Conspiracy

PART TWO
TEN

‘Giordano Bruno, you old scoundrel! I haven’t seen you in – what is it, three, four years? Where have you been? Come here, let me look at your face. Madonna, what have you been doing with yourself, my friend – fighting in the streets? Well, I would expect no less of a Nolan.’

Without pausing for breath or answers, Francesco Andreini threw himself on me and wrapped me in an embrace that crushed the breath from my ribs, kissing me loudly on both cheeks. Though he was right, it had been some years since we last met and I could hardly claim him as a close friend, I felt a rush of affection for the young actor from Milan and grasped him as if he were a lost brother. Not so young now, I reflected; he was born the same year as me, though his close-shaved face, with its thick brow and supple features, appeared endlessly mutable, unfixed by age. He could play a pinched miser of eighty winters or a dazed inamorato in the first flush of young love and convince you utterly, without recourse to wig or beard. He and his troupe, I Gelosi, were so loud and colourful, so gloriously Italian in the way they all talked over one another with defiant gestures, as if every exchange were a matter of life or death, that if I closed my eyes I could imagine I was back in the grand Roman palazzo where I had first watched them perform their distinctive variety of the Commedia years ago, instead of here in Jacopo Corbinelli’s house in the rue des Tournelles.

Jacopo’s large front parlour had been transformed into the dressing room of a theatre. On all sides open trunks disgorged a landslide of frothing fabric: gowns in delicate taffeta, rippling swathes of velvet that shimmered in the light, rustling silks, thick furs and exquisite floating lace; painted leather masks lay on every surface, leering or simpering with their hooked noses and hollow eyes. Quick hands arranged elaborate hairpieces on stands or whisked them away from candles. Between these trunks and their apparently infinite contents, the ten members of the company darted and feinted around one another in their shifts and undershirts, men and women alike, candlelight gilding naked shoulders and arms as they plucked robes, belts, stockings or necklaces from the mouths of boxes as required, avoiding collision as skilfully as if they had rehearsed each move many times over. The air smelled of beeswax, powder, perfume and the faint mustiness of old cloth.

‘So – Jacopo says you have come to join us?’ Francesco released me, stepped back and grinned. He was half-dressed in the costume of his usual role, the Captain.

‘Just to get inside the gates. I promise you will not be obliged to suffer my lack of skill on stage.’

‘Too modest, Bruno! You are renowned throughout Europe as an orator. Granted, that might be because you end up in prison every time you open your mouth-’ he broke off into guffaws as I cuffed him on the arm. ‘Give me a week, I could train you as a player. I would put money on it, if I had some to spare.’

‘How is business?’ I asked, when he had stopped laughing. The spark in his eyes dulled.

‘Huh.’ He gestured around the room as if that answered the question. ‘We keep working as long as we keep moving. You know how it is.’

‘You don’t go home?’

‘Home.’ He pronounced the word as if it offended him. ‘No. We have the same problem you have now, my friend.’

‘Which one?’

He snorted. ‘What do you think? There is only one, in Italy. The Church.’

‘But people love your shows.’

‘That is the trouble.’ He grimaced. ‘The Commedia has grown too popular. Certain cardinals decided to take an interest. They have concluded that we are corrupting the common people.’ He threw his hands up. ‘Why – because we show human nature in all its naked folly? Because we acknowledge that people shit and fart and fuck as well as pray – yes, even priests and bishops? Because we are not afraid to say cock and cunt on stage, because these things are not offensive, and instead we say that what is truly offensive is hypocrisy and oppression? Tell me – is that corrupting the people? Is it not more corrupt to deny them a few moments of fun, or truth, or the chance to laugh at those who have puffed themselves up with power?’

His voice had grown in pitch and fervour; by the time he reached the end the rest of the room had fallen silent and the company burst into a spontaneous round of applause. Francesco looked gratified, gave a mock bow and waved them back to their duties.

‘I see why you’re on the wrong side of the cardinals,’ I said. He smiled, but there was a sadness in his eyes that I recognised.

