Conspiracy

SEVEN

Gaston seemed more effusive than usual when I arrived at the Swan shortly after midday.

‘Jesus, boy, what’s happened to your face?’

I touched a finger to my swollen lip. I had not seen myself in a mirror yet. ‘I was involved in an altercation.’

‘That right?’ He seemed impressed. ‘One of your philosophical debates, was it?’

I grinned, and winced at the pain. ‘My opponent put forward a robust defence of Aristotle.’

He clapped me hard on the shoulder.

‘What can I get you, then? How about a dish of the beef, now that we have a clean slate, so to speak?’

‘Clean slate?’

‘I don’t know how you do it, Bruno. You could charm your way out of Purgatory, I always say. Not that it was a problem-’ he held up a hand – ‘you know I’ve never chased you for it, but I take my hat off to you all the same, I really do, you’ve the luck of the Devil.’ He shook his head, indulgent. ‘Will I bring you some wine with it?’

‘Gaston – what are you talking about?’ I never ordered beef at the Swan; he knew my purse did not stretch that far.

Now it was his turn to look puzzled. ‘Your debt, my friend. Feller come in this morning and paid off the lot. Said he owed you a favour.’ He looked stricken. ‘Maybe I wasn’t meant to tell you.’

I sighed. ‘An Englishman?’

‘That’s right.’ He brightened. ‘Friend from London, he said. Very generous of him, I thought. I mean, I don’t want to remind you how much it’d crept up to, but-’

‘Then don’t.’ I preferred not to think about actual figures. I had no doubt that my benefactor would make clear the extent of my debt in due course. ‘He is generous, no question.’

‘Well, don’t look too happy about it. Some of us’d be glad to have a friend like that.’

‘Make it the beef, then. But leave the wine.’ All I could think of was the old adage that with friends like Charles Paget, one has no need of enemies.

While Gaston disappeared to bellow my order through to the kitchen, I closed my eyes and mulled over the letter from Walsingham that had just taken me the best part of an hour to transcribe, before committing it to memory and burning it.

My skill at deciphering had grown rusty and the cipher Walsingham had given me before I left England was devilishly complex, disguised as four unique alphabets of letters, numbers and symbols and hidden in separate books so that no one, happening upon only one of the papers, would hold the complete cipher in his hand. The exact combination of the four keys to unlock any text was not set down anywhere in writing, but existed only in my memory. But with patience, Walsingham’s brisk, direct voice had emerged from the impenetrable jumble of signs on the page. He must have been confident that the cipher was beyond Stafford’s capabilities, since much of the letter concerned the ambassador and his new protégé:

It has come to my attention that Charles Paget has once again offered his services to England in the hope of buying a pardon for his past treasons – an offer he has made to me several times and which I have repeatedly refused. But I fear Stafford is taken in by him, for he has a most plausible manner and was born to double-dealing. Be assured – Charles Paget is a most dangerous instrument, and I wish for England’s sake he had never been born. While Stafford congratulates himself, you may be sure that Paget is steering their alliance to his own advantage. Do not be fooled. Paget takes money from many hands, but he serves only himself.

Stafford believed he was engaging my services, at Walsingham’s instruction, to bring him intelligence from the royal court as to where the King intended to make alliances, either with the Huguenots or the Catholic League. But that was only half the story. The old spymaster’s real intention, he explained, was to give me a reason to visit the embassy on a regular basis so that I could keep an eye on Stafford, and particularly his dealings with Paget. All secret correspondence concerning them was to be sent via a trusted messenger, an agent of Walsingham’s in Paris who would make himself known to me in due course, and would place my letters directly into Walsingham’s hands, so that Stafford would not suspect I was watching him.

Fresh reports from Rome said that Pope Sixtus had issued a new bull, the lead still soft on its seal, confirming and reinforcing the excommunication of Queen Elizabeth and denouncing her as a bastard, a heretic and a schismatic – justification enough for a patriotic Catholic to feel he was doing a service to God and England by dispatching her. This bull, Walsingham feared, might be the spark that lit the fuse under the powder keg. Mary Stuart’s supporters in Paris had recovered from their defeat two years ago and he had reason to believe that another substantial plot was brewing, making Paget’s overtures to Stafford all the more suspicious for, as Walsingham said, no conspiracy worth the name would unfold in Paris without Paget at the heart of it. Meanwhile it appeared that Paget had also been watching me, for reasons as yet known only to him, but which were unlikely to be to my advantage.

