by SJ Parris
‘No doubt they shall be. But how soon, is the question?’
‘Sooner than they think,’ he said, with the satisfaction of one whose inside knowledge gives him an advantage. His manner reminded me of Paul’s hints to me in the confessional that the King was not long for his throne: not quite able to resist a tacit boast.
I was considering what more to ask without putting him on guard when the serving girl slumped her flat-footed way towards us again and demanded to know what my companion wanted to eat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and mumbled about expecting to meet a friend. From his clothes and his general demeanour, I guessed he had little money. I wondered if he was there to pass over another package, and who he might be meeting.
‘Take a drink with me while you wait,’ I offered. He shot me an anxious glance from the tail of his eye and returned his attention to his fingernails. ‘No obligation. You look as if you could do with something warm.’
He acknowledged this with a rueful nod, but still he hesitated.
‘You are worried about talking to a stranger,’ I said, with a nod of understanding. ‘Perhaps you fear I am a spy.’
He glanced up with an expression caught between guilt and apology. ‘This is Paris, after all.’
‘Quite. You are probably one yourself.’ I thought of the package I had seen him hand to Brinkley. At this he coloured so violently that I knew I had struck a nerve. ‘Don’t worry, I am only teasing you. Let us not discuss politics, then,’ I said. ‘We could talk about women instead.’
His face suggested he found this even more alarming. He was reprieved by the arrival of the wine. I poured a cup for him and lifted my own.
‘We are two foreigners, far from home – let us at least take a drink together. What is your name?’
He hesitated, then relented. ‘Gilbert. Gilbert Gifford.’
I tried to keep my face composed. ‘Pardon me, but your name seems familiar?’
His jaw clenched and I saw his hand tighten around his cup. ‘If you have heard that name, it is probably because of the insults and injustices that have been heaped on my family these past years. The pretender Elizabeth Tudor has made us a byword for disgrace.’
‘Ah. Then your father is…?’
‘John Gifford of Staffordshire, imprisoned in London for recusancy with all his goods forfeit.’
‘That is hard indeed,’ I said.
‘There is worse. Two years ago, my cousin was hanged and quartered at Tyburn.’
‘God have mercy. That is a terrible death. What was his crime?’
‘No crime at all, unless it be a crime to say the Mass and bring the comfort of the sacraments to the faithful.’
‘Ah. He was a secret priest, then.’
‘Aye, and martyred for it. And if that be made treason under English law, why then I say we owe no loyalty to the law of heretics, only to God’s commands.’ He thumped his fist on the table as he spat the words; some of the men by the fire turned with reproachful glares and he subsided, embarrassed. Though he fell silent, anger still burned in his face. He would be a gift to the cause of the English exiles, I thought; a young man so alive with fury and the desire for righteous vengeance was ripe for their purposes. I nodded in sympathy. I did not tell him I had watched his cousin die.
‘And your sister?’
He snapped his attention back to me, puzzled. ‘I have no sister.’
‘Your pardon, I must be mistaken. But I thought there was a Miss Mary Gifford living among the English here in Paris?’
‘You know Mary?’ The high colour that suffused his cheeks betrayed his interest. Poor boy; I feared he would not last long as an agent for the Catholic cause. His every feeling was written on his face as it occurred. Though he was hardly a boy any more; I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. Perhaps he would learn discretion, if he lived long enough.
‘I have only heard her spoken of as a most accomplished young woman. She is a governess to one of the English families, I believe?’
‘Yes, to the daughters of Sir Thomas Fitzherbert in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I take lodgings in his house. But she is not my sister. How do you know of her?’
‘We have a mutual acquaintance in Paris. She is some relative of yours, though?’
‘I suppose she must be. But from no branch of the family I ever heard of. I did not even know we had relatives in the West Country. So she must be a very distant cousin, if she is one at all. It gave us much amusement when I first met her at Sir Thomas’s house and we discovered we had the same name.’
