Conspiracy

THIRTEEN

Her appearance was met with a collective intake of breath from the audience. She entered perched on the shoulders of two Herculean young men, both dressed in animal skins and wearing lion masks. Each of them held her around the upper thigh, their steps perfectly matched to the music, which had darkened and slowed suggestively. She wore a serpentine eye mask of green, shimmering fabric and a gold circlet in the shape of a snake around her brow. Thick, dark hair was coiled and pinned up on her head, loose tendrils falling across her bare shoulders, but this was not her most arresting feature. She was dressed in a gown that made the nymphs look nun-like by comparison, of gauzy blue cloth fixed over one shoulder with a gold brooch, and so entirely transparent as to leave her as good as naked.

I was relieved to see that it was not Gabrielle in the part of the enchantress, though I did not recognise the girl. She was a voluptuous young woman, strong and full-figured: her breasts taut, with large dark nipples grazing the fabric, her thighs firm and rounded. She sat with her legs primly crossed at the knee, a position that made her balance precarious but served teasingly to hide her mound of Venus from sight. She held both arms aloft, a gesture which lifted and emphasised the shape of her breasts; in one hand she clasped a goblet, in the other a golden staff. Her mouth was full and wet, the tip of her tongue poking pinkly between her lips in concentration as her sturdy lions set her carefully down before the curtseying nymphs. Despite myself, I felt the reflex stirrings of desire and recalled Balthasar’s crude boast that I would spend myself in my breeches at the sight. As Circe passed her cup and staff to two of the nymphs and proceeded to gyrate languidly, in a style that involved drawing maximum attention to her attributes, a quick glance around the room at the slack jaws and lust-clouded eyes of the male spectators told me every man present – even the elderly and infirm, I guessed – was feeling the old heat in the blood and surreptitiously adjusting a cockstand.

Despite the distracting pressure in my breeches, I grew alert as she progressed down the hall towards the royal dais. On her high-backed chair Catherine sat upright, following the performance with an expression of grim approval, but it was Henri who caught my attention. He was leaning forward in his seat, hands gripping the carved armrests so that his knuckles turned white, his face rapt. Even with his half-mask, I could see there was something unusual in his expression, beyond lust or mere appreciation for beauty. Was it apprehension? Fear, even?

With that thought, my eyes flicked back to Circe. She was level with me now and facing the royal platform, dancing solely for the King, like Salome, while her nymphs cavorted in symmetry behind her. Her cheeks were flushed from her exertions, her lips parted, but there was a strange intensity in her look as she fixed her eyes on Henri, as if she were aware of no one else, or else trying to communicate wordlessly with him; her face seemed illuminated, feverish almost, with an expression of urgency or compulsion. It looked for all the world as if she truly had the King under some enchantment.

Watching them, I felt as if another significant shard of the mirror was within my grasp. When I had told Henri that Circe meant him harm, had he assumed I was talking about this woman? He had declared it to be impossible, but the way he was sitting now, every sinew taut as a bowstring, suggested he had taken the warning to heart; more than once I noticed his eyes dart sideways to the armed guards by the dais. I wondered if she could be the recent mistress he had mentioned. I found that I too was braced for any sudden movement on her part, though I was fairly certain she was not concealing a weapon anywhere in that dress. Across the hall I noticed the man in the Greek mask and the tricorn hat had advanced a few paces, so that he now stood between the front left corner of the royal platform and the edge of the tiered benches. He kept his cloak wrapped tight around himself, his arms hidden from view. As far as I could tell, his gaze was fixed on the King. Bodyguard or potential assassin? My fingers flexed; he and I were equidistant from the royal dais. If he were to dart forward, I would have to match him for speed and precision if I were to have any hope of stopping him, and if he were concealing a pistol I would surely die.

But then the music changed tempo again – lighter this time, less sinister – the spell was broken and Circe pirouetted once, gave Henri a last piercing glance and danced her way back to the girls dressed as animals on the stage, her magnificent hips swaying in mesmeric rhythm as she passed, to further lascivious cheers from the audience.