I let my head drop into my hands as a wave of giddiness washed over me, blurring the edges of my vision; the bench seemed to tilt beneath my weight, as if the reed-strewn floor of the Swan were the deck of a ship. I blinked hard and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until the sensation passed. Perhaps the blow to the head had affected me more than I realised. I had wanted this, I reminded myself: to be taken back into Walsingham’s service. The strain of leading a double life was the price of admission.

‘Doctor Bruno?’

I jerked my head up and focused on the eyes of a young man across the table, peering into my face as if he feared I might need a physician. I took in his appearance, tensing at the realisation that he wore the Augustinian habit. I had not seen Frère Joseph’s face last night, and this man appeared to know me. Slowly, I slipped one hand under the table to feel for my knife. I saw from the flicker of his eyes that he had noticed.

‘You look unwell,’ he observed, with an uncertain smile.

‘Just a few scratches,’ I said, hoping the waves of dizziness would hold off if I had to fight.

He looked at my face, then shrugged. ‘Frère Guillaume sent me, though he wasn’t certain you’d be here, after last night. He said you had something to return to him. He was unable to come himself.’

I peered more closely, squinting to focus my blurred vision on him, and realised why he seemed familiar; he was the one who had first come to find me in the library when Paul had asked for me at Saint-Victor. I let my shoulders relax, and unhooked Cotin’s keys from my belt.

‘Is Frère Guillaume all right?’

The young friar looked pensive. ‘He’s been confined to his cell for a few days while the Abbé considers how to discipline him. He asked me to tell you not to worry about him, and that Denis was safe and well, if you needed him. He said you would know what that meant.’ He hesitated, his eyes expectant. When I only nodded, he continued: ‘He also said you’d be interested to hear about Frère Joseph.’

‘What about him?’ I kept my face neutral.

‘He’s missing. No one has seen him since last night. The Abbé is worried. He has people out scouring the city for him, the brothers are saying.’

‘Really? What else are they saying?’

He lowered his voice. ‘The talk is that it has something to do with you.’ He hunched forward with an air of complicity. ‘Some of the brothers said you were arrested last night stealing money from his cell.’

‘There was a misunderstanding. As you see, I am not in custody.’ I held up my wrists to prove the point. The young friar looked dubiously at the bandages and back to the cut on my lip.

‘Were you spying on him?’ He seemed intrigued by the idea. ‘The rumour in the abbey is that Joseph is the Abbé’s go-between. That he carries secret letters.’

‘To whom?’

He shrugged. ‘No one knows. It is all speculation. Some say the Duke of Guise, some say the Queen Mother, others say Navarre.’

‘Well, that covers most possibilities. So the Abbé is concerned that Joseph might have disappeared with letters in his possession?’

‘I suppose. Where do you think he is?’

I eyed him, weighing up how much to say. This boy could not be much more than twenty, and he had the same harried air that had struck me when he came to summon me to the infirmary. Perhaps that was his habitual manner. I noticed his fingernails were bitten down raw to the quick. Cotin evidently trusted the boy enough to send him; still, I needed to be careful.

‘No idea. What are the guesses at Saint-Victor?’

He considered. ‘Joseph comes from a noble family – he is related to the Duke of Montpensier. I suppose the Abbé is trying all those connections. Also-’ he glanced up to make sure he had my attention, and a faint colour stained his cheeks – ‘there were rumours he had a mistress.’

I sat up at this. ‘What, a courtesan?’

‘No one knew for certain. Some said a married noblewoman.’ He lowered his eyes, abashed. ‘I don’t know if there is truth in it. But friars like to run with that kind of gossip.’

I thought of the love letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress, with its suggestion of forbidden desires. Doubly illicit, if his lover were married, though abbey rumours were hardly a reliable source of information.

‘Oh, I know how friars love the smell of scandal. The way crows love carrion.’

He gave me a shy smile. ‘Frère Guillaume said you were once a friar too. Though you abandoned your order.’ I saw the shine of admiration in his eyes. ‘I envy you your liberty,’ he added, lowering his voice.

‘You should not envy me anything, Frère …’

‘Benoît.’

‘What may appear liberty to you-’ I broke off, seeing the way he twisted his features and turned his gaze to the window. I remembered all too well being his age, staring down the years into a lifetime of cloistered confinement, picturing your youth and vigour withering, unused; what right had I to tell him how to feel? ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Frère Joseph?’ I asked, to change the subject.

