Conspiracy

SIX

The gaoler bundled me up the steps and out of the pit, a thick wooden club in one hand in case I thought to cause trouble. I was prodded along a dank corridor and up another spiral staircase. With every step away from the bowels of the building I felt better able to breathe.

‘You’re lucky you weren’t left there any longer,’ he said conversationally, as he jabbed me in the back with the club. ‘Last feller they threw in with him died of fever inside a couple of days. When I went to get the body out, there was only half of him left.’

‘What?’ I turned to stare at him; he grinned and mimed a man gnawing a hunk of meat. ‘The Count ate him?’

‘Reckon he had a few bites. Unless there’s rats the size of dogs down there. Keep moving.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought he had the teeth for it.’

‘You’d be amazed what desperate men can do. I’ve seen it all, believe me.’

The sky was still dark outside when we emerged into a cobbled courtyard lit by torches in wall brackets. Though the mist persisted, I could make out the elegant white façades of the surrounding buildings, rising to pointed turrets at the corners and realised where we were: the Palais de Justice, the former royal residence on the Ile de la Cité, now home to the Parlement, the law courts and a small village of ramshackle stalls built around the walls. Ahead was the filigreed roof of the Sainte-Chapelle, its spire vanishing into the smoky air. No one looking from outside would have supposed such a fine place to contain anything as foul as that dungeon among its foundations.

The sound of hooves rang out on the cobbles; I turned to see a handsome chestnut horse with a cloaked rider approaching from the gate. I could not make out his face in the shadows of his hood, and my throat dried. I had been so relieved at my release that I had allowed myself to believe the gaoler had been swayed by my promise of a reward and sent a message to the Louvre after all. Now I realised that he could hardly have had time to do so, still less to have received a response. Another possibility was that somehow Cotin had managed to send a message to Jacopo after I was arrested – but how would Cotin have known where I had been taken? There was only one other possibility, I thought, as I watched the hooded figure spring from his saddle with the agility of a practised horseman: that I had been taken out of the frying pan only to fall into the fire, like the fish in the fable.

The rider led his horse towards us across the courtyard, sweat steaming from its flanks. He walked with the loping stride of a tall man, straight-backed, with an athletic frame; a description that fitted Guise. Would the Duke bother to come for me in person? I lowered my eyes as he approached, steeling myself.

‘Give him back his belongings before he dies of cold,’ the man said, in an accent that caused me to jerk my head up and stare at him. ‘And hurry up about it, you streak of piss, I’m freezing my balls off here.’ The gaoler mumbled something and scurried away, leaving us alone. The horse’s breath clouded around us as it stamped and shook its head.

‘But – you’re English,’ I said stupidly, in French.

‘Correct.’ My rescuer pushed his hood back from his face and I recognised the man I had seen watching me from the edge of the crowd in the churchyard of Saint-Séverin yesterday. He smoothed a hand over his sprightly hair and looked me up and down, his face creased in distaste. ‘The state of you. Are you injured?’

I touched the lump at the back of my head. ‘A little. Not too serious. Who are you?’

‘Think of me as a well-wisher.’ He gave me a thin smile, and my fear came flooding back. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he held up a gloved hand. ‘All in good time. Let’s get off this bloody island first. Are you fit to ride?’

‘I think so.’

The gaoler returned and handed me my cloak and, to my great relief, my dagger, glaring at me as if this humiliation was my doing. The Englishman mounted without another word and reached down a hand to pull me into the saddle behind him.

I clung on as he wheeled the horse around and urged it out of the gate. He slowed as we met the Boulevard de Paris, where a man I took to be a servant stood waiting with a flaming torch; he led the way to the Pont Saint-Michel and we followed at walking pace. Even so, the jolting motion sent waves of pain up my spine to the bruise on my head.

‘Did Jacopo send you?’ I asked, in English, when it seemed he would not speak. The houses ranged precariously along the bridge remained dark, though I thought I glimpsed movement behind the windows; people evidently roused by the sound of the horse’s hooves, curious – or afraid – to know who was abroad at this hour.

‘Jacopo Corbinelli? No, he didn’t. Why – were you expecting someone?’

‘I thought – then who? How did you know where to find me?’

‘Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,’ he said cheerfully, over his shoulder, ignoring the first question.

‘Spying,’ I said. I should have guessed. How naïve to think I could have lived quietly in Paris for the past two months without anyone watching me.

