‘You had misgivings,’ I repeated flatly. ‘But there was a further twist to the story, you see – Léonie’s child was very likely not even Henri’s. She was still sleeping with the Duke of Guise.’
He raised his head and stared at me. ‘Gesù Cristo. Do you think Catherine found out?’
‘Someone found out,’ I said. ‘Queen Louise took the priest’s warning seriously. She also guessed that Léonie was pregnant. She had one of her servants follow her to see if she met other men. I think she knew about Léonie and Guise.’
‘And you think she told Catherine?’ He frowned. ‘But that would have meant admitting she believed Catherine was plotting against her.’
‘I think she found her own solution.’
Jacopo rubbed a hand slowly over his beard and stared at me. ‘What are you saying, Bruno?’
‘I found a scarf with Queen Louise’s device embroidered on it in the woods where Léonie was killed,’ I said. ‘I believe it was the one used to strangle her.’
‘You think Queen Louise murdered Léonie? Have you gone quite mad?’
‘It fits. Louise knew her life was in danger from this woman who planned to take her place, marry the King and give him a supposed Dauphin that was most likely a Guise bastard.’
‘That’s impossible,’ Jacopo said.
‘But she had every reason to want the girl dead,’ I persisted. ‘She may not have been as ill as she looked that night.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid she was worse than she looked. She sat bravely through the masque, but she was overcome by a terrible fit of vomiting immediately after and had to be carried to a guest room. I accompanied her, along with two of her ladies. She was given a draught to settle her stomach and help her sleep and the women remained there with her, along with a nursemaid, for the rest of the night. She certainly wasn’t dashing through the grounds strangling anyone, that much is beyond question. Though I do not deny her symptoms could be consistent with poisoning,’ he added, as if this might make me feel better.
I fell heavily into a chair, pressing my fingers to my eyes. ‘You’re right. It was an absurd idea. I couldn’t make it fit with my theory that the same person killed both Léonie and Joseph de Chartres. But, Jacopo, I am still convinced the killer is inside the palace.’
He laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Then do you not think it is time for you to follow my advice and walk away? If Catherine is the author of it, what can you do?’
‘I could tell the King,’ I said, defiant. ‘He is the highest authority in France, not her, and he wants the killer found.’
Jacopo laughed softly. ‘Think what you are saying. You saw for yourself the state he worked himself into over the girl’s death. As far as I know, he had no idea about the child. How do you think he will react when he learns your theory that she was pregnant with a child that may or may not have been his, and that his mother intended first to kill his lawful wife and then ordered the death of his mistress? Do you think that will spur him to a speedy recovery, the quicker to take up the reins of government again? Or do you want to make him worse, hm?’ He searched my eyes, his mouth compressed into a grave line, until I was forced to look away.
‘I think he would want to be told if his mother was practising against him.’
‘Do you really?’ He let his arm fall to his side and crossed the room to pour another drink. ‘You know Henri by now, Bruno. He is a weak man, governed by lust and fear in equal measure. He could not survive without Catherine, and he knows it. He may rail against her, but in the end he will accept her rule, whatever it involves. If you try to set him against her you will only succeed in losing everyone’s favour, and you cannot afford that. Ask yourself – can you?’
‘But he set me to find a murderer,’ I insisted, hearing myself sound like a petulant child.
‘And you almost did. You uncovered a conspiracy that, unfortunately, you can do nothing about. Now let it go. Your friends have suffered enough for your meddling already.’
‘What do you mean? Are you in trouble?’ His tone sent a prickle of anxiety up my spine; I thought of Cotin, sentenced to solitary confinement because of me.
‘I’m talking about the Gelosi,’ he said, grimly, sitting down at his desk and closing the Aquinas book with a decisive thud. ‘I have only just heard that they are being held at the Hotel de Montpensier because apparently one of their number is accused of theft and spying. They managed to slip a message out with a servant. They are supposed to leave for Lyon tomorrow, but the Duchess refuses to release them until this man returns and hands himself in with the stolen goods.’ He gave me a meaningful look from beneath lowered brows.
