Conspiracy

SEVENTEEN

I returned to my rooms, locked the door and sat down to write a brief letter to Walsingham. This was a more laborious process than it sounded, thanks to Master Secretary’s devilishly complicated system of encryption, but at length it was complete: a warning to look out for Gilbert Gifford’s arrival in England and keep a close eye on his contacts, since I believed he would be entrusted with packages that might prove interesting. I hesitated with my quill over the page, wondering if I should pass on what Catherine had told me regarding Stafford’s gambling habit. I decided against it; Walsingham would know the ambassador’s vices better than I, and there was no proof beyond an old woman’s insinuations. Besides, there was every chance that Stafford would attempt to read the letter first, since I would have to send it through the diplomatic courier; I did not have time to wait for this messenger of Walsingham’s to make himself known. I signed my name, dusted the ink with sand and sealed the paper with plain wax, adding to the outside corner my customary symbol, the astrological sign for Jupiter, to let Walsingham know the contents were urgent.

Before I set out again, I took down the cloth bag from its hiding place in the roof and tipped the contents on to my bed. All these items – the love letter from Frère Joseph’s mattress, the silver penknife found by his body and the scarf from the clearing last night – connected the three murders in some way that I could not yet comprehend. It was another kind of code, but one to which as yet I lacked the key. The manner of Joseph’s and Léonie’s deaths – both garrotted with a knotted ligature – suggested the same killer, one with some experience of murder. If Joseph was found naked because he was killed – or at least lured to his death – by his lover, then it was a question of identifying the author of that letter, and that meant finding a match to the handwriting. I pushed my hands through my hair and sighed; it would not be easy, but it was my only firm idea of where to start. I left the letter and turned the penknife over in my hand. To my unskilled eye it offered no obvious marks of identification save the hallmark of the tower on the blade. I would need to take it to an expert, someone trained in reading the language of the silversmiths’ symbols. Finally, the scarf. I smoothed it out on the bed and noticed again the faint smudge of blood on the ivory silk. I was still dogged by the lingering sense of guilt that I might have been close enough to save Léonie last night. If I had not frightened her by revealing my face, or if I had pursued her when she fled, perhaps her attacker would have been denied his opportunity, at least for that night. ‘Will you not release me?’ she had begged. But from what? What had bound her to the man she had arranged to meet in the clearing, for whom she had mistaken me?

With some effort, I forced my attention away from these unanswered questions, and held the scarf up to examine it more closely. The border was delicately embroidered with a pattern of curling vines and leaves, recurring emblems worked into them at intervals: a double-barred cross and a small crest, a gold shield crossed with a band of crimson showing three white eaglets displayed. I did not recognise the crest, but I was familiar enough with the court to know it was not the arms of the House of Valois or the House of Guise. Jacopo would know; he could identify the devices of most of the French and Italian nobility at a glance. The cross was more of a puzzle; the double horizontal bar was the emblem of the Templars, but could also denote the rank of archbishop. There were senior churchmen in the Guise family, though it seemed unlikely that an archbishop had been wandering the gardens in costume waiting to strangle a half-dressed girl. Although by the standards of Catherine’s spectacles, nothing was impossible. I replaced the items in their hiding place, picked up the bundle containing the clothes Stafford had lent me and tucked my letter to Walsingham into the pocket of my doublet.

On the way to the Quai des Bernardins I stopped at a barber’s for a shave and a haircut. I asked him to cut it short; it seemed prudent to look as little like myself as possible if I wanted my plan for the following night to work. A blast of icy air whistled across the back of my neck when I came out; I ran a hand over my cropped skull and jammed my hat down hard over my ears. The barber must have done a good job; when I knocked at the door of the English embassy it took Stafford’s steward a few moments to recognise me. When he finally realised who I was he tried to claim the ambassador was busy, but I had my foot inside the door by then and insisted my business was urgent, so that eventually he was forced to let me pass.

Stafford glanced up from his desk with a frown as I entered his study.

‘I would prefer it if you didn’t come here in daylight,’ he said, by way of a greeting. ‘People might see you.’

‘Last time you told me not to come in the middle of the night.’ I pulled up a chair, though none had been offered. I was aware that I ought to show more deference but his manner riled me. ‘How much light would be proper, Ambassador? Dusk? Dawn?’

‘What is it you want?’ He tapped a knuckle on the papers before him. ‘I’m very busy and I have an engagement this evening.’

‘Of course.’ I placed the bundle of clothes on his desk, followed by the letter. ‘I came to return these, with thanks to your clerk. And I need to send this message urgently to Master Secretary with your next courier. In the next day or two at the latest – can that be done?’

Gifford had said he was travelling in a fortnight; it could take at least a week for my letter to reach Walsingham, and he would need time to alert his people at the ports along the south coast.