‘Well, you’re the expert there.’ He did not say it unpleasantly; more in the spirit of making conversation. But the remark alarmed me further; the only people in Paris likely to accuse me of spying – apart from the King – were those who considered me an enemy. And there might be more of those than I knew; Paris was full of English Catholic exiles now, either banished by Elizabeth’s government or fled illegally, many of them rallying to the banner of the Scottish Queen Mary Stuart, whose ambassador here was at the heart of the conspiracies to free her with the help of the Catholic League. My name would be known to anyone who had been party to the most recent of those plots, the one uncovered – as the King had rightly said – by letters intercepted at the French embassy in London. It was quite possible, I now realised, that my rescuer was one of their number.

‘I have never seen you before yesterday, in the churchyard.’

‘Naturally you haven’t. I do have some skill in this business.’

‘So why now?’

‘I thought it was time we were introduced.’

‘Who do you work for?’

He flashed a smile over his shoulder. ‘I serve God, Doctor Bruno. How about you?’

Merda. Only a Catholic would give an answer like that. I decided it was best to say nothing. On the far side of the bridge he turned left on to the Quai des Bernardins and it became clear that he was not taking me to my lodgings.

‘I can walk home from here, if you let me down,’ I said, trying not to betray my anxiety in my voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You can barely be trusted to get yourself to the end of the street without someone’s soldiers carting you off. Besides, it’s gone three in the morning – we don’t want to disturb the redoubtable Madame de la Fosse at this hour, do we? And – forgive my candour – but I’m afraid you do smell quite unforgivably of shit. You need a bath and a hot meal before you’re fit to go home. A few more hours won’t hurt.’

I fell silent again as the horse continued its steady pace along the quai, the servant with the lamp plodding doggedly ahead, a wavering pool of orange in the grey air. The fog condensed on my lips with a taste of earth and smoke. This man was clever, that much was certain; in one response he had managed to convey how much he knew about me, down to the name of my landlady and my visit from the King’s guard the night before. I could only assume that he was taking me to Guise. I leaned out and looked at the ground; the horse was moving slowly enough that I could slip off without too much damage, but I would be unlikely to outrun him and his servant.

‘I wouldn’t jump if I were you,’ he said, without turning. ‘Francis is easily startled. He might very well trample you before I could stop him, and then I’d have paid out all that money for nothing. You didn’t come cheap, you know.’

‘Is Francis the horse or the servant?’

‘The horse. Named for my favourite member of the Privy Council.’

‘You named your horse after Walsingham?’

‘He’s really quite intelligent. For a horse.’

I could not help a burst of laughter, despite myself. I felt his shoulders relax.

‘Who the devil are you?’ I asked.

He considered the question for a few moments. ‘My name will not be unfamiliar to you, just as yours is not to me. We have a number of acquaintances in common – not all of them well disposed to either of us. So it may be that you have heard things about me which are partially or entirely untrue. In any case, I urge you not to overreact.’

‘For God’s sake,’ I said irritably.

‘Very well. My name is Charles Paget.’

I let go of him instantly and pushed myself backwards over the hindquarters of the horse, landing hard on the ground. I heard him pull the horse around, barking a command in French; before I could scramble to my feet or reach for my dagger, the torch-bearer loomed over me, his response surprisingly swift for such a lumpen man. He took hold of my arm in a grip that was not worth arguing with and dragged me to my feet.

‘Now, you see, I call that an overreaction,’ Paget observed from above, holding the horse on a short rein as it stamped on the spot. ‘If I wished you harm, I would have left you where you were, would I not?’

I said nothing. There were worse harms than being left in the Conciergerie; I feared that was about to become all too apparent. My free hand crept across to my belt.

‘Don’t touch the knife, Bruno, or I shall regret my generosity in returning it to you. You can walk if you choose, but it would be easier for everyone if you stop being a bloody fool and get back in the saddle.’

I planted my feet and looked up at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me where, and why.’

He let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Very well – let us continue with this pretence that you have some agency here.’ The horse danced its feet forward and back in a square and snorted. ‘I am taking you to the English embassy. Happy? Now get on the horse.’

‘I am not stupid. You mean to kill me.’

He laughed at this. ‘How dramatic you Italians are. I don’t know where you got that notion. If that were my intention, I could have managed it before now with a lot less trouble. And I’m afraid you can be remarkably stupid. For a man with so many enemies, you don’t look over your shoulder nearly as often as you ought.’

This needled me, because I knew he was right; I had allowed myself to grow careless.

‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Because-’ and there was an edge to his voice now – ‘I’ve just handed over a hefty purse of money to free you from that hole. I didn’t see any of your friends from the Louvre queuing up to get you out.’

‘Who sent you?’

He rolled his eyes to Heaven. ‘Who do you think?’

I shook my head, blank. The only people I could think of who would send Charles Paget after me wanted me dead. He slapped the horse’s neck twice and gave me a meaningful look. My eyes widened.

