Conspiracy

THREE

‘I tell you, he will not rest until he has my head on a spike in the Place de Grève.’ Henri folded his arms and nodded vaguely out through the blue-black darkness towards the river, his face cratered with shadows in the torchlight. ‘And you roasting on a pyre in the Place Maubert with the other heretics. Crackling like a pig on a spit,’ he added, with relish, in case I had failed to picture it.

‘Even the Duke of Guise must acknowledge that Your Majesty is God’s anointed king,’ I said carefully. I was still weak with relief from the realisation, as we approached its walls, that I was being escorted to the Louvre. Even as we twisted up a series of narrow windowless staircases, my fear did not loosen its grip until I emerged with my taciturn escorts on to this hidden rooftop terrace in the oldest part of the palace, under the shadow of the great conical turrets where, by the light of one guttering torch, I could make out the figure of the King pacing, swathed in an extraordinary gown of thick damask silk that must have taken half a convent a lifetime to embroider.

‘Must he? Ha! Then someone had better explain that to him. Hadn’t they, Claudette? Yes, they had.’ He bent forward to kiss the quivering nose of the lapdog whose head protruded from the jewelled basket slung around his neck with a velvet ribbon. It yapped in protest; apparently it had not yet learned deference to its sovereign master. This was the newest fashion at court; one of the King’s own innovations, he had been proud to tell me: now every courtier who wanted to please him sashayed through the palace with a small dog hanging beneath his chin. Whatever else may have changed in Paris since I had been away, the court’s dedication to making itself ridiculous remained reassuringly steadfast.

‘The Duke of Guise is of the opinion that, in this instance, God has made a mistake,’ Henri continued, tickling the dog between its ears. ‘Anyone who tolerates heretics makes himself a heretic, in his view. Ergo, I am now a heretic, because I gave the Protestants freedom to practise their religion in my kingdom.’

‘Then you took it away again.’

There was no reprimand in my tone, but the words were enough. He rounded on me, nostrils flared. ‘God’s blood, Bruno – what choice do you think I had? France is rushing headlong into civil war, have you not noticed? The Protestants are massing armies in the south, the Catholic League holds key cities and Guise has turned most of Paris against me. You have no idea – agents of the League go about the city undercover, swearing the loyalty of dull-brained guildsmen to those who would defend a unified Catholic France against heretics and libertines, when the time comes. Meaning me,’ he added, for clarity, slapping his breast with the flat of his hand. The dog jumped in alarm. ‘He has priests spouting propaganda against me from the pulpits every Sunday, declaring God’s wrath on France for our lack of piety, and the people swallow it whole. When the time comes – what do you suppose that means?’ He swept his hand out towards the rooftops; a tragedian’s gesture. ‘The whole city is poised to rise up and overthrow me at one word from Guise – everyone from the pork butchers to the boatmen on the river, to say nothing of half the nobles at my own table. I fear for my life daily, Bruno, truly I do. But I fear more for France.’ His voice trembled a little at the end; I had to admire his stagecraft.

‘The people of France would not rise against their sovereign,’ I said, aiming to sound soothing, though I was not convinced myself.

He gave a strangled laugh. ‘You think not? William of Orange probably thought the same. I tell you, I have not had an untroubled night’s sleep since he was murdered. On his own stairs!’ He flung out his hands, as if the case were proved, then turned away to lean on the balustrade. The rain had eased, leaving a damp chill in the night wind; violet and silver clouds scurried across the moon, threatening to burst again before morning. Below us, the city lay in darkness. The King shivered and pulled his robe closer around him. ‘This is all my brother Anjou’s fault, the Devil take him. If he hadn’t died last summer, I would not have had to name a Protestant as my successor. That’s what threw the taper into the kindling. France won’t stomach a Huguenot on the throne, even if Henri of Navarre is the nearest in blood.’

‘It was extremely selfish of your brother to leave you in such a predicament.’ I kept my face straight and stared out over the ridges of the roofs below. He turned to me slowly, his eyes narrowed. I wondered if I had misjudged. After a short silence, he let out a burst of laughter and rested a hand on my shoulder.

‘Ah, how I have missed you, Bruno. No one else would dare talk to a king the way you do.’

