Sacrilege

pause, wiping lines of sweat from my brow and shaking my head in disbelief at what I read.

As for this our most blessed and holy enterprise, wrote the author of the letter from Paris, His Catholic Majesty King Philip urges our brothers in England to remain steadfast and to regard the present difficulties as temporary.

God has delivered into our hands the Prince of Orange, whose death is surely the blow that will topple the fragile edifice of the heretic church in Europe. With English troops committed to the war in the Netherlands, Elizabeth’s defences will be weakened. At that moment, we will pray most fervently for a miracle from Saint Thomas, by the grace of God. As a sign of his good faith King Philip entrusts to the servants of the blessed saint his holy oil in readiness.

More pious exhortations followed, to trust in God and continue to serve him with patience in this matter.

We thank you for your recent news of my lord H and pray God grant his freedom, which we expect any day.

I sat back on my heels and breathed out slowly to steady myself. “Bernadino de Mendoza,” I whispered into the stifling air of my small room, as if speaking his name aloud would provide confirmation of my suspicions. For who else would be writing in his mother tongue from Paris but the gruff Spanish ambassador whom I had met the previous autumn at Salisbury Court? It was the nobleman Mendoza who had brought the promise of King Philip’s support to the invasion conspiracy, giving the fantasies of Henry Howard and the Duke of Guise some prospect of becoming reality. Queen Elizabeth had expelled him from London at the beginning of this year when his part in the plot was discovered, and I knew King Philip had sent him directly to Paris, where he had joined forces with Guise and his Catholic League, as well as those exiled English Catholics who still dreamed of putting Mary Stuart on the English throne.

So Langworth was corresponding with Mendoza. Harry Robinson must be ignorant of this, or Walsingham would have mentioned it. I pursed my lips and breathed out slowly. The conspirators who had gathered at Salisbury Court the previous autumn had been routed, but it seemed those who had driven the plot were still trying to keep it alive, waiting for the right moment to revive it. Langworth had as good as said so to Samuel. Now, this letter implied, the murder of William of Orange would hasten that moment; if the queen sent English troops to support the Protestants in the Netherlands, England’s own defences would be weakened against a joint attack by Spain and Guise’s French army. We will pray most fervently for a miracle from Saint Thomas, Mendoza had underlined. A pious figure of speech, or something more concrete? And what was the “holy oil”?

Whatever the meaning, I needed to send the information to Walsingham as quickly as possible. I carefully folded the original ciphered letter together with my translation of it and the code I had copied and tucked them all back into my purse, lest anyone should find their way into my chamber. For obvious reasons, I had little faith in locks, though I turned the key anyway. In the passageway downstairs I was intercepted by the landlady, Marina, before I could reach the door. She gave a squeal of delight, as if I were a long-anticipated surprise, and scolded me playfully for my absence at breakfast.

“Why, we hardly see you, Master Savolino, you are so busy with your affairs. Quite the mystery, you are. What can keep you abroad in the city at all hours, I wonder?” She sent me a look laden with innuendo from beneath her eyelashes. I returned a patient smile. “And here you are off out again! Where to this time, may I ask?”

I was tempted to reply that she may not, but knew from experience that it is prudent to keep on the right side of your host.

“I have a sudden desire to eat an orange,” I said. “I was going out to the market—unless you sell them here?” I raised my eyes in the direction of the taproom. She swatted at me in mock outrage.

“Do I look like an orange-girl to you?”

Orange-sellers, at least in London, were widely regarded as prostitutes. I glanced down at the mound of bosom straining against her corset and back up to her garishly painted mouth. With a basket of oranges under her arm she would not have looked out of place in a London theatre or pleasure-garden, save perhaps for her age, which was hard to judge under the makeup.

“Not at all. I meant no offence.”

“None taken.” She giggled again, then beckoned me back along the passage. “But just for you, I’m sure I can find an orange tucked away somewhere. They’re expensive, mind.”

“I will pay, of course.”

“Oh, you can make it up to me later.” She winked.

God in heaven. I smiled again, more nervously this time, and followed her along the shadowy corridor towards the kitchen, wondering what price she had in mind.

“Here,” she said, pushing past the cook and kitchen maid and bending to rummage in a large basket before emerging triumphant, a small, wizened orange in her hand. “Careful eating that in your room, Master Savolino,” she said, making her voice husky. “You could get very sticky. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you, won’t you?”

I thanked her, then hurried back to my room as fast as I could, aware that she was watching me until I reached the stairs. Marina was harmless, I was sure, but the mere fact that she had decided to take a special interest in me was a disadvantage when I had hoped to pass unobserved at the inn.

With the door to my chamber locked again, I worked quickly, squeezing the juice from the orange into the shallow dish that had held the candle by my bed. I took a quill and new sheet of paper from my bag and dipped the sharpened nib into the juice. While it was still fresh, I copied out the decoded letter, noting that it was sent to Langworth and reproducing the author’s signature symbol, in the hope that Walsingham would be able to corroborate it as Mendoza’s. Underneath I wrote out the cipher, so that he would have it for future reference.

I waved the paper, watching as the juice dried and the words slowly faded to nothing, leaving the sheet blank, if a little warped. It was an old trick, well known to those familiar with secret correspondence; if the letter were to fall into the hands of anyone suspicious of its contents the first thing they would do would be to hold it up to the flame of a candle to see if there was a hidden message. I could only hope that no one would suspect the weavers of carrying intelligence to London, if they agreed to take the letter.

When the paper was dry, I wiped the nib of the quill, took some real ink, and scribbled a short note to Sidney on the other side, one that would not look unusual if anyone were to glance at the letter. “I am enjoying the sights of Canterbury and have hopes that my research into ecclesiastical history will soon bear fruit,” I wrote, hoping he would pick up on the mention of fruit. “I expect to be here a little longer as there is much work still to be done and it would cheer me to hear from you soon. Your messenger will find me at the Cheker of Hope, where I have much news for him.” I paused, the pen hovering over the paper, wondering if I should add more. The crucial thing was that Walsingham should know the invasion conspiracy was still active in Paris; it might make the queen think twice before committing troops to the war in the Netherlands. By suggesting that Sidney send his own private messenger with any letters, I was also implying that the usual channels of communication with Canterbury were not to be trusted. I signed the letter “Filippo” and sealed it.

This time it was Olivier’s sister Hélène who opened the door at the weavers’ house. She ushered me in quickly, her face pinched with anxiety. From behind her I heard the rhythmic clatter of the looms and women’s voices.

“Wait here. I will fetch my brother.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier,” I said, as she turned towards the stairs. “I didn’t know about your son.”

She lowered her eyes, twisting her fingers together.

“How could you? No one here cares to know.” She fell silent for a moment, then raised her eyes and I saw they were full of tears. “Why does God test us like this?” she burst out, her fists clenched. “When all we have ever done is try to defend His truth?”

I shook my head. “I cannot defend or explain Him, I’m afraid. That’s why I gave up theology.”

“Sometimes it begins to look as if He is on the side of the Catholics after all. May God forgive me,” she added quickly, glancing around in case anyone had overheard.

“I often think He has turned His back on our petty squabbles altogether.”

She gave me a brief, sad smile.

“My Denis. He was all I had,” she whispered, the sudden passion gone out of her, seeming to shrink her again. “Why would they take him?”

“What makes you think someone took him?” I asked.