Conspiracy

by SJ Parris

  I set out briskly on the path towards the copse, my feet so quickly numbed by the cold that it hurt to walk. The torches that had lit the way a few hours earlier had all burned to blackened stumps or been appropriated by couples seeking the shelter of the wood. I had no need of a lantern to find the place now, though when I reached the clearing where I had encountered Léonie, I wished I had thought to bring one; the trees overshadowed the ground and the frail light barely penetrated here. I walked carefully around the fallen trunk where she had been sitting, crouching to sift through piles of dead leaves with my fingers. After a few minutes, I sat back on my haunches and blew on my frozen fingers. It was still too dark to make out footprints clearly and in any case, so many lovers seemed to have made their way through the clearing I was unlikely to find anything that would show who had encountered Léonie here.

  I stood, hearing my knees crack, and followed the direction she had taken in such haste when she realised she had said too much to the wrong person. She had run wildly into the trees where there was no path, but by proceeding slowly I could see from the broken branches and traces of her white fur cloak snagged on twigs the course of her panicked flight. Some fifty yards into the wood, my eye was caught by a pale streak on the ground. I pushed through the thicket of branches and bent to pick up a white silk scarf, sown with tiny pearls and embroidered with silver thread and tassels, now trampled and muddied. A knot had been tied midway along. I stared at it, recalling Léonie’s body, the bruise at her throat. Whoever killed her had known this trick with the knot, just like Joseph de Chartres’s murderer.

  I tucked the scarf inside my doublet and stumbled back into the clearing, wrapping my hands inside the folds of my cloak. The sun had almost risen above the horizon; in the chilly light I saw a figure moving among the trees on the other side, by the path back to the palace. I froze, but a twig snapped beneath my feet and it was too late to hide; I drew the small dagger I had stolen as he whipped around and I realised he was not wearing a mask.

  ‘Jacopo!’ I sheathed the weapon with relief and pushed my own mask on to my head.

  ‘Bruno?’ He took a step towards me, frowning. The pouches under his eyes were deeply shadowed; he had evidently been up all night too. ‘What on earth are you doing out here?’

  ‘Looking for anything that might tell us what happened to the girl. You?’

  ‘The same,’ he said, after a pause. I noticed that he looked past me towards the trees as he spoke. ‘I thought Catherine had you under guard in the library?’

  ‘I thought I might spend my time more usefully.’

  He glanced fearfully in the direction of the gardens. ‘She will be angry when she finds you gone.’

  ‘Ruggieri can take the blame for that. Though he will probably claim I bewitched him.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  I unbuttoned my doublet and reached into the inside pocket. ‘I cannot tell you how glad I am to talk to you, Jacopo. There is something I must show you.’ I told him briefly of my earlier encounter with Léonie and what she had said, then handed him the gold medallion she had left behind. ‘She dropped this when she ran from me. I suppose it is valuable – she was worrying at it like a holy medal when I interrupted her.’

  He started visibly as I laid the disc flat on his palm, the side with the dolphin engraving uppermost, and the colour drained from his face. ‘Dear God. Do you know what this is?’

  ‘A piece of jewellery, I guessed. But I do not understand its significance.’

  ‘Better you do not.’ He pressed his lips together and closed his fist over the medal. ‘Leave it with me – I will see it returned to its rightful owner. You must not be found with it on your person. In fact, you should not be found at all.’ He checked quickly in both directions. ‘Come with me. I helped smuggle you in – the least I can do is show you out. And God help us both if we run into anyone.’

  I followed him back to the path, but instead of turning towards the palace, he led me in the other direction, along the edge of the wild part of the gardens in the shadow of the riverside wall, until we reached a small gate tucked away at the far end. Jacopo took a bunch of keys from his belt and unlocked it.

  ‘You can get a boat across the river from the steps at the Tour du Bois, there should be boatmen about at this hour,’ he said, chivvying me through. ‘And Bruno – tell no one else of what the girl said to you. Do not even mention that you saw her in the clearing. I told you before – it is safer for you to keep your distance from all this.’

