Conspiracy

SIXTEEN

I arrived back at my lodgings in the full light of a winter dawn and removed only my boots before wrapping myself in a blanket and falling on to my bed. The combined effects of wine and exhaustion overcame my racing mind and I slept until almost noon, when I was awakened by a furious hammering on the door to my chamber. I jolted upright, convinced it must be Catherine’s armed men come to escort me forcibly back to the Tuileries to account for having absconded the night before. While I debated whether it would be feasible to escape out of a second-floor window, the knocking came again, and with it the voice of my landlady, Madame de la Fosse, frostily informing me that a man in a friar’s habit was downstairs to see me. She made this sound vaguely reprehensible. I wondered how she would respond when a brace of armed guards eventually did turn up to arrest me.

I broke the skin of ice on the jug of water by my bed and splashed my face, ran my hands through my hair, straightened my clothes and pulled on my boots. When I was certain that Madame was downstairs again, I dragged a stool to the edge of the room and lifted the loose panel under the eaves that hid the cavity where I kept my most secret writings and correspondence, together with other items I would not wish to be found if anything happened to me. Through the small gap I eased out a cloth bag where I had stowed the silver penknife I had found by the body of Joseph de Chartres, and stuffed into it the embroidered scarf I had found in the wood, to examine later. I pushed the bag back and replaced the panel before snatching up my cloak and gloves and racing down the stairs to the front door, where Madame stood eyeing young Frère Benoît from Saint-Victor with her arms folded across her scrawny bosom, blocking his way in case he might be tempted to make off with her best candlesticks. He looked relieved to see me, his breath smoking around his face as he stamped his feet on the doorstep, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his habit.

‘Thank you, madame,’ I said, graciously. She gave me one of her looks and retreated into her own quarters, though it was clear she had not fully closed the door to the entrance hall. She disliked my notoriety, but that did nothing to dampen her interest in my business in the hope of some gossip.

‘Come,’ I said to Benoît, nodding to the street, ‘let’s walk.’

The rutted mud underfoot had frozen to hard peaks and troughs, as if the ground had been turned to stone overnight. I pulled on my gloves as we set off in the direction of the rue Saint-Jacques and the colleges of the university. ‘Have you news?’ I asked, when we were beyond the reach of Madame’s eavesdropping. Benoît blew on his hands.

‘Frère Guillaume sent me with a message. He needs to speak to you.’

‘Why? Did he say?’

The boy shook his head. ‘He said only that it was important. He had found something he thought you should see urgently. He wants you to meet him at the back gate to the abbey this evening before Vespers.’

‘No hint of what it might be? No letter for me, perhaps?’ I tried not to show my hesitation. I wanted to trust Benoît but this would be a laughably easy trap to spring; Paul Lefèvre had died because he had walked trustingly to a rendezvous on that deserted river path behind the abbey. The Abbé of Saint-Victor was a League supporter and had already had me thrown in gaol once; outside the city wall I would be under his jurisdiction, and I would not be surprised if he found a kind of poetic justice in luring me to the same end. On the other hand, if the message were genuine, I was curious to know what Cotin might have found that he considered so important. Something to do with Joseph? I looked at Benoît. His habitual manner was so jittery that it was difficult to judge whether he was lying.

‘Tell him I will be there,’ I said, slowing as we reached the cloister of the Mathurins. I would need a better weapon than the knife I had taken from the guard at the Tuileries, though; it would be folly not to prepare myself for an ambush. I wondered if I could persuade someone to go with me, even if only for the sake of appearances; no one looks so vulnerable as a man alone. Francesco and some of his players, perhaps, or even Paget? But I could not justify dragging the Gelosi into possible danger – I had too much need of them the following night – and there was always the chance that Cotin had genuinely found something connected with the murders, in which case Paget was the last person I wanted as a witness.

‘Well, this is where I must say goodbye,’ I said, offering my hand in the English style more as a hint than a farewell, since Benoît still lingered at my side, hopping from foot to foot.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his eyes eager.

