Despite the December cold, people would spill into the gardens later in pairs, or perhaps more than pairs, seeking the shadows of trees and hidden bowers behind hedges. I had only been on the fringes of Catherine’s entertainments on one occasion, but I knew how these nights ended; solitary revellers in drooping costumes stumbling through corridors, masks dangling limp from one hand as the torches burn themselves out, asking forlornly if anyone knows where their husband or wife might be. Best make your way home without them, or find a substitute. For all her stern piety and stiff widow’s attire, Catherine knew how to make sure her festivities were remembered. From behind the walls I caught the rising sound of pipes and viols, gusts of laughter and raised voices. I drew the hood closer around my face. My breath condensed on the inside of the mask and grew clammy.
We pulled up at a plainer landing stage further downriver, for tradesmen and workers. Jacopo stood and exchanged a few words with the official who waited by the entrance, checking names off on a list; after a cursory head count, he waved us through. I was given a box of stage properties to carry; the rest of the players had kept their masks on too, save Francesco, who had pushed his back to talk to the man with the list. No one gave me a second glance.
We processed through a maze of back corridors, where uniformed servants with fixed expressions scurried in silence, arms laden with silver dishes, boxes of candles, glass bowls, stacks of velvet cushions, musical instruments or gilt chairs, until at last we were ushered into a small room and told to wait for the Master of Ceremonies. I stood uncertainly, holding my box, as the players moved efficiently around me, until the white-faced boy Ercole took pity on me and lifted it out of my arms.
‘This might be the moment for you to slip away, Bruno,’ Francesco murmured, strapping an imitation sword to his belt. ‘Ah – this reminds me.’ He rummaged in a box of stage weapons and pulled out my knife, which he had had the sense to make me hide there before we arrived, so that I would not be disarmed at the gate. ‘No one will notice you now, among the guests. Go, drink your fill and make merry with these notorious Frenchwomen, and whatever else you came for. Don’t forget to cheer the loudest when we take our bows.’
I pushed the mask up on to my head and strapped the dagger to my belt, making sure it was tucked away under the cloak. Now that I was here in the heart of the court, I had little idea of why I had come. Talk to the women, Paget had said. I had only one way into that secret world, but I did not know if she would be willing to talk to me after all this time. Besides, tonight every man would be trying to get close to Catherine’s women. And if it should reach the Queen Mother’s ears that I was skulking incognito in her halls, being kicked into the street on my arse would be the kindest response I could hope for.
I looked around for Jacopo, but he had vanished to other duties somewhere along the warren of corridors. I was about to wish the Gelosi good luck for their endeavours, but before I could speak, the door opened and a slender, dark man entered the room with a brisk handclap. I twisted my face away and pulled down the mask, hoping he had not seen me. This was Balthasar de Beaujoyeux, the Master of Ceremonies – another of Catherine’s Florentine imports, who had adopted the French version of his name when he arrived in Paris twenty years earlier to take charge of the artistic performances at court. He must be in his early forties by now, though he was still in fine shape; he had been a celebrated dancer in his youth at the court of Catherine’s cousin, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, until an injury had forced him to leave Italy and turn his talents to teaching and choreography. Now he marshalled these great magnificences, as Catherine liked to call them – their extensive casts of dancers, singers, players and musicians, their extravagant staging and special effects – with the fierce discipline and cool head of a military strategist. We had crossed paths a few times when I last lived in Paris; though he had always been courteous to me in the past, I did not wish to attract his attention tonight for fear of word reaching his mistress. He stood in the doorway, neat and wiry in a grey silk suit and velvet slippers, elevating himself on his toes and scanning the room as if checking off each player against a list in his head. As he reached me, his gaze lingered and the echo of my breathing seemed to grow louder inside the mask, but he gave no sign of recognition as his eyes flickered down to the pages he carried.
‘Welcome, friends,’ he began, in Italian, tucking the paper under his arms and clapping his hands again to ensure he had their full attention. ‘The timing is tight tonight so I need you on and off as quickly as possible. Let’s go through the running order. Your first piece will be straight up after the castrati – with luck the audience might still be sober.’
