Copyright

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2020

Prelims show ‘MS 4769f.1 Execution Warrant for Mary Queen of Scots, 1587 (ink on paper)’ © Bridgeman Images

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover images (front) © Lebrecht Music & Arts / Alamy Stock Photo (Elizabethan drawing), (back) © Interfoto / Alamy Stock Photo (warrant to execute Mary Queen of Scots), Shutterstock.com (all other images)

Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN: 9780007481293

Ebook Edition © April 2020 ISBN: 9780007481316

Version: 2020-02-24

Epigraph

For the dispatch of the usurper, from the obedience of whom we are by excommunication made free, there be six gentlemen, all my private friends, who for the zeal they bear to the Catholic cause and your majesty’s service, will undertake that tragic execution.

Letter from Anthony Babington to Mary, Queen of Scots, 6th July 1586

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Execution Warrant

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Two

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by S. J. Parris

About the Publisher

Execution Warrant

PROLOGUE

17th July 1586

Chartley Manor, Staffordshire

Six gentlemen. Six of them, ready to undertake that tragic execution in her name. She smiles at the euphemism. But then: why not call it that? Elizabeth Tudor is a heretic, a traitor and a thief, occupying a throne she has stolen; dispatching her would be no regicide, but a just and deserved punishment under the law. Not the law of England, to be sure, but God’s law, which is greater.

Mary sits at the small table in her room, in her prison, thinking, thinking, turning over and over in her mind the pages of the great ledger of injustices heaped against her. Eventually, she dips her quill in the inkpot. She wears gloves with the fingers cut off, because it is always cold here, in Staffordshire; the summer so far has been bleak and grey, or at least what she can see of it from her casement, since she is not permitted to walk outside. She flexes her fingers and hears the knuckles crack; she rubs the sore and swollen joints. A pool of weak light falls on the paper before her; she has havered so long over this reply that the candle has almost burned down, and she only has one left until Paulet, her keeper, brings the new ration in the morning. Sometimes he pretends to forget, just as he does with the firewood, to see how long she will sit in the cold and dark without protesting. And when she does ask meekly for the little that is her due, he uses it against her; charges her with being demanding, spoilt, needy, and says he will tell her cousin. But should a queen plead meekly with the likes of Sir Amias Paulet, that puffed-up Puritan? Should a queen be starved of sunlight, of liberty, of respect, and endure it with patience? Twenty years of imprisonment has not taught her to bear it any better, nor will she ever accept it. The day she bows to their treatment of her, she is no longer worthy of her royal title.

She sets the quill down; she has worked herself into a fury and her shaking hand has spattered ink drops on the clean page; she will have to begin again, when she is calmer. She pushes back the chair and heaves herself with difficulty to her feet, wincing at the pain in her inflamed legs. Each step to the window hurts more than it did the day before; or perhaps she is imagining that. One imagines so much, cooped up here in these four walls. She smooths her skirts over her broad hips; and there is another injustice, that she should still be fat when she eats so little! She doesn’t trust the food they bring; one day, she is certain, she will eat or drink something and not wake up. That would suit her cousin Elizabeth very well, so she will not give her the satisfaction. And yet, Mary thinks, curling her lip at her rippled reflection in the dark of the windowpane, she has grown heavy and lumpen on nothing but air, half-crippled by rheumatism, grey and faded, an old woman at forty-four. No trace left of the famous beauty that once drove men to madness. But Elizabeth is ugly too, she has heard; near-bald, teeth blackened, her skin so eaten away by the ceruse she uses to hide her age that she will not be seen by any except her closest women without a full mask of face-paint. There will be no children for her now; at least that is one contest that Mary can say she won, even if she hasn’t seen her son for nearly twenty years.

She cups her hands around her face to peer out at the night, watching a barn owl ghosting over the moat, when there is a soft knock at the door. She starts, hastens back to the table to hide the papers, but it is only Claude Nau, her French secretary. He bobs a brief bow, takes in her guilty expression.

‘You are writing him a reply, Your Majesty?’

‘I am considering.’ She draws herself up, haughty. He is going to tell her off, she knows, and she has had enough of men speaking to her as if she is a child. She is Queen of Scotland, Dowager Queen of France, and rightful Queen of England, and they should not forget it.

‘I counsel against that.’

She watches Nau; a handsome man, always quietly spoken, infuriatingly self-contained, even when she works herself into one of her fits of passion.

‘I know you do. But I make my own decisions.’

‘Majesty.’ He inclines his head. ‘I smell a trap.’

‘Oh, you will see conspiracies everywhere. Did you read what he promises, Claude? He has men to do the deed, and earnest assurance of foreign aid, and riders to take me to liberty. Everything is in place.’ She allows herself to imagine it, as she has so many times, crossing back to the window. ‘See, I have an idea’ – she taps the glass, excited – ‘if we know the exact date to expect him, we can have one of the servants start a fire in the stables. Everyone will rush out and in the commotion, Anthony Babington and his friends can break down my chamber door and whisk me away.’ She spins around, a wide, girlish smile on her face that fades the instant she sees his look. ‘What? You do not like my plan?’

‘It is a very good plan, Majesty. Only …’ He folds his hands.

‘Speak.’

‘We have heard such promises before. This Babington is proposing an assassination.’

‘Execution.’

He waves a hand. ‘Call it what you will. But your own cousin. England’s queen. In your name.’

‘She is no queen.’

He adopts the patient, pained expression that so irritates her. ‘Of course not. But if you agree to their proposal, if you so much as acknowledge it in writing, you make yourself an accessory to treason, and there is only one punishment for that offence.’

‘My royal cousin loves me too much to allow that.’

‘She loves you.’ Nau does not contradict her outright, but he allows his gaze to travel pointedly around the room in which she is held captive.

Mary’s eyes flash; he has overstepped the mark. ‘Leave me.’ She flaps a hand to the door. ‘I have my letter to write. Come back in an hour and you can encrypt it.’

‘I implore you not to put anything on paper which would implicate you in this reckless business. Babington and his friends are impetuous boys. We would do better to proceed with caution, keep our options open.’

‘And I order you to get out. There is no we here, Claude. They are my options, and I will choose. Obey your queen.’

Nau sighs audibly, bows, and backs out of the royal presence. When the door clicks shut behind him, Mary smiles, pleased with herself. She sits again at the table and dips her quill, but she cannot think how to begin. She wants Elizabeth to love her, it’s true. She wants Elizabeth dead. She wants only her freedom; she wants the throne of England. She is ill, and desperate, and ready to clutch at any straw Providence tosses her way.

She glances up and sees her embroidered cloth of state hanging on the wall over her bed. Every time the snake Paulet comes into the room, he rips it down – she is not permitted the trappings of a queen, he says. And every time he leaves, her women patiently gather it up, mend the tears and hang it again. Now, this Babington is offering her the real prospect of seeing it where it belongs, above her throne at last. She has waited long enough. She is done with caution. What she wants at this moment, more than anything, is to win.

She takes a fresh sheet of paper and writes the date: 17th July 1586. It is a letter that will kill a queen.

PART ONE

ONE

27th July 1586

I am not a praying man. Thirteen years as a Dominican friar cured me of that habit, forgive the pun. But in certain situations the old instincts triumph over reason; in the teeth of mortal terror, I often find my lips forming the familiar Latin incantations before my mind has even noticed. I could wish it didn’t happen; it seems disrespectful to the God I no longer believe in that some primitive part of my soul clutches at him like an infant only when I fear I am staring Death in the face, and though I willingly admit to many faults, I hope hypocrisy is not one of them. But perhaps it is only confirmation that you can never erase your past, no matter how far you try to run from it. I had caught the boat from France that summer of 1586 in the hope of finding a place of refuge. Instead – though I didn’t yet know it – I had set a straight course towards a murderer.

Pater Noster qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum—

Another wave higher than a house loomed over the small fishing vessel, tipping us so that everything not lashed to the deck slid downward and I grabbed at the rail with numb fingers to avoid being flung into the white spray as it broke. The men grappling with the sail barked frantic orders to one another in English; I could not make out the words over the roar of the wind, but the alarm in their voices was clear enough in any language. The wave lifted the boat, allowing it to teeter for a moment on the crest, before dropping us with a thud into a trough between swelling blue-black peaks. On the next rise, I confirmed what I thought I had seen before: a wavering pinprick of light and a dark spine of shadow along the horizon.

‘Is that the port?’ I shouted. The captain shook his head, cupping his hand to his ear. I risked peeling one hand from the side to point. ‘That light – is that Rye?’

‘Rye,’ he yelled back, following my finger and nodding vigorously. He pushed aside the wet hair plastered to his forehead; like the rest of us, he was soaked through from the salt spray. I was shivering so hard I had almost lost all feeling, my teeth rattling so that I feared I might bite off my tongue. The tiny dot of light from the harbour beacon did not seem to be getting any closer, no matter how the boat pitched and rolled; I felt as if we had been crossing the Narrow Sea for days, though it could only have been a matter of hours since we left France, under cover of darkness. ‘You’d do better below deck,’ he added, pointing to the hatch.

‘I assure you I wouldn’t,’ I shouted back, though I was sure he couldn’t hear. Below deck the half-digested remains of my supper still decorated the timbers. At least here I could see the horizon, and breathe air that smelled slightly less violently of fish. I had always confidently imagined myself at home on boats but the wind was high tonight, the swell vicious, and the last time I had sailed along the English coastline it had been on a galleon belonging to Sir Francis Drake’s fleet, solid as a cathedral compared to this fishing vessel that felt with every wave as if it were a toy hurled by a petulant child. But I had embarked on this journey with no time to make preparations, and the captain was well paid to be quick and discreet.

‘How long?’ I yelled, pointing to the beacon as the boat rolled and the light dipped out of sight. He shot me an impatient glance and lifted one shoulder.

‘Depends on the wind. If you’re going to void again, stay out the way.’

I shuffled back and sat down on a coil of rope, clinging to the side of the craft with both hands, absently muttering another Pater Noster as we lurched starboard and a wave slapped over the deck to drench my feet. I was fairly sure I had nothing left in my stomach to bring up after this crossing, but I had thought that the last time I vomited, and the time before. My guts were roiling, my hands and feet raw with cold, eyes stinging from the wind, but my spirits surged each time I spotted that elusive light appearing and vanishing at intervals as the waves obscured it. For months I had waited in hope of the chance to return to England while I marked time in Paris, uncertain as to what direction my life should take next. But without a summons from the one man in London who could change my fortunes, there had been no prospect. An Italian like me could hardly turn up without a reason; the English had a deep-rooted suspicion of foreigners at the best of times, and in these days of religious unrest anyone looking and sounding as I did would be assumed to be Spanish, part of a Catholic plot, or a secret priest. Now I was within sight of Rye harbour, and in my pack below deck, safely wrapped in watertight leather, I carried a currency more valuable than an invitation: new information. The look on Sir Francis Walsingham’s face when he read the letter I brought would be worth all the discomforts of this journey. He would see, beyond doubt, what I was willing to risk to protect England. But first I had to find a way to put it into his hands.

It took the best part of an hour battling the wind and tide before the boatman steered us into the channel of Rye port where the water lay calmer and I was able to let go of the boat’s rail and attempt to stand on my feet. Thin mists of drizzle hung over the harbour basin. We pulled up alongside a flight of steps set in the quay wall, where one of the men flung a rope around a wooden post to hold us steady as I disembarked. I shook the owner’s hand; he gave a curt nod and wished me luck. Though he didn’t know my name or the nature of what I carried, he knew who had sent me and could guess at my purpose. I hoisted my bag and lurched with trembling legs on to the steps where I almost slipped, a misstep that would have sent me and my precious cargo tumbling into the black water below. Clutching at the frayed rope nailed along the wall, I righted myself to climb with excessive care to the top and into the waiting arms of two men with lanterns.

‘You best come with us.’ The one who had spoken gripped me by the upper arm, firmly enough to make himself clear, and began marching me towards a row of low buildings at the end of the quay. The second man, tall with a prominent Adam’s apple, wrenched my bag from my shoulder and jerked it between his hands, as if assessing its weight.

I tried to appear pliant; I had expected this. In the half-light I could not see if they were armed, though I guessed they must be. In any case, I could barely make my legs move after the voyage; I could not have looked like much of a threat.

‘I need to see Richard Daniel,’ I said. My teeth were chattering so violently I could barely get the words out.

Adam’s Apple made some noise that I supposed was a mocking attempt at my accent. ‘Sorry, mate – you’ll have to say that again in English.’ He exchanged a smirk with his colleague.

I fought down my impatience. Deference was the only way through with men like this, puffed up with their tiny scrap of power.

‘Richard Daniel,’ I said, slowly and clearly. ‘I was told to ask for him when I arrived.’

‘He’s tucked up in bed at this hour,’ said the short man, turning to face me. He had a pronounced squint in his left eye. ‘You’ll have to deal with us.’

‘Then wake him.’

It was the wrong tone; he tightened his grip on my arm.

‘You don’t give orders here, you fucking – what are you, bastard of a Spanish whore?’

‘I am Italian. But—’

I was pushed inside the door of a building with a fire burning in a small grate, filling the room with smoke.

‘What’s your name?’ Squint asked. From the tail of my eye, I could see the other one bending to open my pack.

‘I am Doctor Giordano Bruno of Nola,’ I said, drawing myself up and attempting a show of dignity. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the law,’ he said, stepping closer, a grim smile showing his remaining teeth.

‘Well, I will need a name to give Queen Elizabeth’s Secretary of State when I complain of how I was treated on arrival.’

Adam’s Apple stopped rummaging and raised his head; an anxious glance flitted between them.

‘Tell the Queen in person, why don’t you,’ said Squint, though he looked less sure of himself. ‘We’re only doing our job. You fetch up here in the dead of night, trying to sneak into the country, you couldn’t look more like a bloody priest if you tried.’

‘Then don’t you think they would send someone less obvious? If I was trying to land unnoticed I would hardly come direct to the port.’

‘You’re bound to say that,’ said Adam’s Apple, crouching on the floor beside my bag. ‘You’d be amazed what we find sewn in the linings of coats and hidden in false compartments. Priests’ vestments, holy oil, saints’ fingers – those are a favourite. Papal bulls, even.’

‘There are no fingers in my belongings except yours,’ I said. ‘If you would just fetch Master Daniel, I could explain my business. Here—’ I reached inside my doublet but before I could bring out the object I meant to show him, I felt a blow to the back of my knees; my legs crumpled and I crashed to the ground as the squinting man straddled me, pulling my left arm up behind my back.

‘Madonna porca – what are you doing?’ His weight mashed my face into the packed earth floor; I struggled to push him back enough that I could breathe.

‘He was drawing a weapon,’ the searcher told his colleague, who had leapt to his feet ready to join in.

‘I have no weapon in my doublet,’ I said, through clenched teeth. ‘I only meant to show you something that might make you believe me.’

The man considered for a moment, before shifting off me, loosening his grip. ‘Hands on the back of your head,’ he barked, ‘and stand slowly. I’ll see for myself if you’re armed.’

I folded my hands behind my head and rose to a crouch, my back to him. I could see them both from the corner of my eye, hovering, waiting for the smallest excuse to swing a fist at me, or worse. I began to turn; in one swift movement I bent, whipped out my dagger from the side of my boot and brought the point to the soft, pulsing skin between Squint’s collarbones.

‘I could cut his throat before you’ve even thought about drawing your knife,’ I said to Adam’s Apple, who froze, backing away, one hand to his belt. ‘Now go and wake Master Daniel as I asked so we can all be on good terms again.’ I flashed him a pleasant smile; he hesitated only briefly before lunging for the door. ‘Why don’t you put your hands on the back of your head?’ I said to my captive. He glowered at me, but obeyed.

‘You won’t get away with this,’ he muttered. ‘We broke from Rome to keep people like you out.’

I let out a soft laugh. There was nothing to be gained from trying to debate with men who thought like this.

‘What a curious race you are, you Englishmen,’ I mused, my dagger level at his neck. ‘I never met a people who complained so bitterly about their country and at the same time believed themselves the superiors of every other nation in Europe, just because God saw fit to surround you by sea.’

‘It’s well known Italians are all sodomites,’ he said, though quietly. I laughed again; I almost admired his defiance.

‘Is that right? You must be nervous, then, the two of us alone here.’ He took a step back, struggling to control his expression. I matched his movement. ‘Careful you don’t back yourself into a corner – who knows what I might do? And tell me – what of the Spanish?’

‘Don’t even get me started on the Spanish.’ His squint intensified as his eyes grew animated. ‘They want to invade us and rape our women, make us slaves to kiss the Pope’s hole. You’re all the bloody same.’

‘It’s a wonder you can tell us apart,’ I said. ‘You must enjoy your work here.’ My hand was shaking with cold; I had to concentrate hard on keeping the knife steady so that I didn’t cut him by mistake. I had no intention of causing more trouble than necessary.

He puffed himself up, despite the blade. ‘My work is keeping England safe from the likes of you. And I am proud of that, yeah. Means I can look my son square in the eye when I go home, tell him he’ll grow up a free Englishman.’

‘Good for you. It must be quite a feat for you to look anyone square in the eye.’

I gave him a sympathetic smile, seeing how much he wanted to hit me. I was half-tempted to tell him of my own work, let him appreciate the irony, but I restrained myself; the truth about my journey was for Richard Daniel only. Squint subsided into silence, shooting me furious glances from the side of his good eye. I considered soliciting his view of the French, but I was too tired and the game had lost its amusement.

At length, the door opened and Adam’s Apple returned in the company of a tall, broad man with black hair and beard who appeared to have dressed hastily, his doublet laced awry. He carried only a lantern, but I could see Adam’s Apple had picked up a hefty stick on his way.

The newcomer held up the light and peered at me through the gloom.

‘So this is the troublemaker. My man here thinks you may be a secret priest, or a spy. Do you have papers?’

‘Richard Daniel?’

He nodded, impatient.

I lowered the knife, sheathed it again in my boot, and showed him my empty hands, before reaching slowly inside my doublet, where I had a pocket sewn inside the lining. I drew out a silver ring and held it out to him. He lifted it to the light, examined the emblem engraved on it, and nodded again.

‘Come with me. I will take you somewhere we can talk. You look as if you need food and dry clothes.’

‘What I need is a fast horse,’ I said, my legs weak with relief. I couldn’t help feeling a small triumph at the disappointment on the searchers’ faces.

‘We’ll discuss it. For now you look barely able to sit upright on a chair. Your face is green. Come and eat.’

I realised the floor was swaying beneath me like the deck of the boat; I let my head hang slack and followed him, to the sound of muttered insults from the two men we left behind.

He led me uphill, along a narrow, curving street of pretty cottages, lime-washed fronts pearly in the moonlight, to a timber-framed building where the sign of The Mermaid creaked over the entrance. I followed him into an oak-panelled tap-room, empty now and silent, where stubs of candles burnt low in sconces and the embers of a fire glowed in the wide hearth. He ushered me to a stool by the fireplace and disappeared through a side door. I took off my wet cloak and huddled towards the fading warmth in the grate, catching a low exchange of voices from the passage outside. At length Daniel returned, yawning as he drew up a chair alongside me.

‘The maid will bring warm food and wine in a moment.’

‘Is it your tavern?’

