My uncle the Earl of Leicester has long argued for an English military intervention to aid the Dutch rebels, Sidney said, sitting forward with sudden vigour and clenching his fists. And I would go with him in an instant. Teach those Spanish curs a lesson they wont forget.
Walsingham looked up sharply. Dont be too hasty, Philip. That war could easily rumble on for another twenty years, with thousands more deaths on each side. In my opinion, it cant be won, except with a concerted effort by united Protestant forces from all across Europe, and I see little prospect of that.
Sidney sat back, chastened, and I wondered if Walsingham had interpreted his eagerness for a military adventure as a personal slight, a desire to escape his domestic life here at Barn Elms. Moments passed in silence, the only sound a persistent fly buzzing against the window. I watched the sunlight cast patterns on the wooden boards, broken by flickering shadows from the leaves of the trees outside, and waited for someone to speak.
Gods death! Walsingham cried suddenly, slamming his fist down on the desk so that his tortoiseshell inkwell rattled and Sidney and I started out of our private thoughts. The Prince of Orange has just been shot on his own stairs as he left his dinner table. Can you imagine how this news has shaken Her Majesty? You will not see her show it in public, but she no longer sleeps. She knows Philip of Spain means her to be next. He took a deep breath and passed a hand over his head as if smoothing his thoughts, looking from me to Sidney like a schoolmaster. The Catholic forces in Europe are gaining strength. If Spain regains control of the Netherlands, the Protestants there will be massacred. And then Spain will turn his attention to England. Who will France support when that day comes? King Henri must talk to us, he cannot hide his head in his rosary beads for ever. He pounded his fist on the table again and glared at me, as if he held me responsible for the French Kings havering. Sidney and I saw Saint Bartholomews Day in Paris with our own eyes, you know, he added, more quietly. Little children and their grandmothers cut down with swords in their own homes. A thousand lifetimes would not be enough to forget such sights. He closed his eyes, and his features seemed weighed down by sorrow.
Sidney and I glanced at one another; it was rare to see Walsingham ruffled by foreign affairs. Part of his incomparable value to Elizabeth was his faultless composure in any situation. Walsingham is frightened, I thought, and the realisation made me feel for a moment as if the ground had shifted beneath my feet, just as I felt as a child when I first saw my soldier father afraid. The murder of the Prince of Orange had struck at the English government in its tenderest spot. This thought brought me back to the other murder that had preoccupied my thoughts for most of the night.
I could meet him in Lyon, when his pilgrimage is finished, Sidney offered, resting his feet on the window seat and pulling his knees to his chest, the way a child would sit. It would be no great trouble to journey to Lyon instead.
Walsingham looked at him again with a sceptical frown. I was certain that he heard, as I did, the note of longing in Sidneys voice. My friend itched for the life of travel and adventure he had known in his youth; the longer he stayed cooped up at Barn Elms and the court, the quicker he would be to volunteer for any mission that offered different horizons, even if it meant going to war.
Walsingham stood, making a show of sorting the papers on his desk into two piles and arranging them neatly side by side.
Well, we will put that to Castelnau when I summon him to an audience with the Queen. Tell him to give it some thought, Bruno. Meanwhile, I am intrigued to hear about your pilgrimage. What attraction can Canterbury hold for you, hmm?
I hesitated again. There was a risk in telling Walsingham the truth; he might forbid me outright, for any number of reasons, and to make the journey against his express wishes would result in my being dismissed from his service, which I could not afford either in terms of income or patronage. But there was a greater risk in not telling him, since he would discover the truth anyway; no one kept secrets from Walsingham, not even the King of Spain or the Pope himself. So I stepped forward, as if taking my place on a stage, and gave them a brief précis of the story Sophia had told me, leaving out any details that I thought might compromise her. When I had finished, Sidney was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at me with new admiration, while his father-in-law looked fiercer than ever.
I remember the Rectors daughter, Sidney said, with a lascivious grin. You sly dog, Bruno.
Walsinghams face remained serious. You have had your head turned by this woman before, I think, Bruno. What proof have you that she didnt murder her husband?
