Conspiracy

EIGHTEEN

‘Just promise me you are not going to get us arrested,’ Francesco Andreini said, hefting a crate on to the cart.

There was a long pause. He finished tying off the rope that held the box and turned to look at me. ‘Oh Jesus. What are you planning to do – steal something?’

I lifted another bundle and passed it up to him. ‘Nothing valuable.’

‘I am serious, my friend. Whatever you are involved in is your business. But if it puts my company in danger, I cannot help you.’

‘You will not be in danger. All I need is to get inside the building.’

‘If you are caught it will be assumed we are all part of your scheme.’

‘I will not be caught.’

‘How can you guarantee that?’

‘Because I am good,’ I said, with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. He returned the smile, but his eyes remained unconvinced. I tried not to think about Joseph’s cell and my subsequent visit to the Conciergerie.

The Hotel de Montpensier stood behind high stone walls topped with ornamental battlements on the rue Saint-Antoine, a broad, tree-lined avenue leading out towards the city gate and the fortress of the Bastille to the east of the Marais, a district favoured by the nobility for their imposing residences. Though it was not much past four o’clock in the afternoon, dusk had already crept over the sky, another clear, bitter night almost fallen, when the company of the Gelosi were ushered through a set of heavy gates into the courtyard and instructed to unload by an outbuilding. I walked along with the others, keeping my head down, my hood pulled around my face, reminding myself that there was no reason anyone in this house should recognise me. I was just another Italian player, come to entertain the Duke of Montpensier and his guests. The pale façade of the Hotel was lit by burning torches in wall brackets, a curious confection of conical towers and delicate crenellations, pointed gables and high arched windows that belonged to a previous century.

A steward came out to greet us and show us to a side door. Francesco and Isabella walked ahead with him, discussing the arrangements for the evening; the rest of us followed, lugging boxes of costumes and properties from the cart. Though the Andreini spoke fluent French, a number of the other players barely managed a few words; I intended to be one of them, but as I was crossing the courtyard I noticed a boy of about fourteen leading a horse over to the stable block, and the sight caused me to stop dead. I peeled away from the group and approached him, still clasping a trunk to my chest.

‘That is a fine horse you have there,’ I said, blocking his path. The boy looked surprised, but he acknowledged the compliment with a nod and made as if to lead the animal around me. A handsome black charger, muscles rippling under its glossy coat, with four white socks and a scar down its cheek. It was the same horse I had seen tethered in the yard outside Stafford’s house the night Paget brought me there from the Conciergerie, the scar left no doubt. ‘I have seen him before, I am sure of it. What is his name?’

‘Charlemagne,’ the boy said, with a flush of pride, patting the animal’s neck. ‘He has been to war, this one.’

‘He has the bearing of a warhorse,’ I said, smiling encouragement. ‘Does he belong to your master?’

The boy shook his head. ‘He is the Duke of Guise’s horse.’

‘Of course. He has the scar to match.’

The boy giggled, pressing a hand over his mouth and glancing around hastily. I kept the smile rigid, but my skin prickled with fear; if Guise was here, I had put myself in a far more dangerous situation than I had anticipated. I was a dead man if I were to be caught, and there was no knowing what might happen to my friends. Charlemagne. You had to admire the man’s audacity.

‘The Duke of Guise is a guest here tonight, then?’

The boy nodded and patted the horse again; it was growing restless, its nostrils flaring and steaming in the cold.

‘Filippo!’

It took me a moment to realise it was I who was being called; I turned to see the others waiting by the entrance to the house, Francesco glaring at me pointedly and jerking his head towards the door. I bowed to the stable boy and hurried back to join them, keeping my cloak over my face, afraid to look up and catch a glimpse of anyone watching from the windows.