He shook his head and returned his attention to the table. ‘But if I hear anything, I can bring you word. We are not a closed order, as you know. I come into the city to study theology with one of the doctors at the Sorbonne. We could meet. I should like to talk further with you …’ He looked up with a hopeful expression; his boyish eagerness made me sit back, as if he had encroached too close. I hardly felt worthy to be anyone’s advisor at present.

‘I would be glad if you could bring me any word of how it goes with Cotin,’ I said, a little formally. ‘Gaston here usually knows where to find me. Tell Cotin I hope he is soon restored to his liberty.’

‘Liberty,’ Benoît said, in a voice loaded with scorn. At that moment a serving girl arrived with a steaming plate of beef stew and a roll of fresh bread; the smell rising from it made my stomach lurch and I tore into the food with my fingers, barely raising my head to mumble farewell to Benoît as he took his leave.

The bells were striking three as I finished my meal. I left some coins on the table for Gaston, guilt sitting uncomfortably heavy in my stomach along with the stew. I had been able to eat well today thanks to Paget, I had my freedom thanks to his purse, and I could not shake the feeling that I was already compromised by taking his money. Not that he had given me any choice in the matter, but I needed to extricate myself from that debt as soon as possible, before he demanded something in return, and my only hope of doing so was to find this Frère Joseph de Chartres and hand him over to the King. With Stafford’s information about Brinkley, it seemed most likely that a rendezvous was scheduled at the printer’s shop for four o’clock this afternoon, and there was a chance that Joseph might turn up, or that I might catch a glimpse of whoever he was intending to meet. It was worth a try, at least; I had no other paths to follow.

A sharp wind had whisked away the mist and cloud of the previous day, revealing a pale wintry sky. The surface of the river whipped into small peaks, crested with foam on the mud-coloured water as I crossed the Pont Saint-Michel. I kept my cloak tight around me but my hood down, alert for any movement at the edge of sight. Paget’s criticism – that I did not look over my shoulder as often I should – had stung me, though it had also sounded like a subtle warning. I had believed myself to have developed some skill at this shadowy craft over the past three years, but he had made me feel like a boy playing at soldiers. Perhaps that was how he saw me. ‘Born to double-dealing’, Walsingham had said, and it was not just a figure of speech; I knew that Charles’s father, Lord Paget, had been spymaster for King Henry VIII of England. His sons had swallowed intrigue with their mother’s milk. It irritated me that Paget now occupied so much of my thinking, but I could not escape the sense that he was toying with me, and that I needed to raise my game if I were to spar with him as an equal.

As the round white towers of the Palais de Justice rose into view behind the houses of the bridge, I tried to order my unruly thoughts. My guess was that Frère Joseph authored the pamphlets against the King while Paul Lefèvre collected and delivered them to the printer. I had assumed in my ignorance that Paul had come to Saint-Victor on the day he was killed looking for me, but the propaganda leaflets offered a new interpretation; if he had a regular rendezvous with Joseph at the abbey, it would have been an easy business for the almoner to arrange to meet him outside the back gate as usual, attack him while he was off guard and push his body in the river. If Joseph had returned to the abbey by now, he would have learned that the draft pamphlets had been taken from his cell. There was no knowing whether he would take the risk of turning up at the printer’s to explain, but I had the papers tucked inside my doublet; if Joseph did not show his face, I could pretend he had sent me in his stead. It was a gamble, but I could learn much, if I could gain the printer’s trust.

The Palais looked elegant, if shabby, in the grey light; a maze of spires and towers in white stone, some three hundred years old, occupying the western-most tip of the island. Inside, the business of governing France was conducted at the highest level: the Parlement, the Chambre des Comptes, the Cour des Aides and the Cour des Monnaies. Outside, all around the buildings and courtyards, ramshackle shops and stalls filled every available space, reminding me of the yard around Saint Paul’s church in London. Some were no more than market barrows, with coloured canvas awnings snapping in the wind; others were substantial wooden workshops with painted shutters built against the stone walls of the Palais. Here you could find merchants and printers of all varieties; stationers; book-binders; food stalls selling sausage, bread, pies, roast chestnuts; letter-writers; poets and troubadours for hire; working women, parading self-consciously in their high wooden shoes, waiting for the clerks and officials to finish work; errand boys, beggars, pickpockets, skinny dogs and feral children, who would stare at you with wild, ravenous eyes.