The rest of the masque unfolded as a confused patchwork of stories, in which more women scantily dressed as Greek warriors fell under Circe’s bewitchment and were turned to swine, then rescued by the cunning of a tall, slender girl in the guise of Odysseus, who was in turn seduced by the sorceress in an erotically charged ballet between the two women, requiring intercession to Heaven by the Four Cardinal Virtues. The highlight was the arrival of a giant painted wooden eagle descending from the gallery via an impressive system of ropes and pulleys, with a girl dressed as the god Jupiter balanced precariously astride it, to a swelling choral accompaniment. Jupiter took the serpent-crown from Circe and, with a great show of solemnity, strode the length of the hall to kneel and present it to the King, who accepted it with a suitably grave expression and held it aloft to cries of ‘Vive le roi!’ from the dancers, quickly echoed by the audience in the stands. The whole was an absurd, overblown piece of flattery and self-mythologising by the Valois, but as a spectacle it was undeniably arresting; there must have been at least thirty young women on stage in varying states of undress, and a good deal of that Gondi money was evident in the construction of the eagle. I had been so intent on watching the man in the Greek mask that it had taken me some moments to recognise the young woman playing Odysseus, costumed in a short tunic with her long legs bare and her hair pinned up under a battle helmet. With the recognition came a small jolt of anxiety: Gabrielle de la Tour, the only one of Catherine’s women to have defeated my resolve when I was last in Paris.

Every man at the French court knew the stories of the Flying Squadron and their purpose, and yet it never ceased to amaze me how foolishly they – we – fell for their wiles, each of us wilfully deceiving himself that in his case it was different, that the girl’s desire must be genuine. Henri was right: his mother knew exactly how to exploit the weaknesses of men. She selected and cultivated an entourage of the most beautiful and accomplished daughters of noble families, to be in name her attendants, and in practice her spies. She made it her business to know the particular tastes and predilections of every man she considered worth monitoring, and without compunction would direct the girl most suited to his fancy to seduce him, win his affection and, in return for her liberal favours, draw from him his deepest secrets, particularly those concerning his political and religious loyalties. Catherine’s detractors put about that she trained up her girls in the debauchery of Florentine harlots, the better to win confidences from their enthralled targets; it was also said that she had her magician Ruggieri prepare spells and philtres that would ensnare a man’s wits and rob him of discretion and wisdom. I did not think I had been bewitched, though the night I spent with Gabrielle had revealed innovations I had not previously encountered in my dealings with women, so perhaps there was truth in the former accusation. Whatever her methods, it was certain that the Flying Squadron had proved itself a highly effective operation: some years ago, when Henri’s brother Charles was on the throne, Catherine had intercepted a coup against him because one of the conspirators had unwisely murmured his plans in his beloved’s ear in a moment of post-coital intimacy that had cost the pretender and his comrades their heads.

I watched Gabrielle now, as the women removed their masks and curtseyed prettily to rousing cheers and stamping feet, smiling to the spectators on either side. She had set her sights on me at the time when Ruggieri was trying to turn Catherine against me; Gabrielle had not been the first of Catherine’s women to approach me, so that when she did I was in no doubt as to her intentions. She, for her part, knew this perfectly well, but that had become part of the game and we had derived a good-humoured amusement from seeing how long I could maintain my resistance as she was obliged to become ever more creative in her efforts to lure me to her bed.

To look at her now, tall and lithe in her boyish tunic, you would not guess that she had been bustled away from court to deliver an inconvenient child – an occupational hazard for the women of the Flying Squadron, but not one that need impede their position at court if their skills were valued. At the thought, that same falling sensation came over me, as if I had missed my footing on a stair. But there was no point in dwelling on that – I told myself, sternly – until I could ask her exactly when her child had been born.

The cheering continued long after the girls had left the stage. I realised I had been distracted by the appearance of Gabrielle for so long that I had taken my eye off the man in the Greek mask; now I saw that he had disappeared, and I felt an unpleasant prickling in my palms at the thought that he was no longer in sight.

The King stood, followed by his wife and mother; at this cue the assembled guests also rose to their feet and bowed, while Henri formally thanked them for their presence and invited them to join him for the fireworks in the gardens. Attendants dashed forward holding out heavy fur-lined cloaks and hats for the royal party; the armed men by the dais moved in formation around them as they stepped down and processed the length of the hall to the door leading to the terrace. In the swarm of people that followed them I lost sight of the King, and could only pull my cloak tight around me and allow myself to be carried along in the crowd.

