Conspiracy

TWENTY

Jacopo’s steward appeared and between us we carried the Count upstairs to one of the guest rooms. He looked so broken when we laid him on the bed that even the physician turned pale; it would not have surprised me to learn that the journey had killed him. But the physician confirmed he was still breathing, and called briskly for hot water and clean linen to be brought before urging me and Jacopo from the room and promising to fetch us when he had examined the patient.

Jacopo asked the steward to bring us a jug of hot wine in his study. He gestured me to a chair near the hearth, while he hurried across to his desk and tidied away the book and papers lying there. Then he pulled up a chair opposite, threw another log on to the fire and poked it until the sparks jumped up like a furnace. When it was blazing higher, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin propped on his fists, and stared into the flames, his expression unreadable.

‘Thank you,’ I said, when I could no longer stand the silence. ‘I put you in a difficult position, I know.’

He did not shift his posture, merely turned his head to look at me.

‘I can barely frame my thoughts into words, Bruno. How could he have been down there for thirteen years without anyone knowing? Even the poorest wretch in the kingdom would not let his dog live like that.’ He shook his head, gazing at the fire again.

‘I suppose no one inspects the prisons,’ I said. ‘It was Guise’s doing – all of it. He blinded the Count on Saint Bartholomew’s night and threw him in that dungeon. He’s been paying them to keep him there ever since.’

‘But why? What use is the Count to him in that state?’

‘I don’t know. But it has something to do with Circe. Léonie de Châtillon. She was married to him.’

‘So she was.’ Jacopo stared at me, his face creased with concern. ‘Why do you say that?’

I related the conversation I had heard from the Duchess of Montpensier’s balcony.

‘Guise distinctly said that now the girl was dead, she would not cause them any trouble. His sister then said the Count should die too. Guise was going to kill him in the morning.’

‘So they had no further use for him without Léonie. But why, I wonder?’

‘I am hoping the Count will be able to tell us.’

‘I wouldn’t depend upon it, Bruno.’ He leaned forward and poked the fire again. ‘Moving him like that almost finished him off, the physician said. He may not last the night. Even if he rallies, do you not think his mind will be as broken as his body, after thirteen years in that pit?’

‘I think his wits are sharper than you might imagine,’ I said. ‘We can only hope.’

‘What in God’s name were you doing on the Duchess’s balcony, anyway?’

‘I was in her room looking for a letter.’

‘What letter?’

‘Any one. I needed to see her handwriting.’

I explained about the letters to Joseph de Chartres from his mystery lover. Jacopo listened, his frown growing more entrenched.

‘But now you think the Duchess is not the mistress after all?’ he asked, when I had finished.

‘Not as far as I can see. But Guise is behind all this somehow, Jacopo, I know it – all three deaths. I just cannot find one piece of evidence that will tie him to it conclusively. Still, perhaps we can take comfort in having saved one life tonight. Or at least making his death more dignified.’

‘Poor, poor man. I cannot bear to think of what he has suffered. He was accounted very handsome once, you know. And a fine soldier.’ He clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I sometimes think the Duke of Guise is the Devil incarnate.’

‘It was Guise I saw in the Greek mask on his way to the clearing, around the time Léonie was killed. I got into a scuffle with him – he took my knife from me. Two days later, he gave it to the Duke of Montpensier.’ I took a sip of wine and wrapped my hands around the glass to warm them. ‘I am certain Guise must have been the one Léonie was expecting to meet, when she blurted out to me that she could not go through with it. He planned to use her to attack the King. It is the only explanation that fits.’

Jacopo let out a sigh. ‘It is one explanation, certainly. But as you say, you have no proof beyond one overheard conversation that can easily be denied, and another with a girl who is now dead, and can tell us nothing at all.’

‘The Count may know something.’

‘He may, but who would take his testimony seriously, in his state?’ He scratched the tuft of hair in the centre of his balding pate. ‘All this is speculation.’

‘But I have a feeling we are drawing closer to the truth than we have been all along,’ I said.

‘Still, only this mysterious lover can prove or disprove Guise’s involvement.’ He refilled my glass and his own and sat back, his hands folded in his lap, contemplating the flames. ‘You say she persuaded Joseph de Chartres to kill Lefèvre for fear he – de Chartres – would be denounced as a spy? No mention of this conspiracy involving Circe that you thought was the reason for the priest’s death?’

‘No. That was odd, I grant you. Perhaps she feared to put that in writing.’

