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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?’