Conspiracy

TWELVE

The song of the castrati rose up to the canopy of the heavens in layers of shifting harmonies, fluting, unearthly – unnatural, to my ears. I had always been disturbed by the sound of those soft-bodied, hairless creatures, trapped in perpetual limbo between boy and man. Under cover of their music I slipped between masked guests at the back of the hall, behind the raised dais with the thrones – still empty – in search of a vantage point where I could watch both the stage and the crowds unobserved. As I passed behind two women talking in strident, aristocratic voices, I caught a phrase in their conversation which caused me to slow my step and hover, straining to listen.

‘The Fury of the League,’ said one, letting a snigger escape behind her fan. ‘Who’d have thought?’

‘Fervour like that, you can always be sure it’s hiding something,’ her companion remarked. ‘Wanting the world to think she’s some kind of saint. And all the while – incest and murder!’

‘Hardly incest, chérie,’ said the first. ‘He was her husband’s cousin, not hers.’

‘Family by marriage, it’s all one,’ the second woman said, adjusting her lace shawl over bare shoulders. The general noise of conversation in the hall was so great she had to lean in and shout. ‘And he was still a man in holy orders, cousin or no. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it herself.’

‘Stabbed through the heart, I heard.’

‘Really? Henriette said his throat was cut.’

‘How would Henriette know?’

‘She knows people.’

‘Could a woman do such a thing, do you think? A duchess?’

The second woman rippled her fan and shuddered. ‘That one could. She’d stab you with a look if she had the chance.’

‘Keep your voice down – I heard she’s here tonight. Could be right behind us, for all we know.’ She glanced around; I looked quickly at the floor and shuffled a few paces away. The woman’s gaze slid over me without interest behind her scarlet mask. ‘Anyway, she’s a Guise by blood, what do you expect?’ she continued, when she was satisfied that their subject was not within earshot. ‘Her brother the Duke’s had most of the women in this room. Apart from me,’ she added, in case of doubt.

‘At least he’s only had the women,’ the second one said, at the same volume. ‘Unlike the King.’ She gave a merciless snort of laughter.

‘It’s Queen Louise I pity,’ said the first, in a sympathetic voice. ‘Imagine being married to that. If I were her I’d drink poison.’

‘If I were her, I’d bed the nearest courtier, tell the King it was his. Solve everything at one stroke,’ the other whispered. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t had the wit to try it before now.’

‘She probably did, but the courtiers were too busy bedding each other.’

They collapsed into a fit of malicious giggles, clutching one another’s arms. I moved away before they noticed me. So gossip had already declared that the Duchess of Montpensier was behind Joseph’s murder, because they were lovers. I wondered how long those rumours had been in circulation, and where they originated. I recalled Frère Benoît saying that the abbey gossip declared Joseph’s mistress to be a married noblewoman, and thought of the passionate note I had found among the almoner’s papers, now carefully hidden in a box with my most dangerous writings behind a loose rafter in the ceiling of my lodgings. I knew better than to draw any conclusions from hearsay, but the same unease that had dogged me since my meeting with Guise grew sharper. What meagre scraps of information I had gathered all suggested that the Duchess had a greater motive than anyone – save Guise himself – to silence both Paul and Joseph. I had no idea whether she was a woman who could kill in cold blood, as the gossips claimed, though Paget had remarked that she was ruthless in her brother’s cause. Was it possible that she could have organised both murders – even carried out one of them – without the Duke of Guise knowing? There was also the manner of Joseph’s death to consider, and Paget’s suggestion that he had been killed by his lover while he was naked and off guard. But if that were the case, how would Guise respond if my investigation appeared to be leading towards his own sister? I could answer that too easily; he would be all the keener on his original plan of blaming me for de Chartres’s death as an agent of the King.

I slunk away to the side of the hall and found myself a spot by a pillar with a view of the stage and the dais with the thrones. To my right, a brazier coughed out its scented smoke, stinging my eyes and the back of my throat, though at least it gave off some warmth. I wondered again what herbs they were burning; already I felt a little light-headed and was grateful for the solidity of the stone at my back. The castrati reached the crescendo of their song, though their voices were barely audible by now over the hum of conversation. In the smoky air and torchlight, the crowd of guests appeared garish and alien, with their exotic colours and the blank or distorted expressions lent them by the masks; a host of half-human creatures risen up from a subterranean world for their demonic revels. Every time someone looked at me for a heartbeat too long I imagined malice in their eyes, and was rocked by the fear that they could see through my disguise, that I alone was standing naked and exposed in a hostile crowd. I shook my head and blinked hard; I needed to stop this and keep my wits about me. It was still early and the King had ordered me not to leave without his permission, though I was not sure what more he wanted from me. The name ‘Circe’ had visibly upset him, that much was clear, but I had no idea why unless he deigned to explain further.