‘To collect my laundry from a washerwoman,’ I said, stepping back, afraid that he might offer to come with me. He seemed well-meaning but I could not discount the possibility that he had been sent by his abbot to report on me. To pre-empt any such suggestion, I gave him a curt nod and set off up the street; he looked disappointed, and stood watching me for a few minutes as if making up his mind whether to follow, so that I was obliged to turn the corner and loiter in the shadow of a doorway until I was sure he had gone on his way. God, this city! I pushed both hands through my hair and leaned against the wall. So many factions, so many plots; everyone an informer with two faces, playing one party off against the others. At least in London my enemies had been more visible, and I had known who my friends were. Here, I could rely only on Jacopo, and even then I knew that if he were forced to choose between the various loyalties he owed, Catherine and the King would trump me every time: that was mere self-preservation.

When I was certain that Benoît was no longer watching my movements I hurried down the rue du Fouarre, reminding myself that at some point I really would have to collect my clothes from the laundress, and tip her well for her trouble. I wound my way along narrow back streets until I saw the sign of the Eagle hanging above a narrow doorway. Entering, I found myself in the low-beamed tap-room of a tavern, broad and well furnished with a wide hearth along one side. The place was half-full, the customers all men, mainly young, though by their coats and boots they crossed all divides of class. Most striking was the rhythm of their talk, the unmistakable flat cadences of English; before I had even closed the door behind me I felt I had been transported back to London. The tables nearest the fire were occupied and the conversations tailed off as the drinkers turned to look at me. I met no one’s eye and slipped into a seat in a poorly lit corner. After a while, the other customers appeared to lose interest and the low hum of talk resumed, though they leant in closer and spoke more quietly than before, casting the occasional glance over their shoulders in my direction.

I ordered a bowl of stew and a jug of wine from a surly serving girl and tried to observe the young men by the fire without being noticed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here in daylight; I was more obvious alone, and less likely to fall into easy conversation. It was clear they were wary of a stranger; hardly surprising, if this was where the disaffected English Catholics gathered to boast of their plans for taking back their homeland. But as Paget had said, the hot-headed plots cooked up here by angry students over a jug of cheap wine need not disturb Walsingham’s sleep; the truly dangerous conspiracies were brewing in more richly furnished rooms than these. In any case, I had not come for Walsingham, but for a purpose of my own. That knock on my chamber door this morning had been a warning; I knew it was only a matter of time now before soldiers arrived to arrest me on some imagined charge – whether sent by Catherine de Medici or the Duke of Guise seemed almost irrelevant. I did not like to leave unfinished business, not when I was so close, and I had waited over a year to conclude this particular matter. But now that I was here, I no longer felt sure of myself. My name, if not my face, would be familiar to many of these young Englishmen thanks to the Throckmorton business two years ago; I would need to approach softly if I were not to rouse their suspicions.

I dipped a heel of dry bread into the stew – it was as well my expectations on that score had been low – and strained to catch any of the exchanges around me, when the door opened and a man entered, clapping his hands against the cold. He pulled down his hood and stood for a moment looking around uncertainly, until a barrage of protests at the draught from the open door prompted him to shut it in haste, with muttered apologies. I recognised him as the young man with the freckles I had seen at Brinkley’s print shop, the one who had delivered the package that Paget later collected. He was still casting around the tap-room as if expecting to meet someone. Evidently whoever it was had not arrived; he pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the next table from mine, his eyes on the door.

‘Turned colder today,’ I said cheerfully, lifting my cup of wine in a manner of greeting. I recalled how fond the English were of talking about the weather. ‘We might have snow before the week is out.’

The young man stared at me as if I had insulted him. Too late, I also remembered how affronted the English are at being addressed by a stranger in a public place. After a moment, his face creased into a frown. I could see he was trying to place me.

‘We met at the printer’s shop last week,’ I said, to help him out. He nodded, though his face grew guarded.

‘I remember. You were asking for illegal books.’

‘I was advised by a friend – God rest him – that Brinkley might be one of the few brave souls to print the truth about the persecution of the true Church in England. Books the Valois regime do not want the people of France to read, while they plot their alliance with the heretic queen.’

His eyes widened at this, but he remained cautious. ‘You said it was the priest who was killed. The friend you spoke of, I mean?’

‘Yes.’ I assumed an appropriately sombre expression. ‘Père Lefèvre. We used to lecture together at the university. Did you know him?’

Instantly his gaze swerved away, guilty. ‘No. But I had heard him preach. It was dreadful, what happened to him.’

I nodded sadly. ‘He has still had no justice, despite the protests.’

‘Nor will he,’ the boy said, suddenly animated, ‘unless the people take justice into their own hands.’

‘Rise against the King, you mean?’