Isabella laughed. ‘Always the optimist, Balthasar.’
He flashed her a brief smile. ‘Regardless, my mistress will be sober all night, so consider yourselves to be performing for her and keep it tasteful. Now then, Andreini—’ he beckoned Francesco over to look at the list. ‘I want you in position in the antechamber before the castrati go on. Is this your full company?’
‘All of them – but let me see again where we come in?’ Francesco slipped an arm around Balthasar and turned him away from the door as he leaned over the director’s shoulder to examine his schedule; I took the opportunity to edge past him before he could ask the company to identify themselves.
Outside the dressing room, a brief lull, the corridor unexpectedly empty. I leaned against the wall and adjusted the mask, pulling the hood of the Doctor’s cloak over my head. As long as I kept my mouth shut, I would remain invisible in this crowd, cut loose from my name; there was an undeniable frisson in this thought. The sound of singing voices carried from somewhere close by, tightly wrapped harmonies over the layered instruments of an air de cours. Laughter rippled outwards. I followed the sound along the corridor, head lifted like a dog after a scent. A boy appeared around a corner, skin dark as varnished wood against the blue and gold of his velvet suit. He carried a tray of marzipan sweetmeats fashioned in the shape of scallop shells. I asked him the way to the Grande Salle and he jerked his head in the direction he had just come; I helped myself to a shell as I thanked him. He didn’t stop me, only blinked his large black eyes, impassive, and continued on his way. The passageway ended in a door which opened on to a larger, broader corridor where lugubrious Valois faces in oils glared down from the walls at a procession of men and women in lavish costume strutting their way towards the heart of the palace. I slipped in behind a group and allowed myself to be borne along in their wake, my fingers and tongue still sticky and sweet from the marzipan.
The Grande Salle had been decked out like an enchanted castle from a chivalric tale. Two storeys above us, the vast carved ceiling was hung with a canopy of dark cloth embroidered with the constellations and figures of the zodiac in gold and silver thread, with paper models of the Sun, Moon and planets suspended at varying heights; if their arrangement lacked cosmological accuracy, it compensated with colour and exuberance. At one end of the hall a wide wooden stage had been erected, surmounted by a painted backcloth depicting a pastoral landscape and bordered by real trees in great earthenware pots at either side. Here five singers dressed as shepherds and a group of musicians were working valiantly through a series of chansons by Claude le Jeune, though their efforts were largely drowned out by the chatter of the guests. Along the side walls, tiers of seating faced one another, the wide space of tiled floor between them strewn with dried petals. Banks of candles glittered at intervals along the walls, pitching wavering shadows up the tapestries and embroidered cloths that hung the length of the hall; more candles flickered in the chandeliers that had been lowered from the ceiling so that they would not singe the cloth of the heavens.
Opposite the stage, at the other end of the room, was a raised dais spread with crimson velvet and shaded by a canopy of the same, three gilded thrones placed in the centre with less ornate chairs to either side. Garlands of evergreen branches and dried fruits decorated every window embrasure; the air was fragrant with the scen
t of pine resin, cloves and orange, and something else, heavy and spicy, like the smell of burning incense. In one corner a fountain carved with nymphs spouted wine into fluted glass bowls. Braziers of scented wood had been lit in corners to warm the vast space, whose stone walls and high mullioned windows would otherwise have lent it the chill of a cathedral this December night.
The effect was magnificent. But it was the people milling around between the banks of seats who compelled the eye. Three hundred already, at a guess, and more still pouring through the main door, in every conceivable disguise. Cardinals and Venetian senators jostled with Greeks and Trojans, knights, Harlequins and Saracens for the attention of milkmaids and Amazons, fairy queens, Turkish concubines or damsels from ancient tales, who swirled and billowed in satins and velvets of sapphire, plum and emerald; candlelight glinted on silks woven with gold and silver thread, capes of glossy fur and bodices shimmering with seed pearls. Headdresses of ostrich and peacock feathers bowed and swayed as their owners curtseyed or bent their heads to whisper behind their fans of ivory and tortoiseshell at the appearance of some newcomer. Earrings, pendants and jewelled belts flashed like knives. And every face hidden behind a mask: painted, trimmed with lace or elaborate embroidery, studded with precious stones or hung with strings of glass beads, some topped with crests of feathers or draped with veils, all lending the allure of anonymity, the promise of throwing off inhibition for the space of a few hours. The air crackled with anticipation.