A woman dressed as a milkmaid drifted towards me in a gown cut low in the bodice so that her breasts were almost spilling out. She looked at me sidelong from under her mask; for a moment I thought she meant to speak, but as she moved past with uncertain steps I saw that her eyes were glazed, unfocused. An empty glass – not her first – dangled from her hand. She might have been the Duchess of Montpensier for all I knew. Those women had speculated that she was here; the one thing I might usefully do tonight would be to watch her under cover of my Doctor’s costume, but first I would need someone to identify her, and that would require me to find one of the few people at the ball to whom I could reveal myself.

The castrati took their bows to polite applause, though only those nearest the stage showed them much attention; the rest of the crowd remained intent on their own conversations at a volume that filled the hall like the roar of a cataract. Piqued, the eunuchs stalked off stage and I drew myself up straighter, eager to see Francesco and his friends make their entrance. Instead, the cold, clear note of a trumpet cut through the noise; a deferential silence descended and the guests fell back on either side to create a path through the room for the royal party.

She entered on an open litter borne by four strong men dressed as Saracens, naked from the waist up and walking at a stately pace, the timing of their steps impeccable despite the veins straining in their muscled arms and the sweat beading their brows and chests. Catherine de Medici sat in her chair proud as a martial statue, head erect, eyes fixed straight ahead. She had made no concession to the demands of a costume ball. Instead she was dressed, as always, in a high-necked gown of black velvet with a neat white ruff and a black collar fanning stiffly behind her neck, her hair scraped back under a black hood and draped at the back with a black lace veil, the sober widow’s uniform she had worn since her husband was killed in a joust a quarter-century ago. Her heavy-jowelled face was bare of cosmetics, though I noticed her brows had been artfully plucked, and she wore no jewellery except her wedding ring and a signet ring. I bowed the knee along with the rest of the company as she passed, sneaking a glance at her marble composure. Here was a woman who truly deserved to be called ruthless, though I could not help but admire her: she had fought to preserve the throne of France for her sons with the ferocity of a she-wolf defending her cubs, and the strain of those twenty-five years showed in the furrows of her brow and the pouches beneath her eyes. If, at sixty-six, she was losing her appetite for the fight, you would never guess it from her demeanour, just as you would never know the constant pain she suffered from gout and rheumatism; she rode through the crowd with her face set like a general riding into battle, as consummate a performer as any of the acts who would appear before her on stage.

Walking behind her, Henri’s neglected wife Queen Louise cut a sorry figure; she had never been a robust woman, but she seemed to have faded since I last saw her, perhaps as a result of the endless fasting and pilgrimages she undertook in the hope of bargaining with the Blessed Virgin to give her a child; all wasted efforts if it was true that her husband never visited her bed. She was dressed tonight as a lady from a chivalric tale of centuries past, in a high-waisted green gown which accentuated the angles of her spare frame. Her shoulders and collarbone jutted sharply through the fabric; the tall conical headdress with its drifting veil appeared too heavy for her slender neck. She walked as if it pained her to lift her head and her eyes were ringed with purple shadows. Three young women carried her train, all pink-cheeked and vital by contrast with their mistress, who stumbled more than once in her progress toward the thrones like an old woman, though she could not be much above thirty. I thought of the gossip who had said she would take poison if she were married to Henri. One might be forgiven for thinking Queen Louise had been doing exactly that. Of her husband the King there was no sign; I presumed his mother had sent him to get changed.

The silence lasted until the royal party had settled themselves into the thrones on the dais, with a gaggle of courtiers and ladies strewn artfully on cushions at their feet. Catherine rose with some effort and stood at the front of the platform; as if on cue, the assembled guests erupted into rapturous applause and cheers, which she accepted with a nod and an inclination of her head to either side. When she had taken her seat again, the guests arranged themselves with an unnecessary degree of fuss and argument on the tiered stands ranged along the sides of the hall. Finally, Catherine raised her hand and the musicians struck up a tune as the players of I Gelosi took to the stage and assumed their poses.

I had my reservations about the Commedia in general – there were limitations, I felt, to how much of human nature could be shown in its stock characters and scenarios – but Francesco and Isabella and their companions were so skilled in their stagecraft, so finely tuned in the physical comedy of their storytelling, that, watching them, I found myself laughing with sheer delight in their invention along with the rest of the audience, so absorbed in the performance that I did not notice any movement in the shadows behind the pillar until I felt a hand close around my arm.