‘So.’ He swirled a peacock-blue cloak around his shoulders. ‘In Italy now they say that in every town, we must submit a script of our play to the censors before we can be granted a licence to perform.’

‘But your shows are extemporised.’

‘Exactly. So we say we have no script. Ah, then we are sorry, they say, we would like to oblige, but without a script, our hands are tied.’ He crossed his wrists and held them up as if bound. ‘And I will not drain the lifeblood from our work by committing it to paper and letting them take their pens to it – what would be left of us?’ He shook his head. ‘But we are lucky – while it pleases King Henri to continue his patronage, we find enough work in Paris.’ He flexed and clenched his fist a couple of times, then picked up a pair of leather gloves. ‘We perform at the Hotel de Montpensier the day after tomorrow. A small, private entertainment, but exclusive, and they will feed us well.’

‘For the Duchess? You will have to mind your language there – I hear she is a most pious Catholic lady.’

‘Aren’t they always the ones who love a bit of filth?’ He made a crude thrust of his hips, grinning. ‘Though it is her stepson, the Duke, who has invited us. I believe his tastes are a little broader. But we shall test our material tonight. Performing for one of Catherine de Medici’s entertainments is not the same as playing an inn yard. They still want the dirty stuff, but we must dress it in fine words.’

‘What do you perform tonight?’

‘Two pieces,’ he said, stretching the gloves out finger by finger. ‘At different times. And I’m told that Catherine’s women will perform a masque of their own devising too. Heh.’ He nudged me with an elbow. ‘The Flying Squadron. We will have a hard time competing with that, I think. But at least we won’t have to make ourselves heard over the rustling of silk from all the gentlemen furtively frotting inside their breeches.’ He burst out laughing again and slapped me on the back, so that I almost stumbled into a slender young woman who had appeared unseen at my shoulder.

‘Ragazzi – stop your clowning and get dressed or we will be late, and you do not keep a king waiting.’ Isabella Canali interposed herself between us and slapped Francesco sharply on his backside with a sly smile at me. Francesco’s wife was the acknowledged star of the Gelosi; the one who had taken the docile character of the Inamorata and turned her into a mischievous, knowing and feisty young woman in her performances, which were risqué enough to make the censors sweat even more under their clerical collars. She was also an accomplished acrobat, turning her lithe body in cartwheels or backbends that provoked further shock; more radical still was the fact that she managed the company’s business with her husband as an equal partner. I tried to pretend I had not noticed that she was only wearing a thin linen shift. She leaned on my shoulder and whispered close to my ear. ‘Too busy dreaming about the Flying Squadron, eh? And you had better behave yourself,’ she added, turning to Francesco with a scolding finger. ‘I’ll be watching you. Keep your hands in plain sight.’ But her eyes were laughing as she said it.

‘What is this Flying Squadron?’ A tall young man with dark curls held back by a scarf turned to ask the room as he applied the white face of the clown Pedrolino, in a looking glass propped against a pile of books on Jacopo’s table. A low ripple of male laughter spread through his colleagues.

‘Poor Ercole,’ Isabella said, nodding to the young man. ‘He is new to us. He doesn’t know what he’s letting himself in for. The Flying Squadron are Catherine de Medici’s secret weapon,’ she told him, sotto voce, with a wink at me. ‘They’re like the Sirens. We’ll have to tie you to the mast.’ The boy looked alarmed beneath his facepaint, but the others only chuckled and shook their heads, as if to say he would have to learn for himself. I said nothing. I had experienced the dangerous allure of the Flying Squadron before.

Isabella turned back to me and held up a black hooded robe. ‘Here, Bruno – I thought this for you? It would hide most of your face.’

‘An advantage, with a face like his,’ Francesco remarked, strapping on a belt.

Isabella gave him an affectionate cuff on the back of the head before helping me to fasten the robe with a pin. She passed me a three-quarter mask. ‘Try it.’

