Conspiracy

NINE

The same glint of amusement flickered in his eyes, as if this were still a great game. I felt too tired to humour him by playing along. He was right; he had caught me in an impossible position. I climbed down from the bed and sheathed my knife. He was alone and his own sword hanging at his belt; I did not think he meant to attack me. Not by such an obvious means, anyway.

‘I see you’ve won our little wager, then,’ he said casually, moving a few paces nearer to stand by the bed, where he tilted his head and regarded Joseph with professional interest.

‘I don’t recall agreeing a wager.’

‘Perhaps not explicitly,’ he said, ‘but the stakes are high nonetheless, don’t you think?’ He turned to me with a victor’s smile. ‘Whatever have you done to the poor fellow?’

I ignored the question. ‘How did you know to find me here, Paget?’

‘Process of deduction. You’re looking for de Chartres because you think he killed Lefèvre. You’re methodically checking all the places you think Joseph might visit, as we saw this afternoon. Presumably you have a reason for thinking he would have come here, or else someone claims to have seen him. A helpful washerwoman, perhaps.’ He peeled off his gloves with precision, finger by finger, and gestured with them towards the body. ‘You must admit, Bruno – it doesn’t look good. Finding you crouched over the naked corpse of the man whose room you broke into last night.’

I swallowed, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Since you’re obviously still following me closely, you’ll know that I’ve only been here twenty minutes at most. This man has been dead for hours – look at the limbs.’

‘Hm.’ Paget tucked his gloves into his belt and gave the body a cursory prod. ‘The widow downstairs is extremely observant, you know. People up and down these stairs all afternoon, according to her. She’s naturally alarmed by so much activity in the rooms of her murdered neighbour. I’ve had to leave one of my servants to reassure her.’

My heart dropped. So he had brought reinforcements; of course he had. He had planned this with care.

‘What an undignified way to go,’ he remarked, still looking at Joseph’s naked back. ‘How was he killed?’

I turned to him. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘I?’ He held my gaze. ‘I am not a physician.’ I continued to look at him in silence; after a few moments he nodded, as if making a concession. ‘Very well. I will hazard a guess.’ He leaned over to examine the dead man’s face, pulled up one of the eyelids, shone his candle on the throat. ‘Garrotted, I would say.’

‘With what?’

He raised a shoulder. ‘How should I know? Something broad and soft, there’s not much of a mark. A scarf, perhaps, or a stocking.’

I stared at him. ‘Wait.’ I lifted the shirt from the chair and drew out the silk stockings that had been left folded in the pile. I held them up to the light. They were long, the kind held up around the thigh with a garter. More usual under the velvet or satin breeches of a court dandy than beneath a friar’s robe, but I recalled that at San Domenico the aristocratic young brothers had liked to indulge in finery under their habits as a reminder of their status – the inverse of a hair shirt. Most striking about this pair, though, was that a knot had been tied approximately halfway along.

‘He tried to pull at the ligature as he was strangled – he made his neck bleed. There – look.’ I pointed; the stockings were spotted with blood and snagged, where the fabric had been torn by frantic nails. ‘I’ll be damned. Killed with his own stockings.’ I stretched them between my hands at either end; there was not much give in the material. ‘You’d think they’d be too flimsy,’ I murmured, half to myself.

‘Not necessarily,’ Paget said, taking them from my hands and studying them. He appeared to be giving the matter serious consideration. ‘Not if you had a stick.’

‘A stick?’

‘To make a tourniquet.’ He held his fingers about six inches apart to indicate. ‘A stick or baton, this sort of length. Get the loop around the victim’s neck, twist the ends together, insert the stick and turn it. Tightens instantly without the killer needing to use much force. Then the knot crushes the windpipe.’ He wound a stocking once around his wrist and mimed a rotating action with a finger.

I looked at him, almost impressed. ‘You seem very familiar with the technique.’ The distance between his fingers was about the length of the penknife I had found.

He gave a dry laugh and tossed the stockings back to me. ‘I dare say you and I are both conversant with skills that might surprise polite society. One has to learn certain tricks to survive, in our business.’

‘How to garrotte a man with a tourniquet?’

‘Not something I’ve put into practice, but I understand the theory.’

‘So it seems.’

A silence elapsed. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, eventually. His moustache twitched with a smile. ‘You think I did it?’