It might be regarded as folly to stage a firework display outside at the beginning of December, but Catherine was not deterred by such considerations; braziers had been lit the length of the terrace to give a faint semblance of warmth to the spectators, and the sky was still startlingly clear, the stones glittering with frost. Her guests wrapped themselves tight in furs, huddling together, though I noticed a few were already taking the opportunity to slip away in pairs from the crowd and melt into the deep shadows on the far side of the lawns, where winding paths led into arbours, copses and carefully cultivated wildernesses. Servants passed among the masked figures with pitchers of hot wine. I helped myself to a cup and drank it off almost immediately, the rush of warmth a welcome, if brief, defence against the biting cold.

While the fireworks fizzed and exploded in bright starbursts overhead to a chorus of gasps and cries, I edged my way around the periphery of the crowd, scanning it for any sign of the man in the Greek mask. Against the palace wall, a couple grappled with one another in the shelter of a window embrasure, the man’s hand thrust under her skirts, his face pressed into her neck as she arched her head back and moaned softly. I moved away, though I doubted they had even been aware of my presence. At the rear of the terrace, I found a step on which I could stand in the shadows to survey the guests as they watched the fireworks. Henri was right, I thought, as I sought him out in his furs at the front of the spectators; it would be the work of a moment for a masked man – or woman – to slip up behind him and put a blade between his ribs, despite the bodyguards. Perhaps his mother felt that to appear in a crowd like this as if he had nothing to fear would look like a show of strength.

I was musing on this when I noticed a hooded figure sidling towards me along the palace wall, half hidden in the dark. My right hand crept inside my cloak, feeling for my dagger. The figure stopped a few feet away and darted a furtive glance in my direction. I could see nothing of its face. Our breath clouded around us, leaving trails in the air. I waited, fingers closing around the handle.

‘Buona sera, Dottore,’ said a woman’s voice, after a while.

I breathed out, and let go of the knife. ‘Gabrielle?’

A soft laugh. ‘It is you,’ she whispered, in French. ‘Thank goodness. You are not the only one wearing the Doctor’s costume tonight, you know. I have already approached the wrong man once. He thought it was his lucky night.’

‘I bet he did.’

‘I should have known you’d be the one standing apart from everyone else. You always did prefer your own company.’

‘Not always,’ I murmured.

She drew her hood back a little so that I could see her mischievous smile. The top half of her face was covered by a jewelled mask of midnight blue silk, but her eyes held a knowing sparkle, seeming in that moment so familiar it sent a jolt of affection through me. Her look implied complicity; though I knew her loyalty was always to Catherine first, it warmed me to think there might be one more person in this city who was pleased to see me. Though immediately I had to remind myself not to take anything at face value where Gabrielle was concerned.

‘When Balthasar said you were here, I could hardly believe it,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘You know Catherine has forbidden the King from seeing you. I should have guessed you would contrive to defy her, between you.’ She sounded amused.

‘Will you tell her?’

‘Give me one good reason why I should not.’ Her tone was teasing. She was still looking at me from the corner of her eye.

‘Because you are secretly in love with me, and you have been praying since I left that I would come back and marry you and take you away from all this,’ I said, straight-faced.

She laughed aloud, a pleasingly unladylike snort. ‘Still the same high opinion of yourself, I see.’

‘I must hold myself in high regard, madam – no one else in Paris will.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You still have a certain roguish appeal for the ladies of the court. And one or two of the men, I don’t doubt.’ She flashed me an impish smile, holding my gaze boldly until I shook my head, laughing. Gabrielle was never an obvious beauty, not in the provocative way of the woman who played Circe; her allure was all in the way she carried herself, with a natural elegance and an insouciance that suggested she didn’t much care if men paid her attention or not – an attitude which, naturally, made their interest all the keener. She was tall, with long limbs, dark-gold hair and a strong-featured face whose natural expression in repose made her look as if she had just remembered a filthy joke. It had been difficult to resist her for as long as I did, and she knew it.

‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, falling back on understatement. ‘You look well.’

‘I’d like to say the same, but I can see nothing of you under that disguise.’

‘I can’t take it off in public view.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting you take it off somewhere more private?’

Flustered, I began to mumble some excuse, but she only laughed again and nudged me with her elbow. ‘Even if what you said earlier were true, Bruno, and not just your wild fantasy, I’m afraid you’re too late. I’m already married.’

