Conspiracy Page 25

  As I stood considering whether I should pursue the girl, wait for Gabrielle or return to the palace and report to Henri what Circe had said, the torch in my hand guttered and died. There seemed little hope of finding her in the dark; in the thin wash of moonlight silvering the clearing I stumbled back to a track at the edge of the treeline, hoping it was the path towards the palace. After a few yards I rounded a corner and saw the flame of a torch approaching; there was no time to hide myself, and I could only wait as the person carrying the light drew nearer. He was almost level with me when I realised it was the man with the Greek mask and tricorn hat. He slowed his pace, eyes fixed on me; my hand stole instinctively inside my cloak in search of my knife, and I almost drew as I saw him raise his right arm, but I froze in the act when I understood his gesture. Without speaking, he tapped his mask and pointed to my head; I realised in that moment that I had forgotten to pull down my own mask. He continued past me towards the trees, as nonchalant as if he were out for a summer afternoon stroll. I watched him, paralysed by indecision. I had encountered him too many times already this evening for it to seem an accident; if he had suspected who I was, I had just given him confirmation through my own carelessness.

  The flame of his torch had almost vanished into the night; I could hear him whistling a refrain from one of the chansons the musicians had been playing earlier. This show of insouciance needled me and I felt myself in the grip of a sudden reckless fury. He had seen my face; why should I not see his? I hastened after him; in a few paces I was close enough to strike. I thought I had moved silently, but just as I drew my knife, he whipped around and, using his torch as a club, swung it and struck my outstretched arm before I had a chance to react. I cried out and dropped the knife as soon as the flame made contact with my skin; holding the torch before him, like a shepherd keeping a wolf at bay, he drove me back until he could put his boot over my fallen weapon. We stood, facing one another, breathing hard, he still keeping the torch pointed at me as he crouched and picked up my knife from the ground.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said. My voice sounded unnatural, ringing out through the clear air.

  He made no answer, only began to back away, the torch and the dagger held out towards me in case I should make a sudden movement. I pressed my left hand hard over the burn that throbbed along the ridge of my right thumb as if that might tamp down the pain, watching for an opportunity to lunge at him, when a woman’s sharp cry somewhere off in the trees caused us both to jump and turn in the direction of the sound. It came again, muffled this time, a strangled moan, though whether of pleasure or pain was impossible to say.

  The masked man took advantage of the distraction to drop his torch and break away into the trees at a run. I grabbed the light, but already the crunch of his footsteps had almost vanished into the wood; I would be at a double disadvantage in pursuit, since he was now armed and I would be lit up like a bonfire if I tried to go after him. I cursed my stupidity aloud; I would not have been so slow if I had stayed away from the drinks as I had intended. Now I had lost Circe, who had as good as confessed to some plot when she mistook me for her fellow-conspirator, and I had also lost my knife to the mysterious man in the Greek mask, who had certainly been spying on me with the King earlier and was apparently intimate with the woman I assumed to be the Duchess of Montpensier. He had seen me, but he must have been satisfied that I had not identified him, or he would not have let me go so easily. From his height and build he could have been the Duke of Guise, or Charles Paget. Or someone else entirely.

  I shivered, cursed again, pulled my mask down – too little, too late – and made my way by the light of the torch back to the formal gardens with their illuminated paths and the great ornamental fountain in the centre, where I broke the thin skin of ice on the surface and plunged my burned hand into the freezing water. The pain flared briefly and began to subside. I sat on the stone rim of the fountain until my hand and right arm grew numb with cold. I was about to withdraw it when I heard brisk footsteps behind me.

  ‘This is the one.’

  I turned to see two armed men pointing halberds at me.

  ‘Show your face,’ said one.

  ‘Are you Italian?’ said his companion.

  I looked from one to the other without speaking, while I shook the water from my hand and dried it on my cloak. The first man lowered his weapon until the point touched the bottom of my mask, lifting it a fraction. One slip of his hand and the tip would pierce my eye. I clenched my jaw and tried to stop shivering.

