Free Prophecy (2011) by S. J. Parris Page A

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 door open for us, bidding us a good night as we file past him into the corridor. I am forced to halt abruptly as Henry Howard, in front of me, embraces Castelnau in the French style, though with a very English lack of warmth.
    ‘Speaking of natural allies - you know we must talk to Spain if this is to proceed,’ he hisses in the ambassador’s ear as he leans in. ‘Sooner rather than later.’
    Castelnau sighs.
    ‘So you say.’
    ‘Throckmorton carries letters from Mary to Spain’s embassy as well. Oh - you didn’t know?’
    Castelnau looks wounded at the news, as if he had just learned that his wife was unfaithful. He is still clasping Howard by the arm.
    ‘She involves Mendoza? But the man is so …’
    ‘Forthright?’
    ‘I was going to say uncouth. For an ambassador.’
    ‘Mendoza is a man of action,’ Howard says emphatically, then bows curtly and leaves, the implicit criticism still hanging in the air.
    Outside in the passageway, once we are out of earshot, Howard rounds on me, pointing a finger heavy with gold into my face.
    ‘You may have duped the French king and his ambassador, Bruno, but you should know that I do not like the look of you at all.’
    ‘I can only apologise, my lord. These are the looks God gave me.’
    He narrows his eyes and leans back to give me a long hard appraisal, like a man who suspects he is being sold an unreliable horse.
    ‘I hear what is said of you in Paris.’
    ‘And what is that, my lord?’
    ‘Don’t toy with me, Bruno. That you practise forbidden magic.’
    ‘Ah, that.’
    ‘And it is said you converse with devils.’
    ‘Oh, all the time. They often ask after your lordship. They say they are keeping a place warm for you.’
    Howard steps even closer. He is taller than me but I do not step back. His breath is hot in my face.
    ‘Joke all you like, Bruno. You are nothing but a glorified jester, just as you were at the French court, and a licenced fool may say anything. But when King Henri no longer has the power to protect you, who will be laughing then?’
    ‘Can a sovereign lose his power just like that, my lord?’
    He laughs then, low and knowing.
    ‘Watch and wait, Bruno. Watch and wait. Meanwhile, I shall have my eye on you.’
    There are footsteps on the boards behind us; Howard breaks off, gives me a last blast of his disapproving glare, then hastens away, calling for a servant to bring his cloak. I turn to see William Fowler with Courcelles beside him.
    ‘Goodnight, Doctor Bruno,’ Fowler says, his smooth face inscrutable in the candlelight. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you.’
    Likewise, I assure him, my own expression as neutral as his. He reaches out to shake my hand and there is a paper folded into his palm; I tuck it into my own with a finger and bid him a safe journey as I turn towards the staircase, wishing that I could walk with him now so that we might talk openly and together make some sense of what we had heard that night.

Chapter Four

    Salisbury Court, London
27th September, Year of Our Lord 1583
    It feels as if I have barely closed my eyes when there comes a soft, insistent knocking at the door of my chamber. Dawn is just