The steward led us along servants’ corridors until we reached a wide oval salon hung with tapestries. A dozen chairs had been set out in a semi-circle. Francesco and Isabella stood aside with him, debating the dimensions and position of the playing space while the rest of us piled up the boxes at one side, until they had agreed on a suitable arrangement and the steward discreetly retired to allow us to prepare. I was given various menial tasks – mainly holding poles and the end of strings – while the members of the company moved swiftly to rig up a wooden frame across the far end of the room. When this was erected, curtains of black material were draped across to make a partition behind which the players could retreat to change costume between scenes. From the space behind this curtained-off area it would be possible to watch the guests unseen as they entered the room from the door at the other end and took their seats. The partition also gave the players access to a smaller door which opened on to the corridor outside; behind the curtain, no one in the audience would be able to see who came and went through this door. It was perfect for my purposes.

I was helping Isabella hang the costumes on a stand in the correct order when this door behind us opened to admit a large man in a dark blue velvet doublet and breeches, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand. I did not recognise him, but from the hush that fell and the way Isabella dropped immediately into a curtsey, I assumed this must be their host, the Duke of Montpensier. I bowed low and kept my eyes down.

‘Good evening, good evening,’ he said, waving for everyone to straighten up. ‘Will this do you?’ He gestured to the room. ‘It’s where we do the musical recitals. The sound’s rather good, I think. Something to do with the walls. Just came to make sure you’ve got everything you need.’

The players murmured their deferential thanks. While his attention was fixed on Isabella, I took a long look at the Duke. He was loud and affable, in his early forties, with a head of tightly curled hair, a neat pointed beard, and a paunch and broken veins that spoke of good living and a fondness for claret. The glass in his hand was clearly not his first of the evening.

‘Now listen,’ he said, sounding apologetic, ‘I like a bit of bawdy as much as the next man, but my stepmother-’ his voice curdled on the word, as if it could only be said with sarcasm – ‘is currently in mourning and I don’t want to give her cause to make a fuss. So – keep it just the right side of obscene, eh?’

Francesco inclined his head in assent.

‘I mean, I’m not saying make it a performance for novice nuns,’ the Duke added, quickly, ‘but on the other hand, there are things she doesn’t need to see simulated on a stage. Bestiality, sodomy – none of that. And there’s a young lady of delicate sensibilities among my guests tonight and I don’t want her to take away the wrong impression of me. Ideally something suggestive enough to put ideas in her head and bring a maidenly blush to her cheek, but not enough to make her think I’m a complete degenerate. Are we clear?’ He grinned and raised his glass to Francesco, who smiled back politely.

‘Absolutely no bestiality, Your Grace,’ he said, with his most earnest expression. The Duke nodded, satisfied, and turned to go.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Your Grace,’ I said, appearing smoothly at his side while folding a cape.

‘What?’ He stopped, squinting peevishly as if trying to place me.

‘You said your household was in mourning.’

‘Oh, that. Not my household. Just my stepmother,’ the Duke said, with distaste. ‘She’s the one carrying on as if she’s lost her first-born child. He was only a distant cousin, and he was my cousin at that, not hers. I never really liked the fellow much, if I’m honest. Is that uncharitable? I don’t recall her making this much fuss when my father died. In any case,’ he peered into his glass as if trying to comprehend how it could be empty, ‘this is my bloody house now, whatever she wishes to believe, and I’m not going to shut the place up in mourning for a man I had no time for in life just because she demands it.’

He looked aggrieved. I made sympathetic noises.

‘A man wants to feel he is master in his own house. Not to be commanded by a woman.’

‘You have it exactly,’ he said, widening his eyes and wagging a finger at me, as if I had offered him a revelation. ‘I mean, she has her private apartments upstairs, that should be enough for one dowager and her servants, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Quite. Upstairs,’ I murmured, in a tone of mild interest. God bless the loose tongue of a drinker.

He pointed at the ceiling, in case I was confused. ‘Up there. Whole suite of rooms in the east wing.’ He drained the last dregs from his glass and turned to go. I moved neatly between him and the door.

‘Why didn’t you like him?’ I asked casually. ‘Your cousin?’ Across the room, Francesco shot me a warning look from beneath lowered brows.