  ‘Take the fucking mask off, whoreson, or I’ll take it off for you.’

  I leaned back and lifted the mask. He nodded approval.

  ‘Come on, then.’ The second man pulled me to my feet while the first kept his halberd lowered in case I tried to run. ‘Hold your arms out.’

  I did as I was told. He pulled open my cloak and grabbed at the belt with my empty scabbard. ‘Where’s the dagger?’

  ‘I didn’t bring one.’

  ‘Horseshit. Why else would you be wearing that? Doublet and boots off. I’ll find it, even if you’ve hidden it up your arse.’

  I unclasped the Doctor’s cloak with clumsy, frozen fingers and removed my doublet, carefully palming the gold medallion from the inside pocket as I did so. I took off both boots and felt the damp of the frost seep up through my hose. The guard shook out the garments I had given him before feeling roughly up and down my torso and legs.

  ‘Hurry up, mate, they’re waiting,’ said the first man, stamping his feet against the cold. ‘You don’t have to grope him all night.’

  ‘Shut it. He’s got a weapon somewhere, I know it.’

  ‘Usually I have to pay for this kind of attention,’ I remarked.

  The first guard sniggered; the one patting me stood upright and struck me in the face with the back of his hand.

  ‘All right, let’s go.’ He handed me back my boots. ‘See how smart your mouth is when we get inside.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked, stretching my jaw from side to side to ease the bruising. I knew the question was redundant.

  ‘Private reception,’ he said, while the first man let out a gurgling laugh which offered no comfort. ‘For the honoured guest.’ He nudged me none too gently towards the palace with the shaft of his weapon.

  At the top of the steps to the terrace, a dwarf suited in black velvet waited for us, arms folded across his barrel chest, a thin smile just visible beneath his mask. Someone had betrayed me after all.

  FOURTEEN

  I was led through the Grande Salle and along a series of corridors, some of which seemed familiar in the way of landscapes in dreams. At the top of a handsome marble staircase we traversed a receiving room papered in violent green; the dwarf pressed onwards into a long, oak-panelled gallery set with window seats at intervals and lined with glass-fronted cabinets of curiosities: Venetian crystal, fine as spun sugar; shelves of polished rocks and minerals; porcelain from Delft, glazed in cornflower-blue; small stuffed rodents posed in tableaux and wearing tiny, hand-sewn clothes; china dolls in elaborate costumes, and one case devoted to the display of reliquaries and minute silver-cased prayer books. In the centre of the gallery stood a large Florentine mosaic table bearing an armillary sphere in brass and silver. Every inch of space on the walls above the cabinets was occupied by portraits of Valois ancestors, creating the air of a family shrine; the King’s father, Henri II, cast a baleful gaze over the room from his canvas in prime position over the fireplace.

  The gallery ended in painted double doors; at the dwarf’s knock they were opened to reveal one of the strangest chambers I had ever seen. A reception room of generous proportions, though the sheer quantity of furnishings and clutter which filled it contrived to make the space feel crowded. Tall windows on three sides pointed up to high ceilings, where seven stuffed crocodiles hung in formation by silver chains. A fire roared and crackled in the hearth. On the far wall, opposite the doors, hung a vast portrait of Catherine de Medici as a young queen, h
er face even then severe and unsmiling. Beneath it, on a raised platform covered by a woven Turkish carpet, the original sat bolt upright in a high-backed chair wearing an identical expression; some of the nymphs from the masque had arranged themselves at her feet, still in their flimsy costumes. Gabrielle was not among them. I was relieved to see there was no sign of Ruggieri either.

  The dwarf bowed and swept an arm towards me; I heard the doors shut behind us and the guards step away to either side, leaving me standing before Catherine, my gaze fixed firmly on my boots. When I dared to raise my head I encountered her black eyes boring into me, fierce as a raptor. She was not a physically imposing woman – she was almost as broad as she was tall – but the force of her presence could unnerve a strong man. I understood why Henri had said Guise quaked before her like a child caught stealing sweetmeats.

