by SJ Parris
I took a deep breath. ‘It is not—’
But I was interrupted by the door opening to admit Balthasar again. He bowed low, but I did not miss the flash of malicious pleasure in the look he gave me.
‘Your Majesty, forgive me,’ he said, ‘but a messenger has just arrived with all speed from the Tuileries. Your lady mother wants this man brought before her this instant.’ He pointed theatrically at me. ‘He broke into the palace last night, assaulted one of her ladies and locked her in a bedchamber.’
Henri’s eyes widened. ‘What an exciting night you’ve been having, Bruno,’ he said. ‘Breaking in, dressing up, assaulting ladies.’
‘I did not assault anyone, Your Majesty.’
‘Knowing the ladies of the Tuileries, Balthasar, I rather fear Bruno was the one whose virtue was in jeopardy there. They should be locked in their chambers more often.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Balthasar said, half-bowing to disguise the fact that he was attempting to give his sovereign orders, ‘that may be, but the Queen Mother commands Doctor Bruno to appear before her immediately.’
Henri glanced towards the window, apparently deep in thought. Then, without warning, he swung his legs out of bed; I jumped back, startled, but he was already fully dressed.
‘You can tell my mother’ – he declared, in a voice that would have carried through all the anterooms; a king’s voice, for once – ‘that my friends are not hers to command. But – no—’ he stopped, seeming to change his mind. ‘Tell her we will come. You can deliver your news in her hearing, Bruno. See what she has to say about that.’ He leaned heavily on my shoulder; despite his weakness, his face was lit by a perverse glee that verged on mania, as if the extreme melancholy of the past couple of days had metamorphosed into a frantic energy, darkly glittering and all the more dangerous.
‘Your Majesty,’ I began. From the corner of my eye I could see Balthasar twisting his hands together. ‘I don’t think that would be wise. Perhaps if you and I were to speak in private first, and you could acquaint Queen Catherine with the facts at your convenience, when you have had a chance to mull over—’
‘Wise be damned,’ Henri said, snapping his fingers. ‘She is still insisting that Léonie’s death was self-slaughter. I want to see her proved wrong to her face. Where is my sable cloak?’
‘Your Majesty,’ Balthasar stepped forward, his tone gently condescending, ‘there is snow on the ground. Think of your health. Your physician is outside, he will tell you the same. If you should take a chill and weaken yourself further—’
‘For the love of Jesus, Balthasar—’ Henri rounded on him, teeth clenched – ‘I already have one mother. And that is more than sufficient, believe me.’ He strode past us and picked up his cloak from a chair by the door. ‘Fetch me my boots.’ He turned to me. ‘Come, Bruno. You can save your grand revelation for a bigger audience.’
I replied with a wan smile. As he had pointed out, only a fool would try to bargain with a king.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Though the sky was still barely light outside, we found Catherine formally dressed and seated expectantly on her high-backed chair with the crocodiles overhead. In the cold dawn, the stacks of artefacts and bric-a-brac surrounding her appeared worn and flat, like painted stage properties from another age. She gave a little cry of surprise as the King entered, supporting himself on my arm, and half-rose, a hand outstretched, her face creased in motherly anxiety.
‘You should not be out of bed, my son,’ she said, addressing him in Italian, as if maternal feelings expressed themselves instinctively in her own tongue.
‘Sit down, Mother. Don’t alarm yourself. I am much improved. Your doctor has purged me thoroughly.’ Henri spoke in French, for the benefit of the rest of the company. Ruggieri sat beside the Queen Mother in an uncomfortable chair; his puffy features and drooping head suggested he had been hurried from his bed prematurely. Gabrielle perched on the edge of the dais at Catherine’s feet, now dressed, her hair in artful disarray; she flashed me a look of pure fury as I entered. I found I could not meet her eye.
‘I understand you wanted to see Doctor Bruno?’ Henri smiled pleasantly at his mother. ‘I thought I would take the air and accompany him.’
Catherine glared at me, as if this were my doing. ‘It was on a private matter.’
