‘I have befriended the ambassador’s clerk, your honour. For the right price, he says he can give us access to every letter Castelnau writes and receives, if you will guarantee that the documents will bear no evidence of tampering. He is greatly afraid of being discovered – he craves assurances of your honour’s protection.’
‘Good man. Give him all the assurances he needs.’ He clasps my shoulder for a moment. ‘If he will obtain for us an example of the ambassador’s seal, I will set my man Thomas Phelippes to create a forgery. There is no man in England more skilled in the arts of interception. In the circumstances, Bruno, I do not think it prudent that you should be seen so much with Sidney,’ he adds. ‘Now that he is so publicly tied to me. Castelnau must not doubt your loyalty to France for a moment.’
Even through the dark, my face must betray my disappointment; Sidney is the only person I truly consider a friend in England. We had first met years ago in Padua, when I was fleeing through Italy, and renewed our friendship in the spring, when we had travelled to Oxford together on Walsingham’s business. The adventures we shared there had only served to bring us closer. Without his company, I will feel my state of exile all the more keenly.
‘But I have found you another contact. A Scotsman named William Fowler – you will meet him in due course. He is a lawyer who has worked for me in France, so you will have plenty to talk about.’
‘You would trust a lawyer, your honour?’
‘You look amused, Bruno. Lawyers, philosophers, priests, soldiers, merchants – there is no one I will not make use of. Fowler is well connected in Scotland, both among our friends and those loyal to the Scottish queen, who believe he is a friend to their cause. He has also insinuated himself with Castelnau, who believes Fowler to be a secret Catholic unhappy with Her Majesty’s government. He has the knack of making himself all things to all men if necessity demands. Fowler is well placed to convey your reports from inside the embassy without you compromising your position.’ He pauses and lifts his head; strains of music and laughter drift faintly towards the house and he seems to remember the occasion. ‘For now, this is all. Come – we should be merry today. You must rejoin the dance.’
We turn to face the lit windows across the lawn, his hand lightly on my back. Out here, so far from the City, clean night scents of earth, grass and frost carry to us on the breeze. Even the Thames, running its sluggish course beyond the line of the trees behind us, smells fresh here, so far to the west of London. We are only a mile from Dee’s house; I am surprised that he has not been invited. He is, after all, Sidney’s old tutor and a friend of sorts to Walsingham. As if reading my thoughts, the Principal Secretary says, casually,
‘You are spending a good deal of time in Mortlake lately, I hear?’ It is not really a question.
‘I am writing a book,’ I explain, as we begin to move slowly together in the direction of the music. ‘Doctor Dee’s library has been invaluable.’
‘What manner of book?’
‘Of philosophy. And cosmology.’
‘A defence of your beloved Copernicus, then.’
‘Something like that.’ I did not want to say too much about the book I was working on until it was completed. The ideas I was attempting to put forward were not just controversial but revolutionary, far beyond the theories that Copernicus had proposed. I wanted at least to have written it before I was obliged to defend it.
‘Hm.’ A heavy silence. ‘Be wary of John Dee, Bruno.’
‘I thought he was your honour’s friend?’
‘Up to a point. In matters of cartography, or ciphers, or the reformation of the calendar, there is no one in the kingdom whose knowledge I prize higher. But lately his talk runs much on prophecies and omens.’
‘He believes we are living in the end times.’
‘We are living in times of unprecedented turbulence, that much is certain,’ he replies brusquely. ‘But Her Majesty has enough to fear without Dee whispering these apocalyptic forecasts in her ear because he wants to make himself indispensable to her. As do we all, I suppose, in our way,’ he concedes, with a sigh. ‘But then his influence filters down even to the Privy Council chamber and suddenly she will not allow any decision without first consulting a star-chart. It makes the business of government very difficult. Besides,’ he lowers his voice, ‘it is my firm belief that Almighty God has written some secrets into the Book of Nature that are not supposed to be unlocked. From what I hear, Dee’s newest experiments come dangerously close to crossing that line.’
There is no point in asking how he knows of Dee’s experiments; Walsingham’s eyes and ears encompass all of Europe and even the colonies of the New World. It should be no surprise that he knows what goes on a mile from his own house. Yet Dee has been so scrupulous about secrecy where his scrying is concerned.
‘There are some at court who feel he has too much influence over Her Majesty, and must be removed from favour,’ Walsingham continues.
‘Your honour included?’
His teeth shine briefly in the dark as he smiles.
‘I have a great respect for John Dee, and I would not do anything to hurt his reputation. The same is not true of some others on Her Majesty’s Privy Council. Lord Henry Howard is publishing a book, I am told, to be presented to the queen – a fierce attack on prophecy and astrology and all those who claim to tell the future, calling them necromancers, accusing them of speaking with demons. He does not mention Dee by name, but the intent is clear enough … If Dee can be tainted for witchcraft, so much the worse for those of us known as his friends – me, Sidney, the Earl of Leicester. The Howards are dangerously powerful, and the queen knows this well enough. You may like to mention this to Dee the next time you are using his library.’
I incline my head to show that the warning is understood. As I bow and prepare to take my leave, I glance up to see a figure haring across the grass to us, a short riding cloak flapping behind him. He drops breathlessly to his knees at Walsingham’s feet, and even in the thin silvered light I can make out the royal ensign on his livery, beneath the spattering of mud that shows he has ridden hard to get here. He mutters something about Richmond, a matter of urgency; there is alarm in his bulging eyes. I step away discreetly so that he may deliver his news privately, but Walsingham calls me back.
‘Bruno! Wait for me a moment, will you?’
I stand a little way off, stamping my feet against the chill and rubbing my hands while the man rises to his feet and imparts his news in frantic bursts, Walsingham canted over to receive it, his hands still folded immobile behind his back. Whatever news this messenger has brought from the royal household must be serious indeed to interrupt a man’s family wedding feast.
At length, Walsingham murmurs a response, the messenger bows and departs in the direction of the house with the same haste. Walsingham raises his hand to beckon me over.
‘I am needed at Richmond Palace on a most grave matter, Bruno, and I want you with me. It will be preferable to disturbing the celebrations. We must leave quietly, without attracting attention – that fellow is gone to instruct the servants to make a boat ready. I will tell you as much as I know while we travel.’ His voice is tight but controlled; if something distressing has befallen Her Majesty, Walsingham is the man she relies upon to bring order, discipline, calm.
‘Will you not be missed?’ I gesture in the direction of the wedding feast. He laughs, briefly.
‘So long as I leave my steward in charge with the keys to the wine cellar, I doubt anyone