‘You knew Joseph was not coming to Brinkley’s shop this afternoon.’ I spoke slowly to give myself time to formulate my thoughts. ‘I wondered how you could have been so sure. You’ve coordinated all this. Did you arrange to meet him here, with the promise of helping him escape?’ I laid the stockings on the chair and continued to back away from him, towards the door. ‘Was that why you got me out of the Conciergerie last night – because you were planning for me to take the blame all along?’ I could hear the pitch of my voice rising and broke off; I must remain in control. I was acutely aware of the danger I was now in. Paget laughed.

‘I’m flattered that you think I’m so capable, Bruno, but I must say you’re beginning to sound a little overwrought.’ He took a step back, so that he blocked my way to the door. ‘I knew Joseph would not come to Brinkley’s because I understand how those networks operate. Lefèvre was the go-between. Joseph would never have turned up himself – that’s not how things are done. But you’re right to think that you are in serious trouble. I could send for the watch right away. You’d be arrested like that.’ He snapped his fingers and grinned. ‘Especially with him naked. Everyone knows what you friars are like.’

I didn’t smile. ‘So what is stopping you?’

He leaned his weight on his right foot, allowing his hand to rest gently on the hilt of his sword as he eyed me with apparent indifference. ‘Because I know that you know more than you are telling, and this death means I cannot afford to indulge you any longer. It’s time you and I paid a visit.’

I could guess where he had in mind.

‘And if I refuse?’

He shook his head, as if my answer had disappointed him. He placed two fingers between his lips and produced a short but piercing whistle. The door opened instantly to reveal the burly servant who had accompanied him the night before, still holding his club in his hand. I could see that he also carried a large hunting knife at his belt. He closed the door behind him and stood against it, his eyes fixed on me.

‘It’s surprising how sharp an old woman’s memory can be when jogged by a little incentive,’ Paget said, not acknowledging the servant’s presence. ‘The neighbour will make a valuable witness. She says someone came up here earlier this afternoon, shortly after the friar arrived.’

‘What time? Did she get a look at him?’ I thought of the unseen gaze I had sensed in the dark of the hallway downstairs. She would have seen the killer. I wished again that I had thought to speak to her first.

‘I have an awful feeling that, if pressed, she’d say he looked exactly like you,’ Paget murmured, smoothing his hair. ‘Let’s not waste any more time, Bruno.’ He jerked his head towards the door.

‘What about him?’ I glanced towards the bed.

‘He’s not going anywhere. We can discuss what to do about him later.’

‘And the widow? She might call the watch. If someone else finds him-’

‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’ He patted his purse. ‘They drive a hard bargain, these widows. I’ll leave one of my men outside – tell her it’s for her own safety. She won’t try and look in here.’

He nodded to the man by the door, who held it open and waited for us to pass. Paget led the way down the stairs, stopping at the door of the ground-floor rooms to exchange a few hurried words with someone inside. I heard the servant’s heavy tread behind me and felt a sudden flush of fear. If I were to be accused of murder, only the King could possibly come to my defence against the testimony of men like Paget and the Abbé of Saint-Victor. Would Henri rouse himself to save me from a false accusation? I supposed it would depend on whether he was implicated. As the street door opened and I felt the slap of cold air on my face, I realised everything now turned on the outcome of the encounter I had been hoping to avoid since I arrived in Paris.

Firelight flickered in restless patterns over the face of the man who stood with his arm resting on the great mantel at shoulder height, staring in silence into the flames. It silvered the scar snaking down his right cheek and hid his deep-set eyes in shadow. In every corner of the chamber, banks of candles gave out a bright glow, their lights constantly in motion, like sun on water. The grand salon at the Hotel de Montpensier lent the occasion a ceremonial air, its high ceiling bright with gilded panels of biblical scenes and plump-cheeked putti, the oak-lined walls hung with antique tapestries of hunting scenes. From every ceiling boss and capital the Montpensier coat of arms gleamed forcefully. No one had spoken since we had arrived. All eyes were on the scar-faced figure by the fire. Paget had settled himself on a stool near the hearth, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, casting from one to the other of us with the alertness of a spectator at the Colosseum. I stood, stupidly, in the centre of the room, as if by keeping still I could avoid making a wrong move.

Just as it seemed he had forgotten I was there, the man by the fireplace stirred and lifted his head in my direction. I drew myself up, set my shoulders back and met his appraising stare. If he expected me to grovel to him, he would be disappointed. The face I looked into was refined but hard, an impression emphasised by the scar but implicit in the sharp cheekbones, the pointed beard, small mouth and, most of all, the unblinking eyes, cold as stone. A face weathered by battle, making him appear older and more world-weary than his thirty-six years. Unlike his namesake the King, Henri Duke of Guise did not wear earrings or perfume or shirts of embroidered lace. He smelled of sweat, leather and horses. Despite that, le Balafré was reported to be irresistible to women; if half the rumours were true, there was barely a wife or maiden at court who hadn’t been willingly conquered by that ruthless manner. I could not see it myself.