‘I imagine it did.’ Sophia most of all, I thought; she had blithely taken the name of the man she once loved, as if she had been married to him, never supposing she might have to explain herself to another Gifford here in Paris. She must have smoothed it over, though; she was always good at talking her way out of trouble. ‘Well, if you wed her, at least she will not have to change her name,’ I said, with a smile, raising my cup in a mock toast.
He spluttered, spraying wine across the table. When he had recovered, he fixed me with an outraged expression. ‘Wed her? What put that in your head? I mean to say, I admire her, who would not, but I have not presumed to think… Besides, how could I wed her,’ he continued, interrupting himself, ‘when I have no estate left and no means to support a wife?’ The bitterness had crept back into his tone. ‘And in any case, she would not look at me now.’
‘Ah. She has another suitor, then?’ Really, the boy was so transparent the Queen of England would not need to make a window into his soul – his face was one giant window already.
‘She affects to spurn him. But women are weak.’ Gifford curled his lip. ‘How can I compete with a French duke? And I must travel to England again before Christmas. I fear he will corrupt her virtue while I am away.’ He took a long gulp of his wine and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
Corrupt her virtue? Was she presenting herself to the Catholics as a pure maid? I almost laughed aloud, but it was choked by a hard bud of anger in my throat at the memory of Guise so smoothly using Sophia to threaten me. Paget too, taunting me with the mention of her and refusing to tell me her new name or how to find her; I had supposed he wanted her for himself, but now it seemed he was only procuring for Guise. I had no proof of this, and perhaps my jealous mind was too quick to leap to conclusions, but I could think of no other French duke who would be so familiar with the household of an English Catholic family. I looked down at my hands gripping the pewter cup and realised I too was in danger of allowing my feelings to show, as if I were a green boy. I finished the wine, stood abruptly and reached for my purse.
‘Listen, my friend – she is said to be a young woman of unusual intelligence. You must trust, then, that she is clever enough not to judge a man’s worth by his titles, or lack of them.’
He gave me a look of such puppyish gratitude I was almost sorry to deceive him. I threw down some coins on the table.
‘And now I must go. Thank you for passing the time with me. When do you go to England?’
‘In a fortnight. To take some money for my father from his friends in Paris,’ he added, quickly. So that was his cover story. I wondered what else he would be carrying for Paget and the other Catholics here, and what he might intend to bring back. More martyrs’ fingers or teeth, perhaps? Well, that would be uncovered soon enough.
‘Then I pray God you have a safe trip and find him in good health.’ I smiled and made a little bow as I turned to leave. ‘My name is Filippo, by the way. I hope we meet again.’
He nodded, though he did not look as if he welcomed the idea. And now I had a name for Walsingham, I thought, as I closed the door behind me. Poor fool. He was right – Sophia would not look twice at him, unless she thought she could use him to her advantage.
In the street outside the tavern I walked straight into Charles Paget.
‘Bruno!’ He sounded, as always, as if it was a delightful surprise to bump into me – a sure sign he had known very well where to find me. ‘
We do not often see you frequenting such disreputable places. Wouldn’t have thought they were your kind of people, in there.’
‘Englishmen?’
‘Papists.’ He said it in a theatrical whisper, as if sharing a dirty secret. ‘Did you find good company?’
‘I found a hot meal, Paget, which was all I looked for.’ I shouldered past him in the narrow street and began to walk away.
‘Yes, you must have needed sustenance, after last night. An eventful evening all round, I understand. Catherine’s entertainments can usually be relied upon to provide some drama, but rarely after the show is over.’ Paget kept pace with me easily with his long legs; I could not hope to shake him off.
‘Were you there?’
He merely smiled. I supposed the answer was yes – it would have been unlike Paget to miss an occasion such as last night’s – but with a girl murdered I could understand why he was unwilling to confirm his presence.
‘Where are you going?’ he said, as we reached the Mathurins. ‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘I thought you were going to the Eagle?’ I nodded back towards the tavern.
‘Oh, that will keep. Tell me what happened with the girl. You were there.’ He took hold of my arm to pull me to a halt, his grip firm enough not to be argued with. ‘I know Catherine sent for you. What are they saying about the death? Is it connected?’
