by SJ Parris
‘She didn’t see the second person because they had put on the friar’s habit,’ I said, animated again despite myself. ‘And she didn’t hear anything because the original friar – Joseph – was already dead.’
The Duke’s stare burned into me. He appeared to be calculating. ‘You will find this person in the cloak and hat for me. But be discreet about it. My sister had a family connection with de Chartres – I do not want her honour compromised.’
I blinked at him, taken aback. ‘Me?’
He inclined his head. ‘I am assured by various sources that among your dubious talents is the ability to find out a murderer, especially one who thinks he is clever enough to have hidden his tracks. I need to know who killed these men and why. If, as I have suspected from the beginning, it is someone at the Louvre, my reach is limited. There are doors there closed to me and anyone known to be connected with me. Whereas you…’
‘You are mistaken, my lord. The doors of the Louvre are firmly closed to me too – I am banished from court.’
‘Officially, perhaps. But Henri trusts you. You have Corbinelli’s ear. You could learn much that is hidden from me, if you were to apply yourself.’
‘You want me to spy on my friends for you?’
He let out a laugh, sharp with contempt. ‘Your friends? Do you not listen to anything I tell you? What has Henri given you?’ He spread his arms wide to indicate emptiness. ‘Do you not think he would wash his hands of you without a backward glance, if anything you did proved awkward for him? Besides – if you spy on him for the English, why not for me?’
I lowered my eyes. He knew very well that every word was hitting its mark, true as an arrow. He made an impatient noise.
‘It’s very simple. If you do what I ask, I will not have you arrested for Joseph’s murder. If that is not a sufficient incentive, I offer you this – the Papal nuncio Ragazzoni is a frequent guest to this house. Find this killer for me and I will arrange an audience. I have no need to be so generous, you know.’
I kept my teeth clenched. I did not trust myself to speak.
‘Look at yourself, Bruno,’ Guise said, his voice soft and lulling again. ‘What is your future? The English didn’t want you. Perhaps they could tell you are not really a Protestant, any more than you are a Catholic. Indeed, what are you?’
‘I am a philosopher, my lord,’ I said quietly, when it became clear that the question was not rhetorical. ‘I believe God has given us reason and understanding to query what we know and consider new ideas based on new discoveries, so that each generation can build on the knowledge of the past,’ I added, since he seemed to expect more.
‘Mm. I should rethink that answer before you meet the Papal nuncio.’ He steepled his hands together and touched the tips of his forefingers to his lips. ‘Prove yourself useful to me, Bruno, convince me you have repented of your heresies, and you may yet have a future in France. And the English girl will come to no harm.’
I snapped my head up and stared at him. ‘What English girl?’
He seemed pleased with the reaction.
‘Come now, Bruno. A beautiful girl appears in Paris, fresh off the boat, knocking at the gates of the Louvre brandishing your name like a royal seal – do you not think I would come to hear of it sooner or later?’
‘So she is still here?’
His mouth curved into a smile, making the scar twist. ‘Let us say I would know where to find her. You will report anything you uncover to Paget – I don’t want you seen here again. If I hear that you have taken any information to Henri before me, the girl will lose her pretty nose. And her hands. She would have to go and beg with the lepers.’
‘What makes you think I would care about saving her skin?’ I asked.
‘The look on your face when I mentioned her,’ he said. He lifted the glass left for him by the dwarf and raised it first towards me and then to Paget. ‘The two of you will work together. With your combined connections, something must come to light. And you will say nothing of Joseph de Chartres’s death yet. I must decide how to arrange that before it is known.’
‘He cannot be found in the priest’s rooms, my lord,’ Paget said briskly. ‘It will make the connection between them explicit. And since that connection is the League, it would be preferable if his body turned up elsewhere.’
Guise looked pensive. ‘Must he be found at all?’
‘If he simply disappears, it will be assumed that he has run away because he is guilty of murder.’
‘Which he is,’ I pointed out.