‘Who do you think killed Joseph de Chartres, then?’ The question was addressed directly to me in a voice that belied his appearance; low and resonant, almost musical, the voice of a man assured of his own authority. It was there in his bearing, too; a quiet self-possession distinct from Paget’s more obvious swagger. You might almost say that, unlike the King’s, the Duke’s poise was instinctively regal.

I watched him, trying to gauge what answer he might be expecting. ‘I think you did,’ I said, eventually.

One corner of his mouth moved a fraction; I could not tell if it was a smile. ‘And yet I was not the one discovered crouching by his naked corpse with a knife in my hand. Well – let us suppose for a moment that you are correct. Why did I do it? I am interested to hear your theory.’

I hesitated. The smirk vanished in an instant; the eyes glittered. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ he said, his tone just as measured and elegant as before, but with an edge of flint. ‘If you disappeared tonight, Giordano Bruno, who would miss you?’

I did not reply. I had already assumed that I had been brought to the house of his sister, the Duchess of Montpensier, in order to distance him from whatever might happen here. He removed his elbow from the mantel and folded his arms.

‘Not King Henri. Nor your English connections, I fear. You are friendless in Paris,’ he continued, in the same low voice, ‘and that is a dangerous state for any man in these days, all the more so an excommunicate heretic with such a gift for making enemies.’

He was waiting for a response. I inclined my head by a tiny degree to show that I acknowledged the truth of his words. Otherwise I intended to give him nothing. But he had cut through to my greatest vulnerability, and he knew it.

‘It would be to your advantage to make new friends, one would think.’ He brushed an invisible speck from his sleeve. ‘You have been a thorn in my side for some time now, Bruno. You destroyed a project in which I had invested heavily. I have considered having you killed, obviously.’

The logs spat and hissed in the hearth. He lifted his chin as if daring me to answer back. We looked at one another in silence.

‘Is this where I graciously thank you for having decided against it?’

‘Decided against it, so far.’ The corner of his mouth twitched again. ‘On reflection, I felt that for the present you were more useful alive.’

‘And now you wish me to be your friend? That is quite a change of heart.’

‘The royal family are not your friends, no matter how much you wish to believe otherwise. You may soon be glad of influential allies in Paris. Let us raise a glass to new alliances.’ He picked up a small bell from the mantelpiece and rang it. At the clear note the door opened, though as far as I could see no one had entered, despite the sound of laboured breathing. I peered over the back of a chaise longue and started at the sight of a dwarf in a black velvet suit embroidered with tiny pearls, who crossed to execute a bow towards Guise.

‘A jug of hot wine for our guests,’ the Duke said, hurrying him out with an impatient gesture. The dwarf turned and moved towards me with his strange, bow-legged gait. It was difficult to judge his age, but he was not a youth; his tightly curled hair was touched with grey at the temples, as was his beard. He returned my stare with open contempt; as he was almost past me he pulled his lips back and bared his teeth. Did he recognise me, or was that merely his way of greeting all visitors? I did not think the dwarf in Paul’s rooms had seen me any more than I had seen him; it was impossible to know whether it was the same man, but his appearance had only sharpened my sense of the danger I was in. I was tired of being a source of entertainment.

‘What is it you want from me, my Lord of Guise?’

The Duke appeared surprised by my bluntness. He tilted his head and considered his answer. ‘Good, then, let us be direct. I did not order the deaths of Paul Lefèvre or Joseph de Chartres. You may choose to disbelieve me, but it is the truth. And I want to know who did.’ He pulled at the point of his beard, not moving his eyes from my face. ‘At first I assumed Lefèvre’s murder was Henri’s doing. But de Chartres’s death complicates matters. If he killed Lefèvre, he would not have done it for Henri, I am certain, not for any price. So something else is at work here. Paget is under the impression you could shed light on it.’

I glanced at Paget, who smiled as if he had done me a favour. ‘Did Joseph work for you?’ I asked.

Guise frowned. ‘He served God and his Abbé, in that order.’

‘Who is also your supporter. The Abbé, I mean – I cannot speak for God’s allegiance. There are enough people in Paris already who claim to do that.’

This time Guise allowed a brief smile. ‘It will not be news to you by now that both the dead men were active on behalf of the Catholic League. De Chartres was a relative of my sister’s by marriage and the family will take his murder hard. It is not in my interest to have my name dragged into the business. It would be extremely convenient for me if you took the blame for de Chartres’s death. And – let us be frank – you have served yourself up on a platter, and the King with you.’