There was no logic to the fleeting stab of disappointment I felt at this announcement, but I was aware of it nonetheless.

‘Congratulations,’ I said, without conviction.

‘Hardly. She had me married off to the Comte de Ligny. It’s not a bad arrangement. One has to be practical. It was very good of him really, in the circumstances.’

‘Ah. I heard …’

‘I’m sure you did. But Catherine has ways of managing these things. I went away before anyone could do more than speculate. The Count is my daughter’s father as far as the world is concerned and I am returned to court an honourable wife. People can say what they will, but decorum has been preserved and everyone is satisfied.’ She pressed her scarlet lips together. ‘Apart from my father, of course, but what did he expect? He sent me to Catherine with his eyes open.’

‘Your daughter,’ I repeated, softly. I had to look away. ‘Is she …?’

‘In Ligny, with her nursemaid. I’m told she thrives. Two years old last month. Pretty little thing, last time I saw her.’

‘Two. So-’ I calculated rapidly in my head – ‘she was born in November of ’83?’

‘That’s right.’ It seemed she meant to say more, but she fell into silence.

‘Then …?’ I turned back to her. The question seemed to catch in my throat.

She hesitated for the space of a breath, and laid a hand on my arm. ‘No, Bruno.’

‘But – we were together in the January. Could it not be-’

‘The dates do not match.’ She did not meet my eye, though her hand still rested lightly on my sleeve.

‘It is possible to miscount the dates. Or so I understand.’

‘You know nothing of these matters, Bruno.’ She spoke gently, but it felt like a rebuff. ‘I’m sorry. Besides,’ she added, sounding weary, ‘what difference would it make?’

‘It would make a difference to me,’ I said, with a vehemence that surprised me. I was aware that I had raised my voice. ‘Just to know.’

‘Really? Would it not rather be a kind of torment? She is the Count’s child now. You could never see her. Even if she were yours, I mean,’ she added quickly.

‘It will be more of a torment to be always wondering,’ I said. ‘To think there might be a sliver of doubt.’

‘Then take my word for it.’ She squeezed my arm before removing her hand to pull her cloak close around her throat. ‘There is no doubt.’ But still she would not meet my eye.

‘Is she dark or fair?’ I was not sure why I was persisting, as if I might press the truth out of her one way or another. Given the life she led at court, it was entirely possible that she could not say for certain who the child’s father might be; I was not so deceived as to think I had been the only one, but I imagined there might be some clue in the child’s looks as to which of her lovers was responsible.

‘She looks like me.’ She pressed her lips together again. It appeared the subject was closed, and I knew better than to go on forcing it; she would only walk away, and I still needed her help. We stood in silence for a while, watching the colours explode against the dark backcloth of the sky. She shivered, and I slipped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder to keep her warm. She remained very still, neither quite a rejection nor a welcome of my touch. ‘I must go,’ she said, eventually, with – it seemed to me – a note of reluctance. ‘There is someone waiting for me inside.’

‘Your husband?’ I removed my arm.

‘God, no. No, the Count detests Paris – it’s one of his most appealing traits. He likes to stay on his own estates, devising ways to be more productive with agriculture.’ She made this sound like an outlandish fetish. ‘But I could meet you later,’ she said, dropping her voice. ‘Once I have fulfilled my obligations.’

‘I would like that,’ I heard myself say, though every shred of reason told me it would be the purest folly. Gabrielle was Catherine’s spy, had only ever been Catherine’s spy, whatever may have passed between us; there was no reason to suppose she regarded me now with anything other than professional detachment, and to make an assignation with her was most likely to be a trap. And yet the warmth of the drinks, the scent of her perfume, the slight pressure of her shoulder against my arm, together with the throbbing in my blood from the memory of the women dancing, all conspired to produce a more powerful effect than the promptings of reason. Perhaps I was no better than Henri when it came to resisting the stirrings of the flesh.

‘If you follow the left-hand path down from the terrace,’ she said, quietly, ‘and pass the fountain and the ornamental gardens, you come to a sort of wilderness beyond with a stretch of woodland. There’s a clearing there. Give me an hour.’

I nodded. I felt obscurely as if the power of choice had been stripped from me, and all I could do was to follow orders. ‘But I must ask you something before you go,’ I said, recovering my wits enough to remember why I had wanted to speak to her.