  ‘All this? So you know that this murder is connected to the others?’

  He laid a hand on my arm. ‘I know you believe so. Catherine told me what you said to Henri tonight, about Circe.’

  ‘I heard the girl, Jacopo, only minutes before she died, protesting she could not go through with it or she would damn her soul. What else could she have meant? Someone had corrupted her to their cause to kill the King, I am certain of it. She must have confessed to Paul Lefèvre, who wrote anonymously to the King to warn him. Henri never received the letter, but whoever was behind the plot found out by some means. Paul was killed to silence him, so was Joseph. When it became clear that Léonie had lost her nerve, she too was silenced.’

  Jacopo looked at me with great weariness in his dark eyes, his face grave. ‘It sounds a wild theory to me, Bruno. But these deaths should be reason enough to leave the business alone. Let Catherine deal with it now as she judges best. Léonie de Châtillon was a member of her household.’

  ‘Guise and his sister are behind it, I am certain. It is just a question of finding proof.’ I felt my fists clench as I spoke; I had almost forgotten my obligation to Guise. But I still could not fathom why he had set me on to investigate the previous murders if he knew the trail would lead back to his associates.

  ‘Then you must certainly leave it to Catherine. She is practised in negotiating with the Duke of Guise – if he is responsible, she will find a way to have satisfaction.’ He darted a quick glance over his shoulder and squeezed my arm. ‘Now I must go. Promise me, Bruno, that you will not put yourself in any further danger?’

  I laid my hand over his. ‘I can promise you that I will not take undue risk.’

  ‘That is not the same thing,’ he said, his eyes stern.

  ‘I have been given a task by the King, and until he releases me from it I consider myself under royal command.’

  He sighed. ‘Too stubborn, Bruno. One day it will be the end of you. The King is hardly himself at the moment, surely you can see that?’ When I said nothing, he shook his head with an air of paternal disappointment. ‘Go, then. But come and dine with me this week. I will send you word when I am free.’

  ‘Thank you, I will.’ I pressed his hand. ‘One more question – are the Gelosi staying at your house this week?’

  ‘They will be there for today, collecting their belongings. Tomorrow they move to the Hotel de Montpensier – they have been offered rooms while they entertain the Duke tomorrow night. After that I believe they are bound for Lyon.’

  ‘Good. I want you to pass a message to Francesco. Tell him I need to take him up on his kind offer to join the company.’

  SIXTEEN

  I arrived back at my lodgings in the full light of a winter dawn and removed only my boots before wrapping myself in a blanket and falling on to my bed. The combined effects of wine and exhaustion overcame my racing mind and I slept until almost noon, when I was awakened by a furious hammering on the door to my chamber. I jolted upright, convinced it must be Catherine’s armed men come to escort me forcibly back to the Tuileries to account for having absconded the night before. While I debated whether it would be feasible to escape out of a second-floor window, the knocking came again, and with it the voice of my landlady, Madame de la Fosse, frostily informing me that a man in a friar’s habit was downstairs to see me. She made this sound vaguely reprehensible. I wondered how she would respond when a brace of armed guards eventually did turn up to arrest me.

 
; I broke the skin of ice on the jug of water by my bed and splashed my face, ran my hands through my hair, straightened my clothes and pulled on my boots. When I was certain that Madame was downstairs again, I dragged a stool to the edge of the room and lifted the loose panel under the eaves that hid the cavity where I kept my most secret writings and correspondence, together with other items I would not wish to be found if anything happened to me. Through the small gap I eased out a cloth bag where I had stowed the silver penknife I had found by the body of Joseph de Chartres, and stuffed into it the embroidered scarf I had found in the wood, to examine later. I pushed the bag back and replaced the panel before snatching up my cloak and gloves and racing down the stairs to the front door, where Madame stood eyeing young Frère Benoît from Saint-Victor with her arms folded across her scrawny bosom, blocking his way in case he might be tempted to make off with her best candlesticks. He looked relieved to see me, his breath smoking around his face as he stamped his feet on the doorstep, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his habit.