Not enough to have troubled yourself to see me in over two months, I thought. To his face, I gave a tight smile. ‘Your Majesty is only thirty-four, and the Queen is in good health. You may yet resolve the question of an heir without a civil war.’ As I said the words, I thought of the drawing on Paul’s pamphlet.

Henri looked at me with a strange expression, as if making a difficult calculation. ‘Well. Perhaps I may,’ he said, with an air of enigma. ‘My cock is the subject of much learned speculation, you know.’ He patted his codpiece with mock pride. ‘And I don’t just mean the handbills that circulate in the street. I tell you, Bruno – Europe’s most senior diplomats scribble frantic dispatches to one another about it. Whether it functions sufficiently for the task, whether it is the right size, whether it might be deformed or poxed – or is it perhaps that I don’t know where to put it with a woman?’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I ought to be flattered. How many men can boast that their members are the business of council chambers from the Atlantic to the Adriatic?’ He scratched the dog’s head absently.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ I said, leaning on the parapet beside him, ‘the same scrutiny attends the Queen of England and her private parts.’

‘I suppose it must. God, to think my brother Anjou almost married her. Imagine having conjugal obligations to that dried-up old quim. Some would say death was a lucky escape.’ He laughed again, but his heart was not in it, and his expression sobered. ‘Elizabeth Tudor is the last of her line now, like me. Two dying royal houses. And her kingdom will be carved up by factions before she is cold in her coffin, just like mine.’ He plucked down his sleeves, straightened the sparkling dog-basket around his neck; the dog let out a small whine in sympathy.

I watched Henri with an unexpected rush of pity. He was never meant to wear a crown, this king; he had a face made for decadence, not statecraft. The full pouting lips, heavy-lidded eyes, the long Valois nose and carefully trimmed triangle of beard all combined to make him, if not exactly handsome, then at least appealingly louche, if that was your taste. He would fix your gaze with a quirk of the eyebrow that always appeared somehow suggestive, even when he was discussing treaties. Even his adoring Italian mother was not blind to the way his effete manner was a gift to his enemies, most of all the supporters of the virile and pious Guise. But Henri was the only survivor of four sons: the last hope of the House of Valois.

‘You should have stayed in London, Bruno,’ he murmured, after a while.

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘I would gladly have done so,’ I said stiffly. ‘It became impossible.’ You made it impossible, I wanted to add. You sent me there to keep me safe from the Catholic League, from those zealots who would bring the Inquisition and all its horrors to France. Then you abandoned me.

‘The Baron de Chateauneuf, you mean?’ He waved this aside. ‘I had to send him. We needed a robust ambassador who would stand up for France as a Catholic country. The previous ambassador was too concerned with being liked at the English court.’

I continued to hold his gaze; he gave a petulant shrug and looked away. ‘Yes, all right, I did it to keep Guise happy. What do you want me to say? Just one of many compromises I have had to make, on my mother’s advice. I must prove to France that I am a true Catholic, she insists, otherwise France will find herself a better one. Do you understand?’

‘Chateauneuf is a fanatic. You must have known he would not tolerate a man like me under his roof.’

‘I thought you might have found yourself a patron in London by then,’ he said, still sulky. Then his expression changed. ‘Or perhaps you did. There were concerns about you at the embassy, you know.’ He lifted his head and gave me a sly look from under his lashes, his lip curled in a knowing smile. ‘Some of the household seemed to think there was a breach of security.’

I kept my face entirely blank.

‘It was suggested that private letters might be finding their way into the wrong hands.’

He left a pause to see how I would respond. If I have learned one thing in these past years, it is how to conceal every shift of emotion behind a face as neutral as a Greek mask when it matters. I merely allowed my eyes to widen in a question.

‘It seems the old ambassador was not the only one who appeared over-familiar with English court circles. Your friendship with Sir Philip Sidney did not go unremarked, for instance. I heard you were sometimes his guest at the house of his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham. Who is called Elizabeth’s spymaster, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

‘Sir Philip and I talked only of poetry, Majesty. I barely knew Sir Francis.’