‘Why should they not, when the King scorns true religion and murders those who defend it? He will fall, just like our heretic queen at home, who spills the blood of faithful Catholics. It is written in scripture. The wicked have drawn out their sword; they have bent their bow, to cast down the poor and needy, to kill the upright of heart,’ he quoted solemnly. ‘But the Lord says, Fret not thyself because of the wicked men, for they shall soon be cut down like grass, and shall wither as the green herb.’ He nodded an emphatic full stop. I looked impressed.

‘No doubt they shall be. But how soon, is the question?’

‘Sooner than they think,’ he said, with the satisfaction of one whose inside knowledge gives him an advantage. His manner reminded me of Paul’s hints to me in the confessional that the King was not long for his throne: not quite able to resist a tacit boast.

I was considering what more to ask without putting him on guard when the serving girl slumped her flat-footed way towards us again and demanded to know what my companion wanted to eat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and mumbled about expecting to meet a friend. From his clothes and his general demeanour, I guessed he had little money. I wondered if he was there to pass over another package, and who he might be meeting.

‘Take a drink with me while you wait,’ I offered. He shot me an anxious glance from the tail of his eye and returned his attention to his fingernails. ‘No obligation. You look as if you could do with something warm.’

He acknowledged this with a rueful nod, but still he hesitated.

‘You are worried about talking to a stranger,’ I said, with a nod of understanding. ‘Perhaps you fear I am a spy.’

He glanced up with an expression caught between guilt and apology. ‘This is Paris, after all.’

‘Quite. You are probably one yourself.’ I thought of the package I had seen him hand to Brinkley. At this he coloured so violently that I knew I had struck a nerve. ‘Don’t worry, I am only teasing you. Let us not discuss politics, then,’ I said. ‘We could talk about women instead.’

His face suggested he found this even more alarming. He was reprieved by the arrival of the wine. I poured a cup for him and lifted my own.

‘We are two foreigners, far from home – let us at least take a drink together. What is your name?’

He hesitated, then relented. ‘Gilbert. Gilbert Gifford.’

I tried to keep my face composed. ‘Pardon me, but your name seems familiar?’

His jaw clenched and I saw his hand tighten around his cup. ‘If you have heard that name, it is probably because of the insults and injustices that have been heaped on my family these past years. The pretender Elizabeth Tudor has made us a byword for disgrace.’

‘Ah. Then your father is …?’

‘John Gifford of Staffordshire, imprisoned in London for recusancy with all his goods forfeit.’

‘That is hard indeed,’ I said.

‘There is worse. Two years ago, my cousin was hanged and quartered at Tyburn.’

‘God have mercy. That is a terrible death. What was his crime?’

‘No crime at all, unless it be a crime to say the Mass and bring the comfort of the sacraments to the faithful.’

‘Ah. He was a secret priest, then.’

‘Aye, and martyred for it. And if that be made treason under English law, why then I say we owe no loyalty to the law of heretics, only to God’s commands.’ He thumped his fist on the table as he spat the words; some of the men by the fire turned with reproachful glares and he subsided, embarrassed. Though he fell silent, anger still burned in his face. He would be a gift to the cause of the English exiles, I thought; a young man so alive with fury and the desire for righteous vengeance was ripe for their purposes. I nodded in sympathy. I did not tell him I had watched his cousin die.

‘And your sister?’

He snapped his attention back to me, puzzled. ‘I have no sister.’

‘Your pardon, I must be mistaken. But I thought there was a Miss Mary Gifford living among the English here in Paris?’

‘You know Mary?’ The high colour that suffused his cheeks betrayed his interest. Poor boy; I feared he would not last long as an agent for the Catholic cause. His every feeling was written on his face as it occurred. Though he was hardly a boy any more; I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. Perhaps he would learn discretion, if he lived long enough.

‘I have only heard her spoken of as a most accomplished young woman. She is a governess to one of the English families, I believe?’

‘Yes, to the daughters of Sir Thomas Fitzherbert in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I take lodgings in his house. But she is not my sister. How do you know of her?’

‘We have a mutual acquaintance in Paris. She is some relative of yours, though?’

‘I suppose she must be. But from no branch of the family I ever heard of. I did not even know we had relatives in the West Country. So she must be a very distant cousin, if she is one at all. It gave us much amusement when I first met her at Sir Thomas’s house and we discovered we had the same name.’