‘Walsingham? But-’

‘Let’s not discuss it in the middle of the street, eh? For the last time, Bruno, get on the damned horse.’

He reached down and the servant crouched to give me a forceful shove in the backside with his shoulder, as my arms were too tired to heave myself up into the saddle. Exhaustion crashed over me; I slumped against Paget’s back and could not even muster a smile when he said, ‘On, Francis, good fellow,’ nudging his mount’s flanks with his heels. He was right; I had no choice in the matter.

‘Is Walsingham here in Paris?’ I asked, as we rode along beside the river.

‘All will become clear,’ he replied, enjoying his enigmatic act as much as it was infuriating me. I tried again.

‘But you work for the Queen of Scots. You are still secretary to her ambassador, unless I am mistaken?’

He hesitated; I waited for him to deny it.

‘Our Lord Jesus Himself said a man cannot serve two masters,’ he replied, after a while. ‘I venture to suggest He had little experience of intelligence work.’

He was so pleased with that answer that I did not bother to reply. We reached the grand, four-storey houses of the Quai de la Tournelle, with their wide leaded windows overlooking the river. The torch-bearer stopped outside one with a heavy studded front door, and knocked. There was no response. He pounded again; after some time the door was opened by a harassed-looking servant, who regarded us with understandable outrage. Paget’s man exchanged a few words with him, gesturing up at us; the servant appeared to be protesting, until finally he nodded and closed the door in our faces.

‘They are all abed. Let me go home,’ I said to Paget, when it seemed we had been turned away.

‘Wait.’ He pointed to a high double gate at the side of the house. After some minutes, it swung open and he clipped through into a cobbled stable yard. A boy came forward to take the reins; Paget hopped down lightly and held out a hand to assist me. I ignored it and slid to the ground. I could not help but notice that the boy seemed nervous. He may have been skittish at being roused from sleep, but I did not think that was the case; he was dressed in outdoor clothes and seemed alert, his eyes flitting past us as he led Paget’s horse towards the stables. Following the direction of his gaze, I saw a fine black stallion tethered to a post in the yard, a handsome creature with four white socks, saddled up with expensive tack, as if someone had that moment arrived, or was about to leave. There was no distinguishing badge or livery on the harness or saddle cloth. The horse turned its head to regard us with dark liquid eyes and I noticed a pink scar running along its nose and down one cheek.

We were met by the servant who had answered the front door, who led us, apologising, through a tradesmen’s entrance to a stone-flagged scullery and on into a spacious kitchen, where a fire burned in a hearth large enough to accommodate an entire cow on a spit; Paget gently urged me towards it and I crouched by the embers, shivering violently, grateful for the heat but conscious of the prison stink rising from my clothes.

‘The ambassador will be with you shortly,’ the servant said, as he craved our pardon once again for the wait. Paget nodded graciously, as if the fulsome apologies were no more than he was due; I found this curious, since we were the ones who should be sorry for disturbing them at this hour.

‘God’s teeth, you smell like a leper,’ Paget remarked, pacing the kitchen, slapping his hands together in their leather gloves. ‘You should get those clothes off and burn them as soon as possible. Probably infested with all kinds of vermin. I’ll bring you replacements tomorrow.’

‘Thank you, but there is no need-’

I broke off at the sound of voices; Paget had heard them too. We both turned to look at the interior door of the kitchen; from beyond it came an urgent, whispered exchange, two men speaking, one angry, the other mollifying. The conversation stopped abruptly and the door swung open. A short, mouse-haired man entered alone, wearing a woollen robe over a sombre grey doublet and hose and rubbing tired eyes with the heel of his left hand. In his right he dangled a quill pen and a pair of spectacles. I had the growing impression that whatever we had interrupted here, it was not a household asleep.

‘This is damned inconvenient, Paget.’ The man sounded irritable, but I thought I detected an underlying note of fear. He polished the eyeglasses on his sleeve, replaced them on his nose and glared at Paget, who crossed the room in a couple of long strides and bent to murmur in the man’s ear.

The short man squinted past him and took in my appearance with evident antipathy. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, as if someone had pointed out to him a damp patch on the ceiling.

‘I have no wish to inconvenience you, sir,’ I said, darting a glance at Paget. ‘I will gladly be on my way, if-’ I did not manage to finish the sentence; tiredness, or perhaps hunger or the effects of the blow to my head brought on a wave of dizziness that caused my legs to buckle, so that I stumbled back and almost lost my footing. Paget dived forward and thrust a stool under me.

‘I think Doctor Bruno needs food and rest, Ambassador,’ Paget said smoothly, as if he were accustomed to taking charge.