I spread my hands wide. No proof except her word, your honour. But I am willing to take the risk.
So I see. But Im not sure that Im willing for you to put yourself in that position. He cupped his chin in his hand, his long fingers stretched across his mouth as he continued to regard me with a thoughtful expression. It was a familiar gesture of his, one he employed when he was weighing up a situation, as if his hand were a mask to hide any tell-tale emotion. There was some doubt over her religion, as I recall?
I paused briefly before looking up and meeting his eye.
I assure you that she follows no unorthodox religion now, your honour. I refrained from adding that she followed no religion at all.
Walsingham scanned my face with his practised gaze, as if for any twitch of a nerve that might betray a lie. My throat felt dry, and I reminded myself that I was still on the same side as Walsingham, even if on this matter I needed to bend the truth a little. What must it be like to be interrogated by him, I wondered. That steely, unswerving stare could break a mans defences even without the threat of torture a measure he did not shy from in the interest of defending the realm.
This scrutiny seemed to last several minutes until, with a flick of his hand, he dismissed the idea.
Impossible, anyway. I need to know what is unfolding in France the minute King Henri writes to his Ambassador. We cant afford to have you away from the embassy.
I bowed my head and said nothing; from the corner of my eye I noticed Sidney looking at me with concern.
With respect, Sir Francis Bruno is not our only source of intelligence from France, he said, his former languor all brushed away and his tone serious. And he could be useful in Canterbury.
Walsingham looked taken aback at this unexpected mutiny and a small furrow appeared briefly in his brow, but when he realised Sidney was in earnest his expression changed to one of cautious curiosity.
That is the first time I have heard you express any interest in your constituency. He turned to me. You know Sidney was returned as Member of Parliament for Kent this year? Though I dont think the people of Kent could accuse him of being over-attentive to their needs.
Never been, Sidney said, with cheerful insouciance. Bruno can report back for me. That way Ill be fully briefed in time for the autumn session.
Bruno would be too conspicuous, Walsingham said, after a moments reflection.
Not necessarily, Sidney countered. No one knows him there. He might have an easier time of it than Harry. Besides, if men of standing in the city are being murdered you never know
Never been, Sidney said, with cheerful insouciance. Bruno can report back for me. That way Ill be fully briefed in time for the autumn session.
Bruno would be too conspicuous, Walsingham said, after a moments reflection.
Not necessarily, Sidney countered. No one knows him there. He might have an easier time of it than Harry. Besides, if men of standing in the city are being murdered you never know
Walsingham frowned again and I swivelled my head between them, trying to follow this new direction. Sidney glanced across and gave me an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement while Walsingham was deep in thought.
Canterbury is not an immediate priority, Walsingham said at length, with a tone of finality.
We do not know how much of a priority it is, since Harrys letters are so patchy, Sidney said, without pausing for breath. Remember how well Bruno served Her Majesty in Oxford? he added, with a subtle smile.
I have not forgotten, Philip. But neither have I forgotten that he helped save England from an invasion of Catholic forces last year, and he did that from within the French embassy.
I still think Bruno has a talent for making friends and gaining confidences in places neither you nor I nor Harry can go. He may uncover more than a murderer in Canterbury, given the chance. Sidney folded his arms across his chest and sent Walsingham a meaningful look; I recognised the stubborn cast to his jaw and knew that he did not mean to back down in this argument. While I appreciated his willingness to square up to his father-in-law on my behalf, I was not entirely sure what he was petitioning for. Too conspicuous for what?
Forgive me, I said, as they continued to glare at one another, but who is Harry?
Walsingham turned to me, sighed, and waved me towards a chair. Then he pushed his own chair back, stood up from behind his desk, and moved in front of the fireplace, diamonds of bright sunlight patterning his neat black doublet and breeches as he paced, rubbing his beard with his right hand.
What do you know of Canterbury, Bruno?
I shrugged. Only that until the English Church broke with Rome, it was one of the most important pilgrim shrines in Europe.