I felt a presence beside me and looked down; a dwarf had appeared noiselessly at my side, holding out a tray of glasses filled with some amber liquid. How long had he been there? I could read nothing in the dark eyes that stared out of the slits in the black mask he wore, but instinctively I took a step back. Then, thinking I should not draw attention to myself by acting with undue suspicion, I inclined my head and took one of his drinks, though not the one nearest me. He nodded and slipped away, unnervingly silent for such an ungainly man, and I sniffed my glass; it smelled like a fermented fruit punch, though powerfully strong. As I raised it to my lips, I glanced up and noticed a tall woman with a tiara of white feathers hovering at the back of the crowd on the other side of the hall; her face was almost completely obscured by a mask of ivory silk painted with silver spider webs, but it seemed she was watching me. There was something familiar about her bearing. I moved along the wall for a better view, but people drifted across in front of me and when a space cleared between them, she had vanished.
I sipped the punch and felt it burn my throat and roar through my veins. It would not surprise me if something had been added to it, some secret ingredient to hasten intoxication. Feeling suddenly reckless, I took another, longer draught and rolled my shoulders back as the tension began to melt away in the heat of the drink; excitement flickered in the pit of my stomach and deeper in my groin at the idea of moving through this company unrecognised. Emboldened, I peeled myself away from the wall and crossed the floor between the banks of seats, half looking for the mysterious woman in white. From this side of the room a door behind a thick curtain led out to a torchlit terrace overlooking Catherine’s famous gardens. Though the night air was cold as glass, people had already drifted outside to take advantage of the dark, or perhaps just to escape the cloying scent of the incense. I wrapped my cloak tight around me and stepped out, thinking a gulp of icy air might sharpen my senses; much as I wanted to, I could not afford to succumb to the temptation to forget myself here.
I walked to the edge of the terrace, shivering as I watched a couple steal down the steps to the gardens, pulling one another urgently along a path towards a complicit spread of darkness beyond the reach of the torches that flickered along the paths, spilling pools of uncertain light that served to make the shadows between more impenetrable. I swallowed the rest of the punch and placed the glass on the stone balustrade in front of me, tucking my hands inside my sleeves. Almost immediately, a gloved hand placed another full goblet beside it. Jolted out of my thoughts, I snapped my head around to see the woman in the white mask standing to my right, only a couple of feet away, looking at me. She held a fan over the lower half of her face, but I could tell she was smiling. Her height was her most remarkable feature; I could not place her and yet neither could I shake the sense that I had once known her, in another context. She seemed to think she knew me, too; it could be the only explanation for her intent stare, her air of amusement. Though lean, her frame was large, her shoulders broad for a woman, her hands disconcertingly strong and solid in their lace gloves. It was only as I looked more closely at her hands that understanding began to dawn. I raised my eyes and met her mischievous stare again. She gestured towards her drink, offering it to me. I shook my head. She let out a soft laugh, her breath escaping in plumes behind the fan, held my gaze for a few moments longer, then lowered the fan slowly so that I could see her mouth. Despite the ceruse and the painted lips I saw now where I had met her before. She dropped into a deep curtsey with unexpected grace.
‘Buona sera, Signor Bruno.’ She spoke with a lisp, in a half-whispered little-girl sing-song.
‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ I replied, with deliberate forbearance.
The mask was lifted with a squeal of delight. ‘You’ve got to admit, from a distance it’s convincing,’ King Henri said, in his own voice. ‘Even close up, if you’re not too choosy. The Marquis de Tours has been giving me the eye since he arrived, short-sighted old goat. It’s my feet that give me away, though.’ He lifted an oversized dancing slipper from beneath his skirts and pointed his toe in a show of daintiness. ‘What did you think, Bruno – were you tempted, even briefly?’