‘Of course,’ the ambassador said, with a hint of impatience. ‘No inconvenience at all. Geoffrey!’ He turned to the servant standing discreetly in the doorway. ‘Light a fire in the blue chamber. Warm some wine and stew for our guest and have the girl heat some water. Doctor Bruno-’ he stepped forward and held out a hand, then thought better of touching me, withdrew it and offered an awkward smile instead. ‘I am Sir Edward Stafford. It has long been my hope that I would one day welcome you to Her Majesty’s embassy as my guest, though I confess I had pictured more orthodox circumstances. I am truly sorry you should have been subjected to such an ordeal tonight. But – well, these are unruly times. I pray you take your ease for now and when you are rested we will speak further. Do not hesitate to ask my steward, Geoffrey, if you have need of anything. I bid you good night.’ He paused in the doorway. ‘I mean no offence, but I would prefer if you did not come any further into the house until you have washed and removed your clothes. They may carry some pestilence from the gaol. Geoffrey – fetch Doctor Bruno a robe and take his things outside.’

‘I can dispose of them on my way out,’ Paget offered, ever helpful. I wrapped my arms tighter around my chest and felt the crackle of the papers inside my doublet. Was that why everyone was so solicitous to relieve me of my clothes – so that they could search me?

‘I think I can manage to undress myself. I thank you, gentlemen,’ I added, to soften the reproach.

Paget exchanged a glance with Stafford. ‘As you wish. You will have the opportunity to thank me tomorrow, Bruno. Give you good night.’ He gave a cursory bow to the room in general and turned as if to leave.

‘Paget. A word, before you go.’ Stafford nodded towards the door into the house. ‘Wait in my study, would you?’

I noticed Paget’s face twitch at this peremptory tone, but he merely inclined his head and did as he was asked, closing the door behind him. Stafford rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. He seemed relieved that Paget had gone. I had heard a little about the English ambassador from Walsingham, but he was younger than I had expected, no more than mid-thirties, though his worn expression and fussy mannerisms lent him the look of a middle-aged academic. He peered at me now as if I were yet another problem to be solved.

‘I have letters for you,’ he said, lowering his voice.

My heart leapt. ‘From London?’

He answered with a curt nod. ‘They will keep until tomorrow. We will discuss it all then. Give you good night, Doctor Bruno.’

‘Thank you, sir. For everything.’ I was so tired now I could barely raise my head, but I knew I could not afford to let my guard slip. ‘And do not fear – I will reimburse you as soon as I can.’

He frowned. ‘For what?’

‘What you paid in bail.’

He shook his head. ‘That was none of my doing. If money was paid out, you must take that up with Paget.’

Now it was my turn to look confused. ‘But why would-’

He held up a hand to stop me. ‘All I know is that a fortnight ago, when these letters arrived, I asked him to find you and deliver the instruction to call on me, at Walsingham’s behest. I did not ask him to bring you to my house in the middle of the night smelling like a plague pit.’

‘I apologise for that. It would not have been my choice to arrive like this either.’

Stafford looked uncertain; he seemed about to speak further, when he glanced at the door and his jaw tightened. ‘If you will excuse me.’

I knew I had only a moment alone before the steward returned and demanded my clothes. I reached inside my doublet, drew out the pages I had taken from Frère Joseph’s cell and smoothed them flat on the floor as best I could. They were badly creased, and damp with sweat in places, but still legible. I pulled off my boots, rolled the papers together and stuffed them inside. I had just placed the boots by the hearth when the steward, Geoffrey, entered with a dark red woollen robe draped over his arm; in one hand he carried a large sack and in the other a silver tankard, steam rising from its surface. A young maidservant followed carrying a pail of water, her face drooping with fatigue. Geoffrey handed me the drink; I breathed in the scent of spiced wine, took a sip and felt its welcome warmth spread through me.

‘You may bathe in the scullery when the water is heated,’ he said, his tone civil but detached. ‘If you would put your clothes in the sack, I can take them out to the yard.’

‘They are good wool, made by English tailors,’ I said, unbuttoning my doublet one-handed. ‘Take them outside if you must, but do not destroy them. I will take them away with me tomorrow and have them laundered.’

‘I fear, sir, you will not be rid of that smell easily.’

‘Well, it is worth a try. And my boots I will keep with me.’

He looked doubtful. ‘I fear they may have absorbed some contagion. At least allow me to clean them.’

‘They stay with me,’ I said firmly. He inclined his head, knowing better than to insist. But he watched me closely while I undressed, marking every item of clothing as I dropped it into his sack; I guessed he had been instructed to make sure I was not hiding anything. I was at last left alone to wash myself in the scullery, the maid leaving fresh pails of hot water outside the door. I plunged my head into the bucket, rubbing hard at my hair; as I raised it, water coursing down my face, I heard a sharp exchange of voices from the yard outside, followed by the clatter of a horse’s hooves. It could have been Paget leaving, though I remembered that unmarked horse with the scar tethered outside. Perhaps Stafford’s nocturnal visitor had preferred not to be seen and slipped away through another door.

