Alain looked tortured. ‘I can’t live with the man who murdered my mother!’
‘But you believe in the true, Protestant religion.’
‘Of course.’
‘And it’s our duty as believers to spread the word.’
‘I know.’
‘The best way for you to serve the cause might be to tell me what your stepfather is up to.’
He looked torn. ‘Would it?’
‘Become his secretary, make yourself indispensable to him.’
‘Last week I swore to him that I would kill him in revenge.’
‘He will soon forget that – too many people have sworn to kill Pierre. But surely the best way to avenge her death – and the way that would please the Lord – would be to cripple his efforts to crush the true religion.’
Alain said thoughtfully: ‘It would honour my mother’s memory.’
‘Exactly.’
Then he wavered again. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’
Sylvie glanced at Nath, who discreetly pointed at herself in a gesture that meantLeave this to me, I’ll take care of it.She probably could, Sylvie decided: she had been a second mother to Alain.
Sylvie said to Alain: ‘I can’t overstate how important it is for us to know about English Catholics who contact the Guise family.’
‘There was a big meeting at the palace last week,’ Alain said. ‘They’re talking about invading England.’
‘That’s terrifying.’ Sylvie did not say that she already knew about the meeting. Ned had taught her never to let a spy know that there were other sources of information: that was a cardinal rule of the game. ‘Were there any Englishmen at the meeting?’
‘Yes, one, a priest from the English College. My stepfather has met with him several times. He’s going to contact Mary Stuart and make sure she supports the invasion.’
Jerónima Ruiz had not known this crucial piece of information. Sylvie could hardly wait to tell Ned. But there was one more key fact she needed. ‘Who is this priest?’ she said, and she held her breath.
Alain said: ‘He goes by the name of Jean Langlais.’
Sylvie breathed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Does he, now?’ she said. ‘Well, well.’
23
Sheffield Castle was one of the more uncomfortable prisons in which Alison had spent the last fifteen years with Mary Stuart. It was three hundred years old, and felt it. The place was built at the confluence of two rivers and had a moat on the other two sides, and to say it was damp was a grim understatement. Its owner, the earl of Shrewsbury, had quarrelled with Queen Elizabeth about the meagre allowance she gave him for Mary’s keep; and in consequence Shrewsbury provided the cheapest food and drink.
The only redeeming feature of the place was a deer park of four square miles just across the moat.
Mary was allowed to ride in the park, though she always had to be accompanied by an escort of armed guards. On days when she did not want to ride, for any reason, Alison was allowed to go into the park on her own: no one cared if she escaped. She had a black pony called Garçon who was well-behaved most of the time.
As soon as she had the avenue of walnut trees in front of her she galloped Garçon for a quarter of a mile, to burn off his excess energy. After that he was more obedient.
Riding fast gave her a feeling of freedom that was brief and illusory. When she slowed Garçon to a walk, she remembered that she lived in a prison. She asked herself why she stayed. No one would stop her if she went back to Scotland, or France. But she was a prisoner of hope.
She had lived her life in hope – and disappointment. She had waited for Mary to become queen of France, then that had lasted less than two years. Mary had come home to rule Scotland, but had never been truly accepted as queen, and in the end they had forced her to abdicate. Now she was the rightful queen of England, recognized as such by everyone – except the English. But there were thousands, perhaps millions, of loyal Catholics here who would fight for her and acclaim her as their queen, and now Alison was waiting and hoping for the moment when they would get the chance to do just that.
It was a long time coming.
As she was passing through a grove, a man she did not know stepped from behind a massive oak tree and stood in front of her.