He shook his head. ‘I have the use of a room when I’m on duty. Even the Queen’s searchers must catch a few hours’ sleep now and then.’

‘I’m sorry to draw you from your bed,’ I said, rubbing my hands over my face.

He waved the apology aside. ‘It’s what I’m here for. So you carry Nicholas Berden’s signet ring. Why did he not come himself?’

I caught the edge of suspicion in his voice, and did not blame him for it. Berden was Sir Francis Walsingham’s most trusted agent in Paris; his mark guaranteed the integrity of any document or person who carried it. But the traffic of secret letters between England and France was so fraught now, every network fearful of infiltration by double-dealers, that it was not beyond belief that I might be a Catholic conspirator who had killed Berden and stolen his ring to use as a passport.

‘Berden intercepted a letter, two days ago. He wants it in the right hands without delay. He is well entrenched with the English Catholics in Paris now, they take him for one of their own – he could not leave for England in haste without arousing suspicion, and he did not want to pass it through the English embassy, because he fears it is not secure. So he asked me to deliver it myself.’

He gave me a long look, sizing me up. ‘Why you?’

‘There is no reason my name should mean anything to you,’ I said, meeting his gaze straight on. ‘But we serve the same master. You understand my meaning. I must leave for London as soon as possible.’

‘This letter you carry speaks of some imminent threat, then?’ He watched me carefully, doubt lingering in his eyes.

‘That is for greater men than me to determine,’ I said, with equal care. ‘My instructions are only to put it into their hands. But Berden believes it cannot wait, and I trust his judgement.’

‘He did not tell you what it contains?’

‘No.’ This was a lie, and I suspected he guessed it. We continued to watch one another, until we were interrupted by the arrival of a young girl, cap aslant, eyes blurry with sleep, carrying a jug of wine and a bowl of pottage. Daniel sat back in silence, arms folded, while I attempted to swallow some, my hollow stomach cramping at each mouthful until I began to relax and felt the warmth spread through my numb limbs.

‘So you will give me a horse?’ I asked, when I could speak again.

He pressed his lips together. ‘We have post-horses ready to courier urgent messages to London. But if I may say so again, you do not look fit for the road. If your letter is so important, I should feel safer entrusting it to an experienced fast rider.’ He passed a hand over his beard. ‘Besides, as you have seen, your appearance attracts hostility from some Englishmen. You will have to stop for food and water along the way, and those you encounter will not give two shits for Nicholas Berden’s ring. What then, if your message should be lost, and you the only one in possession of its content?’

‘I know how to fight.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But you are only one man. And you are – forgive me, what age are you?’ He frowned.

‘Thirty-eight. Not quite in my dotage yet, sir.’ I guessed him to be thirty at most, though likely less; sea-winds could age a man beyond his years. I leaned across the table and lowered my voice. ‘I will see this letter delivered into Walsingham’s hands myself, and no one will prevent me, I swear to it.’ I spoke through my teeth, with more confidence than I felt; I knew that everything he said made good sense, better sense than my plan, but this letter was my passport back to Walsingham’s favour and I had not come this far to entrust it to some messenger and lose the opportunity I hoped to gain by it.

Richard Daniel looked at me for a long while, weighing up my words, and finally nodded, a half-smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.

‘I see you are a stubborn fellow,’ he said. ‘Well, then. I shall find you a horse while you change your clothes. But I must insist you take one of my men with you, for protection. He can carry food and water for your journey too.’

I hesitated, but saw this was the best deal I was likely to strike, and I had seventy miles to cover across the Sussex Weald and the Surrey hills; I would not reach London without Daniel’s assistance. I nodded, drained the last of the wine and stood. ‘Let us not lose any more time.’

‘You do not wish to rest?’

‘The enemies of England are not resting.’

He pursed his lips, as if he approved this answer. ‘Then put on dry clothes, if you have them, and I will meet you outside in half an hour with everything you need.’

He clapped me on both shoulders and left. I stood and stretched my back, catching sight of myself in the darkened window. Thirty-eight, and looking haggard with it. Black hair, stiff with salt, curling past my collar; a four-day growth of beard; dark hollows under my eyes and below my cheekbones from lack of sleep, and lack of something else. Purpose? Peace of mind? These last few months in Paris had been melancholy. No wonder those two searchers at the port had suspected me of desperate measures; I looked like a vagrant – which was, I reflected, not so far from the truth. I had been living in exile for a decade now, one eye turned always over my shoulder, as a man with powerful enemies must. The Queen of England could put an end to that, if she chose, once I had proved my worth to her.

I undid my pack and pressed along the stitching of the secret compartment. I could feel the slight ridge of the leather wallet inside containing the documents. But the letter’s contents were committed word for word to my memory, and its cipher too. Let it be stolen; the paper would be useless to anyone without the knowledge I alone carried in my head. I would bring it to the door of Queen Elizabeth’s spymaster and lay it at his feet, to remind him – and his sovereign – what service I had done England in the past.

TWO

‘Lady Sidney will see you now.’

The man who grudgingly addressed me wore a steward’s chain of office, a black doublet with a blanched muslin ruff and soft leather indoor shoes; he kept his distance, halfway up the path to the entrance of the red-brick mansion on Seething Lane. I jerked my head up at his voice; we had been waiting half an hour already and I had almost given up hope of a response. I was not exactly surprised; if I had looked like a desperate man when I landed in Rye, it was fortunate I could not see myself in a glass by the time we reached London, on the evening of 29th July, our second day on the road. I must have had the appearance of a lunatic assassin: mad-eyed, unslept, unwashed, unshaven. The guards had had their weapons in my face before I had even dismounted. It fell to my taciturn companion, Richard Daniel’s man, to step forward with his official messenger’s livery and prove that I had not come to murder Queen Elizabeth’s Secretary of State in his own home.

One of the guards held his halberd lowered towards me, the point a foot from my chest, while his colleague unlocked the tall iron gates and nodded me through.

‘Just you,’ the steward added. ‘He can go to the servants’ quarters.’ He motioned to Daniel’s rider, a sturdy Sussex man who had spoken little on the journey, except to mutter occasional resentment at having his progress slowed by an incompetent foreigner half-asleep in the saddle.

Golden evening sun caught the many diamond-paned windows of Walsingham’s town house. The light softened its mellow brick and glazed the tall twisted chimneys like sugar sculptures. It was a house that discreetly announced its owner’s wealth. The Queen had rewarded her spymaster handsomely for his tireless service, as well she might; most of his spare funds were diverted into paying his intelligencers, since Elizabeth’s Treasury was notoriously miserly with resources, preferring not to acknowledge the underground networks of information and interception that protected her realm just as surely as her warships and soldiers, with a great deal less expense.

‘You will find Lady Sidney in a sombre cast of mind,’ the steward informed me, with a pompous air, as the heavy oak door was drawn back by a young woman in a black dress and white coif. ‘I hope it is no bad news you bring, as she should not be troubled further. Perhaps it would be best if I relayed your message to her?’

‘My news is for Lady Sidney’s ears alone,’ I said. His moustache twitched with disapproval, but to my relief he did not press me further, only gestured for me to follow him along a panelled corridor hung with tapestries.

I had guessed Walsingham would not be here; he would likely be at court, at the Queen’s right hand, or at his country house upriver in Barn Elms, near Mortlake. I had gambled on the house at Seething Lane, where his daughter lived, as the quickest way to him, wherever he was currently to be found. I barely knew Frances Sidney, as she now was, and was not at all convinced that my name would mean anything to her; I had only dared hope she might receive me for the sake of her husband, Sir Philip, who had been my closest friend when I lived in England a year ago. Sidney was now away in the Low Countries, fighting with Elizabeth’s forces against the Spanish under the command of his uncle, the Earl of Leicester, but I hoped there would be a vicarious pleasure in hearing news of him from his wife.

I was ushered through a door at the end of the corridor into a wide receiving-room, flooded with light from its west-facing windows. Lady Sidney rose from a chair by the fireplace and held out a hand in greeting. She was as slight as I remembered, in a gown of dark grey satin, though it was barely eight months since her child was born. Her pale face was still almost a girl’s, but as she approached I saw that her smile was brittle and shaky, her eyes puffy with traces of tears. The weight of my journey and lack of sleep seemed to land on me with one blow as I struggled with the import of her appearance. Why had the steward not warned me more clearly? Not Sidney, surely, it couldn’t be? There would have been news in Paris – he was well connected among the English diplomats there – I would have heard, would I not? My knees buckled; I stumbled back a pace as I stared at her, open-mouthed, forgetting all etiquette, unable to form the words I dreaded to speak.

Frances Sidney darted forward and drew a stool from the hearth to offer me.

‘Marston, fetch this man food and drink at once, can’t you see the journey he’s had?’ She spoke sternly to the steward, but she was so young, barely twenty, and her command sounded like a child playing at running a household. The man gave a curt bow, but his look was not one of deference.

‘With respect, madam – I am not sure I should leave you alone with this man. Your father—’

‘My father trusts this man with his life,’ she said hotly. ‘Now go and do as I ask before our guest faints from hunger.’ She turned to me, her hands outstretched. ‘Bruno.’ There was warmth in her smile, as well as sadness. ‘I did not think we would see you again. You left for Paris last autumn, I thought?’

‘I had good reason to return.’ I took her hands in mine and kissed them briefly. ‘But my lady, tell me …’ I stood back and searched her face. ‘I intrude on some private grief? I pray it is not …’ I hesitated again ‘… news from the front?’

She gave a little gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth, then let out a brief, panicked laugh. ‘Oh God, no – you thought …? No, Philip is well, I am sorry to have alarmed you. If anything had happened to him, you would have heard my lament all the way from London Bridge. The whole city would be in mourning. But you are right that you find us a house of sorrow. We have suffered—’ She broke off, pressing her lips together as if afraid of breaking a confidence. ‘That is a story for another time. Sit – you look exhausted. Tell me in truth, though – I will wager you have not travelled from Paris without rest just to visit me.’

‘I must see Sir Francis,’ I said, lowering my voice. ‘As soon as possible.’ Lady Sidney’s waiting woman stood by the window, her hands folded neatly behind her back, not observing her mistress, but nevertheless I felt I should be discreet, even in this household where secrets were a native language.

Frances nodded, her face solemn again. ‘Plots?’

‘What else?’

She pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and worried its edges between her fingers. ‘Father never sleeps now, you know – he says the Catholic plots are like the Hydra, you cut the head off one and a hundred more grow in its place. He is making himself ill with it, and still Her Majesty remains stubborn, she will not heed his advice nor pass the laws that would make her safer. She wills herself to believe that her subjects love her, and her cousin Scotch Mary would never scheme against her, despite all evidence. But you are in luck – he dines here tonight, or so he has promised. I expect he will be late, as always.’ I caught a peevish edge to her voice; the frustration of a girl sidelined by the men in her life for matters of state. ‘Why cannot the damned Catholics see reason?’ she burst out, so suddenly I flinched, as she brandished the kerchief in her fist towards me as if I were responsible. ‘Can it be so hard for them, to worship as the Queen commands? Then they would keep their lands and titles, they would not be thrown in prison, they could cease their plotting to put that fat Scottish bitch on the throne, and innocent people wouldn’t have to die for their schemes.’

I blinked, unsure how to respond; it was an unexpectedly vehement outburst, turning her face red and blotchy, her eyes bright with tears. I presumed she must be thinking of her husband, dug in with the garrison at Flushing.

‘They would tell you, my lady,’ I said gently, when it seemed the question was not merely rhetorical, ‘that they fear the sin of heresy more than England’s laws. They would say they had rather keep their immortal souls than their titles.’

‘Oh, but they don’t mind staining their souls with the sin of murder, which they say is no sin if it suits their purpose.’ Her eyes blazed at me and for an instant I saw the image of her father, his anger and ruthlessness. ‘Could they not just leave off their relics and rosaries and do as the law commands? It is the same God underneath it all, is it not?’

‘My lady—’ The maid by the window turned and stepped forward, her hands held out as if to break up a fight.

Lady Sidney sighed and seemed to subside. ‘Don’t worry, Alice – I will mind my speech. Besides, Doctor Bruno here is the last person in the world who would report me for heretical words, for he is a famous heretic himself. Is it not so?’

I inclined my head. ‘Depends who you ask. It is not a reputation I sought.’

‘But you are proud of it nonetheless,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘Do not tell my father I said bitch. He dislikes profanity in women, even when it concerns Scotch Mary.’ She regarded me with interest. ‘You left the Roman Church, Bruno, did you not? Philip told me you were once in holy orders. But you ran away to become a good Protestant, at great risk to your life.’

She had half the story, at any rate; or perhaps Sidney had wanted the latter part to be true.

‘I am not confident I can claim to be a good anything, my lady,’ I said. ‘I have been thrown in prison for heresy by both the Roman Church and the Calvinists. My ideas do not seem to please anyone who thinks their beliefs cannot be questioned.’

She looked at me, approving. ‘Well, at least you are even-handed in the giving of offence. What God do you believe in, then? Philip says you have written that the universe is infinite, and full of other worlds. Then you think we are not the centre of God’s creation? But how can that be? It would render the whole of Scripture uncertain. For if there are other worlds, did Christ become flesh for them too?’ She jutted her chin upward, defying me to answer to her satisfaction.

I pushed my hair out of my eyes. ‘My lady, I have barely slept in the past three days, and eaten less. I’m not sure I’m fit at present to dispute theology and cosmology with a mind as rapier-sharp as yours.’

Lady Sidney laughed, and her face again looked like a girl’s. ‘Neatly sidestepped, Bruno. Though you know you may say what you like in this house, we have no Inquisition here.’

No, I thought, though your father does not shy away from their methods when he wants to wring names from some terrified student priest in the name of England’s freedom.

‘You will want to wash and rest before Father arrives. Oh, but wait!’ She clapped her hands together, as if an idea had just occurred – ‘you must pay your respects to Elizabeth before you retire.’

I stared at her. ‘The Queen is coming here?’

Her eyes danced with mischief at my amazement. ‘I mean my daughter. Wait till you see her, she is the spit of Philip, with the same little tuft of hair at the front, you know? Named for her godmother, of course.’ Her tone suggested this had not been her idea. ‘We call her Lizzie.’

‘Then the Queen has forgiven Philip?’ Sidney was one of Elizabeth’s favourite courtiers, and she could turn perverse and sulky as a child if he dared move out of her orbit; she had been staunchly set against him going to war, which had only made him more determined.

‘Fortunately for us. She gave the baby the most generous gifts of jewels and coin. And now Philip is made Governor of Flushing, and makes us all proud with his bravery and service.’ I caught it again, that tremble of her lip, a hint of sarcasm in the words. Frances Sidney was afraid; both her protectors, the men she loved, father and husband, courting death in the service of the Queen. ‘Alice, fetch the baby,’ she said, waving at the older maid.

As soon as the latch had clicked shut and we were left alone, Frances drew up a chair beside me and leaned in, her face grave.

‘Now we may talk. Providence has sent you to my door today, I am sure of it.’ I raised an eyebrow; she pressed on, her tone urgent: ‘My dear friend and companion Clara was murdered by papists two days ago, most horribly.’ Here she left a pause and looked at me with an expectant air.

‘Are they arrested?’

‘No.’ She pressed her lips together and in her white face I saw the tremor of emotion, though I was not sure if it was grief or anger. I waited for her to say more but she seemed folded in on herself.

‘But you know who they are?’

‘Yes. Well – not exactly. It’s complicated – my father has …’ She let the thought fall away and examined me again, as if trying to read something in my face. ‘Philip always said you had a talent for sniffing out a murderer.’ I held up a hand to protest but she continued, ‘I remember that business with the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, three years ago, the autumn Philip and I married. My father was called away from the wedding feast because of it. It was you who discovered the truth of all that, was it not? Father said England owed you a great deal.’

Yes, and England has not yet seen fit to settle her debt, I thought of saying, but kept my counsel. ‘Sir Francis spoke to you of that business?’

‘Not to me, exactly.’ She pushed her forefinger under the edge of her hood and scratched at her hair. ‘But he often forgot I was there, and have ears, the way he has done all my life. I probably know more of what goes on than most of the Privy Council. I swear, if I turned traitor, I could sell enough secrets to sink the realm.’ The flicker of a weary smile. ‘I know all about that conspiracy in ’83, and your part in stopping it. I’d wager you could find out what happened to Clara in no time, if my father would allow you.’

If he would allow me? The oddness of the phrase did not escape me, but I merely looked apologetic. ‘My lady, my task is to deliver these letters to Sir Francis and see if he has any further use for me in his service. If not, I must return to my employment in Paris.’ Though I hoped for Walsingham’s patronage, I could not forget what I had been dragged into during that last investigation into the murder of a young woman, and the other deaths that had followed it. I was not in a hurry to involve myself in anything similar.

‘I will make him find use for you,’ she said, fixing me with a fierce glare. ‘I can think of no one better to undertake this matter. Philip would wish you to help me, I am sure of it.’ Her eyes glittered; invoking her husband was a clever tactic, and not one I could easily dismiss. I could see she had already made up her mind; it occurred to me that Frances had inherited all her father’s stubbornness along with his name, and that both he and Sidney might have underestimated her.

Before I could quibble, the maid Alice returned carrying a chubby infant who was indeed a miniature of Sidney, swamped in a white lawn dress, her face rumpled and confused from being woken. The child looked around the company in bewilderment, then pushed her fat little fingers through her sparse hair, making it stick up at the front. I laughed in wonder, seeing an exact mirror of the gesture Sidney always made when tired or frustrated, and in that moment I felt a sharp pang for my absent friend.

Frances took the child from Alice’s arms, smiling at my recognition. ‘You see? The very image of him, is she not? Here.’ She dumped the baby in my lap before I had a chance to object; immediately a small hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of my hair.

‘You must miss him,’ I said, through gritted teeth, wondering how tight I was supposed to hold the squirming bundle.

A shadow passed over Frances’s face. ‘None of this would have happened if he had been at home,’ she said, a dark undertone to her voice. ‘He would not have countenanced it.’

‘None of what?’ I asked, as I sensed I was supposed to.

‘My lady,’ Alice said, with a note of warning. The baby fixed her wide blue eyes on me, her expression uncertain, before opening her mouth and letting forth a furnace of furious noise. I jiggled her fruitlessly, sent a sidelong pleading glance to her mother, who watched me with that wry amusement women save for the spectacle of male incompetence; finally, in the absence of any other solution, I swung the child above my head and held her there. The sudden movement shocked her into silence; I made a face at her, in the air, and after a moment of suspicion she chuckled and squeaked in a manner that seemed to signify approval.

‘You are a natural, Bruno,’ Frances said, as if I had passed a test. ‘Now when you next write to Philip, you can tell him you have held his daughter in your arms. Which is more than he has ever done. But’ – her eyes lit up – ‘next month, God willing, she and I sail for Flushing to join him. The Earl of Leicester himself is making the arrangements.’

‘Your father will let you?’ I lowered the infant, who shrieked immediately to repeat the game, confirming my theory that all children are tyrants, and tyrants merely children who have never been refused.

Frances’s face darkened. ‘He will not dare oppose Sir Philip and the Earl together. Besides, my husband is my master, not my father.’