‘Be quick, then.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. Her eyes behind the mask darted from one side of the crowd to the other, as if she were looking out for someone in particular, or afraid of being caught.

‘The girl who played Circe – what can you tell me about her?’

She stiffened. ‘Ah. You have your eye on her now, do you?’ Her voice sounded pinched. ‘I don’t suppose you can be blamed, after that display. But take my advice – keep well away. That one is not for you.’

‘That was not my meaning,’ I said, realising my lack of tact. ‘I am not interested in her for myself. I only want to know more about her.’

She turned to me, curiosity quickening in her eyes. ‘You cannot expect me to be satisfied with that.’ She ran her thumb across her lower lip; I could see her calculating. ‘So you want information about Circe. What will you trade me for it?’

‘Well – what do you usually trade for information?’

She laughed. ‘I don’t think my currency will work for you, Bruno. Here are my terms – when you meet me in the copse, I will tell you what you want to know about Circe, and you will tell me why you are asking about her.’

‘Very well.’ I reasoned that by then I would be able to think of something. ‘But at least tell me her name.’

She sighed. ‘Her name is Léonie de Châtillon. Youngest daughter of the Marquis de Châtillon. Widow of the Comte de Saint-Fermin. But everyone at court knows her as Circe. Not always as a compliment.’

‘Because she has played the part before, or because she is known to enchant men?’

Gabrielle made a noise that sounded like derision. ‘She became notorious dancing it half-naked at the marriage of Queen Margot to the King of Navarre.’

‘The night before the massacre,’ I murmured. ‘Thirteen years ago.’

‘She’s older than she looks,’ she said, with a gleam of pleasure. ‘Childless, of course – that’s how she can still get away with it. So far, anyway.’

It was not clear whether she meant Circe was childless so far, or had got away with it so far.

‘And is she-’ I was silenced by her finger laid across my lips.

‘I said I would trade with you, Bruno. Information for information. Look how much you have pried out of me already. No more until later.’

She clutched her hood around her face and turned to leave.

‘One more question,’ I said, pulling her back by her cloak. ‘Unrelated.’ A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but I cut her off before she could refuse. ‘Do you know the Duchess of Montpensier?’

This evidently wrong-footed her; she looked first incredulous, then amused. ‘You will have even less luck there, Bruno. I know her by reputation, of course. Chaste and devout guardian of the flame of true religion. You may safely assume our paths do not cross often.’

‘Have you seen her here tonight?’

She nodded. ‘Why?’

‘I will tell you later, if you can tell me what costume she is wearing.’

‘I see you are learning to barter.’ She reached up and stroked a finger along my jaw. ‘Very well – but you must promise to tell me everything about your interest in these other women. I want to know what you are up to.’

‘I promise,’ I said, reasoning that a promise to Gabrielle need only be as binding as one of hers.

‘Good.’ She glanced over her shoulder, then leant in and planted a kiss on my jaw below the mask, just where she had touched me. ‘She is dressed as Jeanne d’Arc, in silver chain mail. You will know her – skinny like a boy, with the Guise chin. Now I must go. Try not to get yourself into any trouble. I will see you in an hour.’ She reached down inside my cloak and ran a practised hand up the outside of my thigh to my belt, like an ostler checking a horse. She stopped when she encountered the sheath of my dagger. ‘What a bad boy you are,’ she murmured. ‘So you came prepared for trouble.’

‘I always travel prepared,’ I said. She stepped back a pace.

‘Until later, then.’ A note of wariness had appeared in her voice; I wished I had thought to conceal the dagger better. Perhaps she now feared that I had tricked my way into the palace with some malicious intent. I hoped she would not feel the need to warn anyone.

‘I look forward to it,’ I said, though I was already harbouring doubts about this meeting. She turned and disappeared into the crowd just as the final fireworks flared brightly before falling in a shower of sparks that faded quickly to black.