I dreamed that night of the Count. His cadaver’s face looming, eyeless sockets staring, rotting breath gusting in my face as he hissed the word ‘Circe’ over and over. I woke with a cry into a chilly light, covered with a sheen of sweat though I was wearing only an undershirt beneath the blankets. It took me several minutes to recover my bearings; enclosed in the blue canopy and curtains of my bed, I had the sense of being underwater. I sat up, running through a tally of my injuries and their severity as I attempted to move. My wrists were bandaged with clean strips of linen; Geoffrey had applied a salve and wrapped them himself the night before with a sure touch, polite but inscrutable. He had bathed the wound on my head and made a poultice that had done much to reduce the swelling, I realised as I reached up to check. Drawing back the bed curtain and swinging my legs gingerly to the floor, I was pleased to find that, though I was well decorated with cuts and bruises and every part of me ached, none of it was severe enough to keep me from walking. I was fortunate that those soldiers at the abbey had not been more energetic in my detention.

I crossed the room and opened the shutters with a loud creak. My window overlooked the river, busy with boats. Yesterday’s mist had lifted and patches of blue showed through a high gauze of cloud; I guessed the morning was already well advanced. I needed to be on my way. Shivering, I pulled on the robe I had been given the night before and wondered what I was supposed to do about clothes. All I had were my boots. I glanced around the room and realised immediately that they were not where I had left them, by the door. I crouched to look under the bed; perhaps I had misremembered. But a brief search confirmed that the boots were no longer in the room. Someone had been in while I was asleep and taken them – and with them, the draft pamphlets and the love letter I had taken from Frère Joseph’s cell. I stood by the window, weighing up what to do. Not only were those papers proof of a link between Joseph and Paul Lefèvre, they could be a danger to me; to print and distribute treasonous words against the King was a capital offence, and protesting that I was not the author would be a flimsy defence if I was caught with them. I wondered if anyone here could have taken them to use against me. I did not trust Paget to do anything without ulterior motive, including the bail, and Stafford’s furtive manner was hardly more reassuring.

There came a brisk knock on the door, as if someone had been waiting outside for the first sign of movement. I called ‘Entrez,’ then remembered I was in an English household. ‘Yes?’

The door opened to reveal Geoffrey, wearing his impeccable smile, a suit of clothes over one arm and an earthenware bowl in his hand.

‘Good morning, sir. I trust you are rested. I’ve brought you some warm milk with honey, and some spare clothes of the ambassador’s clerk to try on. You are of a similar size, I think. Sir Edward awaits you in his study when you are ready.’ He laid the clothes on the bed – a plain but serviceable grey doublet and breeches, with good woollen hose and a linen shirt – and backed away towards the door with a neat bow.

‘I cannot seem to find my boots,’ I said, giving him a pointed look.

‘Ah, yes. We have done you the service of cleaning them, sir,’ he said, in that same deferential tone that gave nothing away. ‘You will find them in the kitchen, warming by the fire. If that is all?’

I could not object to his taking the boots without revealing that I had something to hide, so I shook my head and muttered my thanks.

‘I will tell the ambassador to expect you shortly, then,’ he said, and closed the door.

The clothes fitted well; not bothering to lace the doublet, I raced down the stairs in my stockinged feet to find my boots, cleaner than they had been in months, waiting as he had said in the hearth. They were, as I had feared, empty. I turned to ask Geoffrey what he had done with the papers, but he had conveniently disappeared. A kitchen girl pointed me to Sir Edward’s study. I knocked on the polished wood and entered.

The ambassador sat behind a wide desk piled high with bundles of documents tied up in different-coloured ribbons. His casement overlooked a tidy garden at the rear of the house, the other side from the river. It was a companionable room; shelves of books lined the walls and a large globe in a mahogany stand dominated one corner beside a smaller desk where a pale young man sat copying letters. Stafford pushed his glasses up his nose and snapped his fingers for his clerk to leave the room as I entered. ‘And see that I am not disturbed,’ he added, as the young man gathered up his papers. ‘Bring one of those stools for my guest on your way out.’ The boy moved a stack of books from a stool by the fireplace and carried it over to Stafford’s desk, before bowing and closing the door behind him. Stafford gestured for me to take a seat opposite. The stool was lower than his own chair; I could see he was pleased with the advantage.

‘Well, you smell better than you did last night, at any rate. You have slept well?’

