behind his head.
Walsingham frowned.
"Henri of France is weak, though this is not news to us. He knew Her Majesty was not sending Sidney on a social call, but to persuade him to commit French troops to a joint intervention in the Netherlands. I suppose Castelnau thought we would be less likely to shout at you, Bruno?"
"I believe that was his reasoning, Your Honour."
"Well, he can explain himself to the queen face-to-face in due course. France cannot dither on the fence for much longer." He shook his head. "This war against the Spanish in the Netherlands has been a bloody mess for the last twenty years, but the queen is now seriously considering an offer of troops to help the Protestant rebels. If Henri had any conscience he would do the same. Especially since it was his idiot brother who madethe situation a hundred times worse," he added, regarding me darkly from under his brows as if I were somehow implicated.
"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 won't forget."
Walsingham looked up sharply. "Don't 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 can't 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.
"God's 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 forever." He pounded his fist on the table again and glared at me, as if he held me responsible for the French king's havering. "Sidney and I saw Saint Bartholomew's Day in Paris with ourown 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 each other; 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
Walsingham frowned.
"Henri of France is weak, though this is not news to us. He knew Her Majesty was not sending Sidney on a social call, but to persuade him to commit French troops to a joint intervention in the Netherlands. I suppose Castelnau thought we would be less likely to shout at you, Bruno?"
"I believe that was his reasoning, Your Honour."
"Well, he can explain himself to the queen face-to-face in due course. France cannot dither on the fence for much longer." He shook his head. "This war against the Spanish in the Netherlands has been a bloody mess for the last twenty years, but the queen is now seriously considering an offer of troops to help the Protestant rebels. If Henri had any conscience he would do the same. Especially since it was his idiot brother who madethe situation a hundred times worse," he added, regarding me darkly from under his brows as if I were somehow implicated.
"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 won't forget."
Walsingham looked up sharply. "Don't 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 can't 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.
"God's 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 forever." He pounded his fist on the table again and glared at me, as if he held me responsible for the French king's havering. "Sidney and I saw Saint Bartholomew's Day in Paris with ourown 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 each other; 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
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