VIII

voice.
    Through the pattern of holes in the cupboard door I can see only a slice of the room straight ahead of me; there’s a wall to my left and, to my right, my view is blocked by the side of the altar. For a moment I catch sight of the edge of a brown robe – a monk’s robe – and I know, from the voice, that the man who’s spoken is Father Christopher, my mother’s confessor.
    My mother says, “Well – did you go into the City? What are the people saying? Are there prophecies circulating?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so, ma’am. As always at a time of crisis, the people distract themselves with any bill or rhyme or ditty they see pinned up on a tavern door, when they should be praying, or listening to their priest—”
    “I know your feelings, Father, but did you collect any? The prophecies, I mean?”
    “There is a notary of my acquaintance who has been collecting prophecies as a hobby these past few years. I asked him for his latest findings. He gave me this.”
    “You didn’t say it was for me?”
    “Of course not.”
    I hear paper crackling as if my mother is opening a package.
    Father Christopher says, “There are a few manuscripts, I think, and a few cheap printed folios. My acquaintance pointed out though, ma’am, that many prophecies circulate in a town by word of mouth only.”
    There’s silence for a moment. Then distractedly, as if she’s reading at the same time, my mother says, “There’s no one outside that other door, is there?”
    The plain figure of Father Christopher comes fully into view as he crosses to the door I entered by, opens it, checks the passageway, and shuts it again carefully. He turns to face my mother and shakes his head.
    My mother says, “Do you really think there’s nothing of value in any of these?”
    “There can be…” I see Father Christopher frown as if he doesn’t want to admit it. “…in certain cases. Many of the prophecies that St Bridget made are recorded, for example. A truly holy and blessed lady… But every one of those papers in your hand is untraceable, ma’am. I would want to meet the author, ask how the message came to him, gauge his devoutness, the purity of his soul… He may have an angel at his shoulder, whispering in his ear. But it may equally well be a devil crouching there.”
    My legs are getting stiff; I shift carefully.
    “The Turk will come this year to Rome…” my mother reads aloud. “A great king will rise in the north who will destroy the power of all Frenchmen . Well, that would be convenient.” She makes a nervous little sound, like a swallowed laugh.
    “Gosh, I’m shaking. How silly. There’s probably nothing to the point in here at all.”
    Another silence. I watch as Father Christopher lifts one hand, smoothing the fringe of grey hair around his shaved head.
    Then suddenly my mother says, “You understand this is a last resort for me, don’t you, Father? I would consult a respected person, if I could. I would consult our Court astrologer. But you know how the King’s mother watches me. It would be just what she has been waiting for: to catch me asking Dr Parron to cast my brother’s horoscope! Can you imagine? She already suspects me.”
    “Of what, ma’am?”
    “I wish someone would ask her that: of what, precisely?” My mother’s tone is scornful. “Of wanting my brother to be alive? Of course I want him to be alive! What loving sister wouldn’t? But that doesn’t mean I want him to invade with an army and slaughter my husband and my sons and make himself king. She does not allow any separation of those things. To hope my brother is alive is, in her eyes, to be a traitor.”
    I swallow a gasp. I am hot and cold at once. My mother sounds like a stranger – not capable and sure and comforting as she usually is, but frightened and angry. And now I know she has lied to me. She is not certain her brother is dead. The Pretender could be him, after all. And if he invades and my father is pushed off the throne, it’s just as I feared: he will kill us. Kill me.
    Father Christopher’s voice interrupts my thoughts: “The King is devoted to you.”
    “He is devoted to his mother more. He listens to her. And she drips poison in his ear…” My mother groans. “She hates me. She always has. We were on different sides in the old wars. She only made a deal for her son to marry me because it made political sense. She hates that my claim to the crown is stronger than his, and she hates that he loves me,