‘Don’t play me for a fool, Bruno.’ He gripped my arm and his face loomed suddenly an inch from mine, his tone no longer flippant. ‘I’m talking about secret letters between the Duke of Guise and Mary Stuart, and the English Catholics here who support her claim to the throne, sent using our embassy as a conduit. Elizabeth wrote to me. She said those letters were evidence of advanced plans for an invasion of England by Guise’s troops, backed by Spanish money, to free Mary Stuart from gaol and give her the English throne. Whoever intercepted those letters at the embassy, Elizabeth said, probably saved her life.’

‘God be praised for His mercy, then.’

He let go of me and stepped back, eyeing me for several heartbeats in silence. ‘Amen, I suppose. Put me in a damned awkward position though.’

‘You would have preferred it if Guise had succeeded?’

‘Of course not!’ He looked appalled. ‘But how do you think it made me look? I have been striving for an alliance with England, despite my brother’s death and the end of the marriage plan. I send expensive diplomatic missions to flatter the old cow into entente, and all the while there’s a faction in my own country strong enough to raise an army against her. That I know nothing about! How can Elizabeth have any faith in me as an ally? It makes a mockery of my kingship.’

You do that all by yourself, I refrained from saying. ‘But it can only inflame the situation to send an ambassador whose first loyalty is to your enemies and who hates all Protestants, including the English Queen.’

He slapped his hand down on the balustrade. ‘God’s teeth, Bruno – I do not pay you to teach me diplomacy.’

‘You do not pay me at all at the moment. Majesty,’ I added, holding his gaze. It was a gamble. Henri liked men of spirit who had the courage to speak frankly to him, but only up to a point. His eyes blazed.

‘Do I owe you? Is that what you think?’ He pointed a finger in my face; the dog yelped again. ‘I sent you out of danger, at my own expense, and you repay me by taking money from the English to spy on my ambassador.’

‘I thought you said those letters came from Guise.’

‘Don’t cavil, damn you. If you were opening his letters, you were reading everybody else’s too. You don’t know how hard I had to work to defend myself against the rumours that followed you, after you left.’

‘Lies spread by my enemies.’

‘I know that!’ He threw his hands up. ‘The people of Paris don’t know it. All they hear is that their sovereign king, whom they already believe to be a galloping sodomite and friend to heretics, keeps a defrocked Dominican at his court to teach him black magic. Why do you think I bring you here like this-’ he gestured to the night sky – ‘in secret?’

‘I never understood why I was considered such a threat,’ I said mildly. ‘Your mother keeps a Florentine astrologer known as a magician in her household, and the people forgive her that.’

‘Oh, but the people love my mother,’ he said, not bothering to disguise the bitterness. ‘Her morals and her religion are beyond reproach. Even so, she’s had to banish Ruggieri on occasion to quash gossip, you know that. He keeps his mouth shut at the moment, I assure you.’ He grimaced. ‘Look – I cannot give you back your old position at court, Bruno. I cannot risk any public association with you while my standing is so precarious – you must understand that. Recognise what you are.’

‘I know what I am, sire. But I was also your friend, once.’ I kept my eyes to the ground. A long silence spread around us. When I looked up, I was amazed to see tears in his eyes.

‘And so you are still,’ he said, a catch in his voice. He raised a hand as if to touch my face, but let it fall limply to his side. ‘I miss the old days. Those afternoons shut away in my library with Jacopo, talking of the secrets of the ancients. Do you not think I would bring those days back, if I could?’ He shook his head and the fat pearl drops in his ears scattered reflections of the torchlight. ‘I don’t know how it has come to this, truly. The people loved me when I first wore the crown. They crowded the streets to watch me ride by. The processions we used to have!’ He turned to gaze fondly into the distance. ‘My mother emptied the treasury putting on public entertainments to win their goodwill. And look how they now flock to Guise. Well, let them, filthy ingrates. See if he would give them fountains of wine in the public squares.’ His face twisted. The dog let out a mournful whine, as if sensing the mood.

They loved you only because you were not your brother Charles, I could have said. And they cheered him when he was first crowned too, because he was not your brother Francis, and Francis, because he was not your father, the last Henri. That is what people do. Those who now say they love Guise do so mainly because he is not you. Say what you will about the people of Paris, their capacity for optimism seems bottomless, despite all the lessons of history. Or perhaps it is just an insatiable desire for novelty.