Soldiers in royal colours guarded the doors into the Palais; others patrolled the courtyards in pairs, chatting, hands resting casually on sword hilts, eyes raking the crowds for any signs of trouble. The whole place buzzed with activity and purpose. Just as in London, people gathered in the aisle of Saint Paul’s to meet, gossip, barter, flirt and argue, so here in the Grande Salle, with its vast marble columns, the citizens of Paris congregated, overseen by the ranked statues of long-dead kings. It was hard to believe that somewhere beneath all this bustle and life and colour there could exist an oubliette as dark and silent as the one I had found myself in last night. I thought of the Count, slowly losing his mind down there in his own filth for thirteen years, for the crime of trying to protect his family, and my fists bunched at my sides. When this business with Frère Joseph was over and I was back in the King’s favour, I would petition him to do something about the poor wretch.

The English printer’s occupied the ground floor of a house in a row of buildings that stood along the boundary wall of the Palais. It appeared to be one of the better-kept premises; the front windows were glazed behind their wooden shutters and a painted sign swung outside. I peered in; my breath misted the glass, but I could make out a neat shop with rows of printed books displayed on shelves behind a counter where a man in his shirtsleeves bent over an open volume by the light of a candle. As church bells across the river struck the hour of four, I stepped back and ducked into the shadow of a wooden shed opposite, where I could remain half-obscured with a view of anyone approaching Brinkley’s shop.

I did not have long to wait. At about ten minutes past four, a figure in a dark cloak hurried past the windows and entered the printer’s, slipping around the door as fluidly as a cat. He had worn his hood pulled up; I had not seen his face but his furtive manner made clear that he did not want to advertise his presence there. I flexed my fingers and checked my knife as I crossed to Brinkley’s door, ignoring the voice in my head that questioned whether I was fit to fight two men at once. Perhaps I would do better to wait until the friar came out, but I was so close now to taking him, with evidence of his treasons; if I could catch him exchanging documents with the printer and bring him alive to the King, he would soon be persuaded to reveal his part in Paul’s murder and perhaps the wider conspiracy.

At the sound of the door, both men snapped their heads around immediately with faces as guilty as adulterers. The one in the cloak had drawn down his hood and was looking at me with a startled expression, fixed in the act of passing over a packet. I stared back at him; he was younger than I had expected, no more than mid-twenties, blond and rangy, with pale skin and sharp features dusted with freckles. He did not have the tonsure of a friar; more than that, there was no hint of recognition in his eyes. I had not seen Frère Joseph’s face last night and I was not sure how clearly he could have seen me, but I would have expected my appearance to excite some reaction, given that he knew people were looking for him. This boy seemed nervous, but not necessarily on my account.

‘May I help you, monsieur?’ The older man behind the counter addressed me in French with a blunt English accent as he took the packet from the boy and tucked it under the counter in one brisk movement. I assessed the room with a quick glance. The ground floor was divided in two by a partition wall; through the open doorway that connected the shop with the room behind I heard the rhythmic clanking of a printing press. The only way out was the main door; as long as I did not allow either of them to get behind me, I would have a clear escape. I smiled, attempting to recover an air of normality, though my presence was clearly unwelcome.

‘I beg your pardon, gentlemen,’ I said, in my best English, offering them a slight bow. ‘I did not mean to interrupt. Please – finish your business.’

‘We are finished, sir,’ the printer said, his voice hard. ‘And what is your business?’

I was tempted to observe that his manner of dealing with customers could do with a little refinement, but the boy was still staring fixedly at me.

‘Forgive me,’ I said, addressing him, ‘but have we met? You seem familiar.’

He looked even more alarmed. ‘I do not believe so, sir.’ Despite his evident unease, his voice was firm and educated. It was also unmistakably English.

‘I beg your pardon, then. It must be that you remind me of someone.’ I inclined my head by way of apology and turned back to appraise the man with the rolled sleeves. Middling height, sandy hair receded so far that he had apparently decided to cut his losses and crop what remained so close to his skull that he appeared almost bald. Perhaps nearing fifty, though thickset and muscular, with the air of someone who knows how to throw a punch.

‘I was told this was the place to find a good selection of books translated from English into French,’ I said. ‘Books that are not widely available, if you understand my meaning. Ask for Master Brinkley, I was told.’ Immediately his face tightened.