  ‘Here is a face I hoped never to see again,’ she announced, in French, for the benefit of her entourage. She had a voice made for speaking over men in halls and council chambers, and age had not weakened it. ‘Our little Neapolitan heretic,’ she continued, leaning forward and clutching the carved arms of her chair. ‘I suppose my son smuggled you in with the players, or some such ploy?’

  I hesitated. She let out a sigh. ‘Don’t bother to answer. That way you can say your loyalty to him remains uncompromised. He always was inexplicably fond of you.’ She tilted her head to one side as if trying to comprehend this aberration.

  ‘Not in any improper way, madam,’ I said, lowering my eyes again to the floor.

  ‘No, I never thought you posed that danger. You are not his type. Too Italian.’ She gave a short, barking laugh. ‘But your ideas.’ She tapped her temple hard with an arthritic finger. ‘You lead him into sins not of the flesh but of the intellect.’

  ‘With respect, Your Majesty—’ I looked up and met her stare once more; in the corner of my vision I caught the women exchanging glances – ‘from where I am standing I can see volumes on your shelves that are named on the Index of Forbidden Books. Your library is renowned for its collection of works on the occult sciences. Whatever was said of me, I taught His Majesty the King nothing he could not already have discovered among your own manuscripts—’

  ‘Then he wasted his money employing you, did he not?’

  A titter of laughter rippled through the group of women. Sweat prickled under my collar and armpits. The fire was stoked high and the room had begun to seem stifling.

  Her gaze travelled pointedly down to my mud-spattered boots.

  ‘I see you have been enjoying my gardens.’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, because she was still looking at me expectantly – ‘I needed to take the air.’

  ‘Is that what we call it now?’ She cocked an eyebrow and the women giggled again like schoolgirls. ‘Were you in company?’

  ‘Only the company of my own thoughts.’ But she had caught my hesitation, I was sure of it.

  ‘Something of a wasted opportunity, then, with all this for the taking.’ She gestured carelessly at the girls and sniffed. ‘Dreaming up more heresies, I suppose?’

  ‘Madam, my memory system—’ I began, but she held up a hand.

  ‘I am not interested in your memory system. Walk with me in the gallery. And take that ridiculous thing off your head.’

  I did as I was told and removed the mask. Two nymphs leapt up and helped Catherine rise effortfully from her chair, holding her arms as she stepped down from the platform. As soon as she was standing she shook them off and snapped her fingers until another attendant handed her a silver-topped walking stick. The armed men and a couple of girls made as if to escort us, but she turned and froze them with that piercing black stare.

  ‘You—’ she pointed at the guards – ‘wait by the doors. The rest of you, stay here. I wish to speak to Doctor Bruno in private.’

  She set her face, but she walked stiffly and I could see the lines of pain at the corners of her mouth with every step. I glanced up as we neared the doors; overhead, one of the crocodiles cast a sad eye over the room, his jagged little teeth protruding either side of his jaw like the blade of a handsaw. I shuddered; teeth like those, and he still ended up as Catherine’s trophy.

  ‘They weep, you know,’ she remarked, following my gaze. ‘Have you heard that about crocodiles? Imagine such a thing – a killer who weeps for his victims.’

  ‘I have seen it happen,’ I said, thinking back to my time in England. ‘Though not, I confess, in crocodiles.’

  She shot me a sharp look. ‘I suppose a soldier may do his duty in war and still feel sorrow at the shedding of innocent blood.’ We walked on a few paces in silence, accompanied by the clicking of her cane and the rustle of her skirts. I wondered if she was thinking of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s. ‘Though, of course, there are no true innocents in war,’ she added firmly, pre-empting any argument. ‘Even a babe-in-arms belongs to one side or the other, and will grow up a danger to his enemies.’

  I decided it was wiser not to contradict her. The doors closed behind us and we were left alone in the gallery, save for the two armed guards who pressed themselves against the wall and tried to look invisible.

  ‘And now we may speak in our own tongue,’ Catherine said, falling back into her Florentine Italian with a nod towards the guards. ‘More convivial and more discreet, no? Hold this.’ She handed me the cane.