I inclined my head. ‘I must apologise again for intruding in such a state, and at that hour. It was not my idea.’

He waved this away. Replacing his quill carefully in its stand, he folded his hands together and gave me a long look over his glasses.

‘Let us deal frankly with one another, Doctor Bruno. I have had a communication from Master Secretary Walsingham urging me to make use of your talents now that you are here in Paris. He says that for courage, loyalty and cunning I will not find your equal.’

‘That is generous of him.’ I could barely hide my surprise; Walsingham was famously grudging with his praise. I had been of use to him while I was in England and resident in the French embassy, with access to their communications, but I had felt this past summer that, if he had truly valued my abilities, he would have done more to enable me to stay in London. He had assured me, when it seemed inevitable that I must return to France, that he would recommend me to Stafford, but as I had heard nothing, I had come to believe he meant it only as a courtesy. I should have had more faith in the old spymaster.

‘I know that you were instrumental in preventing the success of that conspiracy two years past, now known among the Queen’s councillors as the Throckmorton Plot, and that you rendered further services to Her Majesty during your time in London. I am only sorry I have not acted sooner, but things have been rather fraught of late. Now listen.’ Stafford leaned forward and fixed me with a serious expression. ‘We have good intelligence that the Duke of Guise and his supporters are planning a coup against King Henri.’

I laughed, assuming this to be some kind of straight-faced English humour. ‘Every tavern-keeper and laundress in Paris has that intelligence. People talk of little else.’ I stopped when I saw his expression.

‘You think it is a laughing matter?’ He pushed his eyeglasses up his nose again, indignant. ‘France in the hands of the Catholic League would be calamitous for England. There would be nothing then to stop France and Spain joining forces to invade us. We could not repel such an attack, especially if those Catholics remaining in England were to support them and take up arms – it would be death for Queen Elizabeth and the English Church. The murder of this priest could be the spark that starts the whole conflagration.’

‘If people think King Henri is responsible, you mean?’

‘Guise intends to denounce a man publicly as an assassin hired by the King. The people will be incensed.’

‘What man?’

‘I don’t know – that hardly matters. Some wretch who will have been tortured and threatened until he says whatever Guise needs him to say.’ He picked up the quill again and turned it between his fingers. ‘There was a riot yesterday outside the priest’s church of Saint-Séverin. It was only put down when the King sent a company of archers to disperse the crowd. At least one person severely injured, which has made matters worse. With a sufficient mob at his back and popular feeling in his favour, Guise would have the strength to march on the Louvre. If he succeeds in toppling Henri, he will not rest until the Protestant Church in France is torn up by the roots and cast into the fire. It would make the Saint Bartholomew’s massacre look like a children’s game.’ He pressed his lips together until they disappeared in a white line.

‘How do you know all this?’

He shot me a look over his glasses, as if to say I should know better than to ask his sources. But before the question was even out of my mouth, I had answered it myself: Charles Paget. I recalled his comment about serving two masters; was he now selling Guise’s secrets to the English? And what did he stand to gain by it?

‘You were friends with this priest, I understand?’ Stafford continued.

‘I would not say that, exactly. I knew him a little from the university, some years ago.’

‘You had a secret meeting with him shortly before his last sermon. And you were there at his deathbed.’ He rearranged some papers on his desk as he said this, not looking at me, his tone matter-of-fact.

‘Only by chance. And the time before I was making my confession.’ Paget had been keeping a keen eye on me, it seemed.

Stafford clicked his tongue, impatient. ‘You are excommunicate, Doctor Bruno, you are not permitted the sacrament of confession. So you must have had other business with him. In any case, the Duke of Guise is under the impression that the priest told you some secret with his dying breath. He will no doubt be concerned lest that information undermine the version he wants people to believe. Lefèvre belonged to the League. It is my view that he must have been killed because he knew more than he ought, or because his loyalty was suspect. Guise clearly fears that he confided something to you. So I am asking you plainly what you know of the matter.’

I took a deep breath, considering how much to lay before him. While I could not deny I was excited by the prospect of working for Walsingham again, especially if there was a stipend involved, I was not at all sure how far to trust Stafford.

‘Am I to consider myself in your employ, then, Sir Edward?’

He tutted, as if the commercial side were beneath him, but after a short pause while we looked expectantly at one another, he reached down and unlocked a drawer in his desk. From it he withdrew a small chest and took out a purse, which he laid on the table in front of me.

‘If I consider your intelligence worthwhile, it will be rewarded.’

I smiled. ‘You are a shrewd negotiator, sir. But it would be no fault of mine if you judge what I tell you to be worthless, when it may have value to others. I would like nothing better than to help preserve England’s freedoms, but a man must eat.’