I nodded quickly. In the ordinary course of events, this would be true. A woman’s duty passed to her husband on her marriage, but theirs was not an ordinary situation; Walsingham had quietly dispatched thousands of pounds of Sidney’s debts on the joining of the two families, and given the young couple this fine house to live in, since Sidney’s youthful extravagance meant he could not afford to provide a home for his wife and daughter. I had always supposed there was little question about who was master in this household. Sidney’s desire to go to war had been partly prompted by the need to escape the weight of being beholden to his father-in-law.

‘But if this business with Clara is not resolved,’ Frances continued, biting at the edge of her thumb, ‘my father may fear further danger and hesitate to let me travel alone.’ She gave me a long look, until she was certain I understood what was at stake, and the part she wanted me to play. This, I supposed, was my cue to ask why the death of her companion should prevent her from travelling to the Low Countries – I guessed it must be to do with the ‘complications’ she had hinted at surrounding the girl’s murder – but before I could form the question, the steward Marston burst through the door carrying a silver jug and a linen towel, his face flushed with his news.

‘My lady, Sir Francis has arrived early, with Thomas Phelippes.’ He glanced at me, exaggerating his surprise at seeing me holding the baby aloft. ‘Should I show this man out while you greet your father? He has the dust of the road on him still.’

‘Certainly not. My father is not squeamish about a bit of sweat, Marston. He will be almost as delighted to see Bruno as he is to see Lizzie.’ She turned to me. ‘He dotes on that child. If the Queen of Scots ever saw the doe-eyed grandfather inventing rhymes, singing nursery ditties, braying like a donkey and I don’t know what other nonsense, she would never fear him again.’

‘You had better watch that the Catholics don’t recruit the baby to wheedle her way past his defences,’ I said, smiling.

Marston cut me a disapproving look. I could not picture Master Secretary’s dour, terse expression softening to impersonate animals, though I had glimpsed Walsingham’s more human side now and again when I was last in his service. It was not an aspect of his character he showed often; he wished to be perceived as unbending in his devotion to the security of the realm. Perhaps he needed to believe it himself. Above me, the baby gurgled and released a spool of spittle on to my forehead.

‘Where is my little kitten?’ called that familiar dry voice from the corridor, to the beat of quick footsteps, and here he was, striding across the chamber, dressed head to foot in black as always, his hair greyer under the close-fitting skullcap, his beard too, and his face thinner than when I had last seen him, nearly a year ago. He stopped in his tracks halfway across the room and a broad smile creased his long face.

‘Good God in Heaven. Two people I never thought to see in an embrace.’ He gave his daughter a perfunctory pat on the shoulder on his way past, but his attention was all for the baby, who shrieked in delighted recognition and strained out of my arms towards him. ‘Well, well. Giordano Bruno. So you have come hotfoot all this way from Paris to see the newest shoot of the Walsingham tree, eh?’

‘She’s a Sidney,’ Frances said, her voice tight. I noticed how she hung back; her father managed to command all the space in the room, though he was not a tall or broad man. He laughed and held out his arms for the child; I passed her over gladly.

‘What say you, Bruno?’ He pinched the baby’s cheek while she tugged at his beard and burbled. ‘She has the Walsingham shrewd eye, does she not, and witness the firm set of her jaw? None of your aristocratic foppishness in this little chin, is there, my dove?’

I stood, straightened my clothes, and effected a bow, though he was so absorbed in his granddaughter, he would not have noticed if I had pulled down my breeches.

‘She combines the perfection of all the virtues of her illustrious forebears on both sides, Your Honour.’

‘I see you have been perfecting the empty flattery that passes for diplomacy at the French court,’ he said, giving me a sidelong glance at last. ‘For a more honest answer I shall have to seek the opinion of Master Phelippes. Thomas, what say you – is my granddaughter a Walsingham through and through?’

The man standing patiently in the doorway now stepped forward. Thomas Phelippes, Walsingham’s most trusted assistant and master cryptographer, was unremarkable in appearance – early thirties, thinning sandy hair, long face, his cheeks pitted with smallpox scars – but his looks belied a singular disposition. Phelippes boasted a phenomenal memory, a source of great fascination and envy to me, since it appeared to be the result of a natural gift rather than determined study – he had merely to glance over a cipher once and could not only commit it to mind but analyse and unpick it in the same instant. But he also had a way of not meeting your eye, and an almost comical resistance to the finer points of tact and social niceties. If Phelippes thought you were an idiot or your breath smelled, he would tell you outright, though without malice, finding no need for a polite falsehood. I found his honesty refreshing, if occasionally disconcerting, and liked him, though I sensed that being liked by me or anyone else made no difference to him either way. He put his head on one side and considered the baby.

‘She has enough semblance of the Sidney family to allow for a reasonable degree of certainty about her paternity,’ he said, matter-of-factly. Lady Sidney made a little noise of indignation. ‘Theories of generation differ as to whether the female can imprint characteristics on the growing infant, or is merely a receptacle for the male seed, and as yet there is no conclusive evidence either way. This one is so young it is presently impossible to gauge the quality of her mind. Being female one would naturally expect it to be weaker, so if you are asking whether you can expect to see echoes of your own traits in her, Your Honour, you will probably be disappointed. But this is not really my field of expertise,’ he added, with a shrug.

Walsingham chuckled, largely at his daughter’s bunched fists and tight expression. ‘Well, Frances, there you have it. You will want to occupy yourself with the child and supper, I expect,’ he said, handing the baby back to her. ‘I will speak with Bruno in my study. Call us when the food is ready.’

Lady Sidney watched us to the door, eyes dark with mute rebellion. I guessed she was biding her time before suggesting my involvement in the business of her companion to her father, and I hoped I might pre-empt her request.

Though Walsingham had given the Seething Lane house over to Sidney and his wife, he had taken care to make clear that the arrangement was temporary; all the furnishings remained Walsingham’s own, and he had kept his large, book-lined study at the back of the house for use when he was in town. Now he settled himself comfortably behind his desk opposite the fireplace, cast an eye over a pile of letters, moved them to one side and motioned me to a seat. Phelippes took his place at a second desk set against the back wall and bent his head over a leather folder of papers as if no one else were present.

‘So. Urgent news from Paris, I presume.’ Walsingham steepled his fingers and watched me.

I reached into my pack and passed the wallet containing the letters across the desk to him. He turned it carefully between his fingers but did not open it immediately. ‘Give me the meat of it. Thomas will transcribe it later.’

‘Nicholas Berden intercepted a letter from Charles Paget to Mary Stuart, written four days ago. There is an English priest arrived in Paris this last fortnight disguised as a soldier – one Father John Ballard, claims he is part of a well-advanced plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and spring Mary from her prison to take the throne. Paget took him last week to the Spanish ambassador, where this Ballard assured them both that English Catholics at strategic points across the land have pledged to rise up and assist an invading army, if King Philip of Spain will commit troops and money. They believe the timing is apt, with so many of England’s fighting men away in the Low Countries.’ I paused for breath, amazed to see a wide smile spread slowly across Master Secretary’s face.

‘Well, this is excellent news, Thomas, is it not?’ He appeared delighted.

‘We could not have hoped for better,’ Phelippes replied, without looking up from his papers.

I stared at Walsingham, thrown by his reaction.

‘Forgive me, Your Honour, but Berden believes this intelligence to be credible. That is why he sent me with all speed – he dared not trust the diplomatic courier.’

‘I have no doubt that Berden’s intelligence is entirely accurate. He is one of my best men. This is the very letter I have waited for – and from Paget too, the horse’s mouth.’ He gave me a knowing nod, his eyes alight with anticipation. I grimaced. Charles Paget was the self-appointed leader of the English Catholic exiles in Paris; it was he who coordinated links between the extremist Catholic League in France, led by the Duke of Guise, and the English conspirators who wanted to replace Queen Elizabeth with her cousin. He had been behind the plot in ’83, and my encounter with him in Paris had almost cost me my life before Christmas. Walsingham tapped the letter, impatient. ‘What more?’

‘Ballard says he has a band of devout men in London committed to carrying out the execution of Queen Elizabeth. That is the term they use to absolve themselves of regicide.’

‘Good. Names?’

‘Not set down in writing. But Ballard returns to London imminently to further his preparations. Ambassador Mendoza promised he would send one of his men here directly – a Jesuit priest – to bring the conspirators funds, though he has not yet gone so far as to commit Spain to military support. Paget guesses that this Jesuit’s task is to sound out their seriousness and report back to Mendoza, though he tells Mary to take heart, he is sure Spain will champion her cause.’

‘Marvellous. I look forward to hearing more of their progress.’ Walsingham sat back in his chair and folded his hands together, smiling to himself, showing surprisingly white teeth.

‘You do not seem overly concerned,’ I remarked. In truth, I could not help feeling resentful at the reception of my news; I had expected a mix of shock and gratitude, and a flurry of activity as Walsingham rushed to apprehend the plotters and warn the Queen, quietly mentioning my name as the bearer of this timely intervention. Instead, even by Master Secretary’s standards, this reaction seemed unusually phlegmatic.

‘Ah, Bruno. Do not think I don’t appreciate the efforts you have made to bring me this news – I have been waiting for it. We’ve been monitoring John Ballard for some time, waiting for his plans to bear fruit. And now that the game begins …’ he paused, pulling at the point of his beard ‘… all we have worked for stands on a knife-edge. One false step could mar everything. You see?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. I had not thought it was a game.’ I looked across to Phelippes for a plainer explanation, but his eyes remained fixed on his scratching nib.

Walsingham sighed. ‘Do you know how difficult it is to kill a queen, Bruno?’

‘I have never tried.’

‘Well, I have been trying for years, believe me. And now the means is almost at my fingertips. We cannot afford to fail this time.’

I watched him while his meaning gradually took shape. ‘You mean the Queen of Scots.’ I let my breath out slowly and felt a tremble. ‘You want her dead.’

‘That vixen.’ He pushed his chair back abruptly and strode to the window with his back to me, but I could see the suppressed fury in the set of his shoulders. ‘Every damnable conspiracy against the state and the Queen of England’s person these last twenty years – who is at the heart of it? That conniving Scottish witch. There she sits like a poisonous spider at the heart of her web, under house arrest, embroidering tapestries, complaining she is not kept in regal luxury. She protests her love for her cousin Elizabeth, while her words and letters embroider plots of murder and insurrection for her devoted followers in France. She wraps every gaoler I appoint around her finger with her simpering and her flirtations. It must end, Bruno, do you understand?’ He turned back to me, thumped his fist once on the wood panelling to make his point. ‘While she lives, the Protestant Church in England will never be secure. Her name is a banner to rally every angry young man who believes his fortunes would be better if the clocks could be turned backwards to a golden England of yesteryear, before the break with Rome. An England that exists only in his imagination, but no matter – he will plunge the country into ruin to recover it.’

‘But the Queen of Scots cannot be held responsible for what impetuous men do in her name, surely?’

Walsingham sank into the window seat as if the outburst had exhausted him, and I saw in his strained look why his daughter worried for his health. ‘Explain it to him, Thomas.’

Phelippes lifted his head and glanced at me briefly before shifting his gaze to the bookshelves.

‘Actually, she can now – Master Secretary has passed legislation this year to say exactly that. Mary Stuart is the granddaughter of the eighth King Henry’s sister,’ he said, in his odd, flat voice. ‘So for those English Catholics who hold that Henry’s divorce was not sanctioned by the Roman church and that his second marriage to the Queen’s mother Anne Boleyn cannot therefore be legitimate, Mary Stuart is the only true, Catholic heir by Tudor blood to the English throne. They maintain that Queen Elizabeth is a bastard.’

‘I know all this.’ I tried to conceal my impatience, but Phelippes had a manner of explaining that addressed his listener as if they were a slow child. ‘I was the one intercepting the letters from Mary’s supporters through the French embassy three years ago, the last time they tried a plot like this. But there was no evidence that Mary had given the conspiracy her approval.’

‘You understand the challenge, then,’ Walsingham said, his voice soft. I looked at him; his gaze did not waver.

‘You mean to entice her into betraying herself.’

‘The new law states that anyone who stands to benefit from the Queen’s murder is guilty of treason, even if they do not commit the deed with their own hand.’

‘Then – this plan of Ballard’s, that Paget mentions – it’s a trick?’

‘Oh, the plot is real enough.’ Walsingham stood, with evident effort, and returned to his desk, taking a small sip from his glass. ‘The invasion plans too, quite possibly, though I suspect Philip of Spain will think twice before reaching into his coffers again for a rabble of hot-headed Englishmen – he has heard all this before, remember, with the Throckmorton business in ’83?’

I nodded; my part in that was not an experience I would forget in a hurry.

‘But none of this worries you. You appear to have it all under control, so I see I have had a wasted journey.’ I heard the pique in my voice but was too tired to disguise it. As so often with Walsingham, I had the sensation of playing a hand of cards without being told the rules of the game. I wondered if Nicholas Berden knew the information he had risked so much to procure was already familiar to Walsingham, or if he too was being kept in the dark.

‘Far from it, my dear Bruno. It is never a waste to see old friends.’ He moved around the side of the desk and put an awkward arm around my shoulder, patting it briefly. A moment later he moved away – he was not a demonstrative man – and covered his embarrassment with a cough. ‘In fact, since you are here, a thought occurs to me – but you must allow me a pause while it takes shape. Thomas’ – he clicked his fingers in Phelippes’s direction – ‘decipher that letter as quickly as you can – I want to know about this Spanish Jesuit Mendoza is sending. In the meantime, Bruno, you must wash, and eat, and we will talk further.’

He handed me my pack and showed me to the door, patting my shoulder again for reassurance. As it closed behind me I heard Phelippes say, quite clearly, ‘You cannot seriously propose the Italian?’

I waited, keeping as still as possible.

‘Why not?’ Walsingham replied, his tone buoyant. ‘He is Catholic, or was. He can parrot their incantations without missing a word. It is the perfect solution.’

‘I will tell you why not,’ Phelippes said. ‘Because they will kill him.’

I strained to hear more, but at the sound of footsteps I glanced up to see the steward, Marston, approaching from the other end of the corridor; I smiled and stepped towards him, trying not to look as if I had been eavesdropping. I would have to wait for the details of Walsingham’s plan for my impending death.

THREE

‘You will wish to leave us now, my dear.’ Walsingham wiped his fingers on a linen cloth, pushed away his plate and directed a meaningful look at his daughter. ‘No doubt the child needs your attention.’

Candles burned low in their sconces, a warm light touching the curves of Venetian glass and the edges of silver platters, softening our faces and the old wood of the panelling. The table was littered with the debris of a fine meal – a soup of asparagus, capons in redcurrant sauce, a custard tart with almonds and cream, sheep’s cheese and soft dark bread. As with the furnishings of the house, the food had been plain, but of excellent quality. Though I had rested for an hour before supper, I could feel myself dragged by my full belly towards sleep, and hoped I might be excused before anyone – Lady Sidney or her father – could draw me into their schemes. In my somnolent state I would likely agree to anything if it would grant me an early night. I was aware that my hosts had barely touched the jug of excellent Rhenish which had been generously poured for me, and Phelippes did not drink wine at all, preferring to concentrate on consuming food methodically, one dish at a time, which he arranged on his plate in geometric patterns and ate without speaking.

Frances Sidney returned Walsingham’s look with cool resistance. ‘She is asleep, and her nurse is with her. I wish to speak to you, Father, in this company, on an important matter. You understand me.’

Walsingham sighed, and made a minute gesture with his head to the serving boys clearing the table. He beckoned Marston, who stood silently in the corner by the door as he had throughout the meal, alert to his master’s needs; Walsingham whispered to him and the steward nodded. When the last dishes had been removed, Marston brought fresh candles and a new jug of wine, before discreetly withdrawing. The door closed softly behind him.

‘I know what you are going to ask me, Frances.’ Walsingham’s eyes rested briefly on me, and there was a warning in his tone.

‘He is the man to do it,’ she said, her voice rising; she nodded at me across the table as she worked her linen cloth between her fingers, twisting and untwisting it. When Walsingham said nothing, she sat up straighter. ‘You know he is. Let him find out the truth – he has done it before.’

‘Frances—’ Walsingham laid both hands flat on the table.

‘What – because it might interfere with your plan? It’s your fault she’s dead!’

She threw down her cloth and glared at her father; I glanced from one to the other and was surprised to see him lower his eyes, his expression pained.

‘That is not a reasonable conclusion,’ Phelippes said mildly, concentrating on folding his napkin into a neat square, the corners precisely aligned. ‘There are a number of factors that contributed—’

‘Oh, shut up, Thomas.’ Frances rounded on him. ‘What would you know? You have no more feeling than a clockwork machine.’

He raised his head at this and blinked rapidly, before returning his gaze to his task.

Walsingham watched his daughter in the flickering light. ‘Do not vent your anger on Thomas, my dear. This was not his doing.’

‘How do you know? Maybe one of his letters gave her away.’

‘Very unlikely, Lady Sidney,’ Phelippes said. ‘My forgeries are excellent and have never yet been detected. It is much more probable that Clara Poole was careless. I had doubts about her ability to perpetrate a deception at that level of sophistication. She was too much at the mercy of her emotions.’

‘Oh, you had doubts? Then why did you let him send her?’ She pointed a trembling finger at her father.

‘Lower your voice, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone had grown sharp, the indulgence gone. ‘What is it you want?’

‘You know already.’ She swivelled in her chair to look at me. ‘Let Bruno investigate. He will tell you who killed her and whether your precious operation is compromised.’ Her voice was tight with emotion; when she dropped her gaze I saw tears shining on her lashes. ‘Then, once we know, you can tear the bastard’s insides out while he’s still alive to watch them drop in the flames, and I will be in the front row, applauding.’

There was little that could shock Walsingham, but I saw him flinch at her words.

‘Would someone mind explaining—’ I began.

‘Oh, my father will tell you,’ Frances said, winding the napkin around her knuckles. ‘He can explain how his ward Clara Poole ended up in a whore’s graveyard south of the river with her face smashed up. Oh, I see you look startled, Father – did you not realise I had heard you discuss that detail with Thomas? Perhaps you forgot I was there, as usual.’ She poured herself a glass of wine and drank a deep draught; I saw how her hand shook.

Walsingham brushed down his doublet, took a moment to compose himself, and raised his eyes to fix me across the table with his steady gaze.

‘These men Paget mentions in his letter,’ he said, eventually. ‘A band of devout Catholics sworn to carry out the Pope’s death sentence on Queen Elizabeth. We know who they are.’

‘Then – can you not arrest them?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been waiting for them to give us more conclusive evidence,’ he said evenly.

I nodded, understanding. ‘You want to use them as bait, to catch a bigger prize.’

Walsingham fetched up a faint smile, but it did not touch his eyes. ‘You always were perceptive. They do this in the name of the Queen of Scots, as you know. Part of their plan is to break her from her prison at Chartley and set her on the throne. I have enough in their letters alone to hang and quarter every last one of them. What I lacked was a firm response from her hand.’

‘So you mean to let this plot unfold until she gives it her explicit support in writing?’

‘The instant she signs her name to any approval she will have committed high treason. The only possible sentence under the terms of my new Act for the Queen’s Safety will be execution.’

Frances snorted. ‘He thinks Queen Elizabeth will simply agree to that. Chop the head off a fellow queen, her own cousin. I tell you, Father – I know I have only met Her Majesty a handful of times, and you converse with her every day, but I am certain of this – she will not sign that death sentence, no matter how many letters you show her in Mary’s hand. She dare not. No matter how many people you consider expendable in the process.’