‘I am Brinkley. But it would depend which titles you are looking for. I don’t think we have had the pleasure of your custom before, monsieur? I would be interested to know who recommended my shop. I have only a small clientele, as you can imagine, and they are Englishmen for the most part. But you are not French either, I don’t think?’ I noticed his eyes flicker to the outer door.

‘Oh, do not let me disturb you, if you are expecting somebody,’ I said, following the direction of his gaze.

‘Not at all – I am expecting no one.’ But his face had grown wary.

‘In answer to your question – I am Italian, and it was an old friend, Père Paul Lefèvre, who suggested I visit you,’ I continued. ‘He told me a great deal about you and spoke highly of your shop as a place where one might find all manner of hidden treasures difficult to obtain elsewhere.’

Brinkley was struggling to hide his confusion. ‘Is that so? God rest his soul. You have heard the news, I suppose?’

I composed my face into a solemn expression and lowered my eyes. ‘Diabolical. That anyone could strike a man of God in cold blood like that. Huguenots, we must presume.’

‘That would be the most convenient theory,’ the young man broke in, hotly. Brinkley shot him a warning glance.

‘And I see you do not believe it. But convenient for whom?’ I turned to him, but it was Brinkley who answered.

‘If he was your friend, you will know where he has been making enemies of late.’ He came out from behind his counter, arms folded across his chest, gently intimidating. I took a step back towards the door.

‘Ah. I see your meaning.’ I mimed a mincing walk in imitation of the King. This obviously pleased him, because his face relaxed a fraction and he almost cracked a smile. The paper rustled inside my doublet as I moved. ‘If that is the case, then we are all in danger,’ I said, dropping my voice and sending him a complicit look.

He had regained his composure now and was not to be drawn. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that, monsieur, or who you regard as we?’

‘I mean-’ I leaned in – ‘that if the royal family will strike at anyone who speaks ill of the King, there can be few people in Paris who would escape that charge.’

‘Only you know your own conscience there, monsieur. For myself, I do not speak ill of the King or his appointed heir. Has someone suggested otherwise?’ He held my gaze, impassive. He was waiting for me to slip up, give myself away; clearly he suspected I was a spy. I would have done the same in his place.

‘Of course not. I spoke in general terms only.’

‘In any case,’ he said, shifting half a step towards me, arms still folded, ‘I barely knew Père Lefèvre. He may have come in once or twice but he was not a regular customer. Why don’t you tell me which books interest you and I will see if I stock them?’

I nodded. ‘But I believe we may have another acquaintance in common. A friar from Saint-Victor by the name of Joseph de Chartres?’ I glanced at the door. ‘I thought I might run into him here today.’

‘I know no one of that name. I told you – I trade with Englishmen, for the most part.’ Brinkley’s glare grew more concentrated, but I detected a flicker of anxiety across his brow. It was impossible to tell whether he was speaking the truth. Behind me, a shadow passed across the shop window, blocking the light for an instant. I made a decision; a reckless one, but I felt I had to act, or we would be dancing around one another until nightfall.

‘Master Brinkley – may I speak frankly with you?’ I met his gaze full on.

‘I wish you would, monsieur,’ he said, running a hand across his stubbled scalp, though the crease between his brows deepened.

‘Paul Lefèvre was supposed to deliver something to you today,’ I began.

He gestured to stop me and turned to the young man. ‘Come back later.’

‘But-’ the boy tried to protest; Brinkley jerked his head sharply towards the door. Reluctantly, with a last reproachful look at me, the boy left.

Brinkley crossed and recrossed his arms and planted himself squarely in front of me, but his eyes darted constantly to the door.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Filippo. You are expecting this, I think.’ I took the two écus that Stafford had given me from my purse and tossed them on to the counter. Brinkley jumped and backed away. If anything, the money had made him more suspicious.

‘Who sent you?’

By way of answer, I reached inside my doublet for the pamphlets. Before I had a chance even to unfold them, Brinkley’s face stiffened, eyes wide; he raised a hand as if to ward off a blow. We continued to stare at one another, each waiting for the other to speak, when the silence was broken by the click of the latch behind us. Brinkley started as if he had been stuck with a knife. I whipped around and my heart dropped.

‘Ah. Afternoon, Brinkley. Doctor Bruno – what a surprise.’ Paget, immaculate in a fur-trimmed cloak of plum velvet, ducked his head to enter and took off his hat, brushing non-existent dust from the brim and smoothing its feathers. He stopped, taking in the guilt and confusion on our faces, and his eyes locked immediately on to the paper in my hand. ‘What have you there?’