His mouth twitched again, but after a moment he nodded and shook out two gold écus on to the papers. ‘Walsingham said you were a sharp man. Very well. If you are agreeable, I will pay you a small amount for the gathering of information, and more if what you bring is valuable to England.’ He pushed the coins towards me. ‘Would such an arrangement be satisfactory to you?’

‘Paul Lefèvre hinted that he had knowledge of an imminent plot against the King,’ I said, picking up the coins and ignoring his sarcasm. ‘When I pressed him on it, he said he spoke in general terms only. But I believe he may have had second thoughts about his complicity. He may even have considered warning Henri.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Hints he gave.’ I decided not to mention the burned letter until I had a clearer idea of whether or not the King had received a copy. ‘In any case, my guess is that the League had come to feel he could not be relied upon to keep his mouth shut.’

‘As I thought. So they shut it for him.’ Stafford nodded. ‘Especially if they knew he had been talking to you. You are still a confidant of the King, I understand?’

I shrugged. ‘Not as I once was.’

‘But he sent for you the night before last.’

‘Sir Edward …’ I paused, chinking the coins in my palm. ‘How long has Charles Paget been watching me?’

He blinked. ‘I asked him to find you a fortnight since. Beyond that, I cannot account for his movements.’

‘He seems on very familiar terms with you,’ I said carefully. His eyes grew guarded.

‘That surprises you, does it? Because he is a Catholic?’

‘With respect, sir, he is not just any Catholic. He was a principal architect of the conspiracy against Queen Elizabeth two years ago. He was the main contact between Mary Stuart’s supporters here and the Catholic nobles in England. It was he who arranged safe harbours and provisions for Guise’s invading army.’ I broke off, aware that my voice had risen.

Stafford brought his palm down on the desk, his expression stony. ‘Precisely. Paget is a uniquely valuable source of information, with access to the inner rooms of all our enemies.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘He is secretary to Archbishop Beaton, Mary Stuart’s ambassador here. He has the ear of the Spanish ambassador. He is trusted by Guise and his sister and knows everyone of interest among the English émigrés. It is quite an achievement to have turned him, believe me.’ He allowed himself a preening expression. ‘Look closely at this whole tangled web of religious and political alliances in Paris and you will find Paget at the very heart.’

‘Forgive me, but – why would a man like Paget switch loyalties? When only two years ago he risked his life in a plot to assassinate the Queen and invade England?’

Stafford glared at me. ‘Because he craves the Queen’s pardon. He does not want to spend his life in exile. You of all men should understand that.’ There was an edge to his voice; a twist of the knife. Clearly he did not like having his judgement challenged. ‘I suspect the fates of his co-conspirators have greatly frightened him – he wishes to distance himself from them through loyal service to England, in the hope of one day returning to court. And because, like the rest of us, he needs money.’

If you believe that, I thought, you are the greatest dupe on either side of the Channel.

‘We both know that his friends are dead or in prison because of me,’ I said. ‘You will understand, then, that I am not convinced his feelings towards me are entirely benign. And I find it hard to believe that a man like that would give up his religious allegiance so easily.’

‘Nonetheless, if it were not for him you might be sitting across from the Duke of Guise this morning, answering his questions instead of mine.’ Stafford flashed a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘And I doubt he would have offered you breakfast. Not that this is any of your business, but Paget has already given me several pieces of intelligence from the Catholic side that leave me quite satisfied as to his integrity. Tell me why you were at the abbey of Saint-Victor last night?’

I realised the discussion about Paget was closed. ‘I believed Paul Lefèvre’s killer came from among the friars,’ I said. ‘One of them fled when I tried to accost him.’

Stafford nodded, more relaxed now that we were back on less fraught ground. I did not envy him his position here, trying to juggle all the competing factions in Paris and second-guess which of them might rise to power so that he could move to his sovereign’s best advantage. Or indeed his own. No wonder he was willing to take a man with Paget’s rich connections without probing too closely. No wonder either that he looked older than his years.

‘And these?’ he asked, pushing a crumpled sheet of paper across the desk. I saw that it was one of the draft pamphlets I had taken from Joseph’s room and hidden in my boot. There seemed little point in protesting about him looking through my belongings while I was asleep.

‘I searched the friar’s cell after he fled. If he wrote these polemics it suggests he was actively involved with the League. The Abbé interrupted me before I could find anything more conclusive. He didn’t appreciate my intrusion. Hence the Conciergerie.’

He nodded. ‘Abbé Renaud of Saint-Victor is ultra-conservative in religion and politics, that is well known. He would not want one of his friars accused of murder, especially if he could be linked to Guise. You were lucky to escape with your life.’

