Conspiracy

by Stephanie Merritt

  She took a seat next to her brother and behind them came 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.

  ‘Are you all right, Bruno?’ she whispered.

  I forced a smile. ‘A little tired. That’s all.’

  ‘Don’t mind him.’ She nodded towards Francesco. ‘He doesn’t want you getting into trouble. These people are no friends to you.’

  ‘And I don’t want to make trouble for you. When I have found what I came for, I promise I will wait quietly until it is time to go home, and I will not ask for your help again.’

  ‘But you know we will offer it whenever we can. Now I must get ready – we begin in a few minutes. Good luck.’ She kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  ‘And to you. No sodomy, mind.’

  She made a lewd gesture and poked her tongue out. I waited until Francesco stepped out from behind the curtain to a smattering of applause before slipping silently out of the door and into the dim light of the corridor.

  The house was hushed, though far from silent; the Duke’s guests may have been contained in the salon but servants still moved about, quiet and efficient, their footsteps tapping on the old stone floors. From the far reaches of a corridor came the clinking sounds of the meal being cleared away, curt exchanges in low voices. Away from the fire in the salon, the high passageways held the mineral chill of a cathedral. I was still wearing my outdoor cloak; I pulled the hood down around my face and turned right into a broader corridor lit at intervals by candles in iron sconces. Almost immediately I was forced to duck into a window embrasure as a man in the Duke’s livery hurried past carrying a silver ewer. I held my breath until I was sure he had gone and continued my stealthy progress. For now, if I were caught, I could claim I was going out for a piss or to fetch something from the cart; that would be harder to argue once I was upstairs. Laughter gusted from the direction of the salon, Montpensier’s distinguishable by its volume. At least they seemed to be enjoying the performance. I would be safe, I thought, as long as Guise did not set eyes on me.

  The corridor opened into a grand entrance hall with a vast chandelier suspended above the centre. Decorative cabinets stood around the walls; a wide staircase swept in a curve to the upper floor. Though there was nowhere to hide, I realised I would be less conspicuous here than trying to sneak up the servants’ stairs, which would be busy. I took a deep breath, waited until I was certain no one was coming, and ran up. On the first landing, I tried to orientate myself to work out which way would take me to the east wing. While I was calculating, I heard someone coming and had to dive into the nearest doorway. The footsteps veered away, echoing down the passage to my right. I turned in the opposite direction, peering into rooms, trying the latches of doors, less certain now that this had been a good idea. If I were caught up here, it would be assumed that I was a thief, and the rest of the Gelosi would be punished with me. It was imperative that I found what I came for without being seen, for everyone’s sake.

  The corridor dog-legged around to the right and I noticed that here the starkness of the house was softened by more feminine touches: tapestries on the walls, fresh rushes strewn over the floor. I tried one door; it opened into a prettily furnished bedchamber with a fire burning low in the hearth. In the next room, though, my pulse quickened; it was arranged as a study, with cabinets and shelves for books along the walls, two chairs with embroidered cushions by the fireplace and an escritoire of carved walnut in the corner. The room was dark and cold, suggesting no one intended to use it that evening. I lifted a candle from the sconce in the corridor and closed the door behind me.

  The writing desk had two drawers set into the wood. Before I attempted to open them, I checked the room for possible places to hide if I should be interrupted. Velvet drapes hung over two tall windows reaching from the floor almost to the ceiling; these were covered by wooden shutters on the outside but on trying the latch I found they opened to reveal a small stone balcony overlooking the courtyard. I pulled the shutters and the windows almost closed again, shielding the flame from the draught, and turned my attention to the desk.

  The drawers were locked, as I had supposed. The knife I had with me was not fine enough to work into the keyhole – I thought bitterly of my own dagger, hanging at Montpensier’s belt – but it was solid, and I had risked too much now to go home empty-handed. I jammed the blade into the gap at the top of the drawer next to the lock; fortunately it was decorative rather than substantial and with a little force I managed to bend it until it snapped. There would be no disguising that the lock had been broken, but I hoped we would be long gone before the Duchess noticed.