‘I imagine it did.’ Sophia most of all, I thought; she had blithely taken the name of the man she once loved, as if she had been married to him, never supposing she might have to explain herself to another Gifford here in Paris. She must have smoothed it over, though; she was always good at talking her way out of trouble. ‘Well, if you wed her, at least she will not have to change her name,’ I said, with a smile, raising my cup in a mock toast.

He spluttered, spraying wine across the table. When he had recovered, he fixed me with an outraged expression. ‘Wed her? What put that in your head? I mean to say, I admire her, who would not, but I have not presumed to think … Besides, how could I wed her,’ he continued, interrupting himself, ‘when I have no estate left and no means to support a wife?’ The bitterness had crept back into his tone. ‘And in any case, she would not look at me now.’

‘Ah. She has another suitor, then?’ Really, the boy was so transparent the Queen of England would not need to make a window into his soul – his face was one giant window already.

‘She affects to spurn him. But women are weak.’ Gifford curled his lip. ‘How can I compete with a French duke? And I must travel to England again before Christmas. I fear he will corrupt her virtue while I am away.’ He took a long gulp of his wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

Corrupt her virtue? Was she presenting herself to the Catholics as a pure maid? I almost laughed aloud, but it was choked by a hard bud of anger in my throat at the memory of Guise so smoothly using Sophia to threaten me. Paget too, taunting me with the mention of her and refusing to tell me her new name or how to find her; I had supposed he wanted her for himself, but now it seemed he was only procuring for Guise. I had no proof of this, and perhaps my jealous mind was too quick to leap to conclusions, but I could think of no other French duke who would be so familiar with the household of an English Catholic family. I looked down at my hands gripping the pewter cup and realised I too was in danger of allowing my feelings to show, as if I were a green boy. I finished the wine, stood abruptly and reached for my purse.

‘Listen, my friend – she is said to be a young woman of unusual intelligence. You must trust, then, that she is clever enough not to judge a man’s worth by his titles, or lack of them.’

He gave me a look of such puppyish gratitude I was almost sorry to deceive him. I threw down some coins on the table.

‘And now I must go. Thank you for passing the time with me. When do you go to England?’

‘In a fortnight. To take some money for my father from his friends in Paris,’ he added, quickly. So that was his cover story. I wondered what else he would be carrying for Paget and the other Catholics here, and what he might intend to bring back. More martyrs’ fingers or teeth, perhaps? Well, that would be uncovered soon enough.

‘Then I pray God you have a safe trip and find him in good health.’ I smiled and made a little bow as I turned to leave. ‘My name is Filippo, by the way. I hope we meet again.’

He nodded, though he did not look as if he welcomed the idea. And now I had a name for Walsingham, I thought, as I closed the door behind me. Poor fool. He was right – Sophia would not look twice at him, unless she thought she could use him to her advantage.

In the street outside the tavern I walked straight into Charles Paget.

‘Bruno!’ He sounded, as always, as if it was a delightful surprise to bump into me – a sure sign he had known very well where to find me. ‘We do not often see you frequenting such disreputable places. Wouldn’t have thought they were your kind of people, in there.’

‘Englishmen?’

‘Papists.’ He said it in a theatrical whisper, as if sharing a dirty secret. ‘Did you find good company?’

‘I found a hot meal, Paget, which was all I looked for.’ I shouldered past him in the narrow street and began to walk away.

‘Yes, you must have needed sustenance, after last night. An eventful evening all round, I understand. Catherine’s entertainments can usually be relied upon to provide some drama, but rarely after the show is over.’ Paget kept pace with me easily with his long legs; I could not hope to shake him off.

‘Were you there?’

He merely smiled. I supposed the answer was yes – it would have been unlike Paget to miss an occasion such as last night’s – but with a girl murdered I could understand why he was unwilling to confirm his presence.

‘Where are you going?’ he said, as we reached the Mathurins. ‘I’ll walk with you.’

‘I thought you were going to the Eagle?’ I nodded back towards the tavern.

‘Oh, that will keep. Tell me what happened with the girl. You were there.’ He took hold of my arm to pull me to a halt, his grip firm enough not to be argued with. ‘I know Catherine sent for you. What are they saying about the death? Is it connected?’