Paget darted a look at me from the corner of his eye, irritated. ‘And if his guilt is assumed in absentia, it will point to my Lord of Guise as the author. So he must be found, but nowhere that will imply any connection with the death of Paul Lefèvre.’
Guise waved this aside. ‘Leave that to me. Let us drink to unlikely alliances.’ He nodded to the glass in my hand. ‘And to a unified, Catholic France, free from heresy.’
‘A unified Catholic France,’ I mumbled, lifting the glass and forcing myself to swallow a drop. All I could taste was my own blood.
* * *
‘Have you ever tried it, Bruno?’ Paget asked, over his shoulder, as we rode back across the river to the Left Bank. He had offered to take me home on his horse, prompted more by a desire to ensure I did not detour via the Louvre than from any concern for my well-being, I guessed.
‘Tried what?’
‘Being throttled.’
‘No. Not for pleasure, anyway.’
‘Ah.’ He jabbed the horse gently with his heels and it picked up its pace as we approached the Pont de Notre-Dame. ‘Your English girl not up for that sort of thing?’
‘She’s not my English girl.’
‘Hm. Still. Pretty creature, though.’
I knew he felt me tense against him in the saddle and grip the fabric of his cloak tighter. He meant to provoke me and I was determined not to give him the satisfaction. We rode on without speaking, as I willed myself with every jolt not to ask any questions. Lamps had been lit in the windows of the houses along the bridge and smoke gusted from chimneys. The air smelled of damp and soot; the cold worked its way inside my clothes. My fingers were frozen and my lip throbbed dully. The only sounds were the gulls, the brisk ring of the horse’s hooves and an occasional shout from a boatman below on the dark water. I longed more than ever for the warmth of Jacopo’s parlour, his quiet attention and wise counsel, but I thought it likely that Paget would still have someone tailing me. I would have to wait.
‘Do you believe him?’ I asked, in an effort to steer him away from the subject of Sophia.
‘Guise?’ His voice echoed off the walls of the houses on either side. ‘About the murders, yes. I wasn’t sure about Lefèvre at first, but I would swear he had nothing to do with de Chartres’s death – it comes too near his own family. He’s worried.’ Paget leaned back so I could hear him more clearly. ‘Guise doesn’t dirty his hands with anything so grubby as propaganda. It’s his sister who directs all that. The Duchess of Montpensier. You know what they call her?’
‘The Fury of the League,’ I murmured.
‘Ever seen her?’
‘No. She’s a widow, I believe.’ I pictured a pinch-faced woman in a black veil, thumbing through pictures and descriptions of the King’s sexual misdemeanours, eyes burning with religious zeal and frustration.
‘But only thirty-two. And a beauty.’ He whistled. ‘Not short of suitors, as you may imagine. No interest in men, though – all her energy goes into promoting her brother’s cause. She’d do anything for Guise. De Chartres was a cousin of her late husband – I expect that’s how she recruited him. She’s the one who pays all those pamphleteers. The King’s tried to have her exiled from Paris, but he won’t enforce it because her stepson, the present Duke, is neutral and Henri doesn’t want to alienate him.’
‘Then perhaps the Duchess knows something about the murders, if they both worked for her.’ An idea struck me. ‘Guise implied that she was c
lose to de Chartres. You don’t suppose they could have been lovers?’ I closed my eyes and pictured the words of the letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress. A frisson chased through me. An illicit affair between a high-born friar and a young widowed duchess – that would certainly offer the edge of danger hinted at by the letter writer.
‘The Fury?’ Paget sounded offended. ‘That would be quite the scandal. She is famously chaste. You’re not seriously suggesting the Duchess of Montpensier murdered de Chartres this afternoon?’ He gave a shallow laugh. ‘I wish you luck pursuing that line of enquiry. She’d burn a man like you on the spot if you stood still long enough.’
‘You said yourself she’d do anything for her brother. In any case, I thought you might be better placed to investigate there,’ I said.