‘Merda.’ I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. ‘I didn’t think she would imprison them. I should go there now.’
Jacopo shook his head. ‘That would be extremely unwise. I am about to write to Catherine asking her to intervene with the Duke of Montpensier, but there is not much I can do without her approval. It will require a show of force, I suspect. Our friends will be all right – I don’t suppose the Duchess would dare to harm them. But this would not have occurred if you had listened to me sooner, Bruno.’ He spoke gently but firmly, a father to a wayward boy. I nodded. A wave of tiredness crashed over me and I buried my face in my hands again.
‘Why don’t you stay here tonight?’ Jacopo said, picking up his quill. ‘You don’t want to go out in that again. Get some rest and you can find your way home in the morning.’
I stood, watching him sharpen his nib for a moment before my eyes focused clearly on what he was doing.
‘May I see your penknife?’ I asked.
He glanced up, surprised, but held it out to me. I reached inside my doublet and took out the one I had been carrying around since my visit to the silversmith’s that morning. They were almost identical.
‘Where did you get this?’ I asked.
‘A gift from Catherine, years ago now. They were made by a master silversmith under her patronage back in Florence, I believe. The work is quite distinctive. She has given them to some in her service as a mark of favour. They are worth a bit by now. Where did you find that one?’
‘By Joseph de Chartres’s body.’
He eyed the knives as I handed his back. ‘I mean it, Bruno. Let it go. For everyone’s sake. And any time you wish to apologise for accusing me of conniving at murder, I will be glad to accept it,’ he added, with an edge to his voice, returning his attention to the paper before him.
I lowered my eyes. ‘Forgive me, Jacopo. I spoke in haste.’
He nodded, mollified, and the conversation appeared to be at an end. But you are conniving at murder, I thought, tucking the penknife away in my pocket. And so am I, if I agree to leave this business unfinished.
I took a bed in one of the guest rooms as Jacopo had suggested, but I could not sleep. Thoughts of Queen Louise, Paul, Léonie and the Gelosi tumbled through my mind as I lay there in my clothes, staring at the ceiling while my candle burned lower and listening to the sounds of the household preparing to turn in for the night, until silence settled over the house. From a nearby street I heard church bells tolling twelve. I rose as quietly as possible, pulled Gabrielle’s cloak around my shoulders and tiptoed to the door. When I was certain no one was stirring, I crept downstairs and found my boots in the hallway. I could not let Francesco and Isabella and their friends remain incarcerated and lose their livelihood because of my recklessness when it was me that Guise wanted. Privately I thought Jacopo over-optimistic in his assertion that the Duchess of Montpensier would not harm them; the rule of law had deteriorated so far in Paris that the Guises seemed to believe they were no longer subject to it. I doubted Catherine would make the players a priority while she was preoccupied with the King’s health, but Jacopo was right that it would be folly to hand myself over to Guise or his sister alone. That left me with only one possible avenue. I would have to ask Paget for help.
The prospect of it stuck in my throat. I ha
d no idea if he would consider it in his interest to do me another favour and I was all the more reluctant to ask now that I knew the truth about his relationship with Stafford, but it seemed he was close to the Duchess of Montpensier and he was my best hope of reasoning with her. I took a lantern, unbolted the front door and slipped out silently. Outside, the snowfall had slowed, a few stray flakes still drifting from the densely packed sky, though the ground was now a uniform white, rippled with violet shadows where the drifts rose and fell. The men-at-arms still waited by the gate, rigid and glassy-eyed with cold; they looked surprised to see me, but their orders were to stop unwanted visitors from getting in, so they let me pass without comment.