  ‘Thank you, madame,’ I said, graciously. She gave me one of her looks and retreated into her own quarters, though it was clear she had not fully closed the door to the entrance hall. She disliked my notoriety, but that did nothing to dampen her interest in my business in the hope of some gossip.

  ‘Come,’ I said to Benoît, nodding to the street, ‘let’s walk.’

  The rutted mud underfoot had frozen to hard peaks and troughs, as if the ground had been turned to stone overnight. I pulled on my gloves as we set off in the direction of the rue Saint-Jacques and the colleges of the university. ‘Have you news?’ I asked, when we were beyond the reach of Madame’s eavesdropping. Benoît blew on his hands.

  ‘Frère Guillaume sent me with a message. He needs to speak to you.’

  ‘Why? Did he say?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘He said only that it was important. He had found something he thought you should see urgently. He wants you to meet him at the back gate to the abbey this evening before Vespers.’

  ‘No hint of what it might be? No letter for me, perhaps?’ I tried not to show my hesitation. I wanted to trust Benoît but this would be a laughably easy trap to spring; Paul Lefèvre had died because he had walked trustingly to a rendezvous on that deserted river path behind the abbey. The Abbé of Saint-Victor was a League supporter and had already had me thrown in gaol once; outside the city wall I would be under his jurisdiction, and I would not be surprised if he found a kind of poetic justice in luring me to the same end. On the other hand, if the message were genuine, I was curious to know what Cotin might have found that he considered so important. Something to do with Joseph? I looked at Benoît. His habitual manner was so jittery that it was difficult to judge whether he was lying.

  ‘Tell him I will be there,’ I said, slowing as we reached the cloister of the Mathurins. I would need a better weapon than the knife I had taken from the guard at the Tuileries, though; it would be folly not to prepare myself for an ambush. I wondered if I could persuade someone to go with me, even if only for the sake of appearances; no one looks so vulnerable as a man alone. Francesco and some of his players, perhaps, or even Paget? But I could not justify dragging the Gelosi into possible danger – I had too much need of them the following night – and there was always the chance that Cotin had genuinely found something connected with the murders, in which case Paget was the last person I wanted as a witness.

  ‘Well, this is where I must say goodbye,’ I said, offering my hand in the English style more as a hint than a farewell, since Benoît still lingered at my side, hopping from foot to foot.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his eyes eager.

  ‘To collect my laundry from a washerwoman,’ I said, stepping back, afraid that he might offer to come with me. He seemed well-meaning but I could not discount the possibility that he had been sent by his abbot to report on me. To pre-empt any such suggestion, I gave him a curt nod and set off up the street; he looked disappointed, and stood watching me for a few minutes as if making up his mind whether to follow, so that I was obliged to turn the corner and loiter in the shadow of a doorway until I was sure he had gone on his way. God, this city! I pushed both hands through my hair and leaned against the wall. So many factions, so many plots; everyone an informer with two faces, playing one party off against the others. At least in London my enemies had been more visible, and I had known who my friends were. Here, I could rely only on Jacopo, and even then I knew that if he were forced to choose between the various loyalties he owed, Catherine and the King would trump me every time: that was mere self-preservation.

  When I was certain that Benoît was no longer watching my movements I hurried down the rue du Fouarre, reminding myself that at some point I really would have to collect my clothes from the laundress, and tip her well for her trouble. I wound my way along narrow back streets until I saw the sign of the Eagle hanging above a narrow doorway. Entering, I found myself in the low-beamed tap-room of a tavern, broad and well furnished with a wide hearth along one side. The place was half-full, the customers all men, mainly young, though by their coats and boots they crossed all divides of class. Most striking was the rhythm of their talk, the unmistakable flat cadences of English; before I had even closed the door behind me I felt I had been transported back to London. The tables nearest the fire were occupied and the conversations tailed off as the drinkers turned to look at me. I met no one’s eye and slipped into a seat in a poorly lit corner. After a while, the other customers appeared to lose interest and the low hum of talk resumed, though they leaned in closer and spoke more quietly than before, casting the occasional glance over their shoulders in my direction.