‘I hardly think Guise would thank us for pointing the finger at his own sister.’ He plainly did not like the idea of being directed by me. ‘He made it clear he wants you to look at the court.’
‘Perhaps that’s because he already suspects his sister’s involvement.’
‘You seem to be jumping to conclusions rather prematurely, Bruno. And not ones that will earn you anyone’s favour.’
I was too tired for any more verbal sparring with Paget. We rode on in silence and emerged on to the Left Bank.
‘So you know her, then?’ I said, eventually, despite myself.
‘The Duchess? Of course.’
‘You know who I mean. The English girl.’
I could not see his face, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
‘Guise asked me to find her. He’d heard mention of her from one of his informers at the Palace, as he said. An associate of yours from England, demanding an audience with the King – naturally he was curious. I tracked her down to the Eagle. That’s the tavern where the restless young Englishmen gather. The ones Walsingham would like to get his hands on.’ He chuckled.
‘I know the place. Conspirators, you mean.’
‘Well. That’s how they’d like to think of themselves, no doubt. Most of them are just students with too much time on their hands. Angry dispossessed boys who blame Elizabeth for their family’s losses. They drink too much, they talk of being ordained, going to Rome, overthrowing the English government. Some of them might get as far as carrying a few letters back and forth. Most are too disorganised to do more than curse and sing rebel songs, then pass out in the street and do it all again the next day. I keep a weather eye on them. Occasionally one proves firmer of purpose than the rest. Curious choice of company for a young woman travelling alone, though.’ He slowed the horse as we reached the rue Saint-Jacques to allow an ox-cart to pass. ‘But then she was a curiosity altogether. Yours wasn’t the only name she was throwing around.’
‘No?’ I tried to think who else Sophia might have been looking for in Paris.
‘She was trying to find associates of someone she had known in Oxford. A name that would not be unfamiliar to you, I think. I thought it best to make her acquaintance.’
I nodded, understanding. ‘So where is she now?’
‘In gainful employment.’
‘Working for you, I suppose?’
‘Not at all. As a governess to one of the English families. I quickly realised she was unusually well educated, for a woman of her birth. I introduced her to a Catholic gentleman who had fled early with his wife and daughters and enough of his fortune to keep a decent household in Paris. I hear the girls make excellent progress with their lessons and would be lost without her.’
‘And what do you get out of it?’
‘My dear Bruno,’ he said, half-turning in the saddle to shine a smile over his shoulder, ‘your opinion of me is quite unflattering. You are going to have to learn to trust me a little more, now that we are working together.’
‘I trust you precisely as much as you trust me. And now we are both supposedly working for Guise while our true loyalties lie elsewhere, so we are hardly exemplars of integrity.’
He laughed. ‘Well, you and I of all people should know better than to trust a spy. They have a tendency to betray people for profit.’ He kicked the horse again and it broke into a trot; all my bruises jolted together as I gripped his back. ‘The art of dealing with Guise is to make him think you are doing what he wants, while making sure you use the situation to your own advantage.’
‘That is the art of dealing with anyone, surely?’
‘Ha! Spoken like a true cynic. We have more in common than you might imagine. I think perhaps I shall enjoy our partnership after all.’
I lacked the energy to dispute this, so we rode the rest of the way in silence. He let me dismount at the corner of rue du Cimetière and told the servant to see me to my door with the torch.
‘One more thing,’ I said, as I turned to go. ‘This English family. What is their name?’
He pushed back his hat and looked down with the smile of one better versed in the ways of the world. ‘Ah, Bruno. I dare say if she wants you to find her, she will let herself be found. Softly, softly with a woman like that, you know.’
So you have tried, I thought, and fought down an urge to pull him out of the saddle and punch his smirking face. Surely Sophia would have the wit to resist a man like Paget. Wouldn’t she?
‘I have a suggestion for you, Bruno, before you go. Talk to the women.’
He was still looking down at me with his knowing smile. The horse stamped on the spot, its nostrils steaming.
‘Which women?’