Before I could react, he leaned forward and whisked it from my grasp, uncreasing it and scanning the first few lines. I could feel the pulse beating hard at my throat.

‘I don’t know this man, sir. He just turned up here and shoved these at me.’ Brinkley was still backing away, as if putting his counter between us might afford him some protection. He appeared to be scared of Paget; this did not surprise me.

Paget flicked a hand in his direction as if to dislodge a fly, his eyes still running over the page. Eventually he lifted his head and fixed me with that infuriating expression of amusement. ‘Dear me, Bruno – this is not the sort of thing one should be waving around in public. Very dangerous. Did you write this?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I believe you, naturally. I’m not sure others would, though.’ He looked at me with a level gaze; I saw Brinkley flinch. ‘Imagine if you were caught with such a tract. People might not understand.’

Before I could stop him, he took two long strides across to the fire and threw the paper in. I watched in silence as it curled and blackened in the flames, cursing my impatience. I should have watched and waited; now Paget had destroyed the only evidence linking Joseph to Paul Lefèvre. He looked up at me and smiled.

‘There. Wouldn’t want you or Master Brinkley compromised, would we?’ He turned to the printer. ‘Don’t worry about this man. We go back a long way.’ He clapped me on the shoulder. Brinkley continued to scowl at me, unconvinced. ‘Do you have my order?’

‘Oh – yes, sir.’ Brinkley reached under his counter and produced the package the young man had handed over when I arrived.

Paget tucked it under his arm without offering payment. ‘Is that your money there, Bruno?’ he said, gesturing to the coins I had thrown on the counter. ‘Buying some of Master Brinkley’s fine books?’

‘I changed my mind,’ I muttered, scooping up the coins as the printer followed them with his angry gaze.

‘Not to worry – you can buy me a drink instead. Good day, Brinkley. Let me know if you come across anything you think I would enjoy reading.’ He cocked an eyebrow at the printer, replaced his hat on his head and swept out, holding the door for me to follow. I could feel Brinkley’s stare burning into my back even after I left the shop.

Paget strode away from the Palais without looking at me, though he clearly expected me to accompany him. After a few paces he turned, his face pinched with anger. ‘Perhaps you’d like to explain what in God’s name you hoped to achieve by frightening Brinkley with that pamphlet.’

‘I owe you no explanation,’ I said. As soon as the words were out I regretted my choice of them.

‘No? Would you like to talk about what you do owe me, Bruno? An explanation would be the very least of it. I hope you enjoyed your dinner at the Swan today, by the way. You’re welcome. But if you were hoping Joseph de Chartres was going to turn up and walk into your arms, I shall be disappointed in you – I was led to believe you were an intelligent man.’

‘What makes you think I was looking for Joseph?’ I said, falling into step beside him. I was not going to give him the satisfaction of thanking him for a debt I never asked him to repay.

He glanced at me from the tail of his eye. ‘You were caught stealing from his cell last night. He is still missing. I deduced that you found those papers and reasoned he might have intended them for a printer.’

I guessed Stafford must have told him about the pamphlets, and about Brinkley.

‘So you knew Brinkley was printing propaganda for the League?’

‘I make it my business to know everything that goes on through the English presses here.’ He lengthened his stride deliberately so that I had to half-run every few steps to keep up; a subtle humiliation. ‘This will do,’ he added, indicating a dim tavern leaning crookedly on the corner of the Boulevard de Paris.

Paget’s clothes and air of entitlement drew sharp glances and whispers from the other drinkers, mostly the lower ranks of clerks from the Palais, to judge by their dress, though he appeared not to notice as he pushed through the tap-room without apology and eased himself behind a table by the window, calling for a jug of hot wine.

‘How could you be so certain that Joseph would not come to the printer’s today, if you knew about their arrangement?’ I asked, sliding in beside him.

‘Because he is not an idiot. Though I fear you may be.’ He leaned in, his face close to mine, hissing through his teeth. ‘What did you think you would get from Brinkley, showing him those papers?’ He reached out and gripped my arm hard; it was meant to hurt, but I did not flinch. He had bought me, for now, and this display was a reminder. Besides, for all his studied elegance, I suspected he would prove more than competent in a fight, even without a sword. His eyes never left mine.