‘I can see that,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice even. ‘But you know I did not kill him.’

‘Ordinarily, that would be no reason not to have you arrested for it.’ He tapped his thumbnail against his teeth. ‘Except that you know something about this matter. Lefèvre confided in you – don’t pretend otherwise. You are going to tell me, one way or another, before I hand you over to the authorities.’

I took a deep breath. Though I was far from convinced that Guise was telling the whole truth, instinct born of experience told me that his uncertainty over the murders was genuine. Beneath the commanding demeanour I thought I caught a hint of anxiety in his eyes, in the way he continued to worry his nail against his teeth. Some element of his network had escaped his control, and it troubled him. I guessed that it had something to do with the conspiracy Paul had hinted at; one or both deaths had taken him by surprise and he needed to discover how much had become known, and by whom. The dwarf returned with a jug of wine and handed me a glass, nailing me with the same hostile glare from beneath his wild brows. I thanked him, hoping he would speak so that I could see if I recognised his voice, but he only showed his teeth again and shuffled away.

Guise gave an impatient cough. Realising that I had no choice, I ran through a brief, carefully edited summary of my reasons for pursuing Joseph, the links I had found between him and Paul, without mentioning Cotin’s name, and my conclusion that Joseph had killed Paul on someone’s orders and been killed himself once he had served his purpose. The Duke watched me keenly as I spoke, stroking his scar with the tip of his finger, his eyes never straying from my face; it was the same penetrating look that Walsingham trained on his agents when he questioned them, and I had no doubt that Guise was as well versed in how to read the signs of deception. I had never been more conscious of the need to appear entirely without emotion. I did not mention Circe, nor the burned letter I had found in Paul’s fireplace; if they were connected with the plot Guise was concerned about, it was better he remained ignorant of the fact that anyone else knew. Other lives might be in danger – mine chief among them. I kept my version concise, and told him no more than I suspected he had already heard from Paget. When I had finished he nodded and turned back to the fire.

‘But you still haven’t answered my question. Why were they killed?’

‘We cannot know that without knowing who killed them.’

‘Speculate, then. Let us imagine, as you say, that I ordered it. What were my reasons?’

‘I would suppose that Paul Lefèvre, as an active supporter of the League, was privy to information that someone felt he could no longer be trusted to keep safe. He was urged to preach a ferocious sermon denouncing the King, after which it would appear that his death was a retaliation from the Palace. Very neat – silence a threat and inflame the people against Henri in one move.’

He nodded, still watching the fire, pulling at the point of his beard. ‘A logical hypothesis, one I presume the King favours. And what do you suppose this secret was, that Paul Lefèvre knew and could not keep?’

‘That is beyond my powers of guesswork. My lord,’ I added, lowering my eyes.

He gave a soft laugh, directed towards the glowing logs. ‘Let me put it another way. What did he tell you the day you made your confession at Saint-Séverin?’ The voice was knife-edged again, the smile evaporated. A chill spread through my gut. If Guise believed our meeting had been prearranged, that Paul had betrayed him to me, and that I was spying for the King, it would mean my impetuous visit to the confessional was directly responsible for the priest’s murder. I swallowed, but my throat was dry.

‘He told me nothing. It was I who approached him, to confess my sins.’

‘Is that right?’ A quick, pitying smile flickered across his lips. Without warning, he took one long stride across the room and struck me forcefully across the face with the back of his hand. I felt the stones of his rings tear open the wound on my lip; I clenched my teeth against the pain and managed not to cry out. My hands trembled from the shock; I clasped them hard around my cup of wine so it would not show. A warm trickle of blood ran down my chin and dripped on to my collar. I did not reach up to brush it away.

‘You are supposed to be a master of the art of memory. Perhaps yours needs refreshing. The way your friend Walsingham had to refresh young Throckmorton’s memory in the Tower. Surprising how much a man can recall with a little prompting.’ He rubbed the knuckles where he had hit me. ‘If you had been confessing your sins, Bruno, you would still be there. You would be there till Candlemas. So let us try again. Why did you meet Paul Lefèvre in the confessional?’

‘I needed to ask him a favour.’ I glanced up; he nodded for me to continue. ‘I wanted him to speak to the Papal nuncio on my behalf. To petition for my excommunication to be lifted.’

I had expected mockery; instead Guise studied me, his eyes thoughtful. ‘What was his response?’