  I drew out a leather folder from the drawer and opened it to reveal a sheaf of letters. With all my senses alert for the slightest sound from outside, I brought the light closer so that I could read them. The first sheet was addressed to Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris; skimming it, I gathered that it was a delicately worded plea for further funds from King Philip of Spain for the League’s armies. But it was not the content that troubled me. Tucked inside my doublet I had brought the love letter I had taken from Frère Joseph’s mattress, but I hardly needed to look at it to know that
the handwriting was no match for the letters in this folder. I flicked through the papers; these were all written in the same small, round hand, neat and compressed, no sign of the bold flourishes that characterised the note I had found in Joseph’s cell or the one Cotin had passed on to me the night before. I turned over the sheets in the folder to be certain. They all bore today’s date – the 8th of December – and were signed with the Duchess’s name, Catherine de Montpensier, in the same careful writing; I presumed these had been written earlier and were waiting to be sent. I offered up a silent curse. I had been willing my theory to be true; if the Duchess of Montpensier had been Joseph’s lover, everything would tie up tidily and I would be able to take proof to the King in the form of these letters. But unless she was adept at disguising her hand, it seemed I must accept that this was not the case. Joseph’s lover – and murderer – remained unknown.

  I was unbuttoning my doublet, thinking to compare the letters even though I already knew my conclusion, when I caught the sound of footsteps and the exchange of low voices from the corridor. I bundled the papers back into the folder, replaced them in the drawer and slipped between the curtains, quietly opening the window and edging my way on to the balcony just as the chamber door opened. I pushed the windows and shutters almost closed and crouched outside, straining to hear and hoping the thin draught would not be noticed.

  ‘You can’t leave now, don’t be ridiculous,’ said a woman’s voice, sharp and peevish.

  ‘No one will care. I have better things to do. I can’t sit through another hour of this nonsense.’ A man’s voice; gravelly, tired. I recognised it at once as the Duke of Guise.

  ‘You can and you will. Montpensier will notice. You can’t afford to offend him at this stage. We need him too much.’

  A mighty sigh from Guise. ‘I have said it before – if he will not support the League through the prompting of his conscience, I fail to see why he should be moved to do so by my attending a few dinners and watching Italians pretending to fornicate.’

  ‘Because that’s how he is.’ She sounded obstinate, as if they were retreading an old argument. ‘You have to flatter him on his terms. It would be a great triumph for us to win him away from the King. But he is a bon viveur at heart and he fears that puts him at odds with the League. He does not want to see France governed by joyless clerics.’

  ‘He prefers to see power in the hands of heretics and libertines?’

  ‘Those are his words, Brother, not mine. You must help me allay his fears by proving you know how to be good company, both now and in any future office you may hold.’

  I could not see Guise’s expression, but I heard the snort he made in response. I knelt and tried to squint through a gap in the shutters. A sliver of a gap offered me an occasional glimpse of the Duke’s tall figure crossing in front of the window.

  ‘An hour more, then. After that I must attend to other business. The money is downstairs with my bodyservants – how much do you want?’

  ‘Paget says three thousand écus will do it.’

  Another murmur of discontent from Guise. ‘That is more than I expected.’

  ‘You will recover it from the Spanish when you pass the material on.’

  ‘They will want to be sure it is a worthwhile investment. As do I, for that matter. We don’t even know what’s in those papers. You should not have agreed such a sum in advance without consulting me.’

  ‘If I had not, he would have taken the intelligence direct to Mendoza and we would know nothing of it. We cannot afford to be excluded from any developments at this stage. And Paget has assured me he would not dare cheat us. He is too indebted.’ She gave a dismissive little laugh. A long pause elapsed.

  ‘You should not encourage Paget,’ Guise said, eventually, in a reproving tone. ‘It is imprudent, in your situation.’

  ‘He is useful. He is another who needs to be flattered.’

  ‘Yes, but you go too far. He has hopes of you – and not without cause, from what I observe. Even you, with your fabled chastity, must see it.’

  ‘You are mistaken. Charles hopes only to see a Catholic sovereign on the thrones of France and England, and in that common cause we support one another. In any case—’ her tone sharpened – ‘it is not my liaisons threatening to bring trouble on our heads at the present time.’

  ‘Keep your voice down. The girl is dead. She can bring no trouble on anyone now.’

  ‘I wish I had your assurance, Brother.’ I heard brisk footsteps across the room. ‘You still have no idea who else she confided in, admit it. Not the first time you have placed your trust unwisely in a woman.’

  ‘The court is saying she died by her own hand. As long as it suits them to say that, we are safe.’