‘My daughter sometimes believes she sits on the Privy Council,’ Walsingham said drily.

‘I would talk more sense than half the blustering old men there,’ Frances shot back. ‘If the Privy Council and the Parliament were all women, we’d have less money wasted on war and twice as much done.’

Walsingham caught my eye with a half-smile; I tried to picture Elizabeth Tudor seeking the counsel of other women on matters of state. An unlikely scenario; it was well known she commanded most of her courtiers to leave their wives at home in the country so she did not have to share their attention.

‘He had my companion, Clara Poole, working for him in this business of Babington,’ Frances said to me, tilting her head towards her father. ‘It ended badly for her, as you heard. He needs to know why, I want justice for her, and you want employment, so you see, we all want the same thing.’

‘Who is Babington?’

Walsingham lifted his wine glass and studied it without drinking. ‘The ringleader of this little band of would-be assassins is a young blood by the name of Anthony Babington. Catholic, twenty-five, made extremely wealthy by the death of his father last year. Studied in Paris not long ago, remains friendly with known conspirators there, including Mary’s agents. A wife and infant daughter at the family seat in Derbyshire, but spends all his time in London now, throwing himself into the Catholic cause – more out of desire for adventure than ardent faith, I think, but he met Mary Stuart as a youth and has romantic notions of her suffering and her rightful claims.’ He paused, sucked in his cheeks, as if weighing how much more to say. ‘I needed someone on the inside to monitor Babington and his friends without drawing suspicion – it proved difficult to get any of my trusted men close enough. Babington is hot-headed but he is not a fool, and he is understandably cautious about this business. Clara Poole is – was – a beautiful young woman. It seemed an obvious solution.’ He lowered his eyes and looked at the glass turning between his hands, avoiding his daughter’s sharp stare.

‘She was beautiful until they broke her face,’ Frances said, through her teeth. She turned to me, her tone softer. ‘I’ve known Clara since I was ten years old. She was four years older than me, and my father took her and her brother in when they were orphaned. She was my companion for four years until she married at eighteen, but she was widowed a year ago and returned to my household, since her husband had left her without means. I had thought she would work as governess to my daughter when Lizzie was old enough to take lessons. She knew French and could draw beautifully.’ Her voice wavered, and she returned to twisting the napkin between her fingers.

‘Clara’s half-brother, Robin, has been in my service for some time,’ Walsingham said. ‘The Catholics trust him – he has helped import books and relics for them in the past, and served time in prison for it, without betraying that he was my man. They do not know the extent of his work for me – they think he is true to their cause and believe he spies for them. It was an easy matter to have Clara introduced to Babington’s circle. I thought her charms might open doors closed to the men in my employ, and I was not deceived in that.’

‘You sent her – forgive me – to seduce him?’ I stared at Walsingham, thinking of the court in Paris, and the bevy of beautiful, accomplished young women trained by Catherine de Medici, the Queen Mother, to use their wiles in spying on the King’s enemies; I had personal experience of their determination. I had imagined Master Secretary, whose morality leaned towards the puritanical, to be above such methods. Clearly I had been mistaken.

‘Like a whoremaster,’ Frances said, pointedly.

‘Remember to whom you speak, Daughter.’ Walsingham’s tone was stern, but he looked uncomfortable. ‘Clara was willing to be of service,’ he added, to me. ‘We must conclude that certain things are no sin when they are done to save the life of an anointed sovereign, or to protect the state. We must trust that God sees the greater picture.’

‘Just as He does when my father turns the handle of the rack to make a priest confess to treason,’ Frances said, with a flash of triumph in her eyes. I sensed that she enjoyed sparring with her father, and that Clara Poole’s death had given her a licence to do so.

‘Would you have them move freely through the realm instead?’ Walsingham turned to her, his voice wound tight; her provocation was succeeding. ‘If you had seen what I have seen, young lady – you were but four years old when—’

Frances rolled her eyes. ‘When we were barricaded inside the English embassy in Paris on Saint Bartholomew’s night, yes, yes, I have heard this story before, Father. All my life, in fact.’ She sounded like a sullen child.

‘So that you never take it for granted.’ Walsingham leaned back in his chair. I could see that he was forcing himself not to lose his temper. ‘We were a hair’s breadth from being massacred along with all the other Protestants in Paris that night. And if you think the same could not happen in London if Catholic forces invade, you are nothing but a silly girl and not worthy to carry your husband’s name or mine. Sacrifices must be made. Philip knows that. So did Clara. Only you seem to think the world should fall into your lap without cost, and perhaps the blame for that rests with me, and the way I have spoiled you.’

Frances coloured as if she had been slapped. Walsingham breathed out again and clasped his hands, his watchful gaze settling on me.

‘You have risked your life before in England’s service, Bruno,’ he said, quietly. ‘Would you do so again?’

I shifted in my seat. ‘Your Honour, you know I am willing to offer what skills I have to secure England’s freedom, be assured of it. But …’ I hesitated, spread my hands. ‘I am a philosopher. I’m not sure I am equipped for the task you mention. Besides, I have a teaching job in Paris, I am expected back—’

At this, Walsingham chuckled. ‘Ah, yes. The Collège de Cambrai. And how does that suit you?’

‘It’s …’ I scratched the back of my neck. It was impossible to guess quite how much Walsingham knew. ‘A prestigious position. King Henri himself arranged it for me.’

‘To keep you away from court after that episode last Christmas,’ he said, without missing a beat. ‘And does it satisfy your taste for adventure – arguing with undergraduates?’

‘It gives me an income, Your Honour.’ I could not quite meet his eye.

‘Hmm. Thomas?’

Phelippes looked up and blinked. ‘Last month you gave a lecture in which you spoke against Aristotle and the ensuing debate ended in a mass brawl which had to be broken up by the city authorities. One student was left with a cracked jaw and another with a dagger wound. They made a formal complaint. You received an official warning from the university. Since then, you have been corresponding with Professor Alberico Gentili at the University of Wittenberg, and making secret plans to travel there.’ He recited this as if reading from an official report.

I looked at him; it was not even worth asking how he knew all this. It was true that I had intended to move on to Wittenberg at the end of the summer, but I had told no one.

‘Gentili works for me,’ Walsingham said, by way of explanation. ‘I take an interest in your movements, Bruno – that should not surprise you. Once a man has been in my employ, he becomes part of a family, so to speak. Tell me honestly – would you not rather return to the service of the Queen of England, and earn her gratitude?’

Damn him. I watched him watching me; he knew so precisely how to find a man’s weakness. Queen Elizabeth’s patronage would be a prize more valuable than any other monarch’s, since in England I had greater freedom to publish my controversial books than anywhere else in Europe. But if she had not offered it the last time I was here, after the service I had done her, I was not convinced that finding another killer would persuade her this time. I wondered if the Queen even knew of Walsingham’s intricate scheme to bring her cousin Mary to the block. Somehow I doubted she would approve it.

‘Her Majesty was much taken with your writing,’ he continued, pushing the decanter of wine down the table towards me. ‘She would be intrigued to read more, I think. I could certainly arrange that.’

I ran my tongue around my teeth to find my mouth dry. ‘I had hoped to finish a new book in Wittenberg this summer,’ I said, and heard how feeble the excuse sounded. ‘Gentili has offered—’

‘He has offered you a place there, I know. You could still take it up in the autumn, if you would spend a few weeks here and do me this one favour. I will write to Gentili – he will understand.’

I took a long drink of Walsingham’s good wine, tilting the glass so that the liquid glowed ruby in the candlelight and the Murano crystal shimmered as if it were made of nothing but air. Finally I raised my head and met his eye. I had run out of excuses.

‘What would you have me do?’

FOUR

Lady Sidney gave a little squeal of delight and sat back in her chair, clasping her hands together. Walsingham continued to study me, his face grave. At length, he turned to his daughter.

‘You have your wish, Frances. Now you must leave this in my hands, the details are not for your ears. And make no mention of Bruno’s coming here in your letters to Philip, unless you want to compromise the whole business.’

‘I am not a fool, Father.’ Her lip curled with scorn as she pushed her chair back. ‘Do you forget I was born to double-dealing?’ She stood and turned to me, bobbing a brief curtsy. ‘Give you good night, Bruno. And thank you. I am more grateful than you can know.’

Born to double-dealing, I thought, as the door clicked shut behind her. It was a phrase I had heard before; Walsingham had used it of Charles Paget, whose father, Lord Paget, had been spymaster to Queen Elizabeth’s father, the last King Henry. What must it be, to grow up in a world where counterfeiting is a language you learn from childhood, and everyone you know wears at least two faces? I had developed a grudging respect for Paget in my encounters with him, though I knew he would have let me die without a second thought if it had suited him.

‘Bruno? Are you with us?’

I shook myself free of memories and focused on Walsingham at the other end of the table. I noticed again how thin his face had grown.

‘At your service, Your Honour. You need to know who killed Clara Poole. I suppose you assume it was this Babington or one of his associates?’

He rubbed a hand across his beard and paused before answering.

‘I need more than that. Clara was my most trusted source on the inside of that plot. She delivered intelligence reliably on their intentions – it was how I could be sure the business was not advancing beyond my ability to control it. You can imagine how carefully this must be balanced.’

I nodded. No wonder he looked as if he didn’t sleep. It was one thing to allow an assassination plot to unfold in order to entrap Mary Stuart in an act of treason; quite another if that plot should succeed because he failed to monitor it closely enough. ‘Does the Queen know of this Babington conspiracy?’

‘No.’ His face darkened. ‘And she will have no need to, until it is all set down on paper and her royal cousin on trial, if our skill and God’s Providence serve. I have one other reporting to me from among the conspirators, but lately I am not certain his loyalty is wholly mine. I need someone’ – he raised a forefinger and levelled it at me – ‘to join Babington and his friends. Find out why Clara was killed. I have no doubt that one among them suspected her – but I need to know if all were behind her murder, or one took it upon himself to act alone, and how much each one knows. If they think she betrayed their plot, they may change tactics, or put it off until a later date, and that we cannot afford. I don’t have that kind of time.’ He broke off and reached for his glass, coughing as he swallowed.

‘Your Honour –’ I leaned forward, alarmed – ‘are you ill? I hope you don’t mean—’

‘Look at me, Bruno.’ He slumped back in his chair, drained. ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. So damnably weak, and growing weaker by the day. If any apothecary could make me a philtre that would wind the clock back ten years, I would sell everything I own to buy it.’ A ghost of a smile flickered over his lips. He examined the backs of his hands and did not meet my eye. ‘I have given the best of my energies to keep this realm safe, free and Protestant, and I will do so until my last breath, but I can’t go on like this forever. I must and will see the Queen of Scots brought to the block as my last act of service to Elizabeth.’ One hand curled into a fist. ‘With her death, England’s enemies will be scattered. Then I could close my eyes with a degree of peace.’

They would soon regroup, I thought. Instead I said, ‘Your Honour, I hope and pray these fears are premature. You are only—’ I stopped to calculate his age. Barely old enough to be my father, though in some ways I had come to think of him in that role.

‘This is my fifty-sixth summer, Bruno.’ He sat up straighter, toying with the stem of his glass.

‘Well, then. Unless a physician has told you otherwise, there is no reason to think you will not go on serving the realm for another three decades.’ I tried to sound buoyant, but his eyes clouded.

‘I need no physician to tell me what I feel in here.’ He struck his chest. ‘But enough self-pity. I tell you only so that you understand the urgency. I must know why Clara Poole was killed, and what Babington will do next. This Jesuit priest Mendoza is sending to join the conspirators …’

‘What of him?’

‘You will be him.’

I had guessed this was where he was tending. I closed my eyes to escape his intense stare.

‘Your Honour, it’s impossible that I could pass myself off as this man without suspicion. I am known in London—’

‘Not as well as you think,’ he cut in. He had clearly anticipated this objection. ‘It is almost a year since you were last here. You were known at the French embassy when you lodged there, I grant, but since Ambassador Castelnau was recalled to Paris, his household staff returned with him and it’s not as if the new ambassador has your portrait hanging over the mantel. There are few Londoners who could identify you if they passed you in the street.’

‘I am known by some at court,’ I said feebly.

‘Your name is known in select circles, perhaps. But you will not be going by your own name, and it is no great work to change your appearance. Besides, you will be nowhere near the court – Babington’s group hide themselves in taverns and brothels, and meet in lodging houses. There is no reason anyone should connect this Spanish Jesuit with the Italian scholar Giordano Bruno, if you remember not to provoke arguments about Aristotle.’

I noted the glint of humour in his eye.

‘We don’t know anything about this Jesuit. He could be seventy years old. He could be famous for having one leg. Ballard might have met him already in Paris, for God’s sake – they would know I was an imposter the minute I walked through the door.’

Walsingham straightened, a knowing smile creasing his face. ‘I doubt Mendoza would send a man of seventy, or one hampered by the loss of a leg, but these are matters we can check. There’s no evidence from Paget’s letter that either he or Ballard have met this man. There is only one person among the conspirators who would know that you are an imposter.’

‘Then the plan is over before it is begun, if one of them knows me. Who?’

‘You’ll enjoy this. The only associate of the Babington group who will know you’re not the priest is Master Gilbert Gifford.’

‘Gifford?’ I stared at him, incredulous. I had encountered Gifford in Paris the previous autumn; a gawky, anxious youth whose father had been imprisoned for refusing to recant his Catholic faith, and who harboured romantic notions of overthrowing Elizabeth and her government, like every other angry young Englishman who fetched up in France. ‘I warned you about him before Christmas. He was planning to return to England carrying secret letters for Mary Stuart from Paget and his circle in Paris.’

‘And thanks to your warning, he was intercepted by Richard Daniel in Rye,’ Walsingham said, looking pleased with himself. ‘Daniel rode to London to bring the boy to me in person. With a few judicious incentives, young Gifford was persuaded to see that his best interests lay with England’s cause and not Mary Stuart’s.’

‘You didn’t torture him?’ The thought of Walsingham’s methods of persuasion turned my gut cold; I had no great affection for Gilbert Gifford, but he had struck me as foolish and easily manipulated, rather than dangerous.

Walsingham gave me a reproving look. ‘Good God, no. I am not a monster, whatever my daughter may think. Torture a creature like Gifford? I had as well take a sword to a kitten. No – he had enough on him when he arrived in Rye for me to throw him in the Tower on the spot, and he knew it. Not only the letters to Mary promising foreign support for her claim to the throne, but – can you credit it – a copy of a new papal bull of excommunication against the Queen.’ He shook his head at the audacity. ‘And woefully badly concealed. Gifford was on his knees begging for a reprieve before I said a word, ready to promise anything. So I offered him his liberty if he would continue in his role as courier to Mary, but under my direction.’ He paused, allowing me to appreciate the achievement. ‘To sweeten the deal, I released his father from prison as well. The old man was in the Counter almost a year for recusancy. The family has lands and a manor house in Staffordshire, you see.’

I shook my head, failing to see the significance.

‘Mary has been transferred to Chartley Manor, nearby,’ he said, impatient. ‘So Gifford may take her correspondence while making visits to his family home, without arousing suspicion. It is the perfect cover, and the conspirators believe it is all down to their ingenuity. For the present, Mary Stuart thinks Gilbert Gifford is her saviour.’

‘And this Babington group – they trust him too?’

‘Implicitly. He came with personal letters of recommendation from Charles Paget in Paris, and Mary has vouched for him.’

‘Forgive me, Your Honour, but you have said yourself that these men are not stupid. They are in regular correspondence with Paget, who keeps a close eye on me. It will not take him long to notice I have left Paris. And what happens when the real Jesuit priest turns up?’

He chuckled. ‘He will not make it past the searchers, trust me. While you were resting, Thomas and I dispatched fast riders to all the southern ports giving them warning – the Jesuit must be expected any day now, posing as the son of a cloth merchant, according to Paget. The minute they have him, he will be brought safely to Barn Elms, where we can count his limbs and he can tell us everything we need to know to make your performance convincing. I assume you have Spanish among your languages, growing up in Naples?’

‘Of course. It was the language of the nobility when I was educated at San Domenico. A Spaniard might detect a Neapolitan accent, though I am fluent enough to convince Englishmen. But—’

‘Excellent.’ The smile crept back. ‘Don’t worry about Paget. We will put the word out in Paris that you have taken a trip to Wittenberg.’

‘What will you do with this Jesuit while I am impersonating him? You will not kill him?’ I tried not to think about how the Spaniard would be persuaded to share his information. It was said that any prisoner suspected of possessing intelligence too sensitive to be heard even by the torturers at the Tower was taken under cover of darkness to Walsingham’s country house near Mortlake, where he would conduct the interrogations himself in his cellar.

‘The Jesuit will be my concern,’ he said, with a snap of finality. He folded his hands together and leaned closer. ‘But you must tell me now if the business makes you squeamish. Once it is begun, once you are in with them, you must see it through to the end. If you waver, if you hesitate even once and they suspect you, they will kill you. They have too much at stake. We have already seen what they will do to a woman.’ He held my gaze, unblinking. ‘And you have a tender conscience, Bruno – I have noted this in you before. As a man, it is a virtue that does you credit. As an agent, it could be your undoing. In this occupation, one is sometimes required to override conscience with duty, just as a soldier on the battlefield must.’

‘I have watched a man die a traitor’s death, Your Honour,’ I said quietly. ‘What you are asking of me – to befriend these men, eat with them, earn their trust, all to bring them to the scaffold – it is no small thing. Anyone with a conscience would think twice.’

‘I expect you to think twice. But remind yourself that these men want to kill an anointed queen.’

‘So do you.’

I saw his fingers flex, but his voice remained level. ‘I wish to convict a traitor who conspires against England on the side of foreign invaders. What title she claims is not at issue. These people do not deserve your sympathy, Bruno. But if you need further convincing, I am happy to oblige. Marston!’ He scraped back his chair and stood as he called out. The steward appeared with remarkable speed, leading me to suspect he had remained right outside the door. It was not my concern if Walsingham’s servants eavesdropped, I tried to tell myself, but there was no avoiding the knowledge that, if I accepted this commission, everything surrounding it could mean the thin sliver of difference between life and death. I had seen before what could happen when a man trusted his servants unquestioningly.

‘Prepare the carriage with no livery,’ Walsingham said. ‘Fetch my cloak too, and tell the servants to bring Bruno’s bags.’

Marston nodded and left the room. Walsingham turned to me. ‘You can stay with Thomas tonight in Leadenhall. Best you keep away from my house, in case you are seen. We will take you there on the way back.’

‘Back from where?’

‘You will see.’ He set his mouth in a grim line. ‘I want you to know the men you are dealing with, before you make your decision. I would also value your shrewd eye.’

I could barely keep my shrewd eyes open by this point, but I rose, gave a small bow and followed Phelippes along the corridor to a back door that gave on to a neat courtyard and kitchen garden. Cloaks and bags were brought, and we were led out to the tart chill of the summer night, the light almost gone, a fading scent of roses and woodsmoke on the air. I breathed in; I guessed at what Walsingham meant to show me, and I wanted to inhale the freshness of the night and hold it deep in my lungs against what was to come.