‘It strikes me that there is too much private business going on in this palace lately. You know I don’t like you having secrets from me, Mother.’ Henri was still smiling, but there was steel in it. His fingers gripped my shoulder. ‘Whatever you have to say, you may say it in the presence of your king.’
Catherine’s face tightened almost imperceptibly at the subtle pulling of rank. ‘You and I have spoken before about the company you keep,’ she said, her voice taut. ‘This man is a perfect example. He has been taking liberties. Twice in the last week he has found his way into my house under false pretences and absconded against my express orders. He has finagled his way into your wife’s apartments. And now he has assaulted one of my women. The Duchess of Montpensier has written to me saying he broke into her house and took private letters before jumping out of a window and escaping on her brother’s stolen horse. I say enough. A Neapolitan brawler, a thief and a known heretic, Henri. This is the man you choose as your confidant and your so-called tutor. What do you think people will say about you?’
‘Blood of Christ, Mother! Bruno was out of Paris for three years – did people stop saying unpleasant things about me then? I cannot control what people say, not without closing every printing press in France, and that would not stop the ballads and skits in the tavern yards.’ Henri let go of me and took a step towards her. Spittle flecked the corners of his mouth; his eyes bulged. ‘I will not live my life in thrall to those fucking pamphleteers. Bitter little clerics truffling around in shit, with no—’ he broke off, felled by an almighty coughing fit.
‘Look to the King,’ Catherine cried, rising effortfully from her chair. Balthasar and I dashed forward and caught Henri by the elbows, guiding him to an upholstered settle at the side of the room. Gabrielle rushed to bring him a glass of watered wine. When he had recovered, he raised his head and looked at me with admiration.
‘Did you really steal Guise’s horse?’
‘I gave it back.’
He smiled, though it faded almost immediately. ‘What were you doing with my wife?’
I glanced at Catherine. ‘I was going to explain that, Your Majesty.’
‘Listening to all manner of fanciful tales from a woman whose mind is clearly disturbed,’ Catherine said, pinning me with her blackest stare. ‘Barrenness can do that to the female brain, you know. Unbalance the humours. Tip women into madness, sometimes.’
‘Well, you would know,’ Henri said, heaving himself up again and crossing the room to stand before her. ‘You were ten years married to my father before you first conceived, were you not, madam? While he was getting bastards all over France with his mistresses.’
Catherine gaped; her hand flew to her throat as if her son had struck her. I heard her attendants draw breath in shock.
‘So do not be so quick to judge my wife,’ he continued, in a voice like stone. ‘Now sit down. Bruno has a story to tell, and I want you to hear it.’
‘Really?’ She looked back to me, a faint wrinkle of distaste forming across the bridge of her nose. ‘I cannot help feeling the world would be a better place if Doctor Bruno learned to keep his thoughts to himself.’
‘Not this time.’ Henri held a hand out to me as if presenting me on a stage. ‘Bruno has come to tell us who killed Léonie de Châtillon.’
Gabrielle gasped; I glanced over to see her pressing her hand to her mouth, wide eyes fixed on me.
‘How clever of him,’ Catherine said, with a dry laugh. ‘When we already know. Two physicians have pronounced that she took her own life, God have mercy on her soul.’
‘Madam,’ Henri said, sounding tired, ‘you pay your physicians to tell you what you wish to hear. Le
t us listen to Bruno’s version.’
She snorted. ‘Is he a doctor of medicine?’
‘No, but he is a man of many subtle talents, one of which is probing into suspicious deaths, which is why I sent for him last month.’ He gestured to me again. ‘Speak, Bruno. Your audience is rapt.’
Catherine banged her stick on the stage. ‘Clear the room. All of you – into the gallery. His Majesty the King may give credence to this Neapolitan fox but I will not have the rest of my household infected by his wild suppositions. Go on, out.’ She thumped the stick again and her attendants hurried to obey. Gabrielle paused by the door and gave me a long look that seemed intended to communicate something, but I turned away.
When only the three of us were left in the room, Catherine motioned for Henri to sit beside her. ‘I don’t want you fainting again. Very well, then, Doctor Bruno – you have the floor. Tell us what you imagine happened that night.’