‘He said he would see what might be done, if I showed some evidence of contrition. He insisted I hear his sermon last Sunday. He also urged me …’ I hesitated, swallowed again and tasted blood, ‘… to consider my future and where my loyalties were best placed, if I meant to stay in Paris.’

‘Interesting. What did you take him to mean by that?’

‘I think he meant to suggest that the King could not be relied upon as a patron in the future.’

Something – recognition? – flashed across Guise’s eyes. ‘What else?’

‘That was the sum of our conversation, my lord. He did not give me absolution.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Guise sucked in his cheeks. He seemed to be deciding whether to accept this testimony. ‘And later – at the abbey, as he lay dying? I understand he called for you by name to impart something urgent. It would be wise for you to tell me of your own volition what that was.’

I tried to keep my voice level, hoping he could not hear how my mouth had dried.

‘I do not know why he asked for me. Perhaps he wanted to tell me who attacked him. But by the time I arrived he was past the point of rational thought or speech. He made one sound only before he died, but it was incomprehensible. Most likely it was the name of Our Lord.’

I looked him straight in the eye, unwavering, as I spoke. He took another step towards me and flexed his knuckles; I flinched, a reflex response before I could stop myself, and he laughed again.

‘This is where I begin to suspect you are playing false with me, Bruno,’ he said, in a soft voice that managed to contain more menace than any explosion of rage. ‘Because whatever he said sent you scurrying straight to Henri that same night.’

‘No!’ I heard the note of panic in my voice. ‘That was coincidence. It was the King who sent for me, on a different matter.’

‘You can see why I might struggle to believe that.’ He was standing close to me now, his voice little more than a whisper, almost seductive. I revised my opinion; I was beginning to see exactly how he might manipulate a woman’s interest. ‘Since I know that immediately after your visit to the Louvre you began making enquiries about Lefèvre and his activities. You are keeping something from me, Bruno, and I will prise it out of you, one way or another.’

‘My lord, I have told you everything I know.’ I felt my gut constrict. If he chose not to believe me, I had no doubt that he would be prepared to use torture. His casual reference to Francis Throckmorton had been a less than subtle reminder that, in his eyes, I still owed him an unpaid debt. I would not have been surprised to learn that there was a room with the necessary instruments somewhere in this house, and he was right to suppose that no one would come looking for me. But behind the rapid wingbeats of fear in my head, I registered something else. Guise believed I had begun investigating Paul’s death the day after my visit to the King. Meaning he did not know that I had been to Paul’s rooms the same afternoon he was killed. Meaning, then, that Joseph and the dwarf could not have been sent by Guise that day, or they would have told him straight away that they had surprised a third party there, and by now he would have put two and two together and guessed that it was me. But if Guise knew nothing of that visit, then it seemed he must be telling the truth, at least as far as Joseph was concerned, and that Joseph and the dwarf had been searching for whatever they hoped to find at someone else’s behest. I looked at the glass in my hand. So the Duchess of Montpensier had a dwarf who served her, and she was also related to Joseph.

‘But why was he naked?’ Guise said suddenly, addressing the room, as if this question had been needling him all along. I breathed out; it appeared that, for now, he had decided not to push me any further.

‘Changing his clothes in order to escape?’ I offered.

‘Or he’d been fucking,’ Paget remarked, from his place by the hearth. I noticed Guise frown at the crude expression; for all his soldierly manner and his reputation with women, the Duke liked to present himself as pious in matters of decency, as a contrast to the dissolution of Henri’s court.

‘What makes you say so?’ he asked.

‘The garrotte.’ Paget held out his palms as if it were obvious. ‘It’s not easy to take a tall man by surprise with a ligature around his neck, if he’s standing. He would have struggled. If, on the other hand, he’d been lying down and willingly allowed it, he might not have realised it was no longer a game until it was too late.’

The Duke’s brow knotted. ‘Game? What are you talking about?’

Paget cleared his throat discreetly. ‘Some gentlemen, I understand, find pleasure is enhanced by a simulation of choking during the act of love.’

Guise looked faintly appalled. ‘Do they? Is that what people do in England?’

‘I don’t believe it’s exclusive to any one region. I’m sure it goes on in Italy, for instance – does it not, Bruno?’

‘Everything goes on in Italy,’ Guise said darkly, giving me a look.

‘I cannot be held responsible for all of it,’ I said. Guise harrumphed and I saw Paget suppress a smile. In that moment he almost felt like an ally.