I could hardly feel my feet by the time I had reached the end of rue des Tournelles. The streets appeared ghostly and deserted; not even a seagull cried over the river, and I walked on virgin snow, as yet unmarked by footsteps. As I turned right on to the rue Saint-Antoine I believed myself alone in this strange, blue-white world. Perhaps this belief made me less vigilant; perhaps the snow muffled the sounds around me. I had barely walked twenty yards when out of nowhere a blade appeared at my neck and a voice hissed in my ear,
‘Nice and still, now. Try not to make a noise.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Before I could gather my thoughts sufficiently to react, a thick hood was bundled over my head, my arms were seized roughly and bound at the wrists, and I was lifted up and thrown over the back of a horse. It all happened before I had time to cry out, not that it would have done me any good. No one spoke while I was jolted along in darkness; the only sound was muted hoofbeats on snow for fifteen or twenty minutes before I heard bolts scraping back and a gate being opened. I was dragged from the saddle and set on my feet, then shoved between two men up a short flight of steps and into a building, conscious all the time of the knife-point held to my ribs. The hood was only removed when I was pushed into a warm room and found myself standing before a table where the Duke of Guise sat with his hands folded, his eyes wintry in the dim light. It was not the grand salon where I had first seen him, but a small study, furnished only with the desk and a row of bookshelves along the wall opposite the fireplace. I was not even certain whose house I was in.
‘And how is our friend the Comte de Saint-Fermin?’ Guise asked, without preliminary, as the door closed and we were left alone with the whisper of the fire.
‘I think the change of air has helped him,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice even.
‘No doubt. Has Corbinelli told Catherine about him?’
‘Yes. He is under royal protection.’ I did not know if this was true, but I thought it might improve the Count’s chances of survival.
‘Much good may it do him. Catherine is the last person who would wish to start raking over the ashes of Saint Bartholomew’s night with accusations.’ He returned his attention to the papers in front of him for a few moments, leaving me to wait, before raising his eyes and fixing me with a reproachful stare. ‘You stole my horse, Bruno. What will it be next? Sleeping with my wife?’
‘I would stop at the horse if I were you,’ murmured a laconic voice in English behind me. ‘If you’ve seen his wife.’
I turned to see Paget leaning against a cabinet in a shadowy corner of the room, turning a letter round by its edges between his fingers. He offered a conspiratorial smirk, though I doubted now that I could rely on much support from that quarter.
‘Quiet, Paget,’ Guise said. ‘Well?’
I turned back to him. ‘I am sorry about the horse, my lord. I only meant to borrow him – I acted on impulse. I trust he was returned to you unharmed?’
‘If he’d been harmed, you’d be dead by now,’ Guise said, without emotion. ‘He and I have been through battles together. He’s worth far more than you are, even as dead meat. On top of that, my sister seems to think you have broken into her private study and stolen some letters.’
‘I have stolen nothing from the Duchess, my lord.’ I felt that deference was the best way to help myself and the Gelosi.
‘You’ll understand why we find that difficult to believe. What were you looking for?’
I hesitated. ‘In truth, my lord, I was trying to find out if she had been the mistress of Frère Joseph de Chartres.’
‘My sister?’ The Duke’s expression hovered somewhere between amused and incredulous. ‘Did you hear that, Paget?’
‘Bruno evidently does not know the Duchess’s reputation for chastity,’ Paget remarked from his corner, not without an undertone of resentment.
‘I thought all Paris knew of it,’ the Duke said drily. ‘What on earth led you to that theory, Bruno?’
‘The fact that she was close to him. There was talk among the other friars at Saint-Victor that he was involved with a married woman. And the way we found him – it seemed likely he had been intimate with someone before he was killed.’
‘So you are accusing my sister of murder as well as fornication?’ He arched an eyebrow.
‘I was investigating a suspicious death, my lord, as you ordered me to.’
‘I didn’t mean you to start pointing at my family.’ His voice had risen; he paused to bring it back under control. ‘So, then. Did you find anything to suggest your theory was correct?’
‘No. And I no longer believe the Duchess to have been involved with de Chartres in any sense.’
‘Well, we are all mightily relieved to hear that, I am sure.’ His eyes narrowed in scrutiny. ‘But you must have found other letters of interest to you. Or to your associates.’
I thought of the letter to the Spanish ambassador. ‘I do not recall anything I read, my lord. I was looking only for love letters and found none.’