‘Almost like home, eh?’ Spoken in Italian; a soft voice, sibilant, Florentine accent. I turned to see Balthasar de Beaujoyeux at my side, casually holding my arm, his lists and running orders bunched in his other hand. He did not wear a mask; it made his face look startlingly undefended among the disguised guests. Behind my own mask, my breathing sounded unnaturally loud. He gestured with his papers towards the stage.

‘For my money, Isabella Andreini is the finest performer in Italy – though Italy is too blind to see it. You have heard the bishops want to ban women from the stage altogether?’ He clicked his tongue, indignant. ‘Their loss is Paris’s gain, do you not agree?’

I stole a sidelong glance at him, saying nothing. He was still holding my arm with a grip firm enough to make a point. His close-cropped black hair and beard were flecked with grey; there was a severity to his good looks, and his dark eyes missed nothing. I had not known him well the last time I was at court, before I left for England, but I had never sensed that he was one of those courtiers who resented my friendship with the King, or had actively pursued my downfall – unlike Cosimo Ruggieri, the Queen Mother’s astrologer. On the few occasions we met, Balthasar had treated me with courtesy and even a degree of warmth. But he held himself generally aloof, as if he believed that his position at court was uniquely elevated; he may be working as Henri’s secretary now, but he was always Catherine’s man, and I had no idea if he was trying to trick me into revealing myself so that he could scurry to inform her that a persona non grata had entered her halls. There was an outside chance he had taken me for someone else, though the fact that he had addressed me in our shared language argued against that.

‘Come now, Giordano Bruno,’ he whispered, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Do you think I lack eyes to see?’ But he did not speak unkindly. ‘I did not spot it immediately, I admit,’ he continued, when I still refused to speak. ‘But I have known the Gelosi since they first came to Paris. I knew you were not their usual Dottore. Besides, I can count above ten. They have never before brought an understudy. I only realised who they had smuggled in when I saw how you avoided my eye. But you always did like to flirt with danger.’

‘What will you do?’ I said eventually.

He lifted one shoulder, non-committal. ‘Your presence is of no consequence to me, as long as I will not be blamed if she discovers you.’

‘She will not, if no one tells her. It was the King’s idea.’

‘That does not surprise me.’

‘I hear you are his secretary now.’

He allowed a small pause; I sensed he was weighing up his words. ‘I serve His Majesty and Queen Louise. These are difficult times – so much potential for betrayal. And Henri has not always exercised good judgement in his choice of intimates, as you know. Catherine wished him to be served by a close circle whose loyalty she can vouch for personally.’

And who will report back to her on the King’s every move, I thought. ‘It must give you less time to spend on all this, though.’ I gestured to the stage, the decorations overhead. He inclined his head with a wry twist of his mouth.

‘Truth to tell, there have not been many entertainments since you left, not the way we used to have. The coffers have been emptied to arm the troops. This is the first on such a scale in three years or more.’ He sighed. ‘I still teach the girls dancing most days, but you are right – I have missed it. I am more at home chivvying players and musicians than copying dispatches – for all the nerves it gives me.’

‘I will not keep you from it, then.’

‘No – I must go.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Well, I shall forget I have seen you. But take care you don’t run into Ruggieri. He won’t miss the chance to do you harm.’

‘True. Ruggieri has always hated me.’

Balthasar smiled. ‘Because your reputation as a magician eclipsed his.’

‘That was more slander-’

He held up a hand to stop me. ‘I have no quarrel with you, Bruno. You are my countryman, whatever they say about you. Personally, I always felt you rather livened up the place. Not that this court has ever wanted for incident,’ he added, with a hint of pride. He tightened his grip and pulled me closer, conspiratorial. ‘I warn you only because if I have recognised you, others may too, and there are plenty here who are not your friends. The Queen Mother is in a particularly unforgiving temper with the strain of this entertainment. I would not count on Henri to take responsibility, if she finds you here.’

I nodded, though my eyes were drawn again to the stage, where Isabella had stretched herself over backwards, her body arched so that only her feet and palms touched the ground. She lifted one leg, toes delicately pointed, followed by the other, balanced for a moment on her hands, then allowed her legs to scissor above her head and down to the boards behind her, slowly and with perfect control, so that she was upright once more, her body describing two fluid curves in the manoeuvre. This was an innovation of her own but the audience seemed to appreciate it; they erupted into whistles and applause, as much for the glimpse of lean stockinged thigh the move had afforded them as for its daring.