I agreed. A thought occurred. ‘Do you know anyone called Brinkley? It is an English name, I think?’

He looked startled. ‘Yes indeed – Stephen Brinkley, a printer, originally from Oxfordshire. He spent time in the Tower for printing Jesuit books in ’81, fled here when he was released. He has a small shop by the Palais de Justice. We keep an eye on him – he’s been smuggling Papist works and we suspect he’s a link in that filthy trade in martyr’s relics coming out of England. Why, do you think he has something to do with this business?’

‘A printer. Would he print propaganda for the League?’

‘This, you mean?’ He tapped the pamphlet with a forefinger. ‘Yes, I would not be surprised. The English Catholics here are a tight community, and most of them look to Guise and Mary Stuart as their best chance of restoring their fortunes. They often use the printers’ shops as meeting places with their League contacts.’ He curled his lip. ‘Look into it, by all means, if you can be discreet. And, ah – there was also this.’

He slid another paper towards me. I saw that it was the love letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress.

‘Something else I am investigating. It may or may not be important.’

He gave me a long look. ‘I wondered if it might be your personal property.’

‘I should be so fortunate.’ I held his stare, but could not help a roguish tilt of one eyebrow, just to keep him guessing.

‘Hm. Well, then.’ He gave the letter a little shove with his finger and gestured for me to take it. ‘I am more interested in the news you might bring us from the Louvre. My audiences with King Henri are infrequent these days, and unhelpful when they do occur.’ He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead again. His appearance suggested he had not slept much. ‘I think Catherine de Medici dislikes me.’

‘Don’t take that to heart. She dislikes most people, including her own family. Apart from Henri.’

‘True. In any case, you are better placed to know the King’s mind than I, and that is information that would be of great value to Walsingham.’ He patted the chest from which he had taken the coins. ‘We will work out an arrangement. In the meantime, if you want to speak to me, you can always send a message or call in here. Preferably not at three in the morning.’

‘No – I see you entertain other visitors at that hour.’ I had meant it as a light-hearted aside, but Stafford’s head snapped up and his eyes burned into me.

‘You overstep the mark.’ He pointed his quill at me. ‘You should understand that some embassy business needs to be conducted away from public view.’ He dipped the nib in the ink and with a show of ceremony turned his attention to the pile of papers before him. It appeared that my audience was at an end. ‘Geoffrey will see you out. You can return my clerk’s clothes in due course.’

‘You said you had letters for me, from England,’ I reminded him. He gave a small, impatient exhalation and reached into another drawer, from which he withdrew two folded papers, both sealed with plain wax. One bore my name on the outside in Sidney’s exuberant hand; the other was blank, save for a small symbol inked in the bottom left corner: the astrological sign for the planet Jupiter. The sign I always used to validate my correspondence with Walsingham. I reached for the letters, feeling that old kick in the gut, the anticipation of the chase. A quiet life: I had tried so hard, these past two months, to convince myself that I could be satisfied with that. Avoiding risk, keeping my head down, invisible among my books; I was a philosopher, after all, and the business of putting my ideas into print was dangerous enough. But the fierce, pure thrill that surged through me at the sight of that symbol made me realise I could not go on pretending. Walsingham had asked for me. That exhilaration that came with intelligence work; the giddy sense of walking a knife-edge with every step – it was hard to give up, once you had tasted it. Only now could I acknowledge how adrift I had felt without that sense of purpose. I ran my thumb over the smooth wax seal. It looked suspiciously pristine.

‘Have you read them?’

‘One is in cipher,’ Stafford replied, without looking up.

‘So you have read them.’

He raised his head this time, and had at least the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I don’t possess the code. I presume you do, or it will remain forever a mystery.’ He scrawled a flourish and scattered a pinch of sand across the lines he had written. ‘Philip Sidney’s had a daughter, though,’ he remarked, blowing the excess away.

The throwaway delivery angered me; I would have liked to hear that news direct from Sidney’s pen. But I kept my face straight and thanked him as I tucked all the papers inside the borrowed doublet and fastened it tight.

‘One piece of advice, Bruno,’ he said, as I reached the door. ‘The Duke of Guise is still looking for you. You would be wise to make a friend of Paget.’ He held up a hand before I could protest. ‘I can see you do not trust him, but his intervention saved you last night, which should be proof enough that he is true to England’s cause. He has Guise’s ear, and he could be useful to you, if he chose.’

I murmured a vague agreement and took my leave. I could not argue with Stafford’s assertion that, without Paget, I would likely still be in the Conciergerie, or facing questions from the Duke of Guise, quite possibly at the end of a hot poker. It appeared that Paget had already chosen to be useful to me, whom he had every reason to hate, and the question was – why?