He gave a tight smile and picked up a silver seal from his desk, running his fingers over the ridges of its design. ‘No, I don’t suppose my sister goes in for that sort of thing. Not that she would leave lying around, anyway. So if the Duchess was not de Chartres’s killer, have you a new theory?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I have an idea, my lord.’
‘Really?’ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms, watching me, his face expectant. ‘You have my full attention.’
‘I believe it was a young woman in Catherine’s service,’ I began, making my voice as strong and steady as I could. ‘A member of her Flying Squadron. Léonie de Châtillon.’
I saw him exchange a glance with Paget. ‘Interesting. And why did she kill him, in your view?’
‘I believe she was his lover.’
Guise let out a snort of laughter at this.
‘Busy girl,’ Paget murmured. Guise silenced him and motioned for me to continue.
‘She had persuaded him to pass on intelligence about League activities, which she conveyed to Catherine,’ I said, warming to my theory as I extemporised it. ‘But the priest Lefèvre found out and threatened to expose him. Léonie persuaded Joseph to kill the priest, and then she killed him in turn to keep his silence. But she was overcome with remorse and took her own life three nights ago at the Tuileries ball.’
Guise continued to watch me for a long moment, passing the seal from hand to hand. I remained there without moving, looking directly at him, afraid to blink in case my expression gave anything away. The shadows deepened around us. Eventually he set the seal down as if he had come to a decision.
‘It’s a neat hypothesis,’ he said. ‘What do you think, Paget? Credible?’
‘Certainly no more implausible than any other intrigue in Paris,’ Paget said, with apparent indifference.
‘Hm. It was a good try, Bruno.’ Guise pushed his chair back from the desk and stood. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t believe it any more than you do.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, my lord.’ I tensed my jaw to avoid betraying any emotion.
‘There is a flaw in your theory, you see. Joseph de Chartres was murdered on the 28th of November. Léonie de Châtillon was with me that day. Most of the day, in fact. So it could not have been her, and I think you know i
t. Which leads me to wonder who you are protecting. Because I was right, was I not – everything points back to the Louvre?’
‘I am protecting no one, my lord, I swear it. I concluded it was Léonie from the available evidence. If what you say proves me wrong, I will have to begin again.’
‘There’s no time for that. I’ve been indulgent with you, Bruno. I thought you might be persuaded to make yourself useful. And in a curious way I admire your bloody-mindedness. But my patience has run out.’ He cracked his knuckles, causing me to jump. ‘It’s clear your loyalties will always lie with the enemies of the true Church. Although we’re not even sure who you’re spying for, are we, Paget? Henri or the English?’
‘Perhaps both,’ Paget said, behind me. ‘Whoever is the highest bidder.’
‘You would know about that,’ I said, without turning around. I saw Guise give him a nod. He stepped forward into the pool of candlelight that surrounded the desk.
‘Talking of letters, Bruno – we’d be interested to know what this one says.’ He held out the paper he had been toying with. My stomach jolted with the sensation of missing a step as I saw that it was my letter to Walsingham about Gilbert Gifford, the one I had asked Stafford to send by urgent courier. The ambassador must have handed it over to Paget instead of sending it with the diplomatic packet, perhaps fearful that I had uncovered his situation.
‘Could you not manage the cipher?’ I said.
‘Ah, Bruno.’ Paget laid the letter on the desk and gave me an indulgent smile. ‘Your arrogance is almost endearing sometimes. I shall miss it.’
‘For the sake of your Italian friends,’ Guise said, the mock-politeness vanished, ‘it would be best if you stop wasting time and cooperate.’
‘This has nothing to do with the players,’ I said, my voice rising in panic. ‘You must let them go – they have done nothing wrong.’
‘Apart from smuggling a man into my sister’s house to steal from her. Though I’m sure she’ll feel more lenient when she has her letters back.’
‘There were no letters taken, I swear to it. Please – you must tell her to release them. They need to travel tomorrow.’
Conspiracy Page 40