‘She is quite something, isn’t she?’ Balthasar murmured. ‘But wait until you see my girls dance their masque. Holy Mother – I must go and rally them, we are next. You’ll enjoy this one – the Masque of Circe.’ He let go of my arm and levered himself forward from the pillar with a little bounce before setting off around the back of the stand.

‘Wait!’

I had raised my voice too far, and in Italian; a few guests standing nearby turned their heads to look. Balthasar spun on his heel and gave me a hard look.

‘The Masque of Circe, you said?’ I caught up with him, clutching at his sleeve.

‘That’s right. The enchantress who deprives men of their reason and turns them into beasts. Well – you know your Homer. Allegorical, naturally. France lulled into complacency by the Protestants, rescued by our gallant king.’ He arched an eyebrow to acknowledge the irony. ‘But you will spend yourself in your breeches when you see our Circe. I must go.’

‘One more thing. Is Gabrielle de la Tour still among your dancers?’

He broke into a knowing smile.

‘Ah. Cara Gabrielle. One of my finest, though by rights she is past her prime. Do you have a particular interest to declare?’

I made the calculation; Gabrielle would be no more than twenty-eight, at most. A cold sensation prickled up the back of my neck, despite the rising heat of bodies and braziers in the room.

‘Is she …’ I hesitated. ‘She is not dancing the part of Circe?’

‘You will see for yourself in a few moments. I would not wish to spoil the surprise.’

‘Will you tell her …’ Again I paused; this was truly a risk, to reveal myself to a woman I had not seen for more than three years, and who had no reason to show me loyalty. But Gabrielle was my only point of access to the secret life of the court, as Paget had intimated, and if I did not take my chance now it may not come again. ‘Tell her I am here, and I would be glad to speak to her, if she is so inclined.’

Balthasar twisted his mouth; he seemed uncertain.

‘If you think that wise. But she will not be free until after the masque, and it may be that others have a prior claim on her time … Still, I will convey your regards, in any case.’

‘I will be in your debt.’

‘I know you will.’ He nodded, turned again and disappeared through clusters of standing spectators with his sprightly gait. I did not entirely trust him to keep my secret; I could only hope that his anxiety about being implicated in having allowed me to enter with the Gelosi would keep his lips sealed as far as Catherine was concerned.

The Masque of Circe. I turned the phrase over and over, my feet rooted to the floor as my mind raced. It was like trying to assemble shards of a broken mirror; a few fragments now appeared to fit together and I had begun to see a jagged, if partial, reflection. Paul’s letter had warned of some harm to be perpetrated by ‘Circe’, a threat I had to assume he was trying to reiterate to me with his dying breath. I had supposed it was a code name for an operative of the Catholic League, but after what Balthasar had told me, it seemed possible – likely, even – that Paul’s last word had a less cryptic meaning; surely it could not be a coincidence that the women of the court were to present the story of Circe tonight? Henri had already observed that many of his adversaries were in attendance at the ball; still others might have slipped in uninvited. Where, then, did the danger lie? In the masque itself? In the person of ‘Circe’?

I became aware that the guests had broken into applause and cheering. I forced myself to focus and saw that Francesco and his troupe were already making their bows, blowing extravagant kisses to the audience. At each side of the stage, servants had taken up positions ready to shift scenery and replenish the candles for the next act. The masque would begin shortly. I felt a sudden wave of dizziness; my knees buckled as all the sounds of the hall receded, falling away like a retreating wave, and I was overcome by a terrible premonition. Something was going to happen to Henri during the masque, I felt sure of it. That was what Paul had been trying to tell me. Sitting there in the centre of a raised platform for all to see, relaxed, guard down, his attention on the dancing girls – the King would be an easy target. One lead shot in the chest from close range would be all that was needed; though there were guards armed with halberds positioned around the dais, they would not be able to move fast enough to prevent a hit. It would be suicide, of course; the assassin could not hope to escape in such a public place, but Paris was not short of fanatical Catholics who would willingly martyr themselves for the chance to rid France of her heretical monarch.

I glanced across to the royal party; Henri’s throne was still empty. Another possibility occurred: that the King had been lured into an assignation in the gardens – he had hinted earlier that he intended a tryst tonight – where some violence would befall him while the guests and his attendants were distracted by the masque. It might be supposed that a sovereign who knows himself to be the target of an active conspiracy would not agree to a rendezvous in a dark garden, but I was not convinced that even Henri’s instinct for self-preservation was strong enough to override the promptings of his loins and the impish desire to defy his mother when the mood took him. I suspected he would relish the idea of sneaking out in disguise, without his bodyguards. Given what he called his ‘catholic tastes’, the potential assassin could be anyone – man or woman, duchess, lord or servant. I needed to warn him; he may be walking towards a flashing blade in the dark even at this moment.