Stafford placed the clothes on the floor and eyed the document with suspicion. ‘What is it?’

‘A reply to the letter he sent me.’

‘The one in cipher?’

‘That’s right.’ We looked at each other, unblinking.

‘Fresh intelligence?’

‘Observations. Rumours. That is all.’

He put down his quill and steepled his fingers together, but he appeared twitchy.

‘Any observations you have for Walsingham should pass through me. I am the one who needs to know most immediately what direction events may take in Paris.’

‘With respect, Ambassador,’ I said, with a polite smile, ‘those were not my instructions. I work for Master Secretary.’

‘With respect, Doctor Bruno-’ he half rose from his chair, leaning towards me across the desk – ‘my instructions are to pay you from the embassy coffers when you bring me intelligence I deem worth the price. Then I will decide what to pass on to Master Secretary. That is how the system works here. Now, I will ask again – what news does your letter contain?’

I hesitated. Stafford continued to fix me with a glare that he meant to be intimidating, but I could read the strain on his face, in the red-rimmed eyes and the tiny muscle that jumped under the right one, the shadows from lack of sleep. I had to tread carefully, or he could simply refuse to send my messages to Walsingham in order to make a point. But I still did not know the extent of his collaboration with Paget, and if Paget was involved with Gilbert Gifford and his deliveries, I could not run the risk of Stafford putting them on the alert.

‘A girl died at the Tuileries last night during the ball,’ I said, after some consideration.

His eyes registered a brief flicker of interest. ‘I heard. One of Catherine’s attendants.’

‘You were not there?’

He made a noise of contempt. ‘I do not care for that sort of display. Vulgar Medici crowd-pleasing. And everyone knows it always descends into the worst kind of debauchery.’

I wondered what Stafford considered to be the worst kind of debauchery. I could not imagine he had much experience; I would put money on Catherine exceeding even his wildest expectations. It was also clear from his tone that he was trying to cover the fact that he had not been invited.

‘I heard the girl killed herself,’ he added.

‘So it was said. But I have reason to believe that she was connected to the plot against the King. She was known to Père Lefèvre, the dead priest.’

One eyebrow raised a fraction above his glasses. ‘So she was murdered too? By whom?’

‘I don’t know. Some associate of Guise, I would guess.’

‘And why does Master Secretary need to know this so urgently?’

‘I am only passing on what I know. You said yourself, the priest’s murder has the city on the knife-edge of an uprising. I thought he should be kept abreast of every development.’

He pointed a finger at me. ‘You see, this is exactly the kind of information I expect you to bring to me first. What does Henri intend to do about the girl?’

‘Find the murderer and bring him to justice, I would imagine.’

‘Ha. Henri couldn’t find the laces of his breeches without his mother’s help.’ He moved some papers from one side of the desk to the other, to make himself look busy. ‘He will not hold Guise to account, he is too afraid. How is the Queen?’

I shrugged. ‘Her usual bullish self. She seems keen to put it out that the girl took her own life, but I suppose that is to avoid a scandal.’

Stafford narrowed his eyes. ‘Actually, I meant Queen Louise. I had heard she was quite gravely ill.’

‘She did not appear well last night, it is true. I have no idea how serious it might be. The King did not seem overly worried.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he would.’ He paused, waiting for me to pick up on his meaning. After a moment he clicked his tongue impatiently. ‘Think about it, Bruno. I know what is said of Henri and his courtiers, but it is generally accepted that when there are no children in a marriage, it is the woman’s fault.’

‘With respect, that has never been conclusively proved,’ I said. ‘Medical science remains divided on the process of generation, since-’

‘I don’t have time to debate the science of generation now. And stop saying with respect when it is clear you have none. I am merely pointing out that Henri’s throne would be a good deal safer if he could produce an heir of his own. That is obvious to everyone, and therefore perhaps it would be no disadvantage to him if he were obliged to find a new wife. It would be useful to know if Louise takes a turn for the worse, and who he or the Queen Mother might have in mind as a replacement. It could certainly make England’s position more secure if there were a legitimate Valois heir.’

‘I’m sure that will be of great comfort to Queen Louise if she falls into a decline,’ I said. But his words had set faint alarm bells ringing in the back of my mind.

He gave me a sour look. ‘I must get on. But anything else you find out from the palace, you bring straight to me and I will sift it for Walsingham. Understood? And I want your cipher. The one he uses with you. I do not like the thought of information passing through this embassy without my knowledge.’

‘The cipher is very complicated,’ I began, but he cut me off.

‘I am a highly educated man, Doctor Bruno, and experienced in diplomacy, I’m sure I can manage to familiarise myself with its workings.’ He smiled, showing his neat little teeth.

I nodded, and rose to leave. ‘But you will send that letter with all urgency?’

