Conspiracy Page 31

  Behind us, the bells of the abbey church struck up their melancholy summons to Vespers. Cotin started like a spooked horse.

  ‘I must go.’ He thrust the remaining papers into my hand. ‘Make of these what you will. And take care of yourself, Bruno. I fear you are coming too near the heart of this business for your own safety.’

  He gave me the kiss of peace on both cheeks and fumbled with his keys before disappearing through the gate in the wall. I was left alone in the darkness. A faint gleam of moonlight rippled on the water. Behind me, over the abbey orchards, an owl hooted. I clutched the bundle of Joseph de Chartres’s letters and set off for home with the sinking sense that I was still nowhere near the heart of the business.

  EIGHTEEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I will not be caught.’

  ‘How can you guarantee that?’

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Filippo!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Francesco inclined his head in assent.

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

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

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

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

  ‘You said your household was in mourning.’

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

  He looked aggrieved. I made sympathetic noises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Filippo, Your Grace.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘By whom?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Sorry. But I needed to ask him—’

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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