The next hour passed in a blur. The crowd dispersed, drifting back into the warm, and I followed, looking out for a woman in silver chain mail, or the man in the Greek mask. I took another drink from a tray and swallowed it down. Inside the Grand Salle, the light seemed dimmer as the banks of candles had begun to burn down and the smoke from the braziers hung thicker in the air, blurring my vision. Musicians were playing, dark, urgent pieces a long way from the airy tunes of the earlier singers; the drink and the incense were already having a visible effect on the inhibitions of the guests. On the floor between the stands of tiered seating, dancers whirled in frenzied steps, bodies pressed together, and in every alcove and behind every drape I saw couples entwining themselves with little regard for privacy. Through the haze and the milling outlines of people I thought I glimpsed a woman in silver chain mail; I followed her out of the Grande Salle and into a maze of dimly lit corridors and galleries lined with guests seeking darker corners. I wandered a room full of mirrors, starting each time I saw my own shape swaddled in the hooded cloak with the twisted mask of the Doctor leering back at me. A distant clock chimed.

I followed the sounds of the music back to the hall and stumbled out to the terrace. On the far side, by the wide stone steps to the gardens, the oily flames of torches revealed two figures, heads bowed together in earnest conversation: a masked woman in the costume of Joan of Arc, light rippling on her silver chain mail, and the tall man in the tricorn hat and the Greek mask. My blood quickened; I pressed myself back into the shadows by the palace wall and crept closer to see if I could catch what they were saying. They gave no sign of having seen me, and I was certain that I had been silent, but when I was a few feet away they drew apart with no warning, the woman walking quickly with her head bowed back to the hall, the man slipping down the steps to the gardens without a backward glance. I hesitated briefly, but decided my best option was to follow him; his behaviour had already given me cause for suspicion, and now I had caught him in intimate conference with a woman who matched Gabrielle’s description of the Duchess of Montpensier, I had all the more reason to watch him closely. This was not so easy in practice. The man in the Greek mask either had the night vision of a cat or knew the layout of the Tuileries gardens by heart; though he had taken no lantern, he walked quickly, with sure steps, through the formal borders where the paths were lit and on into the darkness beyond.

I hurried after him, with the uneasy sensation that he knew very well he was being followed and was deliberately leading me on. Frost crunched under my boots; I gulped in cold air as if it were spring water, feeling my head begin to clear as I left the palace behind. The torches along the path burned low, giving out little light; I took one from its bracket and held it before me. To each side I encountered more couples barely concealed among the bushes, oblivious to the cold. In the lee of a box hedge, a woman stood with her bodice unlaced and her head thrown back, one man behind her caressing her breasts, while from beneath her skirts emerged the legs and haunches of a second, his head and torso swallowed up by her petticoats. None of them gave any acknowledgement of my presence; I turned away, adjusting myself, irritated by the old familiar ache of desire. I wanted to forget the man in the Greek mask, and instead to find Gabrielle in the velvet darkness of the woods and take some fleeting satisfaction in her embrace, like before.

As if in silent complicity, the man in the mask appeared to have melted away into the shadows while my attention was distracted; I could see no sign of him against the line of trees ahead. The woods bristled with night noises: the call of an owl, the uncanny screech of a fox – though that might just as easily have been the sound of an amorous couple, as might the scufflings and rustlings of brittle leaves underfoot that caused me to pause every few steps as I strained to listen for the sound of anyone approaching. As the trees thickened, the path dwindled until I was no longer sure I was following any marked trail at all, or perhaps I had wandered from it long before, but I pressed forward, trying to keep the torch flame away from the bare twigs, hoping I would soon stumble on the clearing Gabrielle had mentioned.

Presently, I became aware of a curious noise, one I could not recognise at first, but which sounded like the muffled whimper of a wounded animal. I slowed my steps, afraid of startling the creature, but as I listened I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. My first thought was of Gabrielle in distress; I moved as carefully as I could manage towards the sobs until I emerged unexpectedly from the trees into a small hollow. On the far side, I made out the figure of a woman sitting on a fallen trunk, bent over, a flickering lantern at her feet. At my arrival she jerked her head up, swiped a tear from her cheek with a savage gesture, and lowered her eyes again.

‘You came, then. I had almost given up. I cannot do it,’ she said, without preliminary, in a tone that dared me to argue. I almost did not recognise her, now that she was no longer wearing her mask. I opened my mouth to reply but she held up a hand to stop me. ‘No – let me speak. What you are asking of me – I cannot. Before God, I cannot. If I continue, I am damned. Surely you see that? And so are you,’ she continued, fiercely, before I could say a word, ‘for your hands will be as dirty as mine in God’s sight.’