FIVE

‘There is one thing I do not understand,’ I said, bracing myself against the seat as the carriage jolted along a rutted track. Black cloth hung at the windows so I had no idea of where we were; only that we had been travelling for more than half an hour and had passed outside the city walls – we had made a brief stop while Phelippes descended and I had caught the exchange of voices before the scrape and creak of gates opening. But no one had offered any further information and we had bumped along in silence until now, Walsingham’s brooding expression forbidding unnecessary questions.

He raised his head from his thoughts and nodded for me to continue.

‘You’ve had Mary Stuart in custody for nearly twenty years. If you want so badly to be rid of her, why don’t you slip something into her food? She could die quietly of an unexplained illness, without all this need for elaborate trickery and conspiracies and the spectacle of a trial with all of Europe watching.’

His shoulders slumped as a sigh escaped him and I saw him exchange a glance with Phelippes.

‘Do you suppose this has not been considered?’ He sat back. ‘You tell him, Thomas – I am weary of making this argument. I have it with the Queen at least once a week. She favours your method, Bruno. If she could have Mary dead without sullying her own hands or her conscience, she would sleep easier than she has in two decades. So she claims.’

‘Then why does she not do it?’ I turned to Phelippes.

‘It is more complicated than that,’ he said. ‘Lord Burghley wants to remake the constitution of England.’

‘It has become a stand-off between the Queen and Burghley.’ Walsingham leaned in again. ‘You remember him, of course. England’s greatest statesman, stubborn as a donkey.’

Even in the dark of the carriage, I noted the faint gleam of his teeth, a smile of affection, not mockery. I had encountered William Cecil, Lord Burghley, the last time Walsingham had asked me to investigate the murder of a young woman at court, and knew something of his reputation. He was now Lord High Treasurer, and Elizabeth’s most senior and trusted advisor. He was also the man who had raised Master Secretary to his present position, and Walsingham’s loyalty to him was second only to that he showed the Queen. I would need to be careful of my response.

‘The very concept of the divine right of kings hangs on Mary Stuart’s fate, as Queen Elizabeth knows all too well,’ Walsingham continued. ‘Once precedent has been established that an anointed queen may be tried and condemned by a jury like any other private citizen, part of the monarch’s power will have been ceded to Parliament for good. This is Burghley’s goal.’ He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. ‘Her Majesty the Queen would love nothing more than a silent assassin in the night to do the job for her. But we must ensure that Mary is shown publicly – before all the kings of Europe – to have been the architect of her own downfall, else her death will always be surrounded by the suspicion of foul play. The last thing we want is to make a martyr of her. The whole point is to prove that, when it comes to treason, no one can be above the law.’

‘The kings of Europe will need some convincing. Are you hoping for a letter in Mary’s hand ordering the death of Elizabeth? She is too canny to trap herself like that, surely?’

His mouth grew pinched. ‘Ideally, I had hoped for a letter from Babington spelling out the exact means by which it was to be done, and naming his co-conspirators, and a reply from Mary giving her explicit assent. She is desperate, and growing incautious – I think, if things had continued to unfold as they were, we might have brought her to it. But Clara’s death has thrown all that into confusion. The one letter we have from Mary to Babington hints at her approval of the plan, but in abstract terms only.’ He steepled his fingers together. ‘I am not happy about our chances of convicting her on that alone.’

‘It could be made more convincing,’ Phelippes said, impassive. Walsingham did not reply.

That hardly sounded like due process to me, but I had no chance to comment, as the carriage pulled to an abrupt halt. Phelippes slammed open the door and jumped down. Walsingham gestured for me to follow and I climbed out, peering through the darkness to discover that we were among fields, a few low dwellings and hedgerows standing out along the horizon. It must have been near midnight; overhead a milky moon shone through scraps of cloud, and ahead I could make out the shape of a small building with a pointed roof. The remote bleating of sheep and the drawn-out hoot of a hunting owl carried through the dark. Phelippes had taken a torch from the coachman and knocked on the door.

‘One of the old leper chapels,’ Walsingham remarked, beside me. His breath steamed in the night air and he stamped his feet against the cold. ‘Still has its uses.’

The door scraped open a crack, enough for a stocky figure in clerical robes to appear and demand our business. Phelippes held up his light and when the man realised who his visitors were, he bowed low and held the door wide for us.

‘Any trouble?’ Walsingham asked, moving briskly past him into the shadows of the chapel. Inside, a couple of tallow candles were burning low, and I saw a bed had been made up in a far corner. The air smelled of animal fat, with a reek of piss pots and something worse hovering beneath.

‘No one has been near the place,’ the man said, leading us to his straw pallet, which he pulled aside to reveal a hatch set into the floor. ‘Save a couple of vagrants looking for shelter. I gave them bread and threatened them with the constable if they returned. Otherwise quiet.’ He drew a key from his belt and unlocked an iron padlock that secured the opening, pulled back a bolt and lifted the hatch to reveal a set of steps. Cold air and the unmistakable stench of stale blood and dead flesh rose through the gap. I recoiled, stepping backwards into Walsingham.

‘Steady, Bruno.’ I felt his hand rest on my shoulder a moment longer than necessary, as if to impart courage. ‘Let Thomas go first with the light.’ He turned to the curate, or watchman, or whatever he was. ‘Fetch me a lantern and keep your eyes on the door.’

I took a deep breath and followed Phelippes into what must have once been a crude crypt beneath the chapel. The smell of death intensified and as my eyes adjusted, I saw a table had been constructed on two trestles, with a shape draped in a sheet lying on top. Phelippes approached it, his face contorted against the stink, twisting his features into a grotesque mask in the flickering light as he pulled the cloth back. It snagged in places where the body’s excretions had caused it to stick to the skin. I fought down bile and pressed my sleeve to my face as I willed myself to look at the sight he had uncovered.

Her face – what remained of it – was hideous; a gaping hole where one eye and the nose had been, now collapsed in on itself as the flesh around it had begun to blacken. The head had been crudely shaved and the ears sliced off. The girl was clothed, though her feet and arms were bare, the skin mottled; the bodice of her gown was stiff with dark stains. Her remaining eye, wide and bulging, seemed to stare upwards at horrors she would never divulge.

‘Dio porco,’ I breathed, through my sleeve.

‘I know.’ I felt Walsingham’s shoulder touch mine as he held up the lantern. ‘Thoughts?’

I shook my head; my only thought at present was to escape to the cool night outside, breathe deeply, run a mile from this obscenity and everything he was asking of me. Even a boat back to France and the wilful stupidity of my students seemed preferable to what he was proposing, now that the girl’s body was in front of me. Instead, I fought down my nausea and approached the table, steeling myself to examine her with a physician’s impartiality. It was hardly the first time I had been in the presence of violent death; somehow I never grew inured to it. I would have made a hopeless soldier, as my father had been fond of telling me.

‘She was found in a churchyard, you said?’

‘A graveyard,’ Walsingham corrected. ‘The Cross Bones, in Southwark. No church involved – it’s a scrap of wasteland, given over by the Bishop of Winchester for the burial of those who can’t be put in consecrated ground. Suicides, unbaptised infants, but mostly the criminals and prostitutes who turn up dead in the borough. Saves too many questions about what happened to them.’

‘The ward of Southwark is outside the legal jurisdiction of the City of London and instead falls under the governance of the Bishop of Winchester, which makes it effectively lawless,’ Phelippes put in, helpfully. ‘This is why it is full of bear pits, brothels and gaming houses – the Bishop turns a blind eye and the city authorities cannot intervene.’

‘I know. I am familiar with Southwark,’ I said, giving him a look which was lost in the dark. I turned back to Walsingham. ‘Do you suppose her killers meant to bury her there, to keep her from being found?’

‘I would say that was likely not their intention. She was discovered at first light by the night watchman – old fellow, getting on for seventy. If they had wanted to hide the body, there were easier ways to do it.’

‘Then she was supposed to be seen,’ I mused. ‘And in a whores’ graveyard. The face, too, and the hair – that would fit. A deliberate display, rather than merely cruel torture.’

‘What do you mean?’ He moved closer beside me, raising his light to illuminate that grisly mutilation. I fixed my eyes on Clara’s hand, cold and white at her side, slim fingers curling gently inwards. I noticed that her nails were neatly filed and well cared for; she was evidently a woman who had taken pride in the details of her appearance. That should not have affected the degree of horror I felt at what had been done to her, but somehow it seemed to make it worse. I swallowed.

‘In some ancient societies – Byzantium, for example – a woman who committed adultery was punished by having her head shaved and her nose and ears cut off.’ I spoke slowly, forming the thoughts even as I voiced them. ‘Though she was intended to survive the disfiguring. It was a way of marking her betrayal for life, and ensuring no other man would touch her.’

Walsingham clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You see, Thomas – this is why we have need of Bruno’s mind. I had supposed they meant to obscure her identity, so she could not be easily recognised, but I confess that made little sense, given that they left her clothes. I had not thought it might be symbolic.’

He fell silent and I knew his thoughts had flown back, as mine had, to the last time he and I had stood over the body of a girl whose killer had left symbols carved into her flesh.

‘Perhaps I am reading too much,’ I said quickly. ‘I only wondered if someone was making a point about betrayal. How was she identified?’

‘I have people among the night watch and the constables in every borough. Clara had gone out on the evening of the twenty-seventh and was expected back at Seething Lane later that night. When she had not appeared by the following morning, I put out word that I should be notified immediately if the body of a young woman turned up anywhere in the city. The Southwark watch sent word and I dispatched Thomas to identify her. I saw her later, after we had the body brought here.’

‘And you’re certain it’s her?’ I raised my head to look at Phelippes.

‘Quite certain,’ he said. ‘Clara Poole had a large birthmark down the right side of her neck and her collarbone.’

I held my breath and leaned closer. Though the skin was discoloured and the light poor, I could make out the shape of a port-wine stain on the girl’s neck, where the blood had been cleaned away.

‘The dress is hers too,’ Walsingham said, ‘though the sleeves had been removed, along with her shoes.’

‘How did she die?’

‘I was hoping you might tell me.’

‘She would have bled like a slaughtered pig,’ Phelippes remarked. I heard Walsingham softly click his tongue in disapproval.

‘Yes, but not enough to kill her,’ I pointed out, ‘not for a long time. If her attacker cut her and starting beating her, she would have been well able to scream and alert the watchman before she bled out. I would guess she was dead when she was mutilated.’

Walsingham exhaled slowly through his teeth. ‘Small mercies,’ he said, in a choked voice.

I steeled myself and parted the stiffened lace collar to look at the girl’s neck. ‘It’s difficult to see by this stage if there’s bruising. But the way that eye is protruding – I’d say she was strangled or smothered. No other injuries?’

‘None visible, beyond the obvious.’

We contemplated the body in silence. I looked again at the bloodied mess of her face, the lips pulled back over the teeth. It would have taken effort and strength to inflict that kind of damage; the force of the blows had splintered the bone of the eye socket. If she had been beaten like this even after she was dead, it argued a loss of control by the killer, a frenzy of rage and hate. But to shave her head and sever her ears suggested the opposite: an elaborate, planned disfigurement that would have taken time, when the murderer must have known there was a chance the watchman might hear and disturb him. Why run the risk of getting caught, unless the mutilations were meant to send a message?

‘Thomas had the body brought here immediately,’ Walsingham continued, ‘before talk could spread. The man upstairs is the curate of the local parish church, he keeps the key to this chapel and does me loyal service when I need to use it for such purposes. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.’

I wondered how many other corpses Walsingham had stowed here, in case their discovery should prove inconvenient. Bodies moved in the dead of night from the cellar at Barn Elms, perhaps.

‘So – her death is not made public?’

‘No. I wanted to see if anyone came asking after her, or said anything that implied a knowledge of her killing. The watchman who found her is being held in custody for the time being, to stop him gossiping, and the constables have been paid to keep quiet.’

‘Does her brother know?’

‘Yes.’ In the dim light I saw his face tighten. ‘He has taken it hard, as you would expect, especially as I will not let him see her. It is all I can do to hold him back from running Babington through with his dagger, bringing the whole edifice crashing down, and if Robin knew the detail of what had been done to his sister I would have no hope of restraining him. I have had a great deal of work to persuade him that my way of bringing her justice will serve her memory better.’ He sighed. ‘Robin is a solid, loyal man, but Clara was all the family he had. His desire for revenge burns hot, and I fear it may eclipse his commitment to the greater good. You will meet him – his knowledge of Babington’s group will be useful to you.’

He appeared to have forgotten – or was wilfully ignoring – the fact that I had not yet agreed to his mad scheme.

‘She must have been killed south of the river, either in the Cross Bones or close by,’ he continued, moving around to the other side of the body on the trestle and peering down, a sleeve pressed to his mouth, eyes narrowed as if trying to solve a cipher. ‘Babington and his friends were dining together in the City on the night of the twenty-seventh, but the party broke up before midnight, so any one of them could have gone to meet Clara in Southwark without the others knowing.’

‘Did she give any hint that she feared they suspected her?’ I asked, keeping my eyes fixed on the girl’s hands.

He glanced at the steps behind us. There was no trace of any movement, but he lowered his voice regardless. ‘No. But in her last communication with Thomas she had promised to bring us a list of English Catholic nobles and gentry around the country who had committed to providing money and men for an invasion, once the Queen was dead. One of Babington’s group had ridden out to gather support over the last fortnight, and was due back in London any day. It would have been invaluable in anticipating possible landing places for foreign troops. Not to mention having all those confirmed traitors by name.’

‘So you think the act of stealing this list gave her away? I suppose it was not found on her?’

‘We don’t know that she even had the list yet. But she could have expressed too great an interest in it, and aroused suspicion that way. Or let slip any number of ways that she was spying.’ Walsingham shook his head. ‘You heard my daughter – she thinks I feel no remorse for this death. She could not be more mistaken. Clara and Robin’s father died in my service, I took them into my household when they had no other prospects, and they have both served me willingly. This should never have happened. But Frances cannot see that private griefs must give precedence to matters of state.’

‘She is young,’ I said gently.

‘So was this one.’ He reached out and rested his fingertips briefly on the cold flesh of the girl’s hand. ‘She should have made a better marriage, become a mother. I should have looked to that, instead of— No matter now.’ He raised his head and his eyes gleamed black in the lantern light. ‘I must find out what is happening inside this Babington conspiracy, Bruno. What her death means for its progress. If they fear betrayal and decide to hold off, we may never bring the Scottish pretender to justice.’

‘How long had Clara been intimate with the Babington group?’ I asked, as his words had prompted an idea.

‘Robin first introduced her in March,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at me. ‘Why?’

‘Three months. Have you checked to see if she was with child?’

‘The body has not been examined by a physician. What makes you suppose that?’

‘Only that, in my experience, it can be a pressing reason for a man to rid himself of an inconvenient mistress. It might be worth a look. The motive may be nothing to do with your conspiracy.’

Walsingham looked down at the girl, considering, a hand on the hilt of his knife; I half-feared he might perform the examination himself right there. ‘In your experience?’ he said, after a while, with an eyebrow cocked.

‘My experience of murder.’

He nodded. ‘Very well. Thomas, send for the physician to do what is required at dawn. She can’t stay here more than a day longer. That’s another confrontation I must have with her brother, who wants to take her all the way to Essex to have her buried with their father.’ He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘We should go to our beds now, sleep a few hours while we can. There is much work to do.’

Again, in that half-light, I saw how drawn he looked, before he turned abruptly for the steps as Phelippes pulled the sheet over the body. Upstairs Walsingham exchanged private words with the curate – I saw him slip the man a purse from his cloak – and, to my great relief, we emerged from the chapel into clean night air. I stretched up to look at the stars and breathed deep.

‘Gifford will be at Thomas’s lodgings when you arrive,’ Walsingham said, as the carriage lurched back over the rutted road towards the city. ‘Say nothing to him of our plan – I will be the one to brief him. But keep your ears open for anything Gifford has to say to you. He may be less guarded than he is with Thomas.’

‘You mentioned that you had a man inside the group whose loyalty was uncertain. I presume you meant Gifford?’

Walsingham turned his face to the blacked-out window. ‘Gilbert is not a steadfast young man. He will do whatever is expedient at the time, but I must work with what I have. That he was already established as courier to Mary was a gift I could not turn down – I will not find a man better placed. But his loyalty is only bought, and he is especially vulnerable to having his head turned by a pretty young woman.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

‘No,’ Phelippes said, sounding puzzled. ‘He should do his job.’

Walsingham caught my eye and, for the first time since we had left Seething Lane, I saw the flicker of a genuine smile. ‘Not everyone has your single-minded devotion to duty, Thomas,’ he said, laying a hand on his assistant’s arm. I noted how Phelippes flinched away from it, frowning as if he realised there was a joke somewhere but could not identify it. ‘The lady in question,’ Walsingham continued, ‘is Bessie Pierrepont. I fear Gilbert has conceived a fancy for her, and that is worrying.’

‘Why? Who is Bessie Pierrepont?’

‘A lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth. More significantly, she is the granddaughter of Bess of Hardwick.’

I shook my head. In the upper reaches of English society, everyone seemed to be related to everyone else, and it was assumed you knew them all. ‘You will have to explain the significance.’

‘Of course. No reason these names should mean anything to you. Tell him, Thomas.’ He leaned back against the seat.

‘Bess of Hardwick is wife to the Earl of Shrewsbury, who was Mary Stuart’s keeper when she was first imprisoned,’ Phelippes explained, obligingly. ‘She and Mary became close. Sewing together, and other women’s pastimes. She was supposed to relate back to Master Secretary and my lord Burghley the confidences she gleaned. Instead her loyalties transferred to Mary – Bess and her husband treated her like a house guest rather than a prisoner, and Mary’s correspondence with her supporters in France went unchecked. After the last plot to free her came so near to success, Master Secretary was obliged to remove her from the Earl’s care and confine her under sterner conditions.’

‘In the absence of her own child, Mary conceived a great affection for Lady Shrewsbury’s granddaughter, Bessie Pierrepont, who was often at the house. She would even take the girl to sleep in her bed when she was four or five years of age.’ Walsingham twisted his mouth. ‘Young Bessie is now nineteen and in Queen Elizabeth’s service. She will utter, by rote, every profession of loyalty that she knows we expect of her, but I have lingering doubts. Childhood devotion dies hard, and Mary has sent her valuable gifts over the years. Gifford has sought an introduction to her lately, and I would like to know what that is about.’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘More interesting, I think, to see where the association tends if he thinks I know nothing of it. He has taken trouble to keep his interest in her from me and Thomas, and that in itself is reason to watch him. The boy is foolish enough to confide his secrets if he believes himself in love, and Bessie also knows Babington. I don’t want our plans coming to nothing because Gifford feels the need to show off for a girl. Not something we need worry about with you, eh, Bruno?’ He fixed me with a mischievous look. ‘Would all my espials had the training in resisting female wiles that comes from a spell in the religious orders.’

‘That does not necessarily follow, Your Honour,’ I said, dipping my head. He knew well that I was as capable as anyone of recklessness for the sake of a woman – or had been, for one woman at least.

‘True. By the time the religious houses were dissolved here, there was barely a monk left who knew the meaning of chastity.’ He sniffed. ‘See what you can find out from Gifford. I will put you in lodgings together – he may open up to you.’