And one of the most lucrative. The monks of the former priory raked in a fortune from pilgrims through their trade in relics and indulgences, and the rest of the city profited greatly from the vast numbers of the faithful hostelries, cobblers, farriers, every industry that serves those who travel long distances. He set his mouth in a grim line. There are a great many in that city who have seen their incomes dwindle and their familys fortunes fall since the shrine was destroyed.
So there are plenty who hanker after the old faith, I imagine?
Exactly. Remember, the shrine was only destroyed in 1538. Forty-six years is not long for a city to forget or forgive such a loss of status. There are plenty still living who carry bitter memories of what the Royal Commissioners did to the abbey and the shrine, and hand that resentment down to their children and grandchildren.
Who watch and wait, clinging to the belief that one day soon England will have a Catholic sovereign again, and the shrine of Canterbury will be restored to its former glory, Sidney cut in.
Except that lately we fear they have been doing more than merely watching and waiting, Walsingham added.
But the Archbishop of Canterbury is the most senior prelate of the English Church, I said. Surely he is extra careful about religious obedience in his own See?
The Archbishop is never there, Walsingham replied. He is too busy politicking in London. The Dean and the canons have de facto power in the city, and one never knows how many of them may hold secret loyalties in their hearts.
One in particular, Sidney added darkly.
Who has connections to some of those involved in the conspiracy against the Queen last autumn. Walsingham looked at me. Including your friend Lord Henry Howard.
I recalled Sophia saying that her late husband had been a lay canon at the cathedral. If there were plots brewing there, might he have known something of them, given his penchant for secrecy?
Then there is the cult of the saint, Walsingham added, lowering his voice as if to begin a ghost tale. Do you know the story of Thomas Becket, Bruno?
Of course we had shrines to him even in Italy. The former archbishop who was murdered in the cathedral.
Walsingham nodded. He was a great friend of the King Henry II, this is who thought he could use Becket to promote his own interests against the Church. But Becket refused the Kings demands. In 1170 their quarrel came to a head.
Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest? Sidney declared, with relish. So the King said, according to the legend, and four of his knights chose to take that as a direct command.
They murdered him as he knelt at prayer, if I remember right? I said.
Struck him down with their swords. Sidneys eyes gleamed; he had not lost his schoolboy fascination for the details of violent death. Cut off the crown of his head, so his brains spilled all over the stone floor.
The King was stricken with remorse, of course, Walsingham continued, but I was staring open-mouthed at Sidney.
What did you say?
He looked surprised.
They struck him down with a sword.
After that. His brains.
He made a ghoulish face. An eyewitness account said the knights trod the whites of his brains across the flagstones, all churned up with his blood. Sorry to upset you, Bruno I forget you have never been to war. He meant it as a joke, but his smile faded when he saw that I was not laughing with him. Sophias description of her husbands murder had echoed dimly in my memory, but now it was clear; I had been thinking of the death of Thomas Becket. To cut a man down in the precincts of Canterbury Cathedral in the same manner as its most famous murder victim seemed a grim coincidence. But did it signify any more than that?
Are you all right, Bruno? Walsingham asked, leaning closer, his sharp eyes missing nothing.
Yes, your honour. I quickly composed my expression. I was remembering the story.
He looked at me shrewdly for a moment, then continued:
Beckets body was buried under the floor of the crypt, for fear it would be stolen. Before long, the tales of miracles began and grew in the telling, as martyrs legends will, and the monks realised they were sitting on a pot of gold. If they could keep inventing stories of miraculous healing by the power of Saint Thomass body, the penitent would keep bringing their offerings.
Until the tomb was destroyed, I said, almost in a whisper.
Well, that, of course, is the great question. Walsingham folded his arms and looked at me expectantly.
It was not destroyed? I turned to him, confused.
The shrine was smashed, certainly, and all its gold plate and jewels taken for the royal treasury, he said.
And the bones in the tomb were scattered on the ground with every last fragment crushed to dust, Sidney added.
Then what is the question? I asked, looking from one to the other.
Whose bones were they? Walsingham smiled as he watched my widening eyes.
Ah. So the body in the tomb was a substitute?