Her voice trembled and she broke off in a gulping sob. She was turning something over and over between her hands. It glinted in the light; a coin, perhaps, or a ring. I coughed and moved a step closer.

‘Say something, then,’ she urged, ‘or is your conscience quite dead? Will you not release me?’ There was no mistaking the desperation in her voice. The best thing I could do now would be to turn and leave, rather than add to her distress. Instead I took a few steps closer.

‘Madame – I fear you have mistaken me for someone else.’ I held the torch nearer to my face so that we could see one another clearly. She peered forward and I lifted my mask on to my head. I did not know what prompted me to do so, except some desire to reassure her, she looked so vulnerable. She stifled a little scream, pressing a hand over her mouth, and I found myself looking into the wild frightened eyes of Circe.

‘I was expecting someone else too,’ I said, moving cautiously forward another pace, as you might approach a spooked horse. ‘This is a popular meeting place, it seems.’

She said nothing, only continued to stare at me as if I were an apparition from the grave. She was wrapped in a white fur-trimmed cloak. Her shaking fingers scrabbled at the object she held, keeping it in constant motion.

‘Madame, is there anything I can do to help you?’ I asked, as gently as I could. The import of her words when I first appeared, before I identified myself, was not lost on me; if I could only judge this right, she might reveal the answers I was seeking. I felt the tension I experienced when picking a lock: absolute precision was required. One tiny slip of the hand could mean the difference between the mechanism yielding or breaking beneath your fingers so that it remained shut for good. ‘If you are afraid of someone, I could wait with you-’

I took another step nearer, holding out my hand to her; the movement seemed to wake her from her shock and she scrambled to her feet, backing away from me with an arm raised to cover her face. I made soothing noises, but she cried out as if I had struck her, then turned and crashed through the trees into the darkness beyond the reach of my torch. My first instinct was to go after her, though I knew that might alarm her further, but I saw that in her haste she had kicked over her lantern and the candle had fallen out on to a pile of leaves that were beginning to smoulder. I rushed across to stamp them out and as I did so, I noticed a glint on the ground. Bending, I picked up the metal object she had dropped in her panic. In the dying light of my torch I laid it flat on my palm. It was not a coin but a medallion, slightly larger than a gold écu, with a dolphin engraved on one side and the Valois coat of arms on the other. I could not understand what it might signify, but it was evidently valuable in itself, so I slipped it into the pocket in my doublet. For a few minutes I stood in the clearing, straining to listen, wondering if she might return in search of the medallion, or the man she had expected to meet, or if Gabrielle would come to find me as agreed. The thought of Gabrielle made me hesitate – was it coincidence that she had directed me here, only for me to stumble upon the very woman I had been asking about? Anything was possible with Gabrielle; I had been half-expecting to turn up and find Catherine’s guards waiting to arrest me.

As I stood considering whether I should pursue the girl, wait for Gabrielle or return to the palace and report to Henri what Circe had said, the torch in my hand guttered and died. There seemed little hope of finding her in the dark; in the thin wash of moonlight silvering the clearing I stumbled back to a track at the edge of the treeline, hoping it was the path towards the palace. After a few yards I rounded a corner and saw the flame of a torch approaching; there was no time to hide myself, and I could only wait as the person carrying the light drew nearer. He was almost level with me when I realised it was the man with the Greek mask and tricorn hat. He slowed his pace, eyes fixed on me; my hand stole instinctively inside my cloak in search of my knife, and I almost drew as I saw him raise his right arm, but I froze in the act when I understood his gesture. Without speaking, he tapped his mask and pointed to my head; I realised in that moment that I had forgotten to pull down my own mask. He continued past me towards the trees, as nonchalant as if he were out for a summer afternoon stroll. I watched him, paralysed by indecision. I had encountered him too many times already this evening for it to seem an accident; if he had suspected who I was, I had just given him confirmation through my own carelessness.