I doubted this; when Gifford realised that I was behind his arrest at Rye and his forced cooperation with Walsingham, he was likely to throw the nearest heavy object at my head. They left me alone with my thoughts for the remainder of the journey. Master Secretary stared at the blacked-out window as if reading invisible secrets there. Phelippes leaned forward, rocking slightly, his gaze concentrated on the floor, muttering fervently under his breath. At first I thought he was praying, but when I listened closer, I realised he was reciting mathematical formulae. I sat back and smiled; it struck me as oddly endearing, and I caught myself thinking that, despite the absurdity of what I was being asked to do, I was back where I belonged.

SIX

‘You!’ Gilbert Gifford glared at me across the cramped space of Phelippes’ living quarters, one trembling finger pointing as if he thought he might be seeing an apparition. From the glassy look in his eye I guessed he had spent the evening in a tavern. Besides the flush in his cheeks, he looked much as he had when I last saw him, before Christmas; skinny and mousy-haired, with pale eyelashes and darting grey-blue eyes, though the hunched, nervy posture I associated with him was gone, displaced perhaps by drink.

‘Living quarters’ was a generous description: Walsingham’s right-hand man inhabited two large rooms with narrow leaded windows on the first floor of a house off Leadenhall Market. One was a study, the only furniture a broad desk with a chair, walls of shelves crammed floor-to-ceiling with files, parchments and boxes of papers, all neatly arranged, and a ware-bench bearing the tools of his forger’s trade: inks, waxes, brass seals and an array of quills and fine-pointed knives. The other room was for sleeping, and contained only a narrow wooden bed, a wash-stand, a chest for clothes and a pallet on the floor, where I supposed Gifford stayed when he was in town. I had left my bags in the passageway; no one had yet made any mention of where I was expected to sleep.

‘What a small world it is,’ I said, smiling. Gifford’s face darkened.

‘I never trusted you. I was picked up the minute I set foot ashore in Rye. I suppose it was you sent warning ahead of me?’

I laughed. ‘Master Gifford – you confided your most secret plans to a woman in order to impress her. That is always a mistake.’

He nodded, understanding. ‘Of course. Mary Gifford. My so-called relative in Paris. I suppose she was spying for him too?’ He jerked his head towards Phelippes, who continued to sort his papers into piles on the desk.

‘In fact, the girl was not in our employ, though I wish she had been,’ he remarked, without looking up. ‘She delivered better intelligence than half the men we have in Paris.’

I glanced at him; I wanted to steer Phelippes away from the subject of Mary Gifford, the young woman who had worked as a governess in the English household where Gilbert had lodged in Paris, lest he take too much interest in her abilities, and her history.

‘You should be grateful to her, Gilbert,’ I said. ‘From what I hear, your cargo was not well concealed. If your arrival had not been expected you would have been caught anyway, and you would have joined your father in prison. As it is, you both enjoy your liberty, and now you have useful employment.’

‘So I should consider myself in your debt?’ He tilted his chin and fixed me with a challenging look.

‘You should not consider me the architect of your misfortune, at any rate,’ I said, stretching out the ache in my back. ‘What was your life in Paris? Moping about bemoaning the loss of your family’s estate and waiting for a scrap of attention from Paget, who cared more about the letters you carried than he ever did about your safety. Now you are writing yourself into history. Think on that.’

He squinted as he attempted to work out if I was serious. ‘Not the way I wanted,’ he said, more soberly. ‘All I do is ride back and forth to Staffordshire on filthy roads, for a deception I am ashamed to—’ He broke off, casting a glance at our host and evidently thinking better of his words.

‘If you must keep talking, you will have to go next door,’ Phelippes said. ‘I have work to do.’

‘It’s the middle of the night, man,’ I said. ‘Are you not half-mad with tiredness? I know I am.’ It seemed weeks since I had set out from Rye, though it was only first light the day before.

Phelippes raised his head, surprised. ‘No. If you want to sleep, take my bed.’

‘Where will you sleep?’

‘He never sleeps,’ Gifford said, with a touch of bitterness. I guessed that part of the reason for his accommodation here was so that Phelippes could report back on his movements. I wondered if I would be subject to the same scrutiny. I believed Walsingham had faith in me, but perhaps he never fully trusted anyone. I would not either, in his position.

Gifford and I moved through to the bedchamber, where he flopped on the pallet without undressing, hands folded across his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

‘I suppose you were in love with her too,’ he said, after a while, as I took off my doublet and laid it at the foot of Phelippes’s bed. ‘Mary Gifford, I mean. If that was even her real name.’

I sat down to pull off my boots. ‘No, I was not in love with her.’ This was a lie, but there was no need for him to know that. Her real name was Sophia Underhill, but that was not his concern either.

‘I thought I was,’ Gifford said, with unexpected candour. ‘Now I know it was not love – only a mere shadow of the real thing.’ A dreamy smile played at the corners of his mouth. I set my boots down and leaned forward to look at him.

‘You have found the real thing, then?’ I asked, keeping my voice casual.

His eyes darted sideways at me and his expression hardened. ‘If I had, I would not speak of it to you – you would run straight to tell Walsingham for the chink of a couple of groats in your purse.’

‘Why, is it something Walsingham should know of?’

A deep colour spread instantly over the boy’s face, displacing even the flush of drink. ‘No. I mean to say – I have nothing to hide from him. But some things I may keep private. He is not master of my affections, though he may have bought my service.’

‘Well, whoever has command of your heart now must be a rare beauty, if she has displaced the lovely Mary Gifford in your eyes.’ I leaned back on the bed, not looking at him, hoping an offhand manner would invite further confidences.

He met this with a pointed silence, continuing to stare at the ceiling. I turned my back to him and began to unlace my shirt, feigning a lack of interest.

‘Her beauty is not so cheap as shows only in a glass,’ he burst out, eventually. ‘It also shines in her nobility of birth and character. Though, I confess, she has been blessed by nature too.’

I smiled to myself; in my experience, a young man will always find a way to boast of his conquests, even when he knows better.

‘She is a lady, then?’

‘The granddaughter of an earl, and serves the Queen herself in her bedchamber. Mary Gifford is nothing but a governess. I am not convinced we are even related. My father never heard of any branch of the family from Somerset.’

‘How did you meet this noble beauty?’ I asked, to prevent any further speculation on Mary Gifford’s identity. ‘The Queen keeps her women close, I thought?’

He seemed on the point of answering, but somewhere behind the haze of drink and infatuation, a note of caution sounded; I saw his eyes sharpen. ‘I will think twice before I tell you anything, Giordano Bruno. Paget warned me about you. I know you for a heretic.’

‘Well, my soul is no business of yours, Gifford, but we serve the same earthly master now, so we will have to get along a little better. Give you good night.’ I leaned over and blew out the candle. If I were to agree to Walsingham’s absurd scheme – and I had not yet given any undertaking, though he seemed to have assumed my willingness – there would be time enough to win Gifford over. I pulled the blanket around my shoulders and allowed the exhaustion of the past two days to fall on me. The creak of boards carried from the adjoining room as Phelippes moved around, about his secret work of symbols and ciphers, saving the realm. I was about to tumble over the edge of sleep when Gifford shifted on his pallet and yawned.

‘She came back to London, you know. Mary Gifford, I mean.’

I pushed myself upright instantly. ‘What? When?’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘What is it to you? I thought you were not in love with her.’

I ignored this. ‘She spoke to me of returning to London, but in a year or so, she said. Do you know different?’

He stretched out his limbs, enjoying this small power. ‘Perhaps she grew impatient. Before I left at Christmas, she had asked Paget to write her a letter of recommendation to a family he knew in London, to serve as a lady’s companion.’

‘And did he? What was the family’s name?’

‘I will have to see if I can recall. Give you good night, Bruno. Sleep well.’

I could hear the smile in his voice as he turned over. I called him a son of a whore under my breath in Italian and flung myself back on the bed, all thoughts of sleep banished. Moonlight slanted through the narrow casement; I stared at the patterns it cast on the wall while I considered that Sophia Underhill, the woman who had troubled my dreams in all her various names since I first encountered her in Oxford three years ago, might be out there somewhere in the same city, perhaps only streets away. I turned on to my side, and heard a furtive rustling from Gifford’s pallet, a sound I knew all too well from years confined as a Dominican friar; the boy was furiously frotting himself, no doubt thinking of his new love’s noble character. Madonna porca. I was too old to be sharing a bedchamber with worked-up boys. I rolled on my back and recalled my last meeting with Sophia in Paris, when she still called herself Mary Gifford. She had fled to France to escape the law in England, but she had always meant to return; she had left behind a child, taken from her at birth because she was unmarried, but she had not given up her dream of finding him again. If she had hastened her return to London, it could only mean she had received news that gave her reason to hope. If I could see her, perhaps I could be of use to her in her quest. Then I remembered that, if I stayed in London, it would be as a Spanish Jesuit and my time would be taken up conspiring to regicide; it would be all but impossible for me to see anything of Sophia in that guise. Even so – if Gifford was telling the truth, her presence here was another reason to consider staying.

The boy made a noise like a strangled fox as he finished and was snoring within minutes. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if any of the possible rewards of this business would be worth the price.

The next day I woke early, blinking into a chilly light, aches deep in my shoulders and thighs from two days in the saddle. Gifford lay sprawled on his pallet, twitching in dreams like a dog, but I could hear low voices from the adjoining room, so I splashed water over my face and quietly pulled on my clothes, thinking Walsingham must have come for my answer. Instead I approached the half-open door to hear Phelippes in hushed conversation with a tall man who had his back to me. I could see only that he was dark-haired and wore a rust-brown leather jerkin patched on the shoulders.

‘Master Secretary mentioned nothing about this last night,’ Phelippes was saying, his voice impatient.

‘I have just now come from Seething Lane,’ the stranger said, in an accent that sounded to my ears like that of the London boatmen. ‘The Italian is to come with me to Southwark.’

‘This makes no sense. Why would Master Secretary send him poking about the scene of the death in broad daylight, when the killers may be watching the place to see precisely who comes asking questions? And you, Master Poole – I would have thought you were the last person—’

‘Perhaps you don’t know his every thought, Thomas.’ The newcomer’s voice was tight. ‘Master Secretary wants the Italian’s view on the business. Don’t ask me why – I didn’t question it. But he did say for him to cover his head with a hat and his face with a kerchief. And tell him not to shave.’

‘Does he decide the length of my beard now?’ I said, pushing the door open. Phelippes glanced up without surprise; he was still sitting behind his desk making notes on his papers as I had left him, and it was impossible to tell from his face whether he had been there all night. The tall man turned and I saw that he was in his early thirties, good-looking in a dishevelled way, with a strong jaw and thick eyebrows that met in a V above his nose. It seemed from a soreness around his eyes that he had cried recently, or perhaps it was only the dust of the streets.

Phelippes waved a hand at him. ‘Doctor Bruno, this is Master Robin Poole, supposedly come from Seething Lane to conduct you to Southwark, though I am not persuaded this is a good use of your time.’

Robin Poole met my look and rolled his eyes in what I took as a complicit comment on Phelippes and his blunt ways. So this was the brother of the dead girl, the one who wanted to run her alleged killers through without waiting for evidence. Though his face appeared open, I could not help but concede that Phelippes might be right; it seemed unlikely that Walsingham would send this man to investigate the murder of his own sister. Master Secretary distrusted anyone who could not keep a tight rein on their emotions, especially when engaged on his business, and a man in the throes of grief was not the best judge of his own actions. I inclined my head and waited. He thrust his hand out and I shook it in the English fashion.

‘Giordano Bruno.’

‘I know. You are to come with me, but cover your face. I have a horse outside.’

I glanced at Phelippes. ‘On what business?’

Impatience flashed across Poole’s eyes, but he kept his countenance. ‘I will brief you on the way. Master Secretary wants your view of things.’

‘What things?’ If Walsingham had given these orders, he must have a purpose. Perhaps he had considered it wise to let Poole feel he was playing some active part in the investigation, but wanted me there to ensure he didn’t blunder.

‘You ask a lot of questions. This murder.’ Muscles tensed along his jaw, but his voice remained steady. ‘He says you have a trained eye.’

I thought I caught a note of scepticism, but perhaps that was my imagination. I gave a brisk nod.

‘Is there anything to eat?’

Phelippes sniffed. ‘This is not an inn, Doctor Bruno. Ask Master Poole if you wish to break your fast on the way, he claims to have your needs in hand. I hope you are not being dragged on a fool’s errand. We have little time to lose as it is – the girl’s death has disrupted everything.’

Poole held the door for me, raising his eyebrows again to make clear his feelings about Phelippes. When I joined him on the stairs with a hat pulled down over my ears and a kerchief tied around the lower half of my face, he gave me a cursory glance of approval and signalled for me to follow him. I noticed that he walked with a slight limp in his right leg. He didn’t speak until we were outside, where a boy with scabs on his lip held an old but solid-looking grey mare by a rope halter.

‘You’ll have to ride behind me.’ Poole pulled himself into the saddle with an easy, practised movement that almost disguised the way he nudged his right leg over subtly with his hand. I climbed up behind him, wincing at my aching muscles. He slipped the boy a coin and we turned out of Leadenhall down Gracechurch Street towards London Bridge.

‘There is something wrong with that man,’ he said, after a while, as if challenging me to disagree.

‘Phelippes? He is unusual, I grant. But I have studied the art of memory for nearly twenty years and only ever met one other with natural faculties like his.’

Poole grunted. ‘I still say he is touched. The man behaves as if he has never known a human feeling. Mark how he spoke of my sister, as if her death is no more than an inconvenience. And he believes Master Secretary can’t scratch his arse without he, Thomas, weighs up the cost and stamps five papers to approve it.’

I laughed, though I was not sure if it was intended as a joke, but I felt him relax. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said, as we passed down New Fish Street with the great gatehouse arch of the bridge in sight. The streets were already busy with traders’ carts, and goodwives on their way to market, baskets jutting from their hips. Gulls wheeled overhead, loosing lonely cries. The air was cold, carrying the dirt smell of the river on a sharp breeze.

‘She should never have been caught up in this,’ he replied, after a long pause. ‘Clara was an innocent, Doctor Bruno. She was not cut out for living a double life, the way we learn to in Walsingham’s service. Women are too much led by their feelings to dissemble in that way.’ He fell silent again and a shudder rippled across his back as he exhaled. I could have told him then that I had met plenty of women as skilled in the arts of duplicity as any man, and every bit as determined – I thought again of Sophia Underhill – but it was not the moment.

‘You blame Walsingham, then?’

‘It would be meaningless to blame him,’ he said, after a moment’s pause. ‘Clara volunteered for this work. She was tired of a life indoors, a poor widow marking time to become a governess. She sought adventure. Now see where that has led her – pushing her way into a man’s world.’ He seemed about to say more, but fell silent abruptly. I wondered how much detail Walsingham had told him about the manner of her death. Poole made it sound as though he partly blamed his sister for her own end.

‘Then it was her idea, to become close with the conspirators?’

His shoulders tightened. ‘She only thought of carrying letters or something in that line. She badgered Walsingham to give her a task – he said he had enough couriers. I think he had misgivings, rightly, about trusting a woman with sensitive correspondence. But if the fault for her death lies with anyone, I must own it.’

‘How so?’

He glanced to the side, wrinkling his nose as we approached Fish Wharf and the Fishmongers’ Hall on the north bank of the river and the smell assaulted us from all sides. He dropped his voice, so that I had to lean forward to hear.

‘Babington and his friends keep themselves close, as you’d expect. They do not lightly confide in outsiders – you’ll find this out for yourself soon enough, though Master Secretary seems to believe you will walk into their open arms without hindrance.’ His tone let me know what he thought of Walsingham’s faith, though I chose not to take it personally. ‘They found me useful because they believed I brought them information about Walsingham, but my connection with him also made them wary, even though I have been working to gain the trust of the Catholics in London for years now. I was brought to the conspirators by Jack Savage, who I met in prison when I was serving time for distributing illegal books. But they still didn’t invite me to their most private meetings. Walsingham grew frustrated with the lack of progress, though no more than I was with myself. Once I made the mistake of remarking to him that, with a man like Babington, a woman might have better luck drawing out his secrets. It never occurred to me that he would think to use my sister.’

‘Then it was Master Secretary’s idea to have her introduced to them?’

‘It could have been Clara’s. She would have thought it good sport.’ He sighed. ‘My sister was a beautiful girl, Bruno. I wish you could have seen her. Long, red curls down her back, and white skin – people said she looked like the Queen herself when she was a young princess. I don’t suppose she ever intended to do any more than flirt with them, see what they would confide. I didn’t like the idea, but Walsingham overruled me.’

‘You could not have known how it would end.’

‘I should have guessed, and put my foot down. I knew what those men were like, I’d seen what they were capable of. And Clara was soft-hearted. She married a man with no money because he won her with pretty words. She should never have gone near the like of Babington and his friends. Our father would spin in his grave. God knows when I shall even be permitted to bury her.’

‘You have not seen her?’

‘He won’t let me, yet. Says it’s vital her death does not become public knowledge too soon, the better to allow her killers to betray themselves.’ He shook his head and his voice took on a dark edge. ‘That’s what makes me think he is keeping something from me.’

He left an expectant pause but I said nothing, and we rode on in silence, passing through the north gatehouse of London Bridge. A young man hung limply by his wrists in the pillory, glazed eyes barely noting the passers-by, who were too caught up squeezing through the archway to pay him any heed. It was only as we drew level that I realised it was a girl dressed in men’s clothes, her hair cut short, her face grey with fatigue.

‘What’s her offence, do you think?’ I asked Poole, leaning forward.

He gave her the briefest glance. ‘She’ll be a whore from the Bankside stews,’ he said, as if this were an everyday sight. ‘Some of them dress as boys for the clients. It’s prohibited. If they’re caught, it’s a few hours in the pillory.’

The girl looked up at me from under her hooded lids, her expression neither pleading nor defiant, and I recalled the day Sophia Underhill had come looking for me disguised as a boy to escape a charge of murder. I wondered again where she might be, and whether her current identity as Mary Gifford was any more comfortable to her. If Gilbert Gifford insisted on playing games about how to find her, I was quite prepared to threaten it out of him.

Our progress slowed as we joined the flow of traffic making its way along the narrow conduit, barely twelve feet across, between the houses crammed each side of the bridge. Carts, wagons, horses and people on foot hoisting baskets or children on their shoulders were forced into a laborious shuffling procession, one lane in each direction, accompanied by cursing and shoving as those in a hurry tried to push ahead, only to be forced back, sometimes with blows, by people in front determined not to give way. The stink of horseshit rose as we inched forward; I took a deep breath through the kerchief and considered that, in my eagerness to return to London, I had forgotten how much I resented trying to get around the place.

‘Where are we going?’ I shouted at the back of Poole’s head, as the horse flicked its ears, impatient at the throng milling about its legs.

‘To search the place she was found.’

‘Has that not been done already? It was two days ago, I thought.’

He made a scornful noise through his teeth. ‘I wouldn’t trust the London constables to search their own breeches and find their cocks.’

‘And what are we looking for?’

‘We’ll know if we find it.’

I let this cryptic answer hang for a moment.

‘This will be a difficult task for you,’ I said, when he made no move to continue the conversation. The muscles across his back stiffened.

‘Who has suggested that?’