The Duke flapped a bejewelled hand, apparently untroubled by the impertinence of my questions. ‘Oh, those Holy Leaguers – they’re all the same. She collects them, you know. Little entourage fawning around her, doing her bidding. With all their talk about the purity of religion, it’s just jostling for power when it comes down to it. Always is. Guise wants the throne for his family in the end, however he dresses it up. She’s frantic for me to throw in my lot with the League, but I say this-’ he pointed an unsteady finger in my face – ‘Henri of Valois may be a useless sybarite, but he’s a prince of the blood and as such I owe him my duty. If that makes me a royalist, so be it. Better than a traitor, however holy you paint yourself.’ He paused, peering closer at me. ‘I haven’t seen you before, have I? What’s your name?’

‘Filippo, Your Grace.’

He leaned down; I could smell the wine on his breath. ‘What part do you play?’

‘Oh, servants, messengers, that sort of thing. I am still learning the trade.’

At the edge of my sightline, I saw Isabella getting ready to intervene; she was afraid I would give myself away.

He waved his glass towards Francesco. ‘Get him to give you a bigger part. You have, what do you call it? Presence.’

‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ I offered a little bow. He seemed pleased. I realised I might have cause later to wish I had made myself less memorable, but the Duke had been remarkably helpful.

It was only as he turned to leave that I caught sight of the ornamental dagger he wore in a sheath at his belt and felt myself flush hot and cold in the same instant. The design wrought on the handle was unmistakable.

‘Excuse me, Your Grace.’ I insinuated myself between the Duke and the door again and saw a minute twitch of pique around his lips. I pressed on, regardless. ‘I couldn’t help noticing – that is a very fine knife you carry. May I see it?’

‘Well. I suppose so. Here.’ He unsheathed it and held it out towards me. The mottled silver-grey of the blade, as if watermarked, was as familiar to me as the patterns of my own fingerprints. I reached out to touch it and he whisked it out of reach.

‘Careful. It’s very sharp. Damascus steel. It will cut-’

‘-a human hair dropped over the blade,’ I said. ‘I know. It is a beautiful piece of work. Have you – had it long?’ I sized him up as I spoke. He was the right height, but he was too broad, too solid around the middle to have been the man in the Greek mask, I was certain.

The Duke blinked, frowning. He seemed unaccustomed to such direct demands from an inferior and therefore at a loss as to how he should respond. ‘Since you ask, I was only given it today.’

‘By whom?’

His face registered open irritation now; for all his hearty manner, this was not how a travelling player spoke to a duke and we both knew it. I lowered my eyes immediately.

‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Federico?’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace. My father was a master bladesmith – I get carried away when I see such fine craftsmanship and I forget myself.’

‘Was he really?’ Montpensier looked mildly interested. ‘Oh. We must talk about blades one day, then – it is a passion of mine. I collect them. That’s why Guise gave me this – he knew I would appreciate it.’

Guise? So he must have been the man in the Greek mask. I was considering whether I dared press Montpensier further when the door opened and the steward’s head appeared through the gap.

‘Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but Sir Thomas Fitzherbert and his party have arrived early.’

‘Ah.’ The Duke’s doughy features lit up briefly and he rubbed his free hand on his thigh. ‘Take them into the blue room. Say I will be there presently. Where is the Dowager Duchess?’

‘Still attending to her toilette, I believe, Your Grace.’

‘Good. Keep her away from my guests for as long as possible. Don’t let her harangue them before they’ve even had a drink.’

When the door had closed behind the Duke, Francesco appeared at my side with a face like stormclouds and grabbed my arm in a pincer grip. ‘You promised me you would be discreet,’ he hissed.

‘Sorry. But I needed to ask him-’

‘Listen.’ He wrenched my arm up, tightening his hold. ‘Maybe the great philosopher Giordano Bruno can get away with speaking to kings and dukes as if he were their equal, but a humble player cannot, and you need to remember that’s what you are tonight, if you are not to drop us all in the shit. You asked me for a favour. Fuck this up for us and I’ll kill you myself. With one of your imaginary father’s knives,’ he added, releasing me with a ghost of a smile. ‘Master bladesmith my arse.’

