‘One is a letter from Lord Tyrrell, addressed to “His Eminence”. As there’s unlikely to be another cardinal presently in England, I assume that’s you. All but two of the others contain the proof that you came all this way to receive at first hand.’
‘And what manner of proof would that be, Mistress Bianca?’ Fiorzi asks. ‘Proof of what, exactly?’
He’s still being cautious, she thinks. Even here, away from prying ears and eyes, he still won’t put a name to his conspiracy. Doesn’t he realize that if she was going to betray him to the Privy Council, she would have done so long ago?
‘Proof the Brothers of Antioch have found Mary Tudor’s living heir,’ she says bluntly. ‘That’s what you’ve come all this way to see at first hand, isn’t it?’ Turning to Bruno, she adds, ‘That was the “privy matter” you tried to embroil me in. What was it you told me – that day Munt came aboard the Sirena? Something about His Eminence needing someone he can trust in this den of disbelievers.’
Fiorzi’s craggy face remains immobile. Bruno’s, however, has drained of whatever colour it has managed to recover since he awoke. For a moment she fears he’s about to suffer a relapse.
‘And why would I – or your cousin – wish to see proof of such a thing?’ Fiorzi asks calmly, still testing her.
‘Because you intend to put Samuel Wylde on the throne of England, in place of Elizabeth. You want a holy war in this realm against those you consider heretics. And whether he’s your grandson or Mary’s, all you need is enough people to believe in him and then you can launch it!’
For a moment Fiorzi makes no response. His face remains so immobile it could be carved from brown Tivoli marble. If you speak personally to God every day, Bianca supposes, there’s probably little that is likely to shock you.
From his cot, Bruno says softly, ‘She won’t betray us, Eminence. I’ll stake my soul on it.’
Bianca wonders if he’s just made a plea to spare her life. ‘Well, you didn’t come here disguised as a humble mariner simply to help my cousin sell his rice, did you?’ she says defiantly.
‘And how should I have come, Mistress Bianca? Do you imagine Robert Cecil would have welcomed me with open arms if I had arrived fully caparisoned in scarlet? Did your father not tell you the English have a tradition of beheading their cardinals?’
‘To be honest, I don’t care whether you wear a cardinal’s cassock or a bishop’s mitre. I don’t care whether you pray in Latin or in English. I don’t care if you think the wafer and the wine are the body and blood of Our Saviour or you don’t. I just wish you’d all stop writing your arguments in other people’s blood!’
‘Is that truly what you think we came here for, Mistress Bianca?’ asks the cardinal. ‘To satisfy the fantasies of a cabal of embittered old men?’
Bianca stares at him. Even God, she thinks, couldn’t read a man’s thoughts through such impenetrable eyes.
‘Well, isn’t it?’
Bruno lies back in his cot with a faint smile of understanding playing on his bloodless lips. ‘I suppose my cousin has a right to know, Eminence,’ he says, turning his face towards Santo Fiorzi. ‘Perhaps you had better tell her the truth.’
Santo Fiorzi tells his story in a voice made for chapels and for altars. For Bianca, it is hard not to imagine she is once again sitting in the little church of St Margaret, listening to him explain why God has to punish, even when he loves. There’s reverence in his voice, yet it also carries a warning. No longer the humble and insignificant ship’s portafortuna, Fiorzi has become another man entirely. He has become the man she remembers.
He tells her how Arcampora appeared out of the blue at his chambers in the Holy Office of the Faith in Rome. ‘He had somehow learned of my chaplaincy to Philip of Spain. He assumed that I had channels – privy channels – to his most Catholic majesty. He claimed he could provide Philip with proof that there had been a child – a daughter – born in secret to Mary Tudor. A child who had grown to womanhood and been delivered of a son.’ Fiorzi spreads his hands to indicate how astonished he had been by the claim. ‘You may imagine with what excitement I, a cardinal of Holy Mother Church, received this news.’
Bianca says nothing. This is the man who’d once seemed able to look into her heart with ease. Now she’d rather he didn’t.
‘Arcampora said he had the backing of the Sworn Brothers of Antioch,’ Fiorzi continues, ‘I already knew who they were: three Englishmen – Thomas Tyrrell, John Lowell and Peter Kirkbie. I’d met all three in my time in England. I knew them as deeply pious men. I was therefore inclined to trust him.’
Fiorzi breaks his rhythm, sighs and allows her to see – just for an instant – a flicker of pain in his eyes.
‘But Arcampora also tells me the boy is sickly; that he suffers from the sacred disease. And whether you are a cardinal or a tavern-mistress, you will know that a sickly king is no king at all.’
‘And Arcampora told you he could cure him?’ Bianca says boldly, remembering her conversations with Nicholas.
Fiorzi nods. ‘What Arcampora didn’t know was that my privy channels to Philip of Spain have long since been dammed up. That is because I have come to believe that war and violent suppression are not the way to change the hearts of the heretical. Nevertheless, he was offering me the opportunity to wrest England from the Antichrist. That, Mistress Bianca, is a desire that has burned in the hearts of followers of the one true faith for over thirty years. I hope it has not died in yours.’ He allows himself a wry smile. ‘I have to confess, Passerotto, I am almost proud of your achievement. I must have schooled you well.’
‘I did need just a little help – with the Latin.’
‘Help?’
Fiorzi grasps her arm as if he means to crush it. ‘You have shared this knowledge with others?’
She wonders if this is the point where the man of God – the man who says he’s turned away from espousing the violent overthrow of Protestantism – reverts to his old ways. What will he do now, if he decides she’s more of a threat than an ally? Will he wait until dark and drop her over the side with a heavy chain around her ankles?
‘It was Master Nicholas, wasn’t it?’ says Bruno. ‘He was the one who helped you.’
Bianca tries to keep the truth from showing in her eyes. But it’s too late.
‘You need not fear him,’ she protests. ‘In fact he’s trying to help the boy.’
‘And why should Signor Shelby seek to help Samuel Wylde?’ Fiorzi asks. ‘What is the boy to him?’
It is the first time the cardinal has spoken the boy’s name. Now, in this little stuffy cabin, Samuel finally exists. He cannot be denied. The conspiracy has a name. She wonders how much she should reveal about Nicholas’s visits to Cleevely. If Fiorzi discovers they’re at the behest of Robert Cecil, he’s bound to think Nicholas a danger to his plan. ‘Lady Mercy Havington asked him to observe Dr Arcampora’s methods,’ she says. ‘She was concerned about Samuel’s treatment.’
‘Mercy Havington?’ says Fiorzi softly. His face is no longer immobile, for conflicted emotions scud across it like cloud shadows. ‘How does Signor Shelby know of that lady?’
‘He served with her son-in-law, Sir Joshua Wylde, in the Netherlands.’
‘Alice’s husband?’ Fiorzi’s voice is now almost a whisper. ‘Has he seen the boy?’
‘Yes. He believes Samuel to be in great danger.’
‘Given Arcampora’s claims, Mistress Bianca, that is without question.’