‘How does your royal mother, anyway?’ I asked, hoping to rouse him from self-pity.

‘Oh God,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Still convinced she wears the crown, of course. If she’s not haring around the country on some diplomatic mission of her own devising, she’s leaning over my throne dictating policies in my ear. I fear I shall never escape her shadow. But she refuses to die.’ He broke off, looking shocked at himself. ‘God forgive me. You know what I mean. She’s wracked with gout, but she won’t even give up hunting, and she still has more stamina for la chasse than any of the men who ride out with her. Sometimes I think I should have sent her to a convent long ago.’

‘I cannot picture the Queen Mother retiring without a fight. She lives for political intrigue.’ You’d have lost your throne years ago without her leaning over it, I thought.

‘True. And she’s far better suited to it than I am,’ he said, with rare candour. ‘She positively thrives on it. Her chief advantage to me is that the Duke of Guise is terrified of her.’ He broke into a sudden grin. ‘In her presence he’s like a boy caught stealing sweetmeats. So I have to keep her around – she’s the only one who can negotiate with him. Why can’t I have that effect on my enemies, Bruno?’ The plaintive note had crept back.

If it had been a serious question, I might have replied: because you possess neither your mother’s iron will nor her formidable grasp of statesmanship. If Catherine de Medici had been born a man, she would rule all of Europe by now. Instead she has had to make do with ruling France these past twenty-six years from behind the throne of her incompetent sons.

‘Few things strike fear into a man’s heart like an Italian mother, sire,’ I said, instead, but he did not smile.

‘All I ever wanted was to bring accord between my subjects, whatever their church, so there would never be another massacre like Saint Bartholomew’s night.’ He wrung his hands, fully immersed in his own tragedy. ‘Now look at us. Three Henris, tearing France apart between us. And my greatest sorrow is that all this strife has parted me from you. I can count the number of true friends I have on the fingers of one hand, and you are among them. Embrace me, Bruno. Mind Claudette.’

He held his arms out to me; gingerly, leaning across the dog, I accepted his embrace. A gust of perfume made my eyes water: ambergris and cedar wood. You learned quickly to take much of what Henri said with a heavy dose of scepticism, but there was no doubting his sincerity at the moment he said it. And it was true that we had been friends – in so far as one can be friends with a king. He may have been weak and self-indulgent, but Henri of Valois was a great deal more intelligent and intellectually curious than his subjects supposed. If there was truth in the rumours about him and his mignons, I could not testify to it; he had always treated me with courtesy, and often with the deference of a pupil to his teacher. All that was over, unless I could find a way to have this excommunication lifted, and with Paul dead, my hopes were not high.

I felt him pat my shoulder, just as a wet tongue rasped across my jaw. I jumped back, staring at the King, my hand to my face.

‘Claudette, you are a naughty girl. You are,’ he chided the dog, with a mischievous glint, the tears all vanished. ‘Well, I am for my bed. Or someone’s bed, anyway.’ He flashed me a wink, followed by an ostentatious yawn; at the edge of my vision I saw the guards stirring. Was that it, then? Had I been dragged here in the middle of the night so that he could unburden himself of this half-hearted self-justification and wake feeling he had dealt with the problem of Bruno? Beyond the wavering circle of torchlight, the guards hovered at the end of the terrace, uncertain whether to approach, dark shapes in a thicker darkness. Henri pulled his robe closer around himself and the dog, flicked a hand towards the soldiers and moved a couple of paces towards the stairs. ‘These gentlemen will see you home,’ he said, without looking back at me. ‘They belong to my personal bodyguard. Forty-five strong men and true, every one of them scrupulously chosen from the provinces to ensure he has no affiliations in Paris except to me. Simple, loyal and boasting a good sword arm. And I pay them handsomely for their loyalty, don’t I, boys?’

The soldiers glanced up and mumbled something before dropping their eyes again to the ground.

‘They’ll take good care of you. Well, thank you again for coming.’ It was the same blithely dismissive tone I’d heard him use to foreign diplomats and government functionaries whose names he’d forgotten. He swept his robe out behind him in a whisper of silk.