‘The Flying Squadron, of course. You want to find out what’s going on at court, they know everything. That’s their raison d’être. And you’re a handsome man, when your face isn’t looking like a plate of tenderised beef, even if you are on the short side. I’m sure you could cajole a few confidences out of them. That’s where I’d start digging, if I were you.’
‘And why aren’t you following your own good advice?’
‘Oh, they know me too well by now. They’re wary. You, on the other hand – you’ve been away. They won’t know where your loyalties lie. They’ll consider it a challenge to find out. You might learn something. In more ways than one.’ He flashed a grotesque wink. ‘You could make a start at the Queen Mother’s ball next week.’
‘What makes you think I’d be invited?’
‘Bruno.’ He shook his head, disappointed. ‘You don’t need an invitation. If you can’t find a way to insinuate yourself into a masked ball, of all places, I shall have a very low opinion of your abilities. Le tout Paris will be there.’ He jerked his heels and wheeled the horse around, gobbets of mud spraying from its hooves. ‘I’ll be seeing you soon.’
I did not doubt it.
The Flying Squadron. Dio porco. As if I weren’t in enough trouble already.
PART TWO
TEN
‘Giordano Bruno, you old scoundrel! I haven’t seen you in – what is it, three, four years? Where have you been? Come here, let me look at your face. Madonna, what have you been doing with yourself, my friend – fighting in the streets? Well, I would expect no less of a Nolan.’
Without pausing for breath or answers, Francesco Andreini threw himself on me and wrapped me in an embrace that crushed the breath from my ribs, kissing me loudly on both cheeks. Though he was right, it had been some years since we last met and I could hardly claim him as a close friend, I felt a rush of affection for the young actor from Milan and grasped him as if he were a lost brother. Not so young now, I reflected; he was born the same year as me, though his close-shaved face, with its thick brow and supple features, appeared endlessly mutable, unfixed by age. He could play a pinched miser of eighty winters or a dazed inamorato in the first flush of young love and convince you utterly, without recourse to wig or beard. He and his troupe, I Gelosi, were so loud and colourful, so gloriously Italian in the way they all talked over one another with defiant gestures, as if every exchange were a matter of life or death, that if I closed my eyes I could imagine I was back in the grand Roman palazzo where I had fi
rst watched them perform their distinctive variety of the Commedia years ago, instead of here in Jacopo Corbinelli’s house in the rue des Tournelles.
Jacopo’s large front parlour had been transformed into the dressing room of a theatre. On all sides open trunks disgorged a landslide of frothing fabric: gowns in delicate taffeta, rippling swathes of velvet that shimmered in the light, rustling silks, thick furs and exquisite floating lace; painted leather masks lay on every surface, leering or simpering with their hooked noses and hollow eyes. Quick hands arranged elaborate hairpieces on stands or whisked them away from candles. Between these trunks and their apparently infinite contents, the ten members of the company darted and feinted around one another in their shifts and undershirts, men and women alike, candlelight gilding naked shoulders and arms as they plucked robes, belts, stockings or necklaces from the mouths of boxes as required, avoiding collision as skilfully as if they had rehearsed each move many times over. The air smelled of beeswax, powder, perfume and the faint mustiness of old cloth.
‘So – Jacopo says you have come to join us?’ Francesco released me, stepped back and grinned. He was half-dressed in the costume of his usual role, the Captain.
‘Just to get inside the gates. I promise you will not be obliged to suffer my lack of skill on stage.’
‘Too modest, Bruno! You are renowned throughout Europe as an orator. Granted, that might be because you end up in prison every time you open your mouth—’ he broke off into guffaws as I cuffed him on the arm. ‘Give me a week, I could train you as a player. I would put money on it, if I had some to spare.’
‘How is business?’ I asked, when he had stopped laughing. The spark in his eyes dulled.
‘Huh.’ He gestured around the room as if that answered the question. ‘We keep working as long as we keep moving. You know how it is.’
‘You don’t go home?’