The flame of his torch had almost vanished into the night; I could hear him whistling a refrain from one of the chansons the musicians had been playing earlier. This show of insouciance needled me and I felt myself in the grip of a sudden reckless fury. He had seen my face; why should I not see his? I hastened after him; in a few paces I was close enough to strike. I thought I had moved silently, but just as I drew my knife, he whipped around and, using his torch as a club, swung it and struck my outstretched arm before I had a chance to react. I cried out and dropped the knife as soon as the flame made contact with my skin; holding the torch before him, like a shepherd keeping a wolf at bay, he drove me back until he could put his boot over my fallen weapon. We stood, facing one another, breathing hard, he still keeping the torch pointed at me as he crouched and picked up my knife from the ground.

‘Who are you?’ I said. My voice sounded unnatural, ringing out through the clear air.

He made no answer, only began to back away, the torch and the dagger held out towards me in case I should make a sudden movement. I pressed my left hand hard over the burn that throbbed along the ridge of my right thumb as if that might tamp down the pain, watching for an opportunity to lunge at him, when a woman’s sharp cry somewhere off in the trees caused us both to jump and turn in the direction of the sound. It came again, muffled this time, a strangled moan, though whether of pleasure or pain was impossible to say.

The masked man took advantage of the distraction to drop his torch and break away into the trees at a run. I grabbed the light, but already the crunch of his footsteps had almost vanished into the wood; I would be at a double disadvantage in pursuit, since he was now armed and I would be lit up like a bonfire if I tried to go after him. I cursed my stupidity aloud; I would not have been so slow if I had stayed away from the drinks as I had intended. Now I had lost Circe, who had as good as confessed to some plot when she mistook me for her fellow-conspirator, and I had also lost my knife to the mysterious man in the Greek mask, who had certainly been spying on me with the King earlier and was apparently intimate with the woman I assumed to be the Duchess of Montpensier. He had seen me, but he must have been satisfied that I had not identified him, or he would not have let me go so easily. From his height and build he could have been the Duke of Guise, or Charles Paget. Or someone else entirely.

I shivered, cursed again, pulled my mask down – too little, too late – and made my way by the light of the torch back to the formal gardens with their illuminated paths and the great ornamental fountain in the centre, where I broke the thin skin of ice on the surface and plunged my burned hand into the freezing water. The pain flared briefly and began to subside. I sat on the stone rim of the fountain until my hand and right arm grew numb with cold. I was about to withdraw it when I heard brisk footsteps behind me.

‘This is the one.’

I turned to see two armed men pointing halberds at me.

‘Show your face,’ said one.

‘Are you Italian?’ said his companion.

I looked from one to the other without speaking, while I shook the water from my hand and dried it on my cloak. The first man lowered his weapon until the point touched the bottom of my mask, lifting it a fraction. One slip of his hand and the tip would pierce my eye. I clenched my jaw and tried to stop shivering.

‘Take the fucking mask off, whoreson, or I’ll take it off for you.’

I leaned back and lifted the mask. He nodded approval.

‘Come on, then.’ The second man pulled me to my feet while the first kept his halberd lowered in case I tried to run. ‘Hold your arms out.’

I did as I was told. He pulled open my cloak and grabbed at the belt with my empty scabbard. ‘Where’s the dagger?’

‘I didn’t bring one.’

‘Horseshit. Why else would you be wearing that? Doublet and boots off. I’ll find it, even if you’ve hidden it up your arse.’

I unclasped the Doctor’s cloak with clumsy, frozen fingers and removed my doublet, carefully palming the gold medallion from the inside pocket as I did so. I took off both boots and felt the damp of the frost seep up through my hose. The guard shook out the garments I had given him before feeling roughly up and down my torso and legs.

‘Hurry up, mate, they’re waiting,’ said the first man, stamping his feet against the cold. ‘You don’t have to grope him all night.’

‘Shut it. He’s got a weapon somewhere, I know it.’

‘Usually I have to pay for this kind of attention,’ I remarked.

The first guard sniggered; the one patting me stood upright and struck me in the face with the back of his hand.

‘All right, let’s go.’ He handed me back my boots. ‘See how smart your mouth is when we get inside.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, stretching my jaw from side to side to ease the bruising. I knew the question was redundant.

‘Private reception,’ he said, while the first man let out a gurgling laugh which offered no comfort. ‘For the honoured guest.’ He nudged me none too gently towards the palace with the shaft of his weapon.

At the top of the steps to the terrace, a dwarf suited in black velvet waited for us, arms folded across his barrel chest, a thin smile just visible beneath his mask. Someone had betrayed me after all.