Conspiracy

by SJ Parris

  ‘I thought you said those letters came from Guise.’

  ‘Don’t cavil, damn you. If you were opening his letters, you were reading everybody else’s too. You don’t know how hard I had to work to defend myself against the rumours that followed you, after you left.’

  ‘Lies spread by my enemies.’

  ‘I know that!’ He threw his hands up. ‘The people of Paris don’t know it. All they hear is that their sovereign king, whom they already believe to be a galloping sodomite and friend to heretics, keeps a defrocked Dominican at his court to teach him black magic. Why do you think I bring you here like this—’ he gestured to the night sky – ‘in secret?’

  ‘I never understood why I was considered such a threat,’ I said mildly. ‘Your mother keeps a Florentine astrologer known as a magician in her household, and the people forgive her that.’

  ‘Oh, but the people love my mother,’ he said, not bothering to disguise the bitterness. ‘Her morals and her religion are beyond reproach. Even so, she’s had to banish Ruggieri on occasion to quash gossip, you know that. He keeps his mouth shut at the moment, I assure you.’ He grimaced. ‘Look – I cannot give you back your old position at court, Bruno. I cannot risk any public association with you while my standing is so precarious – you must understand that. Recognise what you are.’

  ‘I know what I am, sire. But I was also your friend, once.’ I kept my eyes to the ground. A long silence spread around us. When I looked up, I was amazed to see tears in his eyes.

  ‘And so you are still,’ he said, a catch in his voice. He raised a hand as if to touch my face, but let it fall limply to his side. ‘I miss the old days. Those afternoons shut away in my library with Jacopo, talking of the secrets of the ancients. Do you not think I would bring those days back, if I could?’ He shook his head and the fat pearl drops in his ears scattered reflections of the torchlight. ‘I don’t know how it has come to this, truly. The people loved me when I first wore the crown. They crowded the streets to watch me ride by. The processions we used to have!’ He turned to gaze fondly into the distance. ‘My mother emptied the treasury putting on public entertainments to win their goodwill. And look how they now flock to Guise. Well, let them, filthy ingrates. See if he would give them fountains of wine in the public squares.’ His face twisted. The dog let out a mournful whine, as if sensing the mood.

  They loved you only because you were not your brother Charles, I could have said. And they cheered him when he was first crowned too, because he was not your brother Francis, and Francis, because he was not your father, the last Henri. That is what people do. Those who now say they love Guise do so mainly because he is not you. Say what you will about the people of Paris, their capacity for optimism seems bottomless, despite all the lessons of history. Or perhaps it is just an insatiable desire for novelty.

  ‘How does your royal mother, anyway?’ I asked, hoping to rouse him from self-pity.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Still convinced she wears the crown, of course. If she’s not haring around the country on some diplomatic mission of her own devising, she’s leaning over my throne dictating policies in my ear. I fear I shall never escape her shadow. But she refuses to die.’ He broke off, looking shocked at himself. ‘God forgive me. You know what I mean. She’s wracked with gout, but she won’t even give up hunting, and she still has more stamina for la chasse than any of the men who ride out with her. Sometimes I think I should have sent her to a convent long ago.’

  ‘I cannot picture the Queen Mother retiring without a fight. She lives for political intrigue.’ You’d have lost your throne years ago without her leaning over it, I thought.

  ‘True. And she’s far better suited to it than I am,’ he said, with rare candour. ‘She positively thrives on it. Her chief advantage to me is that the Duke of Guise is terrified of her.’ He broke into a sudden grin. ‘In her presence he’s like a boy caught stealing sweetmeats. So I have to keep her around – she’s the only one who can negotiate with him. Why can’t I have that effect on my enemies, Bruno?’ The plaintive note had crept back.

  If it had been a serious question, I might have replied: because you possess neither your mother’s iron will nor her formidable grasp of statesmanship. If Catherine de Medici had been born a man, she would rule all of Europe by now. Instead she has had to make do with ruling France these past twenty-six years from behind the throne of her incompetent sons.

  ‘Few things strike fear into a man’s heart like an Italian mother, sire,’ I said, instead, but he did not smile.