  From a jewelled purse hanging at her waist she withdrew a small silver box and took from it a pinch of brown powder, which she spread on the back of her hand and sniffed vigorously up each nostril. When she had wiped her nose delicately on a lace handkerchief, she replaced the box, held out her hand for her stick and addressed my curious expression.

  ‘Tobacco. Most beneficial for the health. Have you tried it?’

  ‘Not like that. I thought one smoked the leaves?’

  ‘I dislike that method. Makes me cough. Powdered like this, it is efficacious against headaches. In Paris, the people call it l’herbe de la reine, on my account. You might benefit from it. You do not look well, Doctor Bruno. Perhaps it is the strain of meddling in affairs that are not your concern.’

  I looked away to catch sight of my hollow face reflected in the glass of one of her cabinets, superimposed on the mad-eyed stare of a china doll inside.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Circe,’ she said, the conversational tone just as suddenly vanished.

  ‘I never saw her before tonight.’

  ‘That was not my question. Tell me what you told the King earlier.’

  I paused, weighing my words before I answered. She banged her stick on the floor in her impatience; one of the guards snapped his head up and started forward, but she held up a peremptory hand and pointed him back to his post.

  ‘Henri came to me before the masque like a frightened hind, shaking all over and gibbering that Circe planned him harm tonight,’ she hissed, pinning me with the force of her glare. ‘Demanding we cancel the entertainments, evacuate the palace and lock the poor girl away while he shut himself in his chamber with his armed men. He was already issuing orders to that effect, though he barely took heed of what he was saying. Do you know how much money I paid out for tonight’s ball?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course you don’t. More than the treasury can afford to throw away, is the answer. Nor did I wish the cream of Parisian nobility and the ambassadors of half Europe to be turned out of my gates before the festivities had even begun, whispering to one another that the King of France is afraid of a dancing girl. We would be a laughing stock.’ She paused for me to appreciate the gravity of the situation. ‘So,’ she continued, resuming her slow pace towards the doors at the far end while I walked alongside. ‘A little judicious soothing of my distraught son, and he confesses it was you who planted this idea in his overheated brain. Complete with some fanciful tale about a murdered priest.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I—’

  ‘What kind of a fool are you?’ She rounded on me, the silver head of her stick thrust towards
my face. ‘Do you not know Henri better by now? He has a weak constitution – all my sons were cursed with it. Any threat of discord makes him ill.’

  ‘He is ruling the wrong kingdom, then.’

  I should have held my peace; I feared she might strike me for that, but after a moment she merely inclined her head with regret.

  ‘True. He would have been a happier man if Fate had spared him the throne, I grant you. But our duty is God’s will, and we must fulfil it as best we can. I could get no further sense from Henri, though thankfully I talked him out of scattering our guests to the four winds. Now you will tell me everything you know about this Circe business. But I warn you—’ she raised the cane again – ‘I am more than ready to believe there are plots against my son’s life and his throne, but not from within my own household. That is plainly absurd. So explain yourself.’

  Feeling that my options were limited, I related as we walked a carefully edited version of the story, including the letter I had found in Paul’s fireplace and the connection with Joseph de Chartres, but leaving out my first-hand experience of Joseph’s murder. Catherine’s face remained impassive throughout. When I had finished she halted and leaned on her stick, looking at me for a long time without speaking.

  ‘Why has it taken you so long to tell the King about this so-called threat from Circe?’

  ‘Your Majesty, I did not wish to alarm him without good cause. He had asked me to find out who killed the priest and there was no evidence that letter was ever sent. At the time I had no idea who or what Circe might be.’

  ‘Hm.’ She considered. ‘Léonie de Châtillon has been in my household since she was fifteen years old. Thirteen years altogether, and in that time she has been nothing but loyal. I find it hard to credit that she could have been turned by our enemies.’

  She was either too trusting or too arrogant, I thought, if she imagined the intelligence acquired by her bevy of lovely informers flowed only one way.