I took the mask and turned it slowly between my hands. ‘Ah. Il Dottore. The pompous philosopher, puffed up with his Latin quotations, so stupid that he cannot see what goes on under his nose. Not sure I approve your choice of character.’

‘Whatever made her think of that, I wonder?’ Francesco said, with his deep-chested laugh.

She rolled her eyes at me in complicity. ‘Jacopo said something that would cover you as much as possible. This is the best costume to hide behind.’

I looked down at the mask. I had never liked these faces – the bulbous brows and cheeks, the curved beak of a vulture in place of a nose, the painted lips pulled back in a grimace or a sneer; there was an implicit malice in their expressions, a grotesque exaggeration of baseness. But she was right; it would conceal my identity sufficiently, I hoped, to allow me to roam the Tuileries undetected. The ruse had been Henri’s suggestion, according to the letter I had received from Jacopo the previous day instructing me to arrive at his house this evening; with a troupe of costumed Italians expected at the palace gates, who would notice one more among their number? Apparently the King was delighted with his ingenuity. I shrugged on the Doctor’s black cloak and glanced around, my gaze resting on Isabella as she eased a cascade of silk over her narrow hips, the smooth muscles of her back rippling as she twisted to fasten the skirt behind her. Francesco caught me looking and threw me a grin; I darted my eyes away, embarrassed, before it occurred to me that, if he objected to people looking at his wife, he would not be in this business. I leaned back against a chair. For all its frantic energy, there was a sense of serenity in this room that I had not experienced for a long time, and which was not solely to do with relaxing into my own language. I would have given much to spend the evening here with them instead of piling into a boat for the palace.

A draught chased through the room as the door was flung open; the candle flames ducked and shrank in concert. In the doorway stood a figure in a blue and silver gown, peering around the company from the suspicious eye-slits of a white mask with rouged cheeks, its mouth a twist of bitterness.

‘I am Pantalone,’ the figure cried, in a strong Florentine accent, ‘and I have come to stop you stealing my silver and looting my chests of gold!’ An accusing finger stabbed towards Francesco. ‘Turn out your pockets – I know what you Milanese are like. Yes, and you Nolans.’ This last was addressed to me, as the pinched face turned in my direction. I smiled politely, but the fixed grimace unnerved me.

Pantalone pushed his mask on to his forehead to reveal the neat grey beard and mischievous eyes of Jacopo Corbinelli, creased with laughter. ‘What’s the matter, Bruno? You don’t like my performance?’

I laughed, a beat too late. ‘Pantalone is a stubborn, ignorant miser. It seems to me a poor choice of costume for one who is known to be wise and generous.’

‘Now I know you flatter me.’ He put an arm around my shoulder and drew me away from the players, lowering his voice. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘I have sent you messages this past week asking to meet. I began to fear you were avoiding me, Jacopo.’ I tried to keep my voice light, but the anxiety was real; I had wondered if he had been instructed to keep me at a distance. He looked away, though I thought I caught a flash of guilt in his eyes.

‘I know. One reached me, late, and the rest I suspect not at all. Too many open eyes and deep pockets between the palace gates and my rooms. I’m sorry I have not had a chance to see you this week,’ he said. ‘The Queen Mother has kept me at court the whole time with preparations for tonight. She has been preoccupied-’ He broke off, as if he had thought better of sharing royal troubles. ‘Henri has you chasing after this priest’s killer, I understand?’

I glanced behind me, but the players were too busy with their costumes to take any interest in us. ‘He wants me to find proof it was a Guise plot, before Guise fabricates proof against him. He seems to think it would be a simple matter.’

Jacopo frowned, his hand still resting on my shoulder. ‘Henri always thinks it will be simple for others to solve his problems. But you should not be mixed up in this, Bruno.’ He slid his fingers under the mask and scratched his head, where one stubborn tuft of silver-grey hair survived in the middle while the rest receded like a tideline. His brows remained defiantly black, so they looked as if they had been stuck on for a disguise. Though only midway through his fifties, there was a gravity to Jacopo that lent him the air of an elder statesman; he, too, understood the pain of exile. Catherine de Medici had brought him to France as a young man after he was banished from Florence due to a series of ill-judged political allegiances by his family. His expression now was one of paternal concern.