I cleared my throat and began.
* * *
‘You asked me to look into the death of the priest Paul Lefèvre, Your Majesty,’ I said, drawing myself up to face the King and trying to imagine I was presenting my case in a public debate at a university, as I had so often, in so many cities. But my palms felt sticky, my mouth gritty and strange. I folded my hands behind my back so Catherine would not see them trembling. ‘You believed he had been murdered by the Catholic League, to incite a riot against you. But I had seen him on his death bed, after he was attacked outside the abbey of Saint-Victor. He managed to speak one word to me before he died. That word was “Circe”.’
‘From which you developed your far-fetched theory that Léonie de Châtillon was conspiring against my son,’ Catherine cut in, her expression sceptical.
‘Yes, eventually. Though I was mistaken.’
‘I am glad you concede it.’
‘But only in one particular,’ I continued, and saw her mouth tense. ‘Léonie did make her confession to Père Lefèvre. She told him she was part of a conspiracy that would involve murder. He tried to warn the party whose life was in danger. My mistake was in assuming that the person he addressed as “Your Majesty” in his anonymous letter was King Henri.’
The King started forward in his chair. ‘Then whom? My mother?’ He darted a fearful glance sideways at her.
‘No, sire. Your wife, Queen Louise. And Lefèvre did send a copy of that letter, which she received. But I believe someone else at the palace saw it too. And that someone told the author of this plot against the Queen. That was why Paul Lefèvre had to die.’
Catherine clasped her hands together. ‘This smacks of a League conspiracy. The girl had some residual attachment to Guise, even after all these years. I should not have trusted her.’
‘It does seem the obvious answer, Your Majesty,’ I said, inclining my head towards her in a show of deference. ‘For a long while I assumed it must be an elaborate plan by the Duke of Guise. Especially when I found convincing evidence that Lefèvre was killed by Joseph de Chartres – the almoner of Saint-Victor and a League collaborator. But that was because I was working on the assumption that His Majesty the King was the target. Once I learned from Queen Louise that Paul Lefèvre’s letter had been written to her all along, I had to revise my assumptions.’
‘So – it was not Guise?’ Henri sounded disappointed. ‘But de Chartres was related to the Duchess of Montpensier. Who would he kill for, if not the League?’
‘I realised that the answer lay not in his League connections but in another attachment. De Chartres was rumoured to have a mistress. I found a letter from his lover in his cell at Saint-Victor. My friend the librarian there found another in the same hand among his other papers – a letter telling him that Lefèvre was going to denounce him as a spy and must be silenced.’
‘So…’ Henri frowned. ‘What does that have to do with Circe?’
‘Nothing. That is precisely the point. There is no mention of this conspiracy involving Circe, which makes me think that Joseph de Chartres did not know of it. His lover used him. Joseph thought he was getting rid of Lefèvre for a different reason – to protect himself against exposure as a spy.’
‘A spy for whom?’ Henri asked. ‘I am completely confused.’
‘Bear with me – it will become clearer. We must suppose that he was afraid his comrades in the League suspected him of fraternising with their enemy. The curate at Saint-Séverin overheard Lefèvre calling him Judas.’ I left a pause for him to work it out.
‘There seems to be an awful lot of supposition here,’ Catherine remarked, shifting her weight in the chair.
‘I prefer to call it logical deduction,’ I said.
‘You mean, this mistress was someone from my household?’ Henri stared at me as if the idea was preposterous.
‘It was someone with royal allegiances, certainly. And I also believe the lover killed de Chartres not long after. Presumably he couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet either.’
‘But—’ Henri shook his head as he struggled to make the necessary connections – ‘if she came from inside the royal households, then the original conspiracy, the one involving Circe—’
‘Also came from within the palace.’ I took a few paces in front of them, as if speaking to a public gallery. ‘Circe – Léonie – had confessed to a plot to harm Queen Louise. That made no sense if Guise was behind it – it would be no advantage to him to attack the Queen. Quite the reverse – it’s in his interest that you continue in a childless marriage, sire. If your wife were to die, you would be free to find a new one who might give you a son, and his hopes of the throne would crumble. In fact, the only people who would obviously benefit from the death of Queen Louise would be the House of Valois.’