‘I mean only that you cannot be impartial.’

‘None of us is impartial, in this business.’ He allowed a pause. ‘Oh, I see. They have told you I will blunder in and mar the project, because I cannot contain my grief. Who said that, Phelippes?’

‘No one has said so.’

He glanced back over his shoulder. Even in quarter profile I could see his scorn. ‘How long have you been in the Service?’

‘For Walsingham? I met him in the spring of ’83, shortly after I arrived in England.’

‘Three years, then. Though you have been out of the country since last autumn, I understand.’ He sounded pleased, as if he had won an argument. ‘I have served him twelve, since he was first appointed to the Privy Council.’

‘What is it you do for him, exactly?’

‘I talk to people.’ He set his eyes ahead so that I could not see his face, but I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. ‘Listen, I’ve been in prison three times for his sake, once for two months, and given no special treatment that would mark me out as his man. I took my beatings like the rest of the papist suspects, and my knee has never fully recovered.’ He slapped his right leg, hard, as if to punish it. ‘If I did not betray myself then, I will not now, any more than you will.’

‘I meant no offence,’ I said hastily. ‘Only that I have never lost a sister – I do not know that I could keep my countenance in your position.’

‘I think you are disingenuous, my friend.’ But he sounded mollified. ‘If he thought you could be ruled by your emotions or betray yourself so easily, he would not have chosen you. For myself, I must put grief to one side. I know how to do that well enough. Sister or no sister, she was a pawn in a chess game played for high stakes, and I intend to find out who took her.’

I felt his metaphor was flawed, though I resisted pointing this out. He appeared to have assumed a responsibility for investigating Clara Poole’s death that I suspected did not come from Walsingham, and again I wondered at Master Secretary’s motive in involving him.

‘Tell me of this Babington group, then,’ I said, to channel his anger. ‘What kind of men are they? Besides ruthless.’

He let out a bitter laugh. ‘Walsingham insists on giving the business Babington’s name, since Babington’s money is furnishing the plans and he wants the glory. They should more properly call it the Ballard plot. That priest is the dangerous one among them. Him, I would call ruthless. Next to him, Babington is a mere fop. A pretty, rich boy looking for adventure. He wanted a cause, and in Mary Stuart he has found one. And the others can’t proceed without his money, so he is flattered and made to feel important.’

‘You think Babington’s faith is not sincere?’

‘Oh, he believes absolutely in his own sincerity, and the idea of himself as the saviour of England. But I don’t think he gives two shits for the sufferings of ordinary English Catholics. His father left him a thousand pounds a year, what would he know of hardship?’

He did not trouble to disguise his anger. I had the sense that Robin Poole’s antipathy to Anthony Babington had put down roots long before the death of his sister.

‘And the others?’ I prompted.

‘Let’s see. Father John Ballard. Thirty-seven, ordained priest, goes about in the guise of a veteran soldier. Calls himself Captain Fortescue. His faith verges on fanatical. If he’d been born in your country, he’d have volunteered to join the Inquisition, and enjoyed it.’

‘I have met the type,’ I said, with feeling.

‘Ballard dreams of ushering in the reign of a second Bloody Mary, turning the skies over England dark with the smoke of burning Protestants. If anyone could kill a young girl in cold blood, it would be him. Or more likely his faithful dog Jack Savage, who is justly named – he used to be a professional fighter. Then there’s Chidiock Tichborne, Babington’s closest friend – another rich boy who only wants England’s return to Rome so he can get his father’s estate back. Same with Thomas Salisbury – he’s the one Ballard has riding about the country persuading Catholic nobles to let Spanish troops land on their coastline.’ He gave a sceptical laugh. ‘They really think Philip of Spain is going to send his Armada when they snap their fingers. They are all boys playing at holy war.’

‘But they trust you?’

‘I believe they do. I’m from a Catholic family, and Savage vouched for me to Ballard. They think I share their grievances.’

‘But I thought your father worked for Walsingham?’

‘He did.’ A brief pause. ‘He was an informer.’

‘I see. Did the Catholics know?’

‘Well. There’s the question.’ His voice grew tight. ‘My father drowned ten years ago. Fell from the riverbank on the way home one night, they said. Assumed he was drunk. But my father knew how to hold his drink, so …’ He lifted a shoulder, inviting me to draw my own conclusion. ‘I was twenty-two, Clara fourteen, both our mothers dead. Walsingham took her into his house, and paid for me to study the law, so I could monitor my fellow students for him. Now Clara’s gone too, for the same reasons. And I let it happen.’

‘You can’t blame yourself,’ I said, hearing the emptiness of the words before they left my mouth.

‘Not really for you to say,’ he replied, though without rancour.

We crossed the rest of the way in silence as the crowd funnelled through the archway of the Great Stone Gate on the south bank. Poole raised his eyes as we emerged from the shadow and I followed his gaze to the sightless remains of heads on spikes high above. Crows perched on ledges nearby, shreds of matter in their beaks; I looked quickly away.

‘I will see Babington and his fellows up there, whatever the cost,’ he said through his teeth as the traffic eased and we turned right to follow the road along the Bank Side.

SEVEN

I remembered, in an instant, how the first thing that hit you about Southwark was the smell. To be more accurate, the collision of smells, all of them fierce enough to make your eyes water and your throat burn. The heavy scent of hops from the breweries fought with vile stinks from the tanneries and the dyers; these in turn mixed with the human odours of the gong-men’s carts, and the sharp, animal musk of the bull and bear rings as we passed the church of St Mary Overy and the walled gardens of Winchester House. Beyond the bull ring, the famous Bankside Stews lined the road facing the river, with their own ripe scents behind closed doors. According to ancient laws, most of these inns and licensed brothels were painted white, their colourful signs affixed above the doors with images that announced their names to those who could not read: The Boar’s Head, The Horseshoe, The Rose, The Barge, The Half Moon, The White Hart, The Olyphant, The Unicorn. Many were fine old houses with gates wide enough for coaches, and gardens with ponds and orchards stretching out to the rear. But they were separated by narrow alleys running with refuse and ordure, and when Poole turned the horse down one of these to follow it south, away from the river, I pulled the kerchief tighter around my mouth and nose and fought back the bile rising in my throat.

In the streets behind the bank, tenements crowded on one another as if they had been thrown together by drunks from whatever lay to hand: scrofulous plaster flaking from the walls, sheets of oilcloth nailed over windows in place of glass, roofs with missing tiles and greasy boards propping up lean-to shelters barely fit to keep a dog in. Despite the early hour, men in shirtsleeves stumbled along roads rutted by cartwheels, or pissed against the doorposts of alehouses under fading and splintered signs, regarding us with unfocused eyes that made me think of the girl in the stocks. It was impossible to tell if they were on their way home after a long night, or beginning again for a new day. Silent, dirty children with sores around their mouths crouched in the alleys, watching with wary, sunken eyes. Tired-looking women in low bodices and smudged face paint jutted their hips and pouted at us as we passed; one, a spotted scarf around her black hair, made a comical honking noise after us and asked, in a foreign accent, if we handsome gentlemen were hungry for a little gooseflesh this fine morning? When she stepped too close to the horse, causing it to rear its head back, Poole snapped at her to fuck herself. ‘Where would be the profit in that?’ she fired back, quick as blinking, with a merry laugh, and I found myself smiling. Poole muttered something about damned Winchester geese, and I recalled the nickname given to the women who worked in this lawless borough, where any pleasure or entertainment might be acquired, at a price.

Poole turned east and south again, through streets lined with half-derelict buildings, until the tenements gave way to open fields and we followed a mossy wall of crumbling brick on our left. When we reached an unmarked gate, he brought the horse to a halt and sprang down; I followed, and he handed me the reins.

‘This is the place.’ He slapped his palm against the slats. The gate looked as if it could be torn away with one hand, though the lock held fast as the wood juddered. ‘The Cross Bones. They took this from the old keeper.’ He held up a key and fitted it to the lock. ‘Bring the horse in with you, or he’ll be gone in two minutes round here. Nothing but thieves and whores, this whole stinking borough. Let’s see where she was found.’

I followed him through the gap into an uneven patch of waste ground. There were few upright stones; those that remained listed at angles, edges worn away by time and weather, their inscriptions erased to a smooth blank. Here and there rotting wooden posts stood over other mounds, but for the most part you would hardly know the place was given over to the dead, save for its air of neglect and the crows perching with watchful eyes in the trees.

Poole looked about him, scanning the perimeter wall. It stood some ten feet high, though in places the brick was so old and worn it appeared that it would crumble to the touch. To our right, the wall was bordered by a row of cottages in poor repair. Along the side opposite the gate, a few trees remained inside the boundary, branches snaking along the top of the wall, small green apples budding on the higher reaches. Immediately to our left, on a flat patch of earth, an iron brazier stood, flakes of black ash around its feet. I pulled the kerchief down from my face, reasoning that there was no one to see me here.

‘Not what you’d choose for your last resting place, is it?’ He kept his voice determinedly light, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed the emotion he was fighting. ‘A pit of sluts, criminals and suicides. Never thought to see her end up somewhere like this.’ He turned to me. ‘She loved beautiful things, my sister.’

I thought of Clara’s pretty clothes, her careful manicure, that face.

‘At least she won’t be buried here,’ I said, aware it was meagre comfort.

‘She won’t be buried at all till Walsingham gives his say so. She’ll be left to rot till then, and I’m not even told where.’ He clamped his teeth together until he had composed himself. ‘The old watchman swears no one came past him through the gate all night. So they must have come over the wall. There, where the trees are – that’s the only place.’

‘You questioned the man yourself?’

‘No, though I’d have liked to. Walsingham told me. The old boy claims he heard nothing, saw nothing, till he found her under the tree at daybreak. But he’s not necessarily a reliable witness. He’s thought to have a history of turning a blind eye.’

‘To what?’

‘All sorts. It’s said bodies go missing from the Cross Bones. There’s the hospital of St Thomas just upriver – plenty there would pay to get their hands on a fresh corpse. I suppose they think no one would miss a dead whore.’ He gestured to the graveyard. ‘Not as if anyone comes to lay flowers here.’

‘This old watchman digs up the bodies to sell?’

‘Takes a coin to look away while others do it, more likely. If he says he heard nothing, that might be no more than he always says.’

‘He didn’t sell Clara’s body.’

‘He’s not a fool. He’d have seen from her clothes she was no Winchester goose – he probably guessed someone would come looking for her. Don’t suppose that stopped him pocketing what he could first. Come on.’

He set off across the plot towards the far wall. I let the horse loose to graze on the long grass and followed, skirting clumps of nettles and the treacherous dips between graves. Ahead of me, Poole stopped and kicked at a patch of ground beneath the apple tree, scuffing up the earth with the toe of his boot.

‘Look at this,’ he called, gesturing with his foot. I hurried after him, gripped by a sudden horror that he might have stumbled on the girl’s severed ear, tossed aside by the killer. But as I approached I saw what he had found; it was clear no rain had fallen in the past two days, and a wide rust-brown stain spread out between spikes of grass a few feet from the tree. When he lifted his head to look at me, I saw the effort it was costing him to maintain the appearance of detachment.

‘Blood, no?’

I nodded. He bunched one hand slowly into a fist and wrapped it in the palm of the other.

‘They told me she’d been strangled. I thought – well, at least that’s quick, she wouldn’t have suffered too long. So where’s this much blood come from?’

‘She could have wounded her attacker trying to fight him off,’ I suggested, half-heartedly. I recalled how Walsingham had feared Poole’s reaction if he learned what had been done to his sister’s face; I had not anticipated being the one to tell him.

He considered this; I waited for another sarcastic response, but this time he nodded. ‘That would mean she came in alive,’ he said, looking up at the wall.

‘I think you’re right. I can’t see anyone getting a dead body over that. It would take two men at least. But why would she be here at all?’

‘Well, there’s the question. She must have arranged to meet someone.’

He strode away abruptly, tearing at the tall weeds that tangled at the foot of the wall. I watched the ferocity of his movements. So much for keeping his countenance. I reached up and broke a low branch from the tree, sturdy enough to bend back the undergrowth, and swiped back and forth without conviction; I was certain that a killer organised enough to plan such a grotesque display would not have left anything to incriminate himself in the place he wanted the girl found. I wondered again why he would have chosen this spot – neither busy enough to make a public spectacle of the death, nor obscure enough to suggest they wanted to cover it up. It only made sense if my theory about the mutilation was correct, and they were making an allusion to Clara Poole being a whore, and a betrayer. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, and the location was simply convenient, but I found that hard to believe; with a lot less effort her killer could have left her in the street outside. This was Southwark; a body in the gutter was barely cause to break stride for most passers-by.

I pulled myself up into the lower branches of the tree to take a look over at the street, aware of Poole pausing to watch me. Smears of blood had stained the bricks at the top; it looked as if the killer had escaped this way after arranging the body. I was trying to calculate how long the whole business might have taken him, when I glanced down and saw an unmistakable glint of metal through the brambles beneath the tree.

‘Found something?’ Poole asked, straightening and wiping his hands on his breeches.

‘Wait there.’ I shinned down and plunged into the undergrowth to grab the object.

He was almost breathing on my neck when I emerged, hands and arms shredded by thorns and clutching a gold locket, its chain snapped. I held it out to him.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

‘Is it hers?’

He nodded, turning it over in his hands. The face was engraved with scrolled letters entwined in a pattern of flowers and leaves.

‘It was her mother’s. She passed it on to Clara when she was dying. Look, here.’ He pressed the catch and the locket sprang open to reveal a curled lock of red-gold hair tucked inside. ‘Clara never took it off. But she wore it under her clothes, in case anyone got close enough to read the inscription.’

He clicked the face shut again and lifted it so that I could see more clearly. Around the edge, the engraved letters spelled out ‘Veritas Temporis Filia’. I raised my eyes and met his.

‘Truth is the daughter of time. But why should that be hidden?’

He seemed pleased by my ignorance. ‘You really don’t know? It was the motto of Mary Tudor, the Queen’s sister, may she burn in Hell.’

‘Bloody Mary? But why did Clara have that?’

‘Ann – Clara’s mother – served in Queen Mary’s household as a young woman. Ann was twenty-five when Mary died, and Elizabeth took the throne. You didn’t go about telling people you’d worked for Bloody Mary after that – you kept your mouth shut and acted like a good Protestant if you didn’t want repercussions. My father forbade Ann ever to speak of it. But she used to tell her stories to Clara, as soon as she was old enough to hear.’

‘So Ann was Catholic too?’ I wondered what effect those old stories might have had on Clara. Could she have harboured secret sympathies for Babington and his friends, despite her debt to Walsingham?

‘Ann worshipped as the law demanded, my father was careful about that. He was taking enough risks with his own double life, he didn’t want his wife doing the same. But Clara said she never gave up her rosary. Nor this locket. Clara wouldn’t have been parted from this lightly.’ His jaw clenched. ‘See here where the chain is broken? Do you suppose he tore it off her if she was resisting him?’

I rubbed the backs of my hands where the thorns had pricked them, glancing to either side with an uneasy sense of being watched. Something didn’t feel right here; I had known that feeling too often not to trust my instincts. It seemed to me that Clara’s locket had jumped too readily to my hand. If the girl’s shoes and sleeves had been stripped from her to sell before her body was handed over, surely a piece of gold jewellery would not have been left behind unless someone wanted it found? We were the only souls in the graveyard, and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were playing on a stage, for the benefit of an unseen spectator. I pulled the kerchief up around my face again, just in case.

‘She could have lost it climbing the wall,’ I suggested, unconvinced.

‘Or – wait – she could have thrown it into the brambles herself,’ he countered, suddenly animated. ‘Suppose she realised what was happening, that her life was in danger? She might have ripped it off and tossed it away to stop him getting his hands on it.’

‘If she was intimate with Babington or one of his friends, they would have known she wore the locket,’ I suggested. ‘Wouldn’t they have searched for it?’

Poole looked at me as if he pitied my stupidity. ‘Babington and his friends were all dining together the night she was killed,’ he said. ‘All save Ballard, who was in France – or so we believe. They didn’t necessarily murder her with their own hands. And if they paid someone to lure her here and get rid of her, he might not have known to look for a locket. Besides, there would have been nothing but moonlight to see by – he couldn’t have lit a lantern for fear of disturbing the old watchman. And if the killer was hurt, he must have wanted to get away as quick as he could. He wouldn’t have wasted time scrabbling through bushes.’

I held my tongue; I could not contradict this thesis without revealing that Clara’s assailant had had the leisure to cut off her hair and ears, and that the blood was not his but hers. It was not for me to take from him the idea of his sister bravely resisting her attacker until her last breath. But the appearance of the locket so conveniently troubled me. Poole was staring at it, rapt, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the surface.

‘Should we keep searching?’

‘What?’ He jerked his head up. ‘Forgive me, I was …’ He indicated the locket with a diffident nod, as if embarrassed by his grief, before slipping it into the pouch at his belt. ‘I suppose we should see if there is anything else.’ But his earlier resolve seemed to have ebbed away; he looked around with the air of a man who has entered a room to find he has no memory of what he came in for. I picked up the broken branch I had discarded and pulled back the undergrowth where I had found the locket, hoping a cursory search would satisfy him so that we could make our way back across the river; there had been no mention of breaking our fast and my stomach was cramping with hunger. As I stepped closer to peer through the leaves, my foot struck something solid. I kicked it back towards me and bent to retrieve an earthenware carafe decorated with the embossed head of a unicorn. I sniffed it; the scent of spiced wine was still strong.

‘What have you there?’ Poole asked, snapping out of his reverie.

I held it up to show him. ‘Only a pitcher. Not been there long, by the looks of it.’ I shook it, to hear the dregs sloshing in the bottom. ‘Perhaps whoever killed Clara brought it with him.’

Poole considered. ‘Or it was thrown over the wall, or the old watchman dumped it. Can’t see that it tells us much.’

I tipped the carafe and let a drop of liquid slide on to my finger. It was a cheap, sweet wine, with a bitter aftertaste beneath the sugar. ‘It comes from the Unicorn, look. We passed that on the way – it’s up the road, on the riverfront. Maybe we should ask there.’

‘Ask what?’ He gave me that same pitying look. ‘Good day, did any of your customers happen to strangle a woman in the Cross Bones the other night?’ He shook his head and I realised he was right. ‘You don’t go around the Bankside stews asking questions like you’re the law, not unless you want to end up in the river. I’ll mention it to Walsingham. It might be something or nothing. I’ll bet these bushes are full of old bottles.’

‘Will you tell him about the locket?’

‘Of course. Though it’s mine by rights, I’m her only family.’ His hand moved protectively to the pouch where he had stowed it. I waited, hoping he would decide it was time to go, when a movement at the edge of my vision made me spin around to see a slight figure crouching on the wall across the graveyard, above the gate.

Poole followed my gaze and gave a shout; the intruder straightened, pausing long enough for me to see that it was a boy of about ten, dressed in a ragged cap and breeches. His skin was darker than usual for an English child; he would not have looked out of place on the streets of Naples.