Jacopo Corbinelli had taken a discreet seat at the back of the royal platform, behind Queen Louise’s right shoulder, still cheerful beneath his Pantalone mask. If I could get word to him, he would surely know what to do; he would be able to rally the King’s armed men and search for him in the gardens.

I edged nearer to the dais through the standing spectators, those who had not managed to find a seat on the tiered benches. Two guards stood at either side of the stage to prevent anyone from encroaching too closely on the royal party, but their presence appeared to be more for show; they held their weapons loosely and their concentration was all bent on the stage at the far end, where the women of the Flying Squadron were expected to appear at any moment in their notoriously revealing costumes. I moved a few steps closer until I was within Jacopo’s eyeline and coughed loudly. One or two people nearby turned with disapproving looks, but Jacopo was leaning forward to speak to Queen Louise and appeared not to have heard. I took another step nearer and coughed again, but this had brought me out of the fray of the spectators so that I stood exposed near the dais, too close for the liking of one of the armed guards, evidently, as he immediately jerked his attention back from the stage and stepped towards me, brandishing his halberd.

‘You! Get back.’

I held up my hands to show that I meant no harm, but unfortunately he had barked his order during a lull in the general conversation, so that a number of heads turned in my direction.

‘I said back,’ he repeated, louder this time; I had already retreated several paces, not wishing to draw further attention, but the man clearly wanted his royal employers to know he was doing his job, so he jabbed the weapon towards me again and I realised that the party on the dais were now peering across to see the cause of the fuss. I caught Jacopo’s eye but was unable to make any signal to him as I was distracted by the sight of Catherine de Medici staring straight at me with eyes like arrowheads. I saw her incline to her right, still watching me, and whisper to the attendant standing by her chair, a masked dwarf clad in black velvet. The dwarf bowed his head once, and promptly vanished. When he moved I noticed, among the spectators standing on the far side of the dais, the tall man with the tricorn hat and the Greek mask, his blank face fixed on me, or so it seemed; the candlelight and shadows could play tricks at that distance.

I was spared any further scrutiny by another commotion at the back of the hall, heralding the breathless and apologetic arrival of King Henri himself, dressed this time in more manly attire of doublet and breeches, though of a startling violet satin with legs and arms puffed. His doublet hung open to show his unlaced shirt and his cheeks were flushed, traces of white lead paint still visible in the creases of his ears and chin. He wore a purple feathered mask pushed up on to his forehead. Flinging himself into the central throne, he stretched out his long legs and leaned across to mutter to his mother, who responded with a sour look as the assembled courtiers swept off their hats and bowed to their sovereign. Henri waved a hand as if such affectation were unnecessary and pulled his mask down over his face. I was greatly relieved by his arrival, not just because he was clearly very much alive, but because I appeared to have been forgotten in the excitement.

I scanned the audience on both sides; most of the guests were busy in conversation, animated by drink and anticipation. There were enough cloaks and voluminous costumes among them to make it easy to hide a weapon, I thought; I had concealed one myself under my doublet. But it was too late to do anything now; the musicians struck up a new tune and servants hastily snuffed some of the candles at our end of the hall, so that all the light was concentrated on the stage where the masque was about to begin.

An expectant hush fell over the room. Eight young women, bare-legged, their skin gleaming with oil, in short costumes of animal skin and wearing masks intended to represent wolves and lions, danced on to the stage and proceeded to circle one another in formation, hands clawing the air to indicate ferocity. The audience emitted a low, male murmur of appreciation. The wild animals were followed by eight more girls, this time dressed as nymphs, their hair loose and woven with garlands of leaves, their gowns made of some clinging, diaphanous fabric that emphasised the curves of their thighs and breasts, so thin that the outlines of their nipples, stiff with cold, were clearly visible. The nymphs undulated down the length of the hall in the space between the two stands, towards the royal platform, weaving in and out of one another in movements carefully choreographed to give the seated spectators an uncompromising view of their bodies, before and behind. With more suggestive gyrations, the nymphs skipped prettily back towards the stage, where the lions and wolves affected to attack them, pawing unconvincingly at their clothing in a manner that clearly delighted the onlookers, to judge by the whistles and stamping that greeted this performance. Then the music shifted tempo to become slow and menacing; the nymphs stopped their frolicking and fell back into two lines, heads bowed; a breathless silence descended on the crowd, and Circe appeared.