‘Will I see you again?’ I blurted as he reached the stairs, despising myself for it. I sounded like a needy lover.

Henri turned and considered me, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘You know, Bruno, there is one thing you could do for me, if you are still eager for my patronage?’

I bowed my head. ‘Your Majesty knows I would be pleased to serve in any way you see fit.’

A satisfied smile creased his face. My jaw tensed. I had walked into this; he had stage-managed the entire scene so that, afraid he was about to leave me with nothing, I would clutch gratefully at whatever chance he offered. I already knew I was not going to like his proposition.

‘Good. You there – hold this.’ He untied the basket from around his neck and handed it, with its whimpering contents, to the nearest guard, who almost dropped it in surprise. ‘Careful with Claudette – she doesn’t like rough handling. Now, stand over there. Watch the stairs.’ He motioned them back to their post, steering me with the other hand to the furthest corner of the balcony. I braced myself and tried to assemble an expectant smile.

‘Guise means to destroy me. Sooner or later, I fear he will succeed in having me deposed or murdered, whichever proves cheaper.’ He leaned forward to clasp me by both shoulders, his face uncomfortably close, his tone conspiratorial. Through the perfume, I could smell the fear on him; after all the posturing, this was real. A succession of unpleasant possibilities chased one another through my head. What was he going to ask of me? Assassinate Guise? It would not be beyond him. Henri pulled at an earring and pressed his lips together until they disappeared. He seemed to be fishing for the right words. ‘These priests I mentioned – the ones he sets on to preach against me.’

‘What about them?’

‘One was a particular thorn in my side – virulent little fellow at Saint-Séverin. Gave me a thorough roasting last Sunday – the hour is coming for the godly citizens of Paris to purge the city of her heretic king, all that.’ He let go of me, making a rolling motion with his hand to indicate the monotony of the theme. ‘Even the poor harvest is down to my debauchery, apparently.’

I concentrated all my efforts on keeping my face steady. ‘I know. I was there. He preached for four hours.’

‘Did he really?’ He looked at me sidelong, tilted a plucked eyebrow. ‘How extraordinary. Even I wouldn’t want to talk about my peccadilloes for four hours. I didn’t hear it myself, but I have people who keep me abreast of these things. It was the closest any of Guise’s puppets have come so far to inciting a mob, I’m told. Dangerous, at any rate.’

I nodded. In this, at least, he was not mistaken; there had been a new mood among the congregation after Paul’s sermon: restive, pent-up, angry, a nest of hornets needing only one small prod to explode. It was a miracle there had been no violence; if a Protestant had passed by and happened to say a wrong word, he’d have been torn apart.

‘And?’ I prompted, since Henri had fallen silent again.

He examined his manicure with apparent indifference. ‘It would seem he was murdered yesterday. I’d like you to find out who did it.’

‘Me?’ I stared at him, wondering if it was a trap.

His gaze flickered upwards and rested briefly on me. ‘The streets are already alive with rumours that he was killed on my orders, in revenge for his sermon. Guise will seize on this and fan the flames – it could tip the balance of feeling in the city. The League has people wound so tight, it would take only the slightest provocation to spark a riot or another massacre. An attack on a priest is a direct attack on the Church – people are superstitious about that sort of thing, and it will be seen as further proof of my disregard for the Catholic faith. I assume that’s why he did it.’

‘Who?’

He frowned, irritated. A nerve twitched in his cheek. ‘Keep up, Bruno – you’re supposed to be the finest mind at my court. Guise did it, obviously, to inflame the people against me.’

‘Killed one of his own supporters?’ I could not quite disguise the doubt in my voice. It was a plausible explanation, but less convincing than the simpler version, which was that Henri had done exactly what the rumours claimed. I thought of the burned scrap of letter inside my doublet: the words Votre Majesté. The same cold sensation tightened my throat again.

‘Precisely.’ Henri rubbed the back of his neck, stretching from side to side. ‘He can find himself twenty more hellfire preachers like that one. But the chance to lay the murder of a priest at my door – that serves him beautifully. Wouldn’t that sway any pious citizens unsure about where their loyalties should lie in the event of a coup? So, you see, I need to clear my name before Guise tortures some poor wretch into saying publicly that I put him up to it. I want you to find the man who did this, with evidence that will convict him before all Paris. Justice must be seen to be served. If you can tie the killer to Guise, all the better.’

