and brushes herself down as we look at one another, then quickly glance away.
‘I should probably –’ she says, gesturing back towards the palace wall.
‘Yes. But take care, Abigail. Make sure you do not go about the palace alone. Someone at court knows who killed Cecily and why, and you are right – he may be watching you. Be wary about who you trust.’
‘It is hard to know who to trust at court after this.’ She laughs, a nervous, high-pitched sound, her fingers twisting at the strings of her cloak. ‘I mean, how do I even know that I can trust you?’
‘You can trust me, Abigail. I have no pledge to give except my word.’ Gripping her shoulders a little tighter, I make her look into my eyes. She searches them with her pale green gaze, and eventually she nods.
‘Yes – it is odd, for all the women say never trust foreign men, especially those from Spain or Italy. But I feel I can trust you. Will you let me know if you learn anything more? It would help me to feel safer.’
I am about to promise, when two young dandies in puffed satin push roughly by us, this time jostling Abigail into the wall.
‘Hey! Watch yourselves!’ I call after them; the shorter of the two, who wears a scarlet cap with a peacock feather, turns at my accent.
‘Do you speak to me, you Spanish whoreson?’ He pauses, spits on the ground and seems about to come back for me, but his friend restrains him, and with a last filthy look, they resume their walk.
‘Fools,’ I mutter, though I am grateful that they were not spoiling for a fight in the street. ‘Thank you for trusting me. And, Abigail – you must let me know if you remember anything more that Cecily told you. It could be essential.’
I speak gently, but she understands my implication: I think she is keeping something back, some clue to the identity of Cecily’s lover, either out of fear or misguided loyalty. She smiles hesitantly and I realise I am still holding her by the shoulders; our eyes meet again, for slightly too long. For a moment I entertain the absurd thought that, once this business is resolved, I might ask to see her again. There is something about her expectant eyes that makes me wonder if she has thought the same. I could hardly be considered the grand match her father has in mind, but has she not already made clear that she would have different criteria for a lover? I push to one side the uncomfortable suggestion that her father is probably not much older than I am. Embarrassed by my unspoken thoughts, I release her and she draws her hood up closer.
‘The perfume is disgusting, by the way,’ she says, as she turns to leave, nodding to where I have stuffed the velvet bag inside my jerkin. ‘Only a man could possibly think a woman would want to wear that.’ She laughs then, and with a little wave, steps out of the archway into the bright light of the morning.
I watch her as she disappears into the throng, then turn and make my way back in the opposite direction. It is only when I emerge into the light at the other end that I sense someone behind me; quick as blinking, I spin around, but there are dozens of people in my wake, none of them paying the slightest attention to me other than to tut at the fact that I have stopped dead in the path, interrupting the flow of human traffic again. I turn urgently left and right, craning my neck above the crowd, knocking into people as I go, but all I can see is a steady stream of faces coming towards me from the gatehouse passageway. None of them makes eye contact. It is possible that I imagined the sensation. Yet I know, instinctively, that there was someone at my back, just now, watching me, and he must have seen me talking to Abigail Morley.
I hail a boat back to Salisbury Court, thinking that it would be harder for anyone to follow me inconspicuously by river, but although I spend the journey peering out at the other wherries and their passengers until even the boatman grows nervous and asks what is the matter, I see nothing to give me any cause for concern. By the time I arrive back at the embassy, I have almost persuaded myself that I was mistaken.
Halfway across the first-floor gallery, with my fingers burning to examine the contents of the velvet bag, which I have not dared to open in any public place in case I was being followed, I hear a woman call my name. So fixed am I on reaching the privacy of my room in order to examine its contents that I nearly curse aloud at being detained. Marie stands in the doorway behind me, regarding me with her head on one side, her daughter’s little dog clasped in her arms. Reluctantly, I turn and bow.
‘Madame.’
‘Who was your mysterious letter from yesterday, Bruno? We are all dying to know.’ She advances on me, smiling coquettishly, and stops a little too close. She wears a dress of blue silk, and on her bodice is pinned a large jewelled brooch, studded with rubies and diamonds that glint and sparkle in the sun. The dog stretches out its small head and licks my hand in an enquiring manner. ‘I have speculated that you have some besotted English girl sending you verses, but Claude is quite convinced that it is something more intriguing. Who would be sending Bruno letters, he wonders, that could not divulge his name? Or her name.’ She widens her eyes in an affectation of intrigue.
I smile politely, but this is worrying: it will not do me any good to have the household speculating on my communications, especially in the midst of such conspiracies as I heard the other night. I begin to think it was a mistake to suggest that Abigail contact me here. Thinking as quickly as I can, I compose my expression into one of regret.
‘I only wish you were right, madame, but I’m afraid there is no besotted English girl. The letter came from a young man at court who has read one of my books and wishes to become my private student.’
‘One of your books?’ She looks disappointed.
‘As unlikely as that may seem.’
‘Student of what?’
‘Of the art of memory. Just as I taught to King Henri in Paris.’
‘Oh.’ She considers this. ‘Then why the secrecy?’
‘Because ignorant people mutter that the techniques of memory owe something to occult sciences. I expect he is being cautious. Though I assure you there is no truth in that,’ I add, hastily.
She continues to study me with her head tilted, as if I make more sense viewed at an angle.
‘Well, then, Bruno,’ she says, at length, ‘I insist that I become your private student too. I would like to learn your system. You can sort out the payment with my husband – although he may feel that the board and lodging you already receive are wages enough.’
‘Madame, I am not sure that would be –’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Bruno. It would be perfect – it is not as if you are employed elsewhere, and I must fill my time somehow while Katherine is with her governess. Besides, my memory is quite shamefully poor. I came after you to tell you something, and now I have quite forgotten what it was. You see? I need you.’ She smiles up at me with a twitch of her eyebrow, all innocent and knowing. Looking for a distraction, I reach out to stroke the dog and she does the same, with the result that her hand lightly caresses the top of mine; I pull my own hand back as if burned, and she blushes and drops her gaze. Christ, I think: the idea of trying to teach her anything, alone in a room, is more daunting than any task Walsingham could ask of me. I am reassured by the thought that Castelnau would never sanction it.
‘Anyway, where are you heading in such a hurry?’
‘Oh – just to my room. I had one or two ideas while I was out walking and I must write them down before they evaporate.’
Her laugh