I hesitated, weighing my answer. It was never easy to judge how much Paget already knew. If Léonie de Châtillon was killed because of her part in a conspiracy against the King, it could only lead back to Guise, or someone acting on his behalf. I looked at Paget, trying to size him up. He and Guise were of a similar stature, both tall and broad-shouldered; either could have been the man in the Greek mask. I presumed it would serve their purpose better to think the death were not being treated as murder. I wondered what he had meant by saying I was there – was he hinting that he had seen me, or just trying to frighten me into giving more away than I intended?
‘They seem to believe the girl took her own life.’
His eyes grew shrewd. ‘But what do you think?’
‘I saw nothing to suggest that was not the case.’
‘Hm.’ He let go of my arm. ‘Guise says she was murdered.’
‘Guise thinks so?’ I could not keep the surprise from my voice. ‘Then he clearly knows something I do not.’
Paget rolled his eyes. ‘He didn’t do it. He thinks it must have been someone at court – it would explain why they want to cover it up. That’s why he’s keen to know what you might have observed, at close quarters. I should not need to remind you that you made an agreement with him.’
I thought back to the scene in the gallery: the way Catherine and Ruggieri had closed ranks to deny that Léonie had been murdered. Perhaps Guise had a point. But I was less afraid of his threats after my conversation with Gilbert Gifford. If Guise wanted Sophia for his mistress, he was hardly likely to hurt her in order to spite me. At least, not until after he had had her, and if Gifford was to be believed, she was still holding out. For a better deal, I thought, bitterly.
‘If it were the case that she was murdered, I ask myself why the Duke should care? Did he have some vested interest in her?’
‘I believe she was a mistress once, years ago. He’s been through most of Catherine’s girls at one time or another. But he remained fond of her. Besides, he thinks her death is connected to the others. The priest and de Chartres.’
‘Why does he think that?’ My palms had begun to sweat, despite the cold. I reminded myself that there was no possible way Paget or Guise could know that I had seen the Circe letter or told the King about it.
‘She was observed visiting the church of Saint-Séverin recently.’
‘How do you know that? From Lefèvre?’
‘No. He never mentioned it – that is the strange part. Another helpful party saw her leaving his confessional.’ He shook his head. ‘Curious, isn’t it? One of Catherine’s women choosing a League church for her confession? What did they talk about?’
‘I suppose we will never know, since they are both dead.’
‘Both murdered,’ Paget said, darkly. ‘Remarkable coincidence. Guise wants to know why. And you are supposed to be finding out for him.’
‘I am doing my best,’ I said, needled. ‘He will have to wait a little longer.’
‘You don’t have much longer,’ he said. Before I had a chance to ask what he meant by that, he laughed abruptly and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Dine with me this evening. I am having a small gathering at my lodgings on the rue Neuve. Gentlemen only, but we’ll make an exception for you.’ He chuckled again, to show that the insult was only half-intended.
‘Will Guise be there?’ I asked, apprehensive.
‘Not tonight. Exclusively Englishmen and Scots. And friends of England,’ he added, with an inclusive sweep of his hand towards me. ‘Stafford is coming. My neighbour Sir Thomas Fitzherbert. Archbishop Beaton. You might find the conversation interesting. Some supper, wine, a few hands of cards.’
‘Alas, I am not a gambler,’ I said, backing away.
He answered with an arch smile. ‘I beg to disagree, Bruno. Your entire life is a gamble. I recognise it all too well.’
‘Let us say, then, that I do not have the appetite to play with you and your friends. I suspect the stakes will be too high.’
The smile widened. He was a man who appreciated a double meaning. ‘Let that not hinder you. I could always extend you credit. You would not be the first.’
‘I thank you, but I am occupied this evening.’
‘Pity. You would have added much to the entertainment. Well, I hope you will spend your time profitably making enquiries about the de Châtillon girl. Guise is losing patience with you. His sister the Duchess wants you arrested for murder and I can’t hold them off forever.’