  ‘All I ever wanted was to bring accord between my subjects, whatever their church, so there would never be another massacre like Saint Bartholomew’s night.’ He wrung his hands, fully immersed in his own tragedy. ‘Now look at us. Three Henris, tearing France apart between us. And my greatest sorrow is that all this strife has parted me from you. I can count the number of true friends I have on the fingers of one hand, and you are among them. Embrace me, Bruno. Mind Claudette.’

  He held his arms out to me; gingerly, leaning across the dog, I accepted his embrace. A gust of perfume made my eyes water: ambergris and cedar wood. You learned quickly to take much of what Henri said with a heavy dose of scepticism, but there was no doubting his sincerity at the moment he said it. And it was true that we had been friends – in so far as one can be friends with a king. He may have been weak and self-indulgent, but Henri of Valois was a great deal more intelligent and intellectually curious than his subjects supposed. If there was truth in the rumours about him and his mignons, I could not testify to it; he had always treated me with courtesy, and often with the deference of a pupil to his teacher. All that was over, unless I could find a way to have this excommunication lifted, and with Paul dead, my hopes were not high.

  I felt him pat my shoulder, just as a wet tongue rasped across my jaw. I jumped back, staring at the King, my hand to my face.

  ‘Claudette, you are a naughty girl. You are,’ he chided the dog, with a mischievous glint, the tears all vanished. ‘Well, I am for my bed. Or someone’s bed, anyway.’ He flashed me a wink, followed by an ostentatious yawn; at the edge of my vision I saw the guards stirring. Was that it, then? Had I been dragged here in the middle of the night so that he could unburden himself of this half-hearted self-justification and wake feeling he had dealt with the problem of Bruno? Beyond the wavering circle of torchlight, the guards hovered at the end of the terrace, uncertain whether to approach, dark shapes in a thicker darkness. Henri pulled his robe closer around himself and the dog, flicked a hand in the direction of the soldiers and moved a couple of paces towards the stairs. ‘These gentlemen will see you home,’ he said, without looking back at me. ‘They belong to my personal bodyguard. Forty-five strong men and true, every one of them scrupulously chosen from the provinces to ensure he has no affiliations in Paris except to me. Simple, loyal and boasting a good sword arm. And I pay them handsomely for their loyalty, don’t I, boys?’

  The soldiers glanced up and mumbled something before dropping their eyes again to the ground.

  ‘They’ll take good care of you. Well, thank you again for coming.’ It was the same blithely dismissive tone I’d heard him use to foreign diplomats and government functionaries whose names he’d forgotten. He swept his robe out behind him in a whisper of silk.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ I blurted as he reached the stairs, despising myself for it. I sounded like a needy lover.

  Henri turned and considered me, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘You know, Bruno, there is one thing you could do for me, if you are still eager for my patronage?’

  I bowed my head. ‘Your Majesty knows I would be pleased to serve in any way you see fit.’

  A satisfied smile creased his face. My jaw tensed. I had walked into this; he had stage-managed the entire scene so that, afraid he was about to leave me with nothing, I would clutch gratefully at whatever chance he offered. I already knew I was not going to like his proposition.

  �
��Good. You there – hold this.’ He untied the basket from around his neck and handed it, with its whimpering contents, to the nearest guard, who almost dropped it in surprise. ‘Careful with Claudette – she doesn’t like rough handling. Now, stand over there. Watch the stairs.’ He motioned them back to their post, steering me with the other hand to the furthest corner of the balcony. I braced myself and tried to assemble an expectant smile.

  ‘Guise means to destroy me. Sooner or later, I fear he will succeed in having me deposed or murdered, whichever proves cheaper.’ He leaned forward to clasp me by both shoulders, his face uncomfortably close, his tone conspiratorial. Through the perfume, I could smell the fear on him; after all the posturing, this was real. A succession of unpleasant possibilities chased one another through my head. What was he going to ask of me? Assassinate Guise? It would not be beyond him. Henri pulled at an earring and pressed his lips together until they disappeared. He seemed to be fishing for the right words. ‘These priests I mentioned – the ones he sets on to preach against me.’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘One was a particular thorn in my side – virulent little fellow at Saint-Séverin. Gave me a thorough roasting last Sunday – the hour is coming for the godly citizens of Paris to purge the city of her heretic king, all that.’ He let go of me, making a rolling motion with his hand to indicate the monotony of the theme. ‘Even the poor harvest is down to my debauchery, apparently.’