‘You don’t ask much.’ I moved away to lean against the balustrade. ‘With respect, sire – why me?’

He smiled. ‘Ah, my Bruno. Do you think Francis Walsingham is the only one who has informers at his beck and call? You kept yourself busy in England, I hear. It seems you have quite the knack of sniffing out a murderer.’

Sidney used to use the same turn of phrase, I recalled – as if I were a trained wolfhound.

‘Your Majesty has enough lapdogs, surely.’ I returned the smile through my teeth, while my mind ran through a list of all the people who might have been spying on me for Henri over the past three years. I wondered what else he knew, and how he might choose to use it. ‘Besides, if you believe this killer belongs to the Duke of Guise’s circle, how am I supposed to get near him? They all know me for an enemy.’

‘I dare say you’ll find a way, Bruno. You could pretend you are looking for a new patron. Or claim you wish to be reconciled to the Church. That might get his attention.’

He held my gaze, unwavering, that smile still playing around his lips.

‘Guise finds you interesting,’ he added. ‘He always has. I’m sure you can talk your way into his confidence.’

It was difficult to tell when Henri was mocking; he tended to smirk even when he was sincere. Did he know anything of my conversation with Paul, or was his reference to reconciliation mere coincidence? And if he did know, had he learned it from a letter found in Paul’s lodgings or on his battered body? I thought again of the priest and the dwarf, and who might have sent them.

‘Guise is not a fool,’ I said.

‘Neither am I.’ His expression hardened. ‘I won’t force you to do this, Bruno. I’m offering you an opportunity to return to my service. It’s the only position I have available, so it’s your choice.’ He turned his back to make the point: I guessed that if I refused, I could say goodbye to any prospect of future patronage. Spots of rain blew against my face. I tried again.

‘I’m not convinced I am the man for this job, Your Majesty.’

‘Please yourself, then.’ He affected indifference and moved towards the door, before glancing over his shoulder. ‘Oh, a funny coincidence – almost slipped my mind. A friend of yours from England called on me a while back. Wanted to sell me a book.’

He knew immediately from my face that he had hit his mark.

‘A man with no ears?’ I asked. ‘In August, was it?’

‘No ears? A common criminal, you mean? Certainly not. Goodness, what company have you been keeping, Bruno?’ He feigned shock. ‘No, this was last summer, more than a twelvemonth past. An exceptionally pretty boy. Ah, I see you know who I mean.’ His lips curved slowly into a smile. He had saved his best card till last. I cursed him for it silently.

‘And, what …?’

‘The guards sent him on his way at first. There are so many hawkers at the gates, as you may imagine. But this one was remarkably persistent. Came back day after day, saying you’d told him to bring me this volume. Claimed it was both valuable and inflammatory. Eventually Ruggieri heard about it. He has spies all over the palace.’ He rolled his eyes, to show that this was one more trial he was obliged to endure. My heart dropped. For more than a year I had been clinging to one last shred of hope that the book in question might have found its way to the court in Paris. To learn that it should have come so far, only to fall into the hands of Cosimo Ruggieri, that Florentine serpent, was galling. He would never give it up willingly to me.

‘Ruggieri brought the boy to you?’

‘Of course not. You think he’d get his hands on a book like that and offer it to me? I knew nothing of it until later. But it seems he was sufficiently convinced that he persuaded my mother to buy it. You know how easily she’s seduced by the prospect of anything esoteric.’

‘It was a book of magic, then?’

‘Ruggieri seemed to think so. He talked her into paying fifty écus for it. I suspect she was robbed. According to her, it’s written in cipher – meaningless, unless you know how to read it. Your young friend must be laughing himself sick now, to think he’s duped everyone twice over.’

Twice over. ‘Did you meet him?’ I asked, trying to keep any trace of eagerness from my voice. Henri gave me a sly smile.

