Sacrilege. S. J. Parris
to shout at you, Bruno?’
‘I believe that was his reasoning, your honour.’
‘Well, he can explain himself to the Queen face to face in due course. France cannot dither on the fence for much longer.’ He shook his head. ‘This war against the Spanish in the Netherlands has been a bloody mess for the last twenty years, but the Queen is now seriously considering an offer of troops to help the Protestant rebels. If Henri had any conscience he would do the same. Especially since it was his idiot brother who made the situation a hundred times worse,’ he added, regarding me darkly from under his brows as if I were somehow implicated.
‘My uncle the Earl of Leicester has long argued for an English military intervention to aid the Dutch rebels,’ Sidney said, sitting forward with sudden vigour and clenching his fists. ‘And I would go with him in an instant. Teach those Spanish curs a lesson they won’t forget.’
Walsingham looked up sharply. ‘Don’t be too hasty, Philip. That war could easily rumble on for another twenty years, with thousands more deaths on each side. In my opinion, it can’t be won, except with a concerted effort by united Protestant forces from all across Europe, and I see little prospect of that.’
Sidney sat back, chastened, and I wondered if Walsingham had interpreted his eagerness for a military adventure as a personal slight, a desire to escape his domestic life here at Barn Elms. Moments passed in silence, the only sound a persistent fly buzzing against the window. I watched the sunlight cast patterns on the wooden boards, broken by flickering shadows from the leaves of the trees outside, and waited for someone to speak.
‘God’s death!’ Walsingham cried suddenly, slamming his fist down on the desk so that his tortoiseshell inkwell rattled and Sidney and I started out of our private thoughts. ‘The Prince of Orange has just been shot on his own stairs as he left his dinner table. Can you imagine how this news has shaken Her Majesty? You will not see her show it in public, but she no longer sleeps. She knows Philip of Spain means her to be next.’ He took a deep breath and passed a hand over his head as if smoothing his thoughts, looking from me to Sidney like a schoolmaster. ‘The Catholic forces in Europe are gaining strength. If Spain regains control of the Netherlands, the Protestants there will be massacred. And then Spain will turn his attention to England. Who will France support when that day comes? King Henri must talk to us, he cannot hide his head in his rosary beads for ever.’ He pounded his fist on the table again and glared at me, as if he held me responsible for the French King’s havering. ‘Sidney and I saw Saint Bartholomew’s Day in Paris with our own eyes, you know,’ he added, more quietly. ‘Little children and their grandmothers cut down with swords in their own homes. A thousand lifetimes would not be enough to forget such sights.’ He closed his eyes, and his features seemed weighed down by sorrow.
Sidney and I glanced at one another; it was rare to see Walsingham ruffled by foreign affairs. Part of his incomparable value to Elizabeth was his faultless composure in any situation. Walsingham is frightened, I thought, and the realisation made me feel for a moment as if the ground had shifted beneath my feet, just as I felt as a child when I first saw my soldier father afraid. The murder of the Prince of Orange had struck at the English government in its tenderest spot. This thought brought me back to the other murder that had preoccupied my thoughts for most of the night.
‘I could meet him in Lyon, when his pilgrimage is finished,’ Sidney offered, resting his feet on the window seat and pulling his knees to his chest, the way a child would sit. ‘It would be no great trouble to journey to Lyon instead.’
Walsingham looked at him again with a sceptical frown. I was certain that he heard, as I did, the note of longing in Sidney’s voice. My friend itched for the life of travel and adventure he had known in his youth; the longer he stayed cooped up at Barn Elms and the court, the quicker he would be to volunteer for any mission that offered different horizons, even if it meant going to war.
Walsingham stood, making a show of sorting the papers on his desk into two piles and arranging them neatly side by side.
‘Well, we will put that to Castelnau when I summon him to an audience with the Queen. Tell him to give it some thought, Bruno. Meanwhile, I am intrigued to hear about your pilgrimage. What attraction can Canterbury hold for you, hmm?’
I hesitated again. There was a risk in telling Walsingham the truth; he might forbid me outright, for any number of reasons, and to make the journey against his express wishes would result in my being dismissed from his service, which I could not afford either in terms of income or patronage. But there was a greater risk in not telling him, since he would discover the truth anyway; no one kept secrets from Walsingham, not even the King of Spain or the Pope himself. So I stepped forward, as if taking my place on a stage, and gave them a brief précis of the story Sophia had told me, leaving out any details that I thought might compromise her. When I had finished, Sidney was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me with new admiration, while his father-in-law looked fiercer than ever.
‘I remember the Rector’s daughter,’ Sidney said, with a lascivious grin. ‘You sly dog, Bruno.’
Walsingham’s face remained serious. ‘You have had your head turned by this woman before, I think, Bruno. What proof have you that she didn’t murder her husband?’
I spread my hands wide. ‘No proof except her word, your honour. But I am willing to take the risk.’
‘So I see. But I’m not sure that I’m willing for you to put yourself in that position.’ He cupped his chin in his hand, his long fingers stretched across his mouth as he continued to regard me with a thoughtful expression. It was a familiar gesture of his, one he employed when he was weighing up a situation, as if his hand were a mask to hide any tell-tale emotion. ‘There was some doubt over her religion, as I recall?’
I paused briefly before looking up and meeting his eye.
‘I assure you that she follows no unorthodox religion now, your honour.’ I refrained from adding that she followed no religion at all.
Walsingham scanned my face with his practised gaze, as if for any twitch of a nerve that might betray a lie. My throat felt dry, and I reminded myself that I was still on the same side as Walsingham, even if on this matter I needed to bend the truth a little. What must it be like to be interrogated by him, I wondered. That steely, unswerving stare could break a man’s defences even without the threat of torture – a measure he did not shy from in the interest of defending the realm.
This scrutiny seemed to last several minutes until, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the idea.
‘Impossible, anyway. I need to know what is unfolding in France the minute King Henri writes to his Ambassador. We can’t afford to have you away from the embassy.’
I bowed my head and said nothing; from the corner of my eye I noticed Sidney looking at me with concern.
‘With respect, Sir Francis – Bruno is not our only source of intelligence from France,’ he said, his former languor all brushed away and his tone serious. ‘And he could be useful in Canterbury.’
Walsingham looked taken aback at this unexpected mutiny and a small furrow appeared briefly in his brow, but when he realised Sidney was in earnest his expression changed to one of cautious curiosity.
‘That is the first time I have heard you express any interest in your constituency.’ He turned to me. ‘You know Sidney was returned as Member of Parliament for Kent this year? Though I don’t think the people of Kent could accuse him of being over-attentive to their needs.’
‘Never been,’ Sidney said, with cheerful insouciance. ‘Bruno can report back for me. That way I’ll be fully briefed in time for the autumn session.’
‘Bruno would be too conspicuous,’ Walsingham said, after a moment’s reflection.
‘Not necessarily,’ Sidney countered. ‘No one knows him there. He might have an easier time of it than Harry. Besides, if men of standing in the city are being murdered – you never know …’
Walsingham frowned again and I swivelled