‘Hm. A spy for whom, though? I thought de Chartres was a loyal League man.’

‘Christ, I don’t know.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘In this city it could be anybody. The young curate at Saint-Séverin mentioned that he’d heard Lefèvre calling Joseph Judas. Perhaps it was true that he had discovered a betrayal.’

‘And I suppose you still won’t heed my advice to leave this business altogether?’ he asked gently.

‘How can I? When I am so close. If I can give the King this, Jacopo – proof that will publicly condemn Guise and his associates for murder – he will be in my debt.’

‘You think he will give you back your position at court?’ I heard the scepticism in his voice.

‘I would not expect that. I only want modest financial support and immunity from persecution for my books. A post at the University, perhaps.’

Jacopo ran a hand across his head and did not look at me. ‘For himself, Henri might do that much, but I don’t know if Catherine would permit it. In any case, you will not get much sense out of the King at the moment. Léonie’s death seems to have affected him badly. He has fallen into one of his fits of melancholy and will see no one.’

‘Then the surest way to lift him from it is to bring her killer to justice.’

‘What do you propose? Break into the house of every woman who associates with the Catholic League and steal a sample of her handwriting?’

I shifted in my chair. The pain in my hip from my impetuous leap earlier was growing worse. ‘If that is what it takes.’

He sighed. ‘Ah, Bruno. Your stubbornness will be your undoing, one way or another.’

An hour ticked by. Jacopo returned to his desk to continue with his paperwork. I picked up a book and tried to read, but I could barely keep my eyes open. Overhead the boards creaked in different tones as the physician moved about the room. My clothes smelled of the gaol again, and from carrying the Count; I caught the stink rising from them in the heat of the fire. Eventually there came a discreet tap at the door and the physician entered, wiping his hands on a linen cloth.

‘He is more comfortable now. I’ve given him a draught to help him sleep.’ He shook his head, amazed. ‘He must have the constitution of a lion, to have survived in that condition for so long. Man’s capacity for endurance is remarkable.’

‘Will he live?’ I asked, standing.

He gave me a frank look. ‘For a while. But do not expect too much. His health is in shreds. He will not get well again, in the sense that you might understand it. His body has been destroyed.’

‘But, for now …?’

‘I see no immediate danger. There is no trace of gaol fever that I can detect.’ He turned to Jacopo. ‘I will return in the morning. If he wakes, I recommend a thin chicken stock – nothing more substantial. His stomach will not cope with it. And – ah – if we might discuss the matter of the fee …?’

‘I will sit with him, in case he wakes,’ I offered, partly because I did not want to hear how much the Count’s life was going to cost Jacopo. That was something else we would have to work out when – if – I eventually had any reward from Henri.

The bedchamber was warm and airless, hazy with woodsmoke from the fire that had been stoked high and now blazed fiercely. A faint vegetal trace of medicinal herbs lingered, but it was not enough to disguise the smell of decaying flesh. The Count lay stretched out under blankets, perfectly still, dwarfed and shrunken against the plump pillows. The doctor had bathed him and dressed his wounds, clothed him in a clean nightshirt and taken the worst of the filth from his face, but if anything this only made his wasted flesh seem more naked, the scarred tissue around his empty sockets more ghastly. He looked entirely bloodless, like a mummified corpse, as if you could snap off one of the desiccated limbs and nothing would spill out but dead insects and dust. But he was alive, I reminded myself, and free.

I fell asleep in the chair by his bed. I do not know how many minutes or hours passed, but I was awakened by a choking noise; I lunged forward and lifted him, holding his torso upright while his breath rattled in his chest like a handful of stones thrown down a dry well. When the coughing fit subsided, he slumped back into my arms. I thought he was asleep; I was about to lay him down once more when he drew a scraping breath.

‘I dreamed I felt the wind on my face.’

‘You did,’ I said, amazed and delighted to hear him speak, though he was barely audible. ‘I’m sorry I could not arrange the sun, but it’s the middle of the night in December. Soon it will be spring, though,’ I continued, trying to sound encouraging. ‘When you are well again, you will be able to sit outside in the sun and hear the birdsong.’

‘I do not think I will see the spring, boy.’ His hand clawed for mine. ‘I dreamed they gave me something to take away the pain. And that I was lying in a feather bed. I think I am still dreaming it.’ His voice was faint and full of wonder.

‘No, it is real.’ I held his hand. ‘You are safe now.’

‘Such kindness,’ he murmured. ‘I never thought to hear a kind word again.’