Catherine brought her stick down sharply again as if she were the presiding judge. ‘I think we have heard enough of this nonsense. Banish this man, Henri. You have shown him too much familiarity – now he thinks he can speak to sovereigns as if he were their equal.’
‘For courage and intelligence he is the superior of every prince I have known,’ Henri snapped back, half-rising. He sounded unusually regal. ‘And may I remind you, madam, that there is only one sovereign in this room, and he commands Bruno to continue.’
I had never seen Catherine shrink before. She pressed her lips together and folded her hands over the top of her cane, her eyes fixed intently on me as if daring me to finish my accusation.
‘So you think Léonie was trying to kill my wife?’ Henri formed the words slowly and carefully, as if their meaning was only now beginning to penetrate. Before I could answer, he turned to face his mother, understanding spreading over his face. ‘You knew. Dear God – this was your solution?’
‘The man is raving, Henri. He is saying the first thing that comes into his head because he is desperate for your patronage again.’
‘With respect, madam, if I wanted to win royal favour this is not the story I would be inventing,’ I said quietly.
‘You spoke to me of a possible annulment, I remember that,’ Henri said, still addressing his mother with the same incredulous gaze. ‘I told you I would not countenance it. God knows Louise has endured enough – she does not deserve to be thrown aside so lightly. Then Ruggieri made his prophecy, which I took as a sign that everything would be resolved…’ He let the sentence trail into silence as he looked back at me. ‘Go on, Bruno. What further secrets has my mother been keeping from me?’
My eyes flicked to Catherine; I saw her give a minute shake of her head, her lips pressed so tight they had turned white. If I spoke now, I would make a lasting enemy of the most powerful woman in France, and despite the King’s present performance, I was not convinced he had the will to defy her for long. I paused, breathed hard and plunged in anyway.
‘One significant one, Your Majesty. Léonie de Châtillon was in the early weeks of pregnancy when she died.’
‘What?’ Henri leapt to his feet, throwing his chair over behind him. His nostrils flared as his gaze swung wildly from me t
o Catherine. ‘She was carrying my child? And you killed her, knowing that?’
‘Of course I didn’t kill her.’ Catherine smoothed her skirts. ‘Do you imagine, at my age, I go stalking through woods in the dark, garrotting young women?’
‘Why would you say she was garrotted?’ I asked, immediately. ‘I thought you believed she killed herself with cuts to the wrists?’
‘I do.’ She regarded me calmly; her expression told me I would have to do better than that if I wanted to catch her out. ‘But I know that is your theory. You said so when her body was first brought in. I presumed you had added it to the many other foolish ideas you have been putting in my son’s head. Besides, Henri,’ – she shifted to face the King – ‘it almost certainly wasn’t yours. The girl was still Guise’s whore.’
‘But you didn’t know that at first, did you?’ I planted myself before her chair. ‘When she first told you she was with child, you had to act quickly. You consulted Jacopo about the prospect of legitimising the child by marriage. And you sent Léonie to serve Queen Louise. To poison her, little by little, so no one would suspect foul play. But Léonie threw your plan into disarray when she confessed it to Paul Lefèvre, who alerted the Queen. Then, when you learned the child might not even be the King’s, you realised you had risked everything for a deception.’
‘Where is your evidence for any of this?’ Catherine still appeared admirably unruffled; it was I who was sweating. ‘Henri, are you going to let this man interrogate me as if he were my judge and I a common criminal?’
‘Yes,’ the King said bluntly. ‘And I would like to hear you answer his charges, madam.’
‘I have asked him what proof he has beyond wild fancy.’ She sat back and looked at me, eyebrows arched expectantly.
‘The Queen’s recent illness began when Léonie came to serve in her household, two months ago.’
Catherine waved her hand. ‘That woman has always suffered from ill health, long before Léonie went near her.’