I said nothing, though I pulled my face back from his hot breath. I was embarrassed to admit that I had panicked; I had hoped to frighten the printer into giving something away and instead I had only succeeded in destroying the evidence. We glared at one another for a long moment, eyes locked – I determined not to look away first – until eventually he made a noise of contempt and let me go.

‘All you have achieved is to put Brinkley and all his associates on their guard,’ he said, pouring the wine. ‘They will go to ground now, or find another meeting-place. That hardly serves us well. Any of us.’

‘You will forgive me if I express some doubts about who exactly you mean by us,’ I said. ‘I find it hard to believe we are working to the same ends.’

He leaned his head back against the wooden panelling, took a sip of his wine and laughed softly. He was a handsome man, I could not help noting, with a pinch of envy; chestnut hair swept back and barely touched with grey, a strong jaw framed by a neat beard and curling moustaches, lively brown eyes implying an impish spirit that belied his years. A most dangerous instrument, Walsingham had said. I must remind myself of that.

‘Well, you are right to question my feelings towards you, Bruno,’ he said, stretching out along the bench, a half-smile still playing around his lips. ‘A number of my closest comrades have suffered greatly as a result of your actions. Two of them cruelly executed. Others jailed, lost everything. Years of planning turned to dust in our hands. Men I counted on fled into hiding, scattered through France and Spain, including my own brother. I freely confess there was a time I would gladly have disembowelled you myself.’ He raised his tankard to me.

‘Where is your proof that any of this was my doing?’

‘Oh, come now – we’re beyond such delicate pretence, surely? Guise had his spies in the French embassy too, you know. Nothing you did there was as secret as you thought.’ He took another drink, watching me over the rim. ‘I heard you tried to seduce the ambassador’s wife.’

‘She tried to seduce me, in fact.’ I lifted my cup and put it down again, untouched; better to keep a clear head around Paget.

‘I’m sure she did. You can spare me the details. The point is that I recognise a worthy adversary when I see one. Since your victory two years ago I have been curious to meet you. Walsingham imagines he has a nose for ingenious men, but in truth many of his informers are no better than hired hands, easily won over with a better coin. You are a different prospect, I think. You are motivated by higher aims.’ He ran a finger along the edge of his cup, smiling as if he found the idea charming and quaint.

‘You concede we are adversaries, then.’

‘Times change, Bruno, and a wise man bends with them. I spend a good deal of time at the English embassy now. Stafford has finally accepted that I am well placed to be useful to England.’

I thought again of Walsingham’s letter. ‘And what do you gain from it?’

He heaved a long sigh and his shoulders slumped as he peered into his drink, as if it might hold the answer. ‘Eventually, I hope, a pardon, if I can prove my worth to Her Majesty. I am sick of exile. Aren’t you?’ He raised his head and fixed me with a frank look. ‘You must be nearing forty. We are of an age. The time of life when a man wants a home, a hearth, a sense of his place in the world, not this rootlessness. Wouldn’t you choose to go back, if they would pardon you?’

I glanced away to the early dusk, the grey November street. A sudden image of sunlight on lemon trees flashed through my memory. ‘You are guilty of treason.’

‘You are guilty of heresy. And yet here we both are, begging to be taken back, any way we can. You hope to petition the Papal nuncio, I understand.’

I tried not to show any reaction. ‘Did Paul tell you that?’

‘Doesn’t matter how I know. Just reminding you again that your secrets don’t stay hidden for long. Well, we shall see. Walsingham has pardoned worse offenders than I, if they make sufficient amends. And I’m sure His Holiness has pardoned greater heretics than you.’ He paused, stroking a drop of wine from his moustache with a swipe of his forefinger. ‘Can’t think of any at present, but one must always live in hope.’ Another calculated hesitation. ‘And have I not proved that I can also be useful to you, Bruno, these past days?’

‘What is it you want from me, Paget?’ I folded my hands around the tankard and concentrated on the rough wood of the table, its whorls and gouges.

‘It seems to me,’ he said, pouring more wine for me, though I had not yet touched what I had, ‘that we are both looking for the same thing. We want to know who killed Paul Lefèvre, and why. I’m assuming Henri has set you to find out.’

‘What is your interest?’ I took a slow sip, keeping my eyes on his face.

‘Paul was a significant conduit between the Catholic League and the English émigrés. He was entrusted with a great deal of confidential information from both sides. Naturally, a number of people have a stake in discovering who ordered his death.’

‘Try asking Joseph de Chartres. Or your friend the Duke of Guise.’