Tears pricked at my eyes; I could not let go of his hand to brush them away.

‘Why did you save me?’ he asked, running his tongue around his cracked lips.

‘You have been the victim of a terrible injustice,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. ‘And-’ I hesitated – ‘he was going to kill you. The Duke of Guise.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘Le Balafré. He killed them all, you know.’

‘What?’ I tried not to jolt him as I tensed. I did not see how this could be true – Joseph had killed Lefèvre, for a start – but I wondered what more the Count knew. ‘How do you know?’

‘I was there,’ he croaked, trying to sit up. ‘I saw it all, before he put my eyes out. Dragged them from the house, slaughtered them like beasts on the steps. My cousin, his wife, the little girls in their new gowns …’ He tailed off into another bout of coughing. ‘It was her doing,’ he said, with sudden vehemence. I recalled he had said those words before, the night I was imprisoned with him. I closed my eyes and forced myself to be patient. He was not talking about the murders after all; he was tumbling back into the past, to the night of the massacre.

‘Did Guise kill anyone else?’ I asked, as gently as I could.

‘Thousands, I heard. All the Huguenots … they came for the wedding of the Princess Margot to the King of Navarre. My cousin …’

‘I mean – more recently? Did Guise ever visit you in prison?’

‘Oh yes, he came. He could not resist. What has happened to my wife?’

‘Your wife?’ I was caught out by the question. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘If Guise no longer needed me alive, he must have married her or killed her. One or the other. He only kept my life to bargain with.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Water,’ he rasped, his hand fluttering.

I passed him a cup and tipped it carefully to his parched lips. Most of it was spluttered over the bedclothes, but at length he lay back against the pillow.

‘It was my pride,’ he said sadly, raising his head a fraction, just when I thought he had fallen asleep again. ‘I thought I could have whatever I wanted. I chose her. I was forty-five, she was a child of fifteen. I was a powerful man. And the Medici woman needed my alliance. I demanded Léonie. Catherine granted her. It never occurred to either of us that she might have desires of her own.’

He fell back, as if the length of this speech had exhausted him. I did not want to press him too hard, but I felt he was on the verge of revealing something.

‘She did not wish to marry you?’ I prompted.

‘She had no choice. But she was in love already and would never love me, she made that clear. I punished her for it.’ A spasm jerked his face; I could not tell if it was pain or remorse.

‘She loved Guise?’

‘So she said. It was she who brought him to my house with his soldiers that night. She wanted me dead. She thought then he would be rid of his wife and marry her.’ He gave a sigh that shook his frame with alarming force. ‘Well, she learned that night not to trust Le Balafré. He did not give her what she wanted. She was not free, and she knew it. My life kept her bound to him.’

‘So-’ I hesitated, trying to work it out – ‘by keeping you alive, he made sure she could not marry again?’

‘I was the card in his sleeve,’ he whispered. ‘If she wished to marry, he threatened to bring me out to destroy the match. All this time, she was in thrall to him.’

‘Did he ever hint that he had pressured her into anything? A plot to kill the King, for instance?’

‘The King?’ A vein trembled at his temple; his face twisted with the effort of remembering. ‘Charles?’

‘Henri. His brother. Henri of Valois is king now.’ This was hopeless. Jacopo was right, I thought; the Count’s memories were so scattered that, though I believed there was truth in them, it would be impossible to sift through in search of anything solid.

‘Henri …’ His voice drifted away. ‘He never mentioned Henri. But he did say-’ He tried to raise his head again to cough; I slipped my arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him, trying to curb my impatience. ‘More water.’

‘What did Guise say?’ I asked, when the water had been dealt with.

‘He said she was going to put a Guise bastard on the throne. He laughed like a madman about it.’

‘Circe was? I mean, Léonie?’

‘That’s what he said. I did not understand his meaning.’

No, but I was beginning to see a glimmer of light.

‘When did he say this? Was it recently?’

The Count made a papery noise that might have been laughter. ‘I could not tell you, son. Time had no shape in that darkness. It might have been yesterday, might have been years ago.’

I patted his hand and settled him back among the pillows. There was no use pushing him any harder tonight; I did not want to risk his fragile state any further. He lay very still again, his chest barely rising and falling, though with no eyes it was impossible to tell if he was asleep. I tucked the blanket closer around him and crept towards the door, when I thought I heard him murmur. I rushed back, laid my hand over his and bent my head close to his lips.

‘God bless you,’ he croaked. His fingers moved under mine, and he fell silent once more.