  ‘You are deluded,’ the Duchess said. ‘Well, you had better get rid of the husband, now. You have probably told him more than was good for him, if I know you.’

  ‘He knows nothing. He lost his wits long ago. Leave him – he is near death already. He will oblige you soon of his own accord.’

  ‘Yes, but all the time he is rotting away in the Conciergerie he is costing you money.’

  ‘Hardly. It’s not as if they’re keeping him in luxury.’

  ‘But you pay the gaoler for his silence, do you not? Well, then. Why waste that money? The world thinks Saint-Fermin has been dead these thirteen years.’ A pause. ‘Send the order tonight. I don’t know why you’re being squeamish about this – it’s not as if you baulk at death when it suits you.’

  ‘I will do it tomorrow. Other matters demand my attention tonight.’

  ‘Oh, other matters. Some doxy from the Tuileries, is it? I don’t know why you don’t run the other way when you see those Medici whores coming. You make their job child’s play.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what I want them to think.’

  ‘Ha. If only I could believe that. You are not as shrewd as you would like people to think, Brother.’

  ‘Nor you as chaste,’ Guise said, with a soft laugh. ‘All the talk at court is of how you murdered de Chartres over a lovers’ quarrel.’

  The Duchess clicked her tongue.

  ‘God, have these people nothing better to do? Give me the name of everyone you heard say so and I will see them whipped for slander, whatever their rank.’

  ‘That would only serve to confirm the rumours, dear Sister.’

  ‘Then we should make haste to have the heretic Bruno arrested and charged with his murder. That would solve two problems with one stroke.’

  ‘I have told you to leave that in my hands,’ Guise said, his tone severe again. ‘I have other uses for him yet. By God, this room is freezing – have you left the window open?’

  I had only a moment; quickly I climbed over the parapet at the side of the balcony and clung on to the outside, crouching low, hanging perhaps twenty feet over a border of shrubs below me. I could only pray that there was no one in the courtyard who might glance up and see me clinging on. The shutters were flung wide, though fortunately the left one obscured me from the view of the Duchess, who stepped out on to the balcony and surveyed the ground directly below.

  ‘Must have been the wind. The latch on these shutters is loose. Come – we should return before they begin the next performance or we will be missed. And this person will be here with the package soon – I do not want Montpensier’s servants to encounter him first.’

  I let out a shaky breath; my fingers had grown numb with cold and I was not sure how long I could go on gripping the stone balcony.

  ‘Are you sure no one’s been in here?’ Guise’s voice shocked me with its proximity; he had joined her on the balcony. I hoped he had not noticed the drawer of the escritoire. I could see his shadow as he leaned forward to look over to the ground. If he should think to pull the shutter back … The stone under my hands was icy; I felt my fingers beginning to slip.

  ‘Who would be in here?’ the Duchess said, impatient. ‘Come, I am freezing – let us not waste any more time.’

&nbs
p; Guise muttered something I could not catch. The shutter hiding me moved; I held myself rigid, not daring to breathe, but they were pulling it closed from the inside. I heard it firmly shut and the windows bolted. Though I was relieved they had not seen me, I was now left with a different problem: there was no latch on the outside of the shutters and I was stuck on this balcony. I had begun to haul myself back over the parapet to relieve my arms while I considered the situation, when I heard footsteps on the frosted ground below. Glancing down, I saw a woman walking across the courtyard, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders; she paused by one of the torches in the wall long enough for me to glimpse her profile and the recognition sent that same jolt through my gut. Sophia, alone outside; who was she meeting? Without allowing myself time to think, I let go of the parapet, dropped into a bush below, rolled out and on to my feet, ignoring the dart of pain in my left leg; she had whipped around, startled, at the noise, but she barely had a chance to react before I had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the shadow of an arched passageway at the side of the house. We stared at one another, our faces inches apart, for the first time in more than a year. It gratified a streak of cruelty in me to see that she looked afraid, her lips parted as if she were on the verge of crying out.

  ‘You owe me fifty écus,’ I said, through my teeth.

  NINETEEN

  ‘I could scream,’ she said, her voice low. ‘There was a groom over there just now.’

  Before she could attempt it, I had whipped the knife from my belt and pressed the tip against her stomach. ‘You would be dead before he could cross the courtyard.’