‘I will, this time.’ Behind the bluster, I could see he was afraid, torn between his need to feel in control and his anxiety lest he be responsible for withholding vital information from Walsingham. ‘But in future, everything comes through me.’

I inclined my head in a bow. ‘But not at night or in daylight. I understand. There was talk of payment, I recall?’

His mouth twisted. ‘You try my patience, Doctor Bruno. I do not know yet how useful your information may prove to be.’ When I did not move, he blew out his cheeks in exasperation and reached into a compartment of his desk for a purse. He flicked a quarter écu d’argent across to me, as one might throw a tip to a stable boy. ‘Take that for now. Geoffrey will see you out.’

I pushed my chair back and stood. ‘I will leave you to enjoy your evening.’ At the door I turned. ‘I hope your losses are not too severe.’

‘What?’ Stafford was out of his chair and across the room to me as if a dog had bitten him, his face inches from mine and white with anger. ‘Explain your meaning?’

I stepped back, surprised. I had meant it as a light-hearted parting jest, but the man looked ready to punch me. ‘I meant only – at the card table. Paget said you were joining him for a game with friends.’

‘What else did Paget say? My losses?’

‘I was joking, Sir Edward,’ I added gently. ‘It is customary to wish a man luck at his card game, where I come from. That was all.’

He stared at me, quivering with emotion, while he processed this. Eventually he subsided, straightening his doublet.

‘Well. Yes. Of course.’ He passed a hand across his brow. ‘I hope Paget has not given you the wrong impression. I would not wish you to think I was often at the gaming tables, Doctor Bruno. A few hands among friends for modest stakes now and again is quite proper entertainment for a gentleman, I think.’

‘Absolutely. No one has said otherwise.’ I offered an indulgent smile.

‘Well, that is my limit. Give you good night.’

Struck a nerve there, I thought, as he closed the door swiftly behind me. Catherine de Medici, shrewd as ever, had been one step ahead.

It was already dark when I passed the Porte Saint-Victor and crossed the bridge over the channel to reach the towpath behind the wall of the abbey. I carried the short dagger I had taken from the palace guard drawn under my cloak, lamenting again the loss of my beautiful Damascus steel to the mysterious man in the Greek mask. I had begun increasingly to suspect that he was the man Léonie had been waiting to meet in the clearing. He was a confederate of the Duchess of Montpensier, and I had seen him walking alone in the wood before Léonie was killed – though if the scream we heard from the trees had indeed been Léonie, he could not have been the one who killed her, since he had been tussling with me at the time. Though I knew my chances of finding him were small I was determined to try, not only because I was sure he was involved in the conspiracy somehow, but because I could see it had amused him to best me and take my dagger, and I was not prepared to let it go without a fight.

For now, I had to make do with the stubby knife I held in freezing fingers as I sidled my way along the river path, pressed into the black stone of the abbey wall with no light but the moon behind a tracery of cloud, until I reached the small gate opposite the jetty. It was close to six; the bells would soon ring for Vespers and I would learn whether I had been lured into a trap. The air was biting, sharp with the promise of snow; I could almost fancy my breath turning to ice crystals before my face. After perhaps ten minutes I heard the crunch of footsteps on the frosted ground and the low murmurs of muffled laughter; from the direction of the city I saw the faint bobbing glow of a lantern and behind it, two figures lurching towards me. I waited until they were close enough and stepped out in front of them, knife drawn; a woman screamed, a piercing note that cut through the still night. I caught my breath and leaned back against the wall; it was only a weathered-looking prostitute and a boy draped across her shoulder who looked young enough to be her son, and so drunk it was doubtful whether he would get his money’s worth. She began to protest that they had nothing to steal; I shooed them away irritably.

‘Find somewhere else for your business. Back the way you came, or I will come after you.’

She dragged the lad away with her; I was still watching the small disc of light recede along the path when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I stifled a cry of my own as I whipped around, knife raised, and almost impaled Cotin, who had appeared out of the darkness with a lantern.

‘Steady, boy – how many ways are you trying to finish me off?’

I sheathed the weapon, my legs weak with relief.

‘It is you. I didn’t hear the gate open.’

‘I’ve learned to be stealthy. Pity you didn’t – you might have saved us both a lot of bother.’

‘Are you all right?’ I peered at him. Shadows loomed and ebbed on his face in the wavering light but I could see that he looked haggard.

He fluttered his free hand. ‘Never mind me. We haven’t got long. After you were carted off from Frère Joseph’s cell last week, I reckoned I’d better have a look among his papers.’

‘But I took everything that was there,’ I said. And lost the most valuable part of it to Paget, I reminded myself, bitterly.