  I concentrated all my efforts on keeping my face steady. ‘I know. I was there. He preached for four hours.’

  ‘Did he really?’ He looked at me sidelong, tilted a plucked eyebrow. ‘How extraordinary. Even I wouldn’t want to talk about my peccadilloes for four hours. I didn’t hear it myself, but I have people who keep me abreast of these things. It was the closest any of Guise’s puppets have come so far to inciting a mob, I’m told. Dangerous, at any rate.’

  I nodded. In this, at least, he was not mistaken; there had been a new mood among the congregation after Paul’s sermon: restive, pent-up, angry, a nest of hornets needing only one small prod to explode. It was a miracle there had been no violence; if a Protestant had passed by and happened to say a wrong word, he’d have been torn apart.

  ‘And?’ I prompted, since Henri had fallen silent again.

  He examined his manicure with apparent indifference. ‘It would seem he was murdered yesterday. I’d like you to find out who did it.’

  ‘Me?’ I stared at him, wondering if it was a trap.

  His gaze flickered upwards and rested briefly on me. ‘The streets are already alive with rumours that he was killed on my orders, in revenge for his sermon. Guise will seize on this and fan the flames – it could tip the balance of feeling in the city. The League has people wound so tight, it would take only the slightest provocation to spark a riot or another massacre. An attack on a priest is a direct attack on the Church – people are superstitious about that sort of thing, and it will be seen as further proof of my disregard for the Catholic faith. I assume that’s why he did it.’

  ‘Who?’

  He frowned, irritated. A nerve twitched in his cheek. ‘Keep up, Bruno – you’re supposed to be the finest mind at my court. Guise did it, obviously, to inflame the people against me.’

  ‘Killed one of his own supporters?’ I could not quite disguise the doubt in my voice. It was a plausible explanation, but less convincing than the simpler version, which was that Henri had done exactly what the rumours claimed. I thought of the burned scrap of letter inside my doublet: the words Votre Majesté. The same cold sensation tightened my throat again.

  ‘Precisely.’ Henri rubbed the back of his neck, stretching from side to side. ‘He can find himself twenty more hellfire preachers like that one. But the chance to lay the murder of a priest at my door – that serves him beautifully. Wouldn’t that sway any pious citizens unsure about where their loyalties should lie in the event of a coup? So, you see, I need to clear my name before Guise tortures some poor wretch into saying publicly that I put him up to it. I want you to find the man who did this, with evidence that will convict him before all Paris. Justice must be seen to be served. If you can tie the killer to Guise, all the better.’

  ‘You don’t ask much.’ I moved away to lean against the balustrade. ‘With respect, sire – why me?’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, my Bruno. Do you think Francis Walsingham is the only one who has informers at his beck and call? You kept yourself busy in England, I hear. It seems you have quite the knack of sniffing out a murderer.’

  Sidney used to use the same turn of phrase, I recalled – as if I were a trained wolfhound.

  ‘Your Majesty has enough lapdogs, surely.’ I returned the smile through my teeth, while my mind ran through a list of all the people who might have been spying on me for Henri over the past three years. I wondered what else he knew, and how he might choose to use it. ‘Besides, if you believe this killer belongs to the Duke of Guise’s circle, how am I supposed to get near him? They all know me for an enemy.’

  ‘I dare say you’ll find a way, Bruno. You could pretend you are looking for a new patron. Or claim you wish to be reconciled to the Church. That might get his attention.’

  He held my gaze, unwavering, that smile still playing around his lips.

  ‘Guise finds you interesting,’ he added. ‘He always has. I’m sure you can talk your way into his confidence.’

  It was difficult to tell when Henri was mocking; he tended to smirk even when he was sincere. Did he know anything of my conversation with Paul, or was his reference to reconciliation mere coincidence? And if he did know, had he learned it from a letter found in Paul’s lodgings or on his battered body? I thought again of the priest and the dwarf, and who might have sent them.