‘Alas, no, though I wish I’d had the pleasure. Ruggieri took him directly to the Tuileries to see Catherine. She only told me about it afterwards. Well, it turned out-’ here he widened his eyes, relishing the performance – ‘this boy wasn’t a boy at all – imagine! Ah, but you knew that. No – she was apparently a girl trying to disguise herself. But quite beautiful either way, I’m told. She swore you had insisted I would want the book. That was what piqued their interest.’ He watched me carefully. I said nothing. ‘Lover, was she?’

‘Acquaintance.’ I clenched my jaw.

Henri laughed. ‘You’re a most adept liar, Bruno, like all Dominicans.’

‘I am no longer a Dominican.’

‘But you’ve learned their lessons well. Did you give her the book as a love-token?’

‘I did not give it to her at all.’

‘So she stole it from you? I did wonder.’ He laughed softly. ‘Bruno outwitted. Well, well. A most resourceful young woman, by the sound of it. Pity she disappeared. I asked my secretary to make enquiries but no luck so far. Perhaps I should ask him to try a little harder.’

‘If the Queen Mother would let me examine the book-’

‘I’ll tell you what, Bruno,’ he said, all brisk and amiable, ‘you can see the book when you bring me some information about this priest. And perhaps by then there’ll be news of your girl as well. How is that for a deal?’

I took a deep breath and bowed. ‘I am yours to command, Majesty.’

‘I do hope so. I have faith in you, Bruno. Don’t let me down.’ He patted my shoulder, his attention already drifting now that he had what he wanted. ‘His name was Père Paul Lefèvre, by the way. The dead priest.’

‘I know. I knew him.’

‘Oh?’ He brushed raindrops from his cheek and looked at me, surprised. ‘Well, that should give you an advantage, then.’

‘Did you?’

‘What?’

‘Know him? Did he …’ I hesitated, ‘ever correspond with you, perhaps?’

Henri frowned, as if he didn’t understand the question. ‘Of course not. You think I have time to exchange letters with every malicious little shit-flinger?’

‘I only wondered if he might have written to you,’ I said, choosing my words carefully. ‘Urging you to repent, warning you, something of that sort.’

He snorted. ‘I might have given him some credit if he’d had the courage to address me directly. But they’re cowards, these Guise lickspittles. Let’s get out of this rain.’

One of the guards picked up the torch from the wall bracket and they followed us in to the staircase at a respectful distance. Our shadows flickered like giant carnival grotesques over the clammy walls as we spiralled down.

‘He was killed outside Saint-Victor, so I was told,’ Henri said, as we reached the first landing, taking out a key to unlock a small door set into the wall. A secret way back to his chambers, no doubt – this old part of the Louvre was full of hidden passages, as if it had been built expressly for spying and adultery. ‘I’d start there if I were you. I think we can safely say I don’t have many supporters among the religious orders. Those friars are all in Guise’s pocket.’

I nodded, and made a non-committal noise. I still had no idea whether the King was lying to me; I hoped he did not intend to direct my steps throughout. I had accepted a poisoned chalice, however I chose to look at it, and my motives for doing so were precisely the two things that had undone me before – a book and a woman. That woman. I should have been wiser.

Henri held out his hand so that I could bow and kiss his signet ring, a gentle reminder of his power to command. ‘One last thing,’ he said, pausing in the doorway. ‘My mother’s putting on one of her grand entertainments next Friday. Improve morale. If our popularity’s flagging, put on a show – you know what she’s like. Remind people of the old days. You must come.’

‘I thought I couldn’t be seen at court?’

‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it – you won’t be. It’s a masked ball. Everyone will be in costume, faces hidden, no one will have the faintest idea who you are. Say you’ll come. Her women will perform too, if you need more persuading. I’d wager you don’t see anything like that at Elizabeth’s court.’ He poked the tip of his tongue between his teeth and wiggled it, an impish glitter in his eyes.

I could think of few places I would feel more exposed than the Tuileries palace during a masked ball, but the door had closed behind him and the key turned before I could protest. His departure seemed to suck all the force from the air; I felt my body sag with the weight of my tiredness. If the guards had allowed me, I would have curled up in a corner of the stone staircase and slept right there.

The ghost of Henri’s perfume followed me down the stairs. I left feeling deeply uneasy on several counts, hoping that I had not just made a pact to disguise a murder for my own advantage.