‘I thought you would appreciate the improvisation,’ I said, rubbing my arm. ‘I have presence, apparently.’

‘You’ll have the presence of my boot in your balls if you don’t watch yourself.’ He cuffed me around the back of the head and returned to his warm-up stretches.

Two hours passed while the Duke and his guests dined in another chamber. Servants brought us plates of meat, bread and two jugs of wine, though Francesco forbade his performers from touching the drink before the show. I too abstained, knowing I would need all my senses sharp. Eventually, as we were growing irritable and quarrelsome from boredom, the servants returned to replenish the candles and we heard the sound of conversation carrying along the corridor. Through a gap in the curtain I watched as the guests made their way into the salon. Montpensier’s loud, bluff voice boomed into the room well before him, his laughter swelling like the bass notes of a great sackbut. I shrank back from the curtain when I saw the Duke of Guise enter, unsmiling, his face craggy and impassive in the candlelight. By his side, her white hand resting lightly on his arm, was a thin woman dressed head to foot in black, her face hidden by a black lace veil. I supposed this must be his sister, the Duchess of Montpensier, Fury of the League. From her bearing she appeared remarkably self-contained for someone wracked by grief for a lover, but perhaps that was the most dangerous kind of fury. I could not judge without seeing her eyes.

She took a seat next to her brother and behind them came an older couple: a distinguished-looking man with a concerned frown and extravagant moustaches, his grey hair swept back from a high forehead, and beside him a small woman of about the same age wearing a neat crescent hood and hairnet. Montpensier bounded into my line of sight, unnecessarily fussing about this couple and ushering them to their seats, so that for a moment my view was blocked and it was only when his bulk moved aside that I saw her.

I don’t know what I had expected to feel. She had not changed much in a year, except that her hair had grown long again and she was wearing it unbound down her back under her small hood as if she were a virgin, so that the chestnut and gold streaks caught the candlelight and glowed as if lit from within. She was less gaunt, too, though still slender, her waist neat inside a plain dove-grey bodice, but her cheeks were not so hollow as the last time I had seen her, in England, and her skin was restored to the sheen of youth and vigour. She turned and lifted her head in response to something Montpensier had said, so that I could see her in profile, her throat stretched up, her mouth open in laughter, tawny eyes dancing, and all the rage and rejection of our last meeting surged up to my throat in one great flood of emotion and threatened to burst out in a roar, so that I had to turn away and bite hard on the edge of my hand until the urge had passed. So this was Sophia Underhill, now Mary Gifford, making her way in Paris, firmly ensconced in the world of the Catholic émigrés and doing very nicely out of it, by the look of the jewelled necklace that glittered on her delicate collarbone, despite her avowed hatred of all religion. But then what did I know of her beliefs now? Everything else she had avowed to me had been false; there was no reason to suppose she had kept her integrity in matters of faith.

Montpensier had settled himself next to her like a large, over-friendly dog, solicitous in proffering drinks, sweetmeats, a shawl. Every time he leaned in to speak to her, he rested a meaty hand on her wrist or her shoulder; though I had no right to feel possessive, I bristled at every touch. Sophia kept her composure; she smiled and declined his offerings with impeccable politeness, but I could see the effort of forbearance in her face. As I watched, it occurred to me that I may have jumped to the wrong conclusion about Gilbert Gifford’s words; when he had mentioned a duke pursuing ‘Mary’, perhaps he had not meant Guise after all but Montpensier. The thought gave me some relief; Guise was dangerous to women, but a man like Montpensier would be of no interest to Sophia, with or without his title. I wondered if he had given her the necklace; it was an unlikely adornment for a governess. Though how foolish, I reprimanded myself in anger, how shamefully weak that I am still thinking in those terms, as if even now I were competing for her affections. After everything that had passed between us. I tore my gaze away and breathed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. At a gentle touch on my wrist, I lifted my head to see Isabella looking at me intently with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

‘Are you all right, Bruno?’ she whispered.

I forced a smile. ‘A little tired. That’s all.’

‘Don’t mind him.’ She nodded towards Francesco. ‘He doesn’t want you getting into trouble. These people are no friends to you.’