‘Guise was keen that I ask you.’ He flashed a wolfish smile.

I took another small draught of the wine to cover my reaction. ‘So you still work for him?’

‘I would not be much use to England if I did not maintain the appearance of intimacy with Guise and his faction,’ he said, not meeting my eye. ‘You see, at first it was supposed by the League that the King was behind Lefèvre’s death, because of his preaching. It seemed the most obvious explanation.’

‘Not to the King.’

‘He would hardly admit to it. But since it became known that the priest asked for you on his deathbed, the Duke has naturally become curious to know what he so urgently needed to impart to your ears.’

‘If Guise has cause to fear what Paul might have said, that surely suggests he had an interest in keeping him silent.’

‘You might be forgiven for thinking so. But as far as I can see, the Duke is deeply alarmed by this murder. More so since he learned that your enquiries had led you to Frère Joseph de Chartres.’

‘I imagine he would be, given that Joseph writes pamphlets for the League.’

‘It’s more embarrassing than that. De Chartres is a cousin of the Duke of Montpensier, who is the stepson of Guise’s sister.’ He arched an eyebrow to convey the difficulty.

‘Then the connection seems obvious.’

‘But Guise is adamant that he has had no direct contact with Joseph over League business, much less given him orders to kill anyone. I have known the Duke for some years now, and I would swear he is telling the truth. He is therefore keen to know who else Joseph might be involved with.’

‘Then he should probably address that question to Joseph himself.’

‘Joseph has disappeared, as you know.’

‘Perhaps Guise should ask around among his relatives.’

‘I imagine he is making enquiries. But he fears that any day the King will press some wretch into declaring publicly that he, Guise, was behind it.’

I gave a dry laugh. ‘Has he not planned to do the same to the King?’

‘I dare say. But he would prefer to find out the truth. From what I can see, he is worried.’

‘So he thinks it would be quicker to threaten me.’

‘Has anyone threatened you?’ He held up his hands to prove his innocence. ‘I admit, that would likely have been his preferred method, if I had left you in the Conciergerie last night. I felt that was not the most effective way to proceed with a man like you. I would guess you are stubborn enough to make it a point of honour to resist hard questioning.’

I looked away. Wouldn’t we all like to believe we have the strength to maintain our firmness of purpose in the face of rigorous interrogation? Though I had been roughed up and imprisoned for my public teachings in Rome and Geneva, I had chosen to flee rather than test my resolve at the hands of the Inquisition. I fear pain like any man.

‘So,’ he said, in a brisker tone, ‘why don’t you thank me for sparing you the Duke’s methods by telling me what Paul Lefèvre confided to you before he died? That is what everyone wishes to know.’

I turned my cup between my hands, nodding slowly. ‘So you can pass the information to Guise? Though you now say you are working for England’s interests.’

‘It is in England’s interest.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Let us say rather it is a question of trading information with Guise. I am only of use to England so long as Guise and his people have confidence in me. Just as your value to Walsingham lies in your intimacy with Henri. This is all one great game, Bruno – all of us playing one another off against the others. The trick is choosing which cards to hold and which to show. I should not have to explain that to you.’

He sat back and tipped the dregs of the jug into his own cup, watching me with an expression that hovered between amusement and anticipation. Born to double-dealing, murmured Walsingham’s voice in my ear.

‘Paul said nothing intelligible. I already told the friars that.’

His face tightened, all traces of humour vanished. ‘Of course you told the friars that. I want you to tell me the truth. You are doing yourself no favours.’

‘There is nothing to tell.’ I looked him in the eye as I drained my cup and stood. I never had the patience for the gaming table, to Sidney’s enduring disappointment, but I did at least have the face for it. Paget was furious, I could see, though he too was trying to show nothing; it was concentrated in the way he pressed his nails into the wood of the table, the ends of his fingers white. I threw down the gold écus on the table. ‘There is a downpayment on your trouble. I will bring the rest as soon as I possibly can. Then I will be out of your debt.’

Paget laid a hand over the coins and contemplated this. ‘I wish it were that simple, Bruno. Very well then – but you cannot complain later that I did not ask you nicely. I wonder which of us will find Frère Joseph first?’ He made it sound as if he were declaring a contest. I offered him the briefest bow and turned my back, though I could swear I heard him chuckling as I left. Somehow he always managed to give the impression that I had behaved exactly as he had predicted, that I was playing a part he had written for me in advance.