‘What choice do I have? I cannot refuse the King.’ I stopped, wondering if this was a coded warning. ‘Why, do you know something I do not?’

Jacopo shook his head. ‘Only that whoever had the priest killed is more than likely to strike again to protect himself, if he fears someone is coming close to the truth. A business like this rarely finishes at one corpse. You know, the young almoner of Saint-Victor was found dead last week.’ He raised an eyebrow, leaving a space for me to expand on that, if I chose.

‘I heard,’ I said carefully. ‘But he was discovered in an alley behind a gaming house, was he not? Is it supposed the deaths are connected?’

He pressed his lips together and lowered his voice further. ‘You tell me, Bruno. Word has it you were caught rifling through the man’s room a couple of days before he died. The Montpensier family do not accept that he was killed in any gaming-house brawl, at any rate, and they are powerful. You are lucky not to have been arrested.’

I turned the mask over in my hands. I knew this already; young Frère Benoît had come hotfoot to tell me on the last day of November, the day Joseph’s body was officially discovered. Guise’s people must have moved the body the night after I found him in Paul’s bed. Now the death was public knowledge, and plenty among the friars at Saint-Victor had seen me dragged out of his cell the night he fled; there was no doubt that the family would have heard too, and drawn their own conclusions. If they had not moved against me, it could only be because Guise was holding them in check. I still did not understand his motives; since our encounter I had grown increasingly anxious, wavering between the conviction that Guise was covering for his sister, and the belief that he genuinely did not know who had killed Joseph and expected me to discover the truth. The fact that I had not yet been arrested lent weight to the latter theory, which itself did not exclude the possibility that the Duchess of Montpensier had acted without her brother’s knowledge. These past couple of days, I had taken to keeping my shutters closed just in case, and freezing behind the door, dagger drawn, whenever I heard footsteps on my stairs.

‘All the more reason for me to find the real killer,’ I said, not meeting Jacopo’s eye.

He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Let me speak to Henri. You are a philosopher, Bruno, and he should give you his patronage as such. You know I do not always agree with your ideas, but the world should have the chance to hear them nonetheless. He should not have you chasing around the city on the heels of killers.’

‘Will he listen to you? It seems he has not so far,’ I added, unable to resist the implicit accusation.

‘Ah. Well.’ He folded his hands and looked at the floor. ‘My influence with Henri is not what it was, but if I catch him in the right frame of mind, he will sometimes recall the respect he once felt for his old tutor and give me his ear.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘He was always wilful, even as a boy, but he was also eager to learn. Now he pitches between these fits of melancholy and debauchery, it is hard to steer him back to equilibrium. But he still holds you in great esteem, you know, though he may not show it. I pray you, Bruno – do not pursue this matter of Lefèvre’s death any further. Henri has left you undefended, and you are not without enemies in this city.’

‘I know it,’ I said, with feeling. ‘But listen, Jacopo – the reason I wanted to see you so urgently this past week. There is something I need to ask, in connection with this business, that I dared not commit to paper.’ I glanced again at the players. ‘Have you ever heard of-’

‘Signor, the boat is ready.’ A boy in the Queen Mother’s livery appeared in the doorway and delivered his announcement with a stiff bow. A babble of commands went up from the players, as they began bundling props into baskets and arguing over who had last seen Arlecchino’s hat.

‘Later, Bruno.’ Jacopo squeezed my arm. ‘Our friends are expected at the palace. Time to hide our real faces.’ He reached up and pulled his Pantalone mask over his eyes.

‘I do that all the time already,’ I muttered, threading the ribbon around the back of my head. The Doctor’s mask smelled of stale breath and damp leather.

‘So do we all,’ Jacopo said darkly, his voice muffled.