‘And I don’t want to make trouble for you. When I have found what I came for, I promise I will wait quietly until it is time to go home, and I will not ask for your help again.’

‘But you know we will offer it whenever we can. Now I must get ready – we begin in a few minutes. Good luck.’ She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

‘And to you. No sodomy, mind.’

She made a lewd gesture and poked her tongue out. I waited until Francesco stepped out from behind the curtain to a smattering of applause before slipping silently out of the door and into the dim light of the corridor.

The house was hushed, though far from silent; the Duke’s guests may have been contained in the salon but servants still moved about, quiet and efficient, their footsteps tapping on the old stone floors. From the far reaches of a corridor came the clinking sounds of the meal being cleared away, curt exchanges in low voices. Away from the fire in the salon, the high passageways held the mineral chill of a cathedral. I was still wearing my outdoor cloak; I pulled the hood down around my face and turned right into a broader corridor lit at intervals by candles in iron sconces. Almost immediately I was forced to duck into a window embrasure as a man in the Duke’s livery hurried past carrying a silver ewer. I held my breath until I was sure he had gone and continued my stealthy progress. For now, if I were caught, I could claim I was going out for a piss or to fetch something from the cart; that would be harder to argue once I was upstairs. Laughter gusted from the direction of the salon, Montpensier’s distinguishable by its volume. At least they seemed to be enjoying the performance. I would be safe, I thought, as long as Guise did not set eyes on me.

The corridor opened into a grand entrance hall with a vast chandelier suspended above the centre. Decorative cabinets stood around the walls; a wide staircase swept in a curve to the upper floor. Though there was nowhere to hide, I realised I would be less conspicuous here than trying to sneak up the servants’ stairs, which would be busy. I took a deep breath, waited until I was certain no one was coming, and ran up. On the first landing, I tried to orientate myself to work out which way would take me to the east wing. While I was calculating, I heard someone coming and had to dive into the nearest doorway. The footsteps veered away, echoing down the passage to my right. I turned in the opposite direction, peering into rooms, trying the latches of doors, less certain now that this had been a good idea. If I were caught up here, it would be assumed that I was a thief, and the rest of the Gelosi would be punished with me. It was imperative that I found what I came for without being seen, for everyone’s sake.

The corridor dog-legged around to the right and I noticed that here the starkness of the house was softened by more feminine touches: tapestries on the walls, fresh rushes strewn over the floor. I tried one door; it opened into a prettily furnished bedchamber with a fire burning low in the hearth. In the next room, though, my pulse quickened; it was arranged as a study, with cabinets and shelves for books along the walls, two chairs with embroidered cushions by the fireplace and an escritoire of carved walnut in the corner. The room was dark and cold, suggesting no one intended to use it that evening. I lifted a candle from the sconce in the corridor and closed the door behind me.

The writing desk had two drawers set into the wood. Before I attempted to open them, I checked the room for possible places to hide if I should be interrupted. Velvet drapes hung over two tall windows reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling; these were covered by wooden shutters on the outside but on trying the latch I found they opened to reveal a small stone balcony overlooking the courtyard. I pulled the shutters and the windows almost closed again, shielding the flame from the draught, and turned my attention to the desk.

The drawers were locked, as I had supposed. The knife I had with me was not fine enough to work into the keyhole – I thought bitterly of my own dagger, hanging at Montpensier’s belt – but it was solid, and I had risked too much now to go home empty-handed. I jammed the blade into the gap at the top of the drawer next to the lock; fortunately it was decorative rather than substantial and with a little force I managed to bend it until it snapped. There would be no disguising that the lock had been broken, but I hoped we would be long gone before the Duchess noticed.