  ‘Guise is not a fool,’ I said.

  ‘Neither am I.’ His expression hardened. ‘I won’t force you to do this, Bruno. I’m offering you an opportunity to return to my service. It’s the only position I have available, so it’s your choice.’ He turned his back to make the point: I guessed that if I refused, I could say goodbye to any prospect of future patronage. Spots of rain blew against my face. I tried again.

  ‘I’m not convinced I am the man for this job, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Please yourself, then.’ He affected indifference and moved towards the door, before glancing over his shoulder. ‘Oh, a funny coincidence – almost slipped my mind. A friend of yours from England called on me a while back. Wanted to sell me a book.’

  He knew immediately from my face that he had hit his mark.

  ‘A man with no ears?’ I asked. ‘In August, was it?’

  ‘No ears? A common criminal, you mean? Certainly not. Goodness, what company have you been keeping, Bruno?’ He feigned shock. ‘No, this was last summer, more than a twelvemonth past. An exceptionally pretty boy. Ah, I see you know who I mean.’ His lips curved slowly into a smile. He had saved his best card till last. I cursed him for it silently.

  ‘And, what…?’

  ‘The guards sent him on his way at first. There are so many hawkers at the gates, as you may imagine. But this one was remarkably persistent. Came back day after day, saying you’d told him to bring me this volume. Claimed it was both valuable and inflammatory. Eventually Ruggieri heard about it. He has spies all over the palace.’ He rolled his eyes, to show that this was one more trial he was obliged to endure. My heart dropped. For more than a year I had been clinging to one last shred of hope that the book in question might have found its way to the court in Paris. To learn that it should have come so far, only to fall into the hands of Cosimo Ruggieri, that Florentine serpent, was galling. He would never give it up willingly to me.

  ‘Ruggieri brought the boy to you?’

  ‘Of course not. You think he’d get his hands on a book like that and offer it to me? I knew nothing of it until later. But it seems he was sufficiently convinced that he persuaded my mother to buy it. You know how easily she’s seduced by the prospect of anything esoteric.
’

  ‘It was a book of magic, then?’

  ‘Ruggieri seemed to think so. He talked her into paying fifty écus for it. I suspect she was robbed. According to her, it’s written in cipher – meaningless, unless you know how to read it. Your young friend must be laughing himself sick now, to think he’s duped everyone twice over.’

  Twice over. ‘Did you meet him?’ I asked, trying to keep any trace of eagerness from my voice. Henri gave me a sly smile.

  ‘Alas, no, though I wish I’d had the pleasure. Ruggieri took him directly to the Tuileries to see Catherine. She only told me about it afterwards. Well, it turned out—’ here he widened his eyes, relishing the performance – ‘this boy wasn’t a boy at all – imagine! Ah, but you knew that. No – she was apparently a girl trying to disguise herself. But quite beautiful either way, I’m told. She swore you had insisted I would want the book. That was what piqued their interest.’ He watched me carefully. I said nothing. ‘Lover, was she?’

  ‘Acquaintance.’ I clenched my jaw.

  Henri laughed. ‘You’re a most adept liar, Bruno, like all Dominicans.’

  ‘I am no longer a Dominican.’

  ‘But you’ve learned their lessons well. Did you give her the book as a love-token?’

  ‘I did not give it to her at all.’

  ‘So she stole it from you? I did wonder.’ He laughed softly. ‘Bruno outwitted. Well, well. A most resourceful young woman, by the sound of it. Pity she disappeared. I asked my secretary to make enquiries but no luck so far. Perhaps I should ask him to try a little harder.’

  ‘If the Queen Mother would let me examine the book—’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Bruno,’ he said, all brisk and amiable, ‘you can see the book when you bring me some information about this priest. And perhaps by then there’ll be news of your girl as well. How is that for a deal?’

  I took a deep breath and bowed. ‘I am yours to command, Majesty.’

  ‘I do hope so. I have faith in you, Bruno. Don’t let me down.’ He patted my shoulder, his attention already drifting now that he had what he wanted. ‘His name was Père Paul Lefèvre, by the way. The dead priest.’