‘From his cell, you did. But he had a little office above the bursary where he kept all the account books and ledgers connected to his work as almoner. I reasoned that if he didn’t turn up soon the Abbé would make it his business to go through whatever documents he could find there and remove anything that might cause embarrassment to the abbey. While the place was in uproar over you, I thought I’d take the opportunity to have a look before anyone noticed I was not where I was supposed to be.’

‘But a man with secrets to hide would not have left his private papers lying around for anyone to find, surely?’

He looked away with a modest cough. ‘There was a small locked casket hidden behind the ledgers on a high shelf. I’m afraid the lock might have smashed when it accidentally fell on the floor.’

‘Cotin, you are a genius.’ I grabbed him by both shoulders and kissed him on his shiny pate, while he grumbled about Italians and emotion. He rummaged inside his habit and brought out a sheaf of papers.

‘I’d have got these to you sooner but I was indisposed. The Abbé felt that a period of solitary prayer and fasting might help me to focus on my duty and obedience.’

‘Jesus. He locked you up and starved you.’ I laid a hand on his arm.

‘Well. That makes it sound worse than it was. He questioned me hard about you when they found Joseph killed, though – God rest him.’ He crossed himself out of instinct, I supposed, rather than any respect for the dead man. ‘All I could do was to keep repeating that I had no idea what you wanted in Joseph’s room, until he gave up.’

‘Thank you.’ I squeezed his arm and nodded to the papers. ‘What did you find?’

‘There are notes in there for polemics, in Joseph’s hand. Inflammatory stuff – arguments in support of a coup, calls for an uprising, that sort of thing. But the letters …’ He gave me a sidelong look with a quirk of the eyebrow. ‘Well, I’ll let you read those for yourself. Rather spicy. He’d not be the first man in holy orders to keep a woman, but I’m surprised he didn’t have the sense to burn the evidence.’

‘Perhaps he liked to re-read them. Was there a name?’

‘No name that I could see. Not that I’ve read them in detail,’ he added, hastily. ‘There are things in there an old friar hadn’t even heard of, in fifty years of celibacy. Any case, that’s not the point. Look here.’ He handed me the lantern, peeled a sheet of paper from the bunch he held and smoothed it flat under the light. ‘This is what I thought you should see.’

I recognised the hand immediately; the same neat, confident lines, the characters with their bold strokes and tails. There was no question that this was the same correspondent who had written the passionate letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress. I peered in closer to examine it.

… the priest Lefèvre has discovered us, I know not how. He threatens to denounce you as a spy and expose us for what we are. Beloved, you know we would not survive the damage if all this were to be made public. You must ensure he does not speak, for all our sakes. And when you are assured of his silence, make certain he has committed nothing to paper on the matter. When you have made arrangements, send me word and my messenger will come to you. Do whatever is necessary and I give you my assurance, in the name of one who is able to protect you, that you will be immune from any consequences. As for your immortal soul – you and I know that was lost long ago. Do this, and we will not be parted. Burn this paper with all the rest.

I glanced up at Cotin. ‘But he burned nothing. You’re right, it’s curious.’

‘Perhaps he didn’t entirely trust his lady to protect him. He might have kept this as insurance to bring her down with him, if he was caught and accused.’

‘He didn’t get the chance,’ I said, grimly.

‘He was right not to trust her, then. But this is damning evidence that he killed the priest, it seems.’

‘I never doubted it. Thank you for this.’ I took the letter from him and tucked it into my doublet. ‘When we have the identity of this mistress, we have them all. What do the other friars say of him? I heard there was talk of a married woman – any rumours as to who she might be?’

Cotin glanced up at the wall behind us. ‘There’s always talk in an abbey, you know that. Especially now the man is dead. What they say-’ he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot – ‘is that he had close ties to his family. Too close, perhaps.’

‘The Montpensiers?’

He nodded. ‘Spent a lot of time at their house, apparently. The Duchess has made generous donations to the abbey since her husband died. There is the usual lewd speculation about how Frère Joseph coaxed the money out of her.’

‘So it all points back to the League,’ I said. ‘She mentions this person who can protect him from the consequences. It would have to be someone with significant power to defy the law. That would fit, if she meant her brother Guise.’

Behind us, the bells of the abbey church struck up their melancholy summons to Vespers. Cotin started like a spooked horse.

‘I must go.’ He thrust the remaining papers into my hand. ‘Make of these what you will. And take care of yourself, Bruno. I fear you are coming too near the heart of this business for your own safety.’

He gave me the kiss of peace on both cheeks and fumbled with his keys before disappearing through the gate in the wall. I was left alone in the darkness. A faint gleam of moonlight rippled on the water. Behind me, over the abbey orchards, an owl hooted. I clutched the bundle of Joseph de Chartres’s letters and set off for home with the sinking sense that I was still nowhere near the heart of the business.