I was not sure how to respond; the image of Paget standing bravely between me and the Fury of the League was hard to swallow, but I could not deny that my continued liberty was a surprise to me, given what a gift I would make as a scapegoat for Joseph’s murder, so I had to conclude that someone must be speaking for me and could not discount the possibility that it might be Paget. The question of why was another matter, and one I preferred not to dwell on for the moment.
‘I shall come and find you tomorrow,’ he called after me, as I crossed the rue Saint-Jacques. His tone was jaunty, but to me it carried an implicit threat.
‘I hope Dame Fortune smiles on your cards tonight,’ I replied, looking back.
‘She always does.’ He tilted his hat to a rakish angle. ‘I make sure of it.’
SEVENTEEN
I returned to my rooms, locked the door and sat down to write a brief letter to Walsingham. This was a more laborious process than it sounded, thanks to Master Secretary’s devilishly complicated system of encryption, but at length it was complete: a warning to look out for Gilbert Gifford’s arrival in England and keep a close eye on his contacts, since I believed he would be entrusted with packages that might prove interesting. I hesitated with my quill over the page, wondering if I should pass on what Catherine had told me regarding Stafford’s gambling habit. I decided against it; Walsingham would know the ambassador’s vices better than I, and there was no proof beyond an old woman’s insinuations. Besides, there was every chance that Stafford would attempt to read the letter first, since I would have to send it through the diplomatic courier; I did not have time to wait for this messenger of Walsingham’s to make himself known. I signed my name, dusted the ink with sand and sealed the paper with plain wax, adding to the outside corner my customary symbol, the astrological sign for Jupiter, to let Walsingham know the contents were urgent.
Before I set out again, I took down the cloth bag from its hiding place in the roof and tipped the contents on to my bed. All these items – the love letter from Frère Joseph’s mattress, the silver penknife found by his body and the scarf from the clearing last night – connected the three
murders in some way that I could not yet comprehend. It was another kind of code, but one to which as yet I lacked the key. The manner of Joseph’s and Léonie’s deaths – both garrotted with a knotted ligature – suggested the same killer, one with some experience of murder. If Joseph was found naked because he was killed – or at least lured to his death – by his lover, then it was a question of identifying the author of that letter, and that meant finding a match to the handwriting. I pushed my hands through my hair and sighed; it would not be easy, but it was my only firm idea of where to start. I left the letter and turned the penknife over in my hand. To my unskilled eye it offered no obvious marks of identification save the hallmark of the tower on the blade. I would need to take it to an expert, someone trained in reading the language of the silversmiths’ symbols. Finally, the scarf. I smoothed it out on the bed and noticed again the faint smudge of blood on the ivory silk. I was still dogged by the lingering sense of guilt that I might have been close enough to save Léonie last night. If I had not frightened her by revealing my face, or if I had pursued her when she fled, perhaps her attacker would have been denied his opportunity, at least for that night. ‘Will you not release me?’ she had begged. But from what? What had bound her to the man she had arranged to meet in the clearing, for whom she had mistaken me?
With some effort, I forced my attention away from these unanswered questions, and held the scarf up to examine it more closely. The border was delicately embroidered with a pattern of curling vines and leaves, recurring emblems worked into them at intervals: a double-barred cross and a small crest, a gold shield crossed with a band of crimson showing three white eaglets displayed. I did not recognise the crest, but I was familiar enough with the court to know it was not the arms of the House of Valois or the House of Guise. Jacopo would know; he could identify the devices of most of the French and Italian nobility at a glance. The cross was more of a puzzle; the double horizontal bar was the emblem of the Templars, but could also denote the rank of archbishop. There were senior churchmen in the Guise family, though it seemed unlikely that an archbishop had been wandering the gardens in costume waiting to strangle a half-dressed girl. Although by the standards of Catherine’s spectacles, nothing was impossible. I replaced the items in their hiding place, picked up the bundle containing the clothes Stafford had lent me and tucked my letter to Walsingham into the pocket of my doublet.