I hesitated, weighing my answer. It was never easy to judge how much Paget already knew. If Léonie de Châtillon was killed because of her part in a conspiracy against the King, it could only lead back to Guise, or someone acting on his behalf. I looked at Paget, trying to size him up. He and Guise were of a similar stature, both tall and broad-shouldered; either could have been the man in the Greek mask. I presumed it would serve their purpose better to think the death were not being treated as murder. I wondered what he had meant by saying I was there – was he hinting that he had seen me, or just trying to frighten me into giving more away than I intended?

‘They seem to believe the girl took her own life.’

His eyes grew shrewd. ‘But what do you think?’

‘I saw nothing to suggest that was not the case.’

‘Hm.’ He let go of my arm. ‘Guise says she was murdered.’

‘Guise thinks so?’ I could not keep the surprise from my voice. ‘Then he clearly knows something I do not.’

Paget rolled his eyes. ‘He didn’t do it. He thinks it must have been someone at court – it would explain why they want to cover it up. That’s why he’s keen to know what you might have observed, at close quarters. I should not need to remind you that you made an agreement with him.’

I thought back to the scene in the gallery: the way Catherine and Ruggieri had closed ranks to deny that Léonie had been murdered. Perhaps Guise had a point. But I was less afraid of his threats after my conversation with Gilbert Gifford. If Guise wanted Sophia for his mistress, he was hardly likely to hurt her in order to spite me. At least, not until after he had had her, and if Gifford was to be believed, she was still holding out. For a better deal, I thought, bitterly.

‘If it were the case that she was murdered, I ask myself why the Duke should care? Did he have some vested interest in her?’

‘I believe she was a mistress once, years ago. He’s been through most of Catherine’s girls at one time or another. But he remained fond of her. Besides, he thinks her death is connected to the others. The priest and de Chartres.’

‘Why does he think that?’ My palms had begun to sweat, despite the cold. I reminded myself that there was no possible way Paget or Guise could know that I had seen the Circe letter or told the King about it.

‘She was observed visiting the church of Saint-Séverin recently.’

‘How do you know that? From Lefèvre?’

‘No. He never mentioned it – that is the strange part. Another helpful party saw her leaving his confessional.’ He shook his head. ‘Curious, isn’t it? One of Catherine’s women choosing a League church for her confession? What did they talk about?’

‘I suppose we will never know, since they are both dead.’

‘Both murdered,’ Paget said, darkly. ‘Remarkable coincidence. Guise wants to know why. And you are supposed to be finding out for him.’

‘I am doing my best,’ I said, needled. ‘He will have to wait a little longer.’

‘You don’t have much longer,’ he said. Before I had a chance to ask what he meant by that, he laughed abruptly and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Dine with me this evening. I am having a small gathering at my lodgings on the rue Neuve. Gentlemen only, but we’ll make an exception for you.’ He chuckled again, to show that the insult was only half-intended.

‘Will Guise be there?’ I asked, apprehensive.

‘Not tonight. Exclusively Englishmen and Scots. And friends of England,’ he added, with an inclusive sweep of his hand towards me. ‘Stafford is coming. My neighbour Sir Thomas Fitzherbert. Archbishop Beaton. You might find the conversation interesting. Some supper, wine, a few hands of cards.’

‘Alas, I am not a gambler,’ I said, backing away.

He answered with an arch smile. ‘I beg to disagree, Bruno. Your entire life is a gamble. I recognise it all too well.’

‘Let us say, then, that I do not have the appetite to play with you and your friends. I suspect the stakes will be too high.’

The smile widened. He was a man who appreciated a double meaning. ‘Let that not hinder you. I could always extend you credit. You would not be the first.’

‘I thank you, but I am occupied this evening.’

‘Pity. You would have added much to the entertainment. Well, I hope you will spend your time profitably making enquiries about the de Châtillon girl. Guise is losing patience with you. His sister the Duchess wants you arrested for murder and I can’t hold them off forever.’

I was not sure how to respond; the image of Paget standing bravely between me and the Fury of the League was hard to swallow, but I could not deny that my continued liberty was a surprise to me, given what a gift I would make as a scapegoat for Joseph’s murder, so I had to conclude that someone must be speaking for me and could not discount the possibility that it might be Paget. The question of why was another matter, and one I preferred not to dwell on for the moment.

‘I shall come and find you tomorrow,’ he called after me, as I crossed the rue Saint-Jacques. His tone was jaunty, but to me it carried an implicit threat.

‘I hope Dame Fortune smiles on your cards tonight,’ I replied, looking back.

‘She always does.’ He tilted his hat to a rakish angle. ‘I make sure of it.’