‘You there – stay where you are!’ Poole yelled. The boy instantly disappeared, dropping to the far side of the wall silent as a cat. Poole swore and set off at a run across the grass towards the gate, hampered by his damaged leg. ‘Cut the little fucker off the other side,’ he called to me over his shoulder, pointing at the tree. I launched myself up through the branches and over the wall to the street, landing hard and narrowly missing a pile of horseshit. Cursing, I ran the length of the street towards the row of cottages, but there was no sign of the boy to left or right when I reached the end. A couple of minutes later, Poole rounded the opposite corner, slowing when he saw me. I shook my head; the child could have slipped into any number of hiding places, or simply outrun us.

‘How long was he watching?’ Poole breathed hard, his face rigid with anger.

‘No idea. I saw him a moment before you did.’ But I remember the cold sensation of being watched earlier; had the boy been there all along?

‘I want to know his business.’ He bunched his fists. I was surprised by his anger.

‘We’re not likely to find him now. He was probably just a street boy being nosy.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about. Why would he be watching the Cross Bones?’

‘You think he was spying? For whom?’

Poole rolled his eyes. ‘I wonder that Master Secretary sets such store by your wits,’ he said, and I did not miss the barb in his tone. I realised then that he resented me – and that could only mean Walsingham had spoken highly enough of me for Poole to fear I threatened his standing. I confess that the thought pleased me. ‘No one is supposed to know that Clara is dead, least of all me,’ he continued, his voice a low growl. ‘Coaxing a slip-up from Babington and his friends depends on me pretending I know nothing of her whereabouts. If I have been seen poking about the scene of her murder, my deception will be exposed.’

‘Exactly as Phelippes warned,’ I murmured. He shot me a hostile glare.

‘He saw you too.’

I refrained from reminding him that Phelippes had foreseen that as well.

‘We’re not going to find the boy now. The best thing we can do is get away from here as quickly as possible. It’s probably nothing,’ I added as we retraced his steps past the cottages. ‘Maybe he just took a fancy to the horse. You said yourself the whole borough is full of thieves.’

Poole stopped dead and stared at me. ‘Shit. The gate.’

He broke into a run; I followed him around the corner and we tumbled through the open door of the Cross Bones, to find the graveyard empty. Only a fresh pile of dung by the brazier gave any indication that a horse had ever been there. Poole tore off his hat and flung it on the ground with an impressive string of oaths that would have made a Neapolitan proud. When he had exhausted all the words he knew, he looked at me.

‘Are you laughing?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, leaning against the wall and clutching my stomach. I could not even say why I found the situation so funny; the two of us, vying with each other for Walsingham’s approbation as to who was the best of his espials, while a child thief had played us like a lute. Poole took a step forward and I shrank against the wall, bracing myself to dodge a punch, but he stopped abruptly and doubled over, his shoulders shaking. Eventually I realised he was laughing too.

‘Oh, fuck,’ he said, when he could speak, straightening up and wiping his eyes. ‘It wasn’t even my horse. It was Ballard’s. He’ll have my balls.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and burst into guffaws again. I clapped him on the back. I could see that this was a way for him to release the pent-up emotion of the past hour, and it seemed to have broken the tension between us too. But I couldn’t help a glance behind me. Perhaps the boy was a mere horse thief, but he had seen my face.

EIGHT

We caught a wherry back across the river from Goat Stairs and walked back up through the city to Leadenhall. I bought a pie from a street vendor on the way, though Poole ate nothing; his fit of hilarity had passed in the boat and a morose mood had overtaken him. I wondered if he was brooding on his sister or the loss of the horse.

Back at Phelippes’s rooms, we found Walsingham prowling the large study like one of the Queen’s caged beasts, while his cryptographer sat in his usual place at the desk, head bowed, quill scratching.

‘You took your time,’ Walsingham said, not quite hiding his irritation. ‘I began to think you’d gone back to France.’ This last was directed at me.

‘The journey took a while,’ I said, not looking at Poole.

‘Huh. Was it worth the trouble? Anything useful?’

‘Bruno found this, Your Honour,’ Poole said, holding out the locket. ‘It’s my sister’s all right.’

Walsingham turned it over in his palm and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘That’s worth a bit. I’m surprised it wasn’t spotted by greedy eyes. Where did you find it?’

‘In the undergrowth,’ I said.

‘We think she might have thrown it there when she realised her life was in danger,’ Poole added. Walsingham continued to look at me, a question in his eyes. I could have voiced my reservations about Poole’s theory but I was not about to make him look foolish in front of his superiors.

Walsingham nodded. ‘Thomas.’

He tossed the locket to Phelippes, who snapped it open, removed the lock of hair, then inserted a fine, thin tool into the hinge. Soundlessly, the inner casing flipped up to reveal a hidden compartment. With a pair of tweezers, Phelippes removed a thin strip of paper and unfolded it, while Poole stared in amazement.

‘Ingenious, no?’ Walsingham allowed a brief smile. ‘Bloody Mary gave these as gifts to her trusted women. Useful way to carry secret messages around unseen.’

‘I have seen something similar,’ I said, thinking of a woman I had known long ago, in Naples.

‘Clara never showed me this,’ Poole said, with a hint of indignation, his eyes wide. ‘Is that how she hid messages from the conspirators?’

‘One of the ways.’ Walsingham pressed his lips together with a grim satisfaction. ‘Get to work, Thomas. What have you there, Bruno?’

‘I found this in the same place,’ I said, handing him the pitcher. ‘It’s recent, there’s a little wine left in the bottom. I don’t know if it’s useful. There was nothing else there that I could see.’

Poole frowned. ‘Except a quantity of blood. I would speak with you alone, Your Honour. It’s time I was allowed to see my sister, and bury her.’

‘Long past time,’ Walsingham agreed. ‘But for now I need you close to Babington. Ballard is expected back in London any day and I must have Bruno prepared for his return.’

I opened my mouth to interject but he spoke to Poole over me: ‘Find out what you can. Mark what they ask you about your sister, and who among them seems ill at ease. Continue to tell them you have not heard from her.’

Poole appeared to consider arguing, but subsided under the force of Walsingham’s stare. In the doorway he paused, one hand on the post.

‘That locket belongs to me,’ he said, with a hint of warning. ‘It’s all I have of her.’

‘And you shall have it, as soon as Thomas has finished his work,’ Walsingham said, in the same reasonable tone. ‘Bring your news to Seething Lane after supper and we’ll speak further. I know how hard this must be, Robin. Your loyalty and obedience will be remembered, when this is done.’

Poole gave a curt nod and disappeared. Walsingham waited until his footsteps had died on the stairs before closing the door to Phelippes’s chamber.

‘She’ll be in the ground by then. That curate you met at the leper chapel – he’s burying one of his elderly parishioners this afternoon. Clara will go in the churchyard at the same time, no one will be any the wiser and with luck, Robin will never have to see the body. Especially after my physician opened her this morning, at your suggestion. No sign that she was with child.’

I felt obscurely disappointed; I had wanted to be right about that.

‘Then we can rule out that theory, at least. I suppose there is no doubt that her death is connected to the conspiracy.’

‘But why, Bruno? What did they suspect – did they know they’d been infiltrated? That is what I need to know. What did you make of your trip to Southwark?’

‘I don’t understand why I was there.’ I jerked my thumb towards the door. ‘Why did you send him to search the place?’

‘Robin was determined to go, with my permission or without.’ Walsingham walked to the window and peered out over the street. ‘He came to me demanding I give him one of my men to help. Seemed convinced there must be something there to discover that would help him pin the blame. I thought it better to let him feel he was being useful, and I thought of you because you’ll have to get to know each other – you’ll be looking out for one another among the conspirators. And with a stranger his guard might have been down. One must always watch the watchers, eh, Bruno?’

I looked at his back as his meaning became clear. ‘You don’t suspect Poole? Of murdering his own sister?’

Walsingham turned, with a sombre smile. ‘Let us rather say, I hold no one above suspicion in anything. Every man has a price. Even Thomas. Isn’t that right, Thomas?’

‘I would have dispatched her more efficiently,’ Phelippes said, without looking up. There appeared to be no trace of irony in his words. ‘Not with that absurd spectacle. Besides, I was with you at Seething Lane that night.’

Walsingham winked at me, but I could only think of Frances Sidney’s remark that Phelippes had no more human feeling than a clockwork machine. There was something chilling about the man; I had no doubt that he could kill in the Queen’s service if the proposal made logical sense, and that he would plan it to the last detail with a total absence of conscience.

‘But you’re right, it would be a stretch to suspect Poole,’ Walsingham said. He looked even more exhausted than he had the day before. ‘How did he seem to you?’

‘Like a man fighting to remain master of his feelings,’ I said.

‘Which feelings, precisely?’

‘Guilt. Anger. Grief, obviously. I was praying he wouldn’t stumble on a severed ear – it was bad enough trying to reason away the bloodstains he found. He knows you have not told him the whole truth. You can’t seriously think he would have done anything so vicious? He clearly loved her.’

‘Oh, Robin loved Clara a great deal, no question,’ Walsingham said, wandering over to Phelippes’s desk. He let the statement hang, ripe with ambiguity. ‘And this?’ He picked up the locket, dangling it from the broken chain.

‘It was there for the finding. I’d be surprised if that was coincidence.’

‘Interesting. Who planted it, I wonder? Clara? Or her killer? And why?’ He pulled at his beard. ‘Is it a cipher, Thomas?’

Phelippes glanced up from the paper. He wore a pair of magnifying lenses fixed with a silver hinge over his nose; they made his eyes disturbingly fish-like. ‘It’s a series of symbols, very precisely drawn. But it doesn’t fit with any code I recognise from the Babington group. I will need to give it more study.’

‘Quick as you can. If it was meant to be found, someone wants us to read it. Perhaps the victim herself. And have the wine in that bottle tested, see if there is anything to be learned. As for you, Bruno,’ he clapped me on the shoulder, ‘I’m expecting news any day of our Spanish Jesuit’s arrival. Time for you to stop dancing around me like a coy maiden, who may or may not. Will you return to your squabbling undergraduates and a French knife in your back, or will you lend your considerable talents to protecting Queen Elizabeth and the freedom of England?’

He spoke as if he had never doubted my decision.

‘Poole says Ballard and Savage are dangerous fanatics.’

‘You knew that. They wish to assassinate the Queen. You saw what was done to Clara.’

‘They will cut my throat in a heartbeat if they suspect me. That would be no use to you. Or to me.’

‘But we shall make sure they won’t.’ He smiled. ‘Come, Bruno. You lived for two years at the French embassy, trusted associate of the ambassador, protégé of King Henri, all the while working for me and never suspected. You know how to play a part quite as if you were born to it.’

‘But I was at least playing a version of myself. And there were those who suspected my loyalty even then – they just couldn’t prove it. You want me to become someone else entirely – I have no experience of that. What if I should slip up, or be recognised?’

‘No experience?’ The smile grew wider, but there was warmth in it. ‘Philip Sidney told me you spent two years travelling through Italy under a false name after you abandoned the Dominican order without permission, with the Inquisition at your heels. You can become someone else when it suits you.’

‘That was ten years ago. I had a greater appetite for adventure then, and no choice about it.’

‘I don’t believe your craving for adventure has diminished since. Else you would not have caught a midnight boat from France to bring me Berden’s letter. As for choice …’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and the smile vanished. ‘Don’t you see, Bruno – you are the only one who can do this for us. The arrival of the Jesuit makes it the perfect opportunity. No one else has the ability to get inside Babington’s circle and make sure this conspiracy plays out as we need it to.’

‘I feel as if we are reliving history,’ I said, suddenly weary. ‘All this happened three years ago with Throckmorton and his plot.’

‘How do you think I feel?’ He threw his hands up with a mirthless laugh. ‘These plots repeat year after year, and they will keep coming, for as long as Mary Stuart lives to shout her claim to anyone who blames the government for his misfortune. The difference this time is that we have a real chance to cut off the source of them for good.’ He drew the edge of his hand across his throat. It was this, more than anything he said, that betrayed his desperation; Walsingham was not given to dramatic gestures.

I hesitated. That was my mistake. His eyes hardened; I had made him doubt my commitment, and he despised above all a man who wavered.

‘There is another consideration,’ he said. ‘Your friend Sophia Underhill.’

‘What of her?’ The immediacy of my response, and its defensiveness, were enough to show him that he had hit the mark.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘In the spring. I don’t remember. February or March, perhaps.’

March 17th; it was etched in my memory. She had told me she thought it best we did not meet any more. She worried about my reputation in Paris, and hers among the English Catholics there if she should be seen with me. She feared I hoped for too much from her. It was then that I had decided to go to Wittenberg.

‘Did you know she planned to return to England?’

‘She mentioned the possibility, though only as a plan for the distant future.’

‘She arrived in London in – when was it, Thomas?’

‘Third of May,’ Phelippes said, not troubling to look up.

‘May.’ Walsingham fixed me with a stern look. ‘Charles Paget wrote and told me. He continues to try and curry favour with me, and thought the information might come in useful. He had set her up with a position, as a companion to Lady Grace Cavendish. Wife of Sir Henry Cavendish, an old gaming associate of Paget’s.’

The names meant nothing to me. I held his gaze, waiting for him to reveal his purpose. Wherever he was tending, it would not be good.

‘Henry Cavendish is the eldest son of Bess of Hardwick, from her first marriage. A libertine, gambler, drunk and an idiot, up to his neck in debt. He was disinherited years ago in favour of his brother. Eight bastard children and not a one with his wife. You can see why she would need a companion, poor creature.’

‘Is Sophia in danger?’ The thought of her living under the same roof as a man like that made the hairs stand up on my arms. Walsingham allowed a wolfish smile; my reaction seemed to have pleased him.

‘Oh, I think your Sophia knows how to take care of entitled men, does she not?’ He left a significant pause. ‘She’s still going by the name of Mary Gifford, by the way. But she had another name once – besides the one she was baptised with, I mean. She was known in Canterbury as Mrs Kate Kingsley. You remember, I’m sure.’

A chill flooded through me and I felt my throat constrict. I understood him now, and did not trust myself to speak.

‘In fact,’ he continued, his voice smooth, ‘she was wanted for murder under that name, do you recall?’

‘The case was closed. She was never convicted.’

‘More accurate to say she was never brought to trial,’ he said. ‘Paget doesn’t know about that business. He took an interest in her because he found her intelligent and he is practised enough to know when someone is hiding their past. And, of course, because he knew she was of interest to you. But it was bold of her to come back to England so soon. There’s every chance of her being recognised, and even a man like Henry Cavendish wouldn’t want a cold-blooded murderess playing chess with his wife.’

‘She’s not a murderess.’ I fought to keep my voice level.

‘I’m sure she is not.’ His tone had grown placatory, which was always the most dangerous. ‘From what you have told me, she is a most resourceful and sharp-witted girl. She must be, to have outwitted you.’

I wondered how he knew of that, and supposed Sidney must have told him the whole story: how I had acted to clear Sophia’s name in Canterbury, believing she returned my feelings, only for her to flee to France after stealing a valuable book from me, as if I meant nothing to her. The betrayal still stung. I said nothing.

‘I should like to make use of her talents,’ Walsingham continued, as if he were merely thinking aloud.

This made me straighten. ‘How?’

‘Henry Cavendish is uncle to the lovely Bessie Pierrepont, who has caught our young friend Gifford’s imagination, as I told you. Bessie is a frequent visitor to her aunt Lady Grace, and shares confidences. Another pair of eyes and ears in that household would be extremely useful.’

‘What makes you think Sophia would work for you?’ The thought of her pressed into Walsingham’s service made my head ache; she would leap at the chance of a role beyond those available to her as a woman of no means, the excitement of it. Just like Clara Poole.

‘Because I could have her arrested for the murder of her husband and sent to stand trial in Canterbury any time I chose,’ he said, with a trace of impatience. ‘But if she helps me, I will help her. She wants to find her son, does she not? The one she was forced to give up three years ago.’

I stared at him. ‘You know where he is? How?’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Really, Bruno. There’s not much goes on in this realm that I can’t find out.’

‘Does Sophia know?’ Even the discovery that her son was alive would mean the world to her. But perhaps a glimmer of possibility would be worse than ignorance; as far as I was aware, the boy had been sold by Sophia’s aunt to a wealthy childless couple and there was little chance that his mother, as an unmarried woman, could hope to get him back, especially if she could not reveal her true identity. Knowing Sophia, that would not stop her trying.

‘I have not yet found an opportunity to speak with her. That rather depends on you.’ He let the implication hang there between us.

‘You mean that if I don’t agree to this Babington business, you won’t tell her about her son?’

‘I mean, Bruno, that you risked a great deal to save her from a murder charge once before, so I have no doubt you would do so again.’

We watched one another like dogs at the start of a fight; his eyes were implacable. I wondered how long he had been keeping this ultimatum up his sleeve. If I did not agree to his proposal, he would see Sophia arrested for murder. If I did what he wanted, his generosity would extend to her as well as me. I realised, with a quickening flush of shame, how foolish I had been to think of Walsingham as a benign father figure to his agents; looking at him now, the hard line of his compressed lips, I saw the man who could turn the rack on a young priest without flinching, who would put his daughter’s closest friend in an unmarked grave to save his mission, and I understood that nothing would come between him and his duty to England and the Queen.

‘Her Majesty’s Service is not a hobby, Bruno,’ he said with quiet finality. ‘It’s not for you to pick and choose the parts that strike you as an amusing pastime. England needs your skills now. That is all there is to it. Do we have an agreement?’

My fists drew tight at my sides as I tried to outstare him; I felt the strain in my jaw as I fought to batten down the rising tide of anger, just as I had seen Poole doing earlier. At length, I bowed my head. There was nothing left to say.

‘Good. I am needed at Whitehall. You will do as Thomas tells you until I return, I hope that’s clear.’ He paused on his way past me to the door, and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘God be with you.’

I almost responded, but I was furious with him and determined that he should know it. I turned my face away. He waited a moment, and withdrew. I stood, fixed to the spot, shaking with rage. Phelippes’s quill scratched on rhythmically in the empty air.

‘Do you think he’d have done it?’ I asked, turning to him. ‘Sent her for trial to punish me? After everything we have been through?’

The cryptographer unexpectedly looked up, took off his eyeglasses and blinked at me. ‘You don’t really need to ask that. He will do whatever is necessary for the good of the state.’

‘Of course.’ I placed my hands on the edge of his desk and leaned over him, hearing the bitterness in my voice. ‘The good of the state. Why should he have a conscience over sending one girl to the gallows, when he has none over sending a queen to the block?’

‘The stake,’ Phelippes corrected, angling himself away from me to avoid being spat on.

‘What?’

‘Your woman is accused of killing her husband. In English law that is petty treason. Her punishment would be burning at the stake.’

I pictured Sophia’s face engulfed by flames and closed my eyes briefly.

‘You know, I once believed he had some affection for me.’

‘He respects your talents.’

‘But we are all pawns to him in the end. Poole was right. Even you.’ When he didn’t reply, I moved closer until my face was an inch from his. I wanted to provoke a reaction, but he merely blinked again.

‘Truer to say we are troops in a war. A general cannot shed a tear over every soldier who falls.’

‘But a good general stands by his men.’

When he did not reply, I slapped my palm on the desk, hard.

‘Doesn’t that make you angry, Thomas? You’ve devoted your whole life to him. Or do you imagine you are different?’

He returned his attention to the paper before him. ‘I have never given it much thought,’ he said. I realised that, unusually, Thomas Phelippes was lying.

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