I should have remembered this favourite game of Henri’s. The pamphleteers barely had to stretch their imaginations where he was concerned. ‘I prefer women with a less obvious beard line, sire.’
‘For shame.’ Henri ran his fingers along his jaw. ‘I had myself shaved twice today, you know. And a woman did my make-up, so she ought to know what she was about. I have to avoid my mother, of course. I’m supposed to take part in this masque she’s devised. Another heavy-handed allegory where I save France from ignorance and perdition. I’m tempted to do it in this get-up just to see their faces, hers and my wife’s.’ He sighed. ‘Though Louise has been sick this past week, poor creature. I don’t know if she’ll manage to haul herself out of bed for the evening. I suppose she’ll be too afraid of my mother to do otherwise.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ I gave him a cautious look. ‘Although, if she is sick, perhaps it may be happy news?’
‘Well, if it is, it’s a holy miracle. None of my doing,’ he said, brusquely. ‘Now listen.’ He took my elbow and led me to a corner of the terrace, shadowed by the wall of the palace. ‘What of this priest? I had hoped to hear from you sooner. It’s been over a week.’
I hesitated. I had been putting off any contact with Henri partly because I had wanted to speak to Jacopo first about Joseph’s death, and the meaning of ‘Circe’, but mostly because I was afraid that Guise would know immediately if I tried to see the King. I did not think his threats to harm me or Sophia were made in jest.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty – I was following leads that needed to be verified. These things take time—’
‘We don’t have time. I expect you’ve heard – there’s been another death. The almoner at Saint-Victor. The Montpensier bitch is up in arms about it, he’s a relative. Is it connected to our priest?’
‘I believe so,’ I said. ‘I think the almoner killed Père Lefèvre on someone’s orders to silence him and was then killed himself for the same reason.’
He stiffened. ‘Silence him about what?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. They both worked for the League. The almoner wrote pamphlets against you and Lefèvre carried them to the printer. That’s how they knew one another.’
Henri clenched his fist. ‘Then it all points to Guise, as I said all along. Can you prove it?’
I thought of the papers Pag
et had thrown in the fire at Brinkley’s. ‘Not at present. But they used an English printer by the name of Brinkley at the Palais – you could order his shop to be searched. He might talk if you have him questioned forcefully.’
He swatted the suggestion away with his fan. ‘He wouldn’t know anything that could implicate Guise directly. The Duke is too careful for that. Though perhaps I will bring this printer in anyway, to make his friends sweat – these English League supporters could do with a sharp lesson. I give them asylum in Paris and the next minute they’re plotting with my enemies. But why was the priest killed in the first place – what secrets were they afraid he might spill? Some conspiracy against me?’ He glanced about him with a theatrical shudder before poking me in the shoulder.
‘It’s possible—’
‘It must have been. So you need to find out who killed the almoner. And do it quickly. Joseph de Chartres is not some parish priest of no name. He came from a noble family and they will seek justice for him by whatever means serves their purpose.’ He tapped his fan on the balustrade, his body tense.
I cleared my throat. ‘I think the family may try to blame me for his death.’
Henri turned, eyebrows arched. ‘You?’
‘The Abbé of Saint-Victor caught me searching his cell last week, the night before he died. I was looking for papers that might tie him to Guise or Lefèvre.’
‘And?’
I looked at the ground. ‘Nothing.’
He puffed out his cheeks and let his breath escape in a sharp laugh. But when he turned to me, his eyes were hard. ‘Damned stupid of you. How could you let yourself be caught? Abbé Renaud is a notorious tyrant. And no friend to heretics, nor to me. You were lucky he didn’t have you thrown in gaol.’
I considered, briefly, the consequences of telling the King what had happened that night, but to recount the business of the Conciergerie would oblige me to explain how I had been rescued, and Henri was agitated enough without giving him reason to believe that I now owed a debt to a notorious English conspirator and ally of his greatest enemy. It seemed wiser to say nothing.
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