Conspiracy

by Stephanie Merritt

  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 i
n 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 it
s 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.