  I ordered a bowl of stew and a jug of wine from a surly serving girl and tried to observe the young men by the fire without being noticed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here in daylight; I was more obvious alone, and less likely to fall into easy conversation. It was clear they were wary of a stranger; hardly surprising, if this was where the disaffected English Catholics gathered to boast of their plans for taking back their homeland. But as Paget had said, the hot-headed plots cooked up here by angry students over a jug of cheap wine need not disturb Walsingham’s sleep; the truly dangerous conspiracies were brewing in more richly furnished rooms than these. In any case, I had not come for Walsingham, but for a purpose of my own. That knock on my chamber door this morning had been a warning; I knew it was only a matter of time now before soldiers arrived to arrest me on some imagined charge – whether sent by Catherine de Medici or the Duke of Guise seemed almost irrelevant. I did not like to leave unfinished business, not when I was so close, and I had waited over a year to conclude this particular matter. But now that I was here, I no longer felt sure of myself. My name, if not my face, would be familiar to many of these young Englishmen thanks to the Throckmorton business two years ago; I would need to approach softly if I were not to rouse their suspicions.

  I dipped a heel of dry bread into the stew – it was as well my expectations on that score had been low – and strained to catch any of the exchanges around me, when the door opened and a man entered, clapping his hands against the cold. He pulled down his hood and stood for a moment looking around uncertainly, until a barrage of protests at the draught from the open door prompted him to shut it in haste, with muttered apologies. I recognised him as the young man with the freckles I had seen at Brinkley’s print shop, the one who had delivered the package that Paget later collected. He was still casting around the tap-room as if expecting to meet someone. Evidently whoever it was had not arrived; he pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the next table from mine, his eyes on the door.

  ‘Turned colder today,’ I said cheerfully, lifting my cup of wine in a manner of greeting. I recalled how fond the English were of talking about the weather. ‘We might have snow before the week is out.’

  The young man stared at me as if I had insulted him. Too late, I also remembered how affronted the English are at
being addressed by a stranger in a public place. After a moment, his face creased into a frown. I could see he was trying to place me.

  ‘We met at the printer’s shop last week,’ I said, to help him out. He nodded, though his face grew guarded.

  ‘I remember. You were asking for illegal books.’

  ‘I was advised by a friend – God rest him – that Brinkley might be one of the few brave souls to print the truth about the persecution of the true Church in England. Books the Valois regime do not want the people of France to read, while they plot their alliance with the heretic queen.’

  His eyes widened at this, but he remained cautious. ‘You said it was the priest who was killed. The friend you spoke of, I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ I assumed an appropriately sombre expression. ‘Père Lefèvre. We used to lecture together at the university. Did you know him?’

  Instantly his gaze swerved away, guilty. ‘No. But I had heard him preach. It was dreadful, what happened to him.’

  I nodded sadly. ‘He has still had no justice, despite the protests.’

  ‘Nor will he,’ the boy said, suddenly animated, ‘unless the people take justice into their own hands.’

  ‘Rise against the King, you mean?’

  ‘Why should they not, when the King scorns true religion and murders those who defend it? He will fall, just like our heretic queen at home, who spills the blood of faithful Catholics. It is written in scripture. The wicked have drawn out their sword; they have bent their bow, to cast down the poor and needy, to kill the upright of heart,’ he quoted solemnly. ‘But the Lord says, Fret not thyself because of the wicked men, for they shall soon be cut down like grass, and shall wither as the green herb.’ He nodded an emphatic full stop. I looked impressed.