‘Sounds like the sort of thing the Valois would get up to,’ Guise said, with evident disgust. I guessed his own dealings with women did not allow for much variety or imagination in the bedchamber. On your back, straight in and out, as God intended. I thought of the trace of ejaculate I had seen on Joseph’s skin. Had he gone there to meet his mistress and instead walked into his murderer? Were they one and the same?

I turned to Paget. ‘Didn’t you tell me the old neighbour downstairs saw someone going up to the room?’

He nodded. ‘Three people, she says. The first around noon in a friar’s habit, the second, shortly after – she says she could make out only a dark cloak and hat. According to her, the friar left again an hour or so later, but she didn’t see the second person leave, though she heard nothing. The third, we must suppose, was you, Bruno.’ He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. ‘Though I have to say I would not rely too heavily on that woman’s testimony. It’s pitch-dark in that hallway and her eyes are failing, though she can see the glint of a coin readily enough.’

‘She didn’t see the second person because they had put on the friar’s habit,’ I said, animated again despite myself. ‘And she didn’t hear anything because the original friar – Joseph – was already dead.’

The Duke’s stare burned into me. He appeared to be calculating. ‘You will find this person in the cloak and hat for me. But be discreet about it. My sister had a family connection with de Chartres – I do not want her honour compromised.’

I blinked at him, taken aback. ‘Me?’

He inclined his head. ‘I am assured by various sources that among your dubious talents is the ability to find out a murderer, especially one who thinks he is clever enough to have hidden his tracks. I need to know who killed these men and why. If, as I have suspected from the beginning, it is someone at the Louvre, my reach is limited. There are doors there closed to me and anyone known to be connected with me. Whereas you …’

‘You are mistaken, my lord. The doors of the Louvre are firmly closed to me too – I am banished from court.’

‘Officially, perhaps. But Henri trusts you. You have Corbinelli’s ear. You could learn much that is hidden from me, if you were to apply yourself.’

‘You want me to spy on my friends for you?’

He let out a laugh, sharp with contempt. ‘Your friends? Do you not listen to anything I tell you? What has Henri given you?’ He spread his arms wide to indicate emptiness. ‘Do you not think he would wash his hands of you without a backward glance, if anything you did proved awkward for him? Besides – if you spy on him for the English, why not for me?’

I lowered my eyes. He knew very well that every word was hitting its mark, true as an arrow. He made an impatient noise.

‘It’s very simple. If you do what I ask, I will not have you arrested for Joseph’s murder. If that is not a sufficient incentive, I offer you this – the Papal nuncio Ragazzoni is a frequent guest to this house. Find this killer for me and I will arrange an audience. I have no need to be so generous, you know.’

I kept my teeth clenched. I did not trust myself to speak.

‘Look at yourself, Bruno,’ Guise said, his voice soft and lulling again. ‘What is your future? The English didn’t want you. Perhaps they could tell you are not really a Protestant, any more than you are a Catholic. Indeed, what are you?’

‘I am a philosopher, my lord,’ I said quietly, when it became clear that the question was not rhetorical. ‘I believe God has given us reason and understanding to query what we know and consider new ideas based on new discoveries, so that each generation can build on the knowledge of the past,’ I added, since he seemed to expect more.

‘Mm. I should rethink that answer before you meet the Papal nuncio.’ He steepled his hands together and touched the tips of his forefingers to his lips. ‘Prove yourself useful to me, Bruno, convince me you have repented of your heresies, and you may yet have a future in France. And the English girl will come to no harm.’

I snapped my head up and stared at him. ‘What English girl?’

He seemed pleased with the reaction.

‘Come now, Bruno. A beautiful girl appears in Paris, fresh off the boat, knocking at the gates of the Louvre brandishing your name like a royal seal – do you not think I would come to hear of it sooner or later?’

‘So she is still here?’

His mouth curved into a smile, making the scar twist. ‘Let us say I would know where to find her. You will report anything you uncover to Paget – I don’t want you seen here again. If I hear that you have taken any information to Henri before me, the girl will lose her pretty nose. And her hands. She would have to go and beg with the lepers.’

‘What makes you think I would care about saving her skin?’ I asked.

‘The look on your face when I mentioned her,’ he said. He lifted the glass left for him by the dwarf and raised it first towards me and then to Paget. ‘The two of you will work together. With your combined connections, something must come to light. And you will say nothing of Joseph de Chartres’s death yet. I must decide how to arrange that before it is known.’

‘He cannot be found in the priest’s rooms, my lord,’ Paget said briskly. ‘It will make the connection between them explicit. And since that connection is the League, it would be preferable if his body turned up elsewhere.’

Guise looked pensive. ‘Must he be found at all?’