I drew out a leather folder from the drawer and opened it to reveal a sheaf of letters. With all my senses alert for the slightest sound from outside, I brought the light closer so that I could read them. The first sheet was addressed to Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris; skimming it, I gathered that it was a delicately worded plea for further funds from King Philip of Spain for the League’s armies. But it was not the content that troubled me. Tucked inside my doublet I had brought the love letter I had taken from Frère Joseph’s mattress, but I hardly needed to look at it to know that the handwriting was no match for the letters in this folder. I flicked through the papers; these were all written in the same small, round hand, neat and compressed, no sign of the bold flourishes that characterised the note I had found in Joseph’s cell or the one Cotin had passed on to me the night before. I turned over the sheets in the folder to be certain. They all bore today’s date – the 8th of December – and were signed with the Duchess’s name, Catherine de Montpensier, in the same careful writing; I presumed these had been written earlier and were waiting to be sent. I offered up a silent curse. I had been willing my theory to be true; if the Duchess of Montpensier had been Joseph’s lover, everything would tie up tidily and I would be able to take proof to the King in the form of these letters. But unless she was adept at disguising her hand, it seemed I must accept that this was not the case. Joseph’s lover – and murderer – remained unknown.

I was unbuttoning my doublet, thinking to compare the letters even though I already knew my conclusion, when I caught the sound of footsteps and the exchange of low voices from the corridor. I bundled the papers back into the folder, replaced them in the drawer and slipped between the curtains, quietly opening the window and edging my way on to the balcony just as the chamber door opened. I pushed the windows and shutters almost closed and crouched outside, straining to hear and hoping the thin draught would not be noticed.

‘You can’t leave now, don’t be ridiculous,’ said a woman’s voice, sharp and peevish.

‘No one will care. I have better things to do. I can’t sit through another hour of this nonsense.’ A man’s voice; gravelly, tired. I recognised it at once as the Duke of Guise.

‘You can and you will. Montpensier will notice. You can’t afford to offend him at this stage. We need him too much.’

A mighty sigh from Guise. ‘I have said it before – if he will not support the League through the prompting of his conscience, I fail to see why he should be moved to do so by my attending a few dinners and watching Italians pretending to fornicate.’

‘Because that’s how he is.’ She sounded obstinate, as if they were retreading an old argument. ‘You have to flatter him on his terms. It would be a great triumph for us to win him away from the King. But he is a bon viveur at heart and he fears that puts him at odds with the League. He does not want to see France governed by joyless clerics.’

‘He prefers to see power in the hands of heretics and libertines?’

‘Those are his words, Brother, not mine. You must help me allay his fears by proving you know how to be good company, both now and in any future office you may hold.’

I could not see Guise’s expression, but I heard the snort he made in response. I knelt and tried to squint through a gap in the shutters. A sliver of a gap offered me an occasional glimpse of the Duke’s tall figure crossing in front of the window.

‘An hour more, then. After that I must attend to other business. The money is downstairs with my bodyservants – how much do you want?’

‘Paget says three thousand écus will do it.’

Another murmur of discontent from Guise. ‘That is more than I expected.’

‘You will recover it from the Spanish when you pass the material on.’

‘They will want to be sure it is a worthwhile investment. As do I, for that matter. We don’t even know what’s in those papers. You should not have agreed such a sum in advance without consulting me.’

‘If I had not, he would have taken the intelligence direct to Mendoza and we would know nothing of it. We cannot afford to be excluded from any developments at this stage. And Paget has assured me he would not dare cheat us. He is too indebted.’ She gave a dismissive little laugh. A long pause elapsed.

‘You should not encourage Paget,’ Guise said, eventually, in a reproving tone. ‘It is imprudent, in your situation.’

‘He is useful. He is another who needs to be flattered.’

‘Yes, but you go too far. He has hopes of you – and not without cause, from what I observe. Even you, with your fabled chastity, must see it.’

‘You are mistaken. Charles hopes only to see a Catholic sovereign on the thrones of France and England, and in that common cause we support one another. In any case-’ her tone sharpened – ‘it is not my liaisons threatening to bring trouble on our heads at the present time.’

‘Keep your voice down. The girl is dead. She can bring no trouble on anyone now.’

‘I wish I had your assurance, Brother.’ I heard brisk footsteps across the room. ‘You still have no idea who else she confided in, admit it. Not the first time you have placed your trust unwisely in a woman.’