‘If he simply disappears, it will be assumed that he has run away because he is guilty of murder.’

‘Which he is,’ I pointed out.

Paget darted a look at me from the corner of his eye, irritated. ‘And if his guilt is assumed in absentia, it will point to my Lord of Guise as the author. So he must be found, but nowhere that will imply any connection with the death of Paul Lefèvre.’

Guise waved this aside. ‘Leave that to me. Let us drink to unlikely alliances.’ He nodded to the glass in my hand. ‘And to a unified, Catholic France, free from heresy.’

‘A unified Catholic France,’ I mumbled, lifting the glass and forcing myself to swallow a drop. All I could taste was my own blood.

‘Have you ever tried it, Bruno?’ Paget asked, over his shoulder, as we rode back across the river to the Left Bank. He had offered to take me home on his horse, prompted more by a desire to ensure I did not detour via the Louvre than from any concern for my well-being, I guessed.

‘Tried what?’

‘Being throttled.’

‘No. Not for pleasure, anyway.’

‘Ah.’ He jabbed the horse gently with his heels and it picked up its pace as we approached the Pont de Notre-Dame. ‘Your English girl not up for that sort of thing?’

‘She’s not my English girl.’

‘Hm. Still. Pretty creature, though.’

I knew he felt me tense against him in the saddle and grip the fabric of his cloak tighter. He meant to provoke me and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction. We rode on without speaking, as I willed myself with every jolt not to ask any questions. Lamps had been lit in the windows of the houses along the bridge and smoke gusted from chimneys. The air smelled of damp and soot; the cold worked its way inside my clothes. My fingers were frozen and my lip throbbed dully. The only sounds were the gulls, the brisk ring of the horse’s hooves and an occasional shout from a boatman below on the dark water. I longed more than ever for the warmth of Jacopo’s parlour, his quiet attention and wise counsel, but I thought it likely that Paget would still have someone tailing me. I would have to wait.

‘Do you believe him?’ I asked, in an effort to steer him away from the subject of Sophia.

‘Guise?’ His voice echoed off the walls of the houses on either side. ‘About the murders, yes. I wasn’t sure about Lefèvre at first, but I would swear he had nothing to do with de Chartres’s death – it comes too near his own family. He’s worried.’ Paget leaned back so I could hear him more clearly. ‘Guise doesn’t dirty his hands with anything so grubby as propaganda. It’s his sister who directs all that. The Duchess of Montpensier. You know what they call her?’

‘The Fury of the League,’ I murmured.

‘Ever seen her?’

‘No. She’s a widow, I believe.’ I pictured a pinch-faced woman in a black veil, thumbing through pictures and descriptions of the King’s sexual misdemeanours, eyes burning with religious zeal and frustration.

‘But only thirty-two. And a beauty.’ He whistled. ‘Not short of suitors, as you may imagine. No interest in men, though – all her energy goes into promoting her brother’s cause. She’d do anything for Guise. De Chartres was a cousin of her late husband – I expect that’s how she recruited him. She’s the one who pays all those pamphleteers. The King’s tried to have her exiled from Paris, but he won’t enforce it because her stepson, the present Duke, is neutral and Henri doesn’t want to alienate him.’

‘Then perhaps the Duchess knows something about the murders, if they both worked for her.’ An idea struck me. ‘Guise implied that she was close to de Chartres. You don’t suppose they could have been lovers?’ I closed my eyes and pictured the words of the letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress. A frisson chased through me. An illicit affair between a high-born friar and a young widowed duchess – that would certainly offer the edge of danger hinted at by the letter writer.

‘The Fury?’ Paget sounded offended. ‘That would be quite the scandal. She is famously chaste. You’re not seriously suggesting the Duchess of Montpensier murdered de Chartres this afternoon?’ He gave a shallow laugh. ‘I wish you luck pursuing that line of enquiry. She’d burn a man like you on the spot if you stood still long enough.’

‘You said yourself she’d do anything for her brother. In any case, I thought you might be better placed to investigate there,’ I said.

‘I hardly think Guise would thank us for pointing the finger at his own sister.’ He plainly did not like the idea of being directed by me. ‘He made it clear he wants you to look at the court.’

‘Perhaps that’s because he already suspects his sister’s involvement.’

‘You seem to be jumping to conclusions rather prematurely, Bruno. And not ones that will earn you anyone’s favour.’

I was too tired for any more verbal sparring with Paget. We rode on in silence and emerged on to the Left Bank.

‘So you know her, then?’ I said, eventually, despite myself.

‘The Duchess? Of course.’

‘You know who I mean. The English girl.’

I could not see his face, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

‘Guise asked me to find her. He’d heard mention of her from one of his informers at the Palace, as he said. An associate of yours from England, demanding an audience with the King – naturally he was curious. I tracked her down to the Eagle. That’s the tavern where the restless young Englishmen gather. The ones Walsingham would like to get his hands on.’ He chuckled.

‘I know the place. Conspirators, you mean.’

‘Well. That’s how they’d like to think of themselves, no doubt. Most of them are just students with too much time on their hands. Angry dispossessed boys who blame Elizabeth for their family’s losses. They drink too much, they talk of being ordained, going to Rome, overthrowing the English government. Some of them might get as far as carrying a few letters back and forth. Most are too disorganised to do more than curse and sing rebel songs, then pass out in the street and do it all again the next day. I keep a weather eye on them. Occasionally one proves firmer of purpose than the rest. Curious choice of company for a young woman travelling alone, though.’ He slowed the horse as we reached the rue Saint-Jacques to allow an ox-cart to pass. ‘But then she was a curiosity altogether. Yours wasn’t the only name she was throwing around.’

‘No?’ I tried to think who else Sophia might have been looking for in Paris.

‘She was trying to find associates of someone she had known in Oxford. A name that would not be unfamiliar to you, I think. I thought it best to make her acquaintance.’

I nodded, understanding. ‘So where is she now?’

‘In gainful employment.’

‘Working for you, I suppose?’

‘Not at all. As a governess to one of the English families. I quickly realised she was unusually well educated, for a woman of her birth. I introduced her to a Catholic gentleman who had fled early with his wife and daughters and enough of his fortune to keep a decent household in Paris. I hear the girls make excellent progress with their lessons and would be lost without her.’

‘And what do you get out of it?’

‘My dear Bruno,’ he said, half-turning in the saddle to shine a smile over his shoulder, ‘your opinion of me is quite unflattering. You are going to have to learn to trust me a little more, now that we are working together.’

‘I trust you precisely as much as you trust me. And now we are both supposedly working for Guise while our true loyalties lie elsewhere, so we are hardly exemplars of integrity.’

He laughed. ‘Well, you and I of all people should know better than to trust a spy. They have a tendency to betray people for profit.’ He kicked the horse again and it broke into a trot; all my bruises jolted together as I gripped his back. ‘The art of dealing with Guise is to make him think you are doing what he wants, while making sure you use the situation to your own advantage.’

‘That is the art of dealing with anyone, surely?’

‘Ha! Spoken like a true cynic. We have more in common than you might imagine. I think perhaps I shall enjoy our partnership after all.’

I lacked the energy to dispute this, so we rode the rest of the way in silence. He let me dismount at the corner of rue du Cimetière and told the servant to see me to my door with the torch.

‘One more thing,’ I said, as I turned to go. ‘This English family. What is their name?’

He pushed back his hat and looked down with the smile of one better versed in the ways of the world. ‘Ah, Bruno. I dare say if she wants you to find her, she will let herself be found. Softly, softly with a woman like that, you know.’

So you have tried, I thought, and fought down an urge to pull him out of the saddle and punch his smirking face. Surely Sophia would have the wit to resist a man like Paget. Wouldn’t she?

‘I have a suggestion for you, Bruno, before you go. Talk to the women.’

He was still looking down at me with his knowing smile. The horse stamped on the spot, its nostrils steaming.

‘Which women?’

‘The Flying Squadron, of course. You want to find out what’s going on at court, they know everything. That’s their raison d’être. And you’re a handsome man, when your face isn’t looking like a plate of tenderised beef, even if you are on the short side. I’m sure you could cajole a few confidences out of them. That’s where I’d start digging, if I were you.’

‘And why aren’t you following your own good advice?’

‘Oh, they know me too well by now. They’re wary. You, on the other hand – you’ve been away. They won’t know where your loyalties lie. They’ll consider it a challenge to find out. You might learn something. In more ways than one.’ He flashed a grotesque wink. ‘You could make a start at the Queen Mother’s ball next week.’

‘What makes you think I’d be invited?’

‘Bruno.’ He shook his head, disappointed. ‘You don’t need an invitation. If you can’t find a way to insinuate yourself into a masked ball, of all places, I shall have a very low opinion of your abilities. Le tout Paris will be there.’ He jerked his heels and wheeled the horse around, gobbets of mud spraying from its hooves. ‘I’ll be seeing you soon.’

I did not doubt it.

The Flying Squadron. Dio porco. As if I weren’t in enough trouble already.