‘The court is saying she died by her own hand. As long as it suits them to say that, we are safe.’

‘You are deluded,’ the Duchess said. ‘Well, you had better get rid of the husband, now. You have probably told him more than was good for him, if I know you.’

‘He knows nothing. He lost his wits long ago. Leave him – he is near death already. He will oblige you soon of his own accord.’

‘Yes, but all the time he is rotting away in the Conciergerie he is costing you money.’

‘Hardly. It’s not as if they’re keeping him in luxury.’

‘But you pay the gaoler for his silence, do you not? Well, then. Why waste that money? The world thinks Saint-Fermin has been dead these thirteen years.’ A pause. ‘Send the order tonight. I don’t know why you’re being squeamish about this – it’s not as if you baulk at death when it suits you.’

‘I will do it tomorrow. Other matters demand my attention tonight.’

‘Oh, other matters. Some doxy from the Tuileries, is it? I don’t know why you don’t run the other way when you see those Medici whores coming. You make their job child’s play.’

‘Perhaps that’s what I want them to think.’

‘Ha. If only I could believe that. You are not as shrewd as you would like people to think, Brother.’

‘Nor you as chaste,’ Guise said, with a soft laugh. ‘All the talk at court is of how you murdered de Chartres over a lovers’ quarrel.’

The Duchess clicked her tongue.

‘God, have these people nothing better to do? Give me the name of everyone you heard say so and I will see them whipped for slander, whatever their rank.’

‘That would only serve to confirm the rumours, dear Sister.’

‘Then we should make haste to have the heretic Bruno arrested and charged with his murder. That would solve two problems with one stroke.’

‘I have told you to leave that in my hands,’ Guise said, his tone severe again. ‘I have other uses for him yet. By God, this room is freezing – have you left the window open?’

I had only a moment; quickly I climbed over the parapet at the side of the balcony and clung on to the outside, crouching low, hanging perhaps twenty feet over a border of shrubs below me. I could only pray that there was no one in the courtyard who might glance up and see me clinging on. The shutters were flung wide, though fortunately the left one obscured me from the view of the Duchess, who stepped out on to the balcony and surveyed the ground directly below.

‘Must have been the wind. The latch on these shutters is loose. Come – we should return before they begin the next performance or we will be missed. And this person will be here with the package soon – I do not want Montpensier’s servants to encounter him first.’

I let out a shaky breath; my fingers had grown numb with cold and I was not sure how long I could go on gripping the stone balcony.

‘Are you sure no one’s been in here?’ Guise’s voice shocked me with its proximity; he had joined her on the balcony. I hoped he had not noticed the drawer of the escritoire. I could see his shadow as he leaned forward to look over to the ground. If he should think to pull the shutter back … The stone under my hands was icy; I felt my fingers beginning to slip.

‘Who would be in here?’ the Duchess said, impatient. ‘Come, I am freezing – let us not waste any more time.’

Guise muttered something I could not catch. The shutter hiding me moved; I held myself rigid, not daring to breathe, but they were pulling it closed from the inside. I heard it firmly shut and the windows bolted. Though I was relieved they had not seen me, I was now left with a different problem: there was no latch on the outside of the shutters and I was stuck on this balcony. I had begun to haul myself back over the parapet to relieve my arms while I considered the situation, when I heard footsteps on the frosted ground below. Glancing down, I saw a woman walking across the courtyard, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders; she paused by one of the torches in the wall long enough for me to glimpse her profile and the recognition sent that same jolt through my gut. Sophia, alone outside; who was she meeting? Without allowing myself time to think, I let go of the parapet, dropped into a bush below, rolled out and on to my feet, ignoring the dart of pain in my left leg; she had whipped around, startled, at the noise, but she barely had a chance to react before I had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the shadow of an arched passageway at the side of the house. We stared at one another, our faces inches apart, for the first time in more than a year. It gratified a streak of cruelty in me to see that she looked afraid, her lips parted as if she were on the verge of crying out.

‘You owe me fifty écus,’ I said, through my teeth.