Conspiracy

by Stephanie Merritt

  ‘I bet he did.’

  ‘I should have known you’d be the one standing apart from everyone else. You always did prefer your own company.’

  ‘Not always,’ I murmured.

  She drew her hood back a little so that I could see her mischievous smile. The top half of her face was covered by a jewelled mask of midnight blue silk, but her eyes held a knowing sparkle, seeming in that moment so familiar it sent a jolt of affection through me. Her look implied complicity; though I knew her loyalty was always to Catherine first, it warmed me to think there might be one more person in this city who was pleased to see me. Though immediately I had to remind myself not to take anything at face value where Gabrielle was concerned.

  ‘When Balthasar said you were here, I could hardly believe it,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘You know Catherine has forbidden the King from seeing you. I should have guessed you would contrive to defy her, between you.’ She sounded amused.

  ‘Will you tell her?’

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should not.’ Her tone was teasing. She was still looking at me from the corner of her eye.

  ‘Because you are secretly in love with me, and you have been praying since I left that I would come back and marry you and take you away from all this,’ I said, straight-faced.

  She laughed aloud, a pleasingly unladylike snort. ‘Still the same high opinion of yourself, I see.’

  ‘I must hold myself in high regard, madam – no one else in Paris will.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You still have a certain roguish appeal for the ladies of the court. And one or two of the men, I don’t doubt.’ She flashed me an impish smile, holding my gaze boldly until I shook my head, laughing. Gabrielle was never an obvious beauty, not in the provocative way of the woman who played Circe; her allure was all in the way she carried herself, with a natural elegance and an insouciance that suggested she didn’t much care if men paid her attention or not – an attitude which, naturally, made their interest all the keener. She was tall, with long limbs, dark-gold hair and a strong-featured face whose natural expression in repose made her look as if she had just remembered a filthy joke. It had been difficult to resist her for as long as I did, and she knew it.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, falling back on understatement. ‘You look well.’

  ‘I’d like to say the same, but I can see nothing of you under that disguise.’

  ‘I can’t take it off in public view.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting you take it off somewhere more private?’

  Flustered, I began to mumble some excuse, but she only laughed again and nudged me with her elbow. ‘Even if what you said earlier were true, Bruno, and not just your wild fantasy, I’m afraid you’re too late. I’m already married.’

  There was no logic to the fleeting stab of disappointment I felt at this announcement, but I was aware of it nonetheless.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said, without conviction.

  ‘Hardly. She had me married off to the Comte de Ligny. It’s not a bad arrangement. One has to be practical. It was very good of him really, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Ah. I heard …’

  ‘I’m sure you did. But Catherine has ways of managing these things. I went away before anyone could do more than speculate. The Count is my daughter’s father as far as the world is concerned and I am returned to court an honourable wife. People can say what they will, but decorum has been preserved and everyone is satisfied.’ She pressed her scarlet lips together. ‘Apart from my father, of course, but what did he expect? He sent me to Catherine with his eyes open.’

  ‘Your daughter,’ I repeated, softly. I had to look away. ‘Is she …?’

  ‘In Ligny, with her nursemaid. I’m told she thrives. Two years old last month. Pretty little thing, last time I saw her.’

  ‘Two. So—’ I calculated rapidly in my head – ‘she was born in November of ’83?’

  ‘That’s right.’ It seemed she meant to say more, but she fell into silence.

  ‘Then …?’ I turned back to her. The question seemed to catch in my throat.

  She hesitated for the space of a breath, and laid a hand on my arm. ‘No, Bruno.’

  ‘But – we were together in the January. Could it not be—’

  ‘The dates do not match.’ She did not meet my eye, though her hand still rested lightly on my sleeve.

  ‘It is possible to miscount the dates. Or so I understand.’

  ‘You know nothing of these matters, Bruno.’ She spoke gently, but it felt like a rebuff. ‘I’m sorry. Besides,’ she added, sounding weary, ‘what difference would it make?’

  ‘It would make a difference to me,’ I said, with a vehemence that surprised me. I was aware that I had raised my voice. ‘Just to know.’

  ‘Really? Would it not rather be a kind of torment? She is the Count’s child now. You could never see her. Even if she were yours, I mean,’ she added quickly.

  ‘It will be more of a torment to be always wondering,’ I said. ‘To think there might be a sliver of doubt.’

  ‘Then take my word for it.’ She squeezed my arm before removing her hand to pull her cloak close around her throat. ‘There is no doubt.’ But still she would not meet my eye.

  ‘Is she dark or fair?’ I was not sure why I was persisting, as if I might press the truth out of her one way or another. Given the life she led at court, it was entirely possible that she could not say for certain who the child’s father might be; I was not so deceived as to think I had been the only one, but I imagined there might be some clue in the child’s looks as to which of her lovers was responsible.

  ‘She looks like me.’ She pressed her lips together again. It appeared the subject was closed, and I knew better than to go on forcing it; she would only walk away, and I still needed her help. We stood in silence for a while, watching the colours explode against the dark backcloth of the sky. She shivered, and I slipped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder to keep her warm. She remained very still, neither quite a rejection nor a welcome of my touch. ‘I must go,’ she said, eventually, with – it seemed to me – a note of reluctance. ‘There is someone waiting for me inside.’

  ‘Your husband?’ I removed my arm.

  ‘God, no. No, the Count detests Paris – it’s one of his most appealing traits. He likes to stay on his own estates, devising ways to be more productive with agriculture.’ She made this sound like an outlandish fetish. ‘But I could meet you later,’ she said, dropping her voice. ‘Once I have fulfilled my obligations.’

  ‘I would like that,’ I heard myself say, though every shred of reason told me it would be the purest folly. Gabrielle was Catherine’s spy, had only ever been Catherine’s spy, whatever may have passed between us; there was no reason to suppose she regarded me now with anything other than professional detachment, and to make an assignation with her was most likely to be a trap. And yet the warmth of the drinks, the scent of her perfume, the slight pressure of her shoulder against my arm, together with the throbbing in my blood from the memory of the women dancing, all conspired to produce a more powerful effect than the promptings of reason. Perhaps I was no better than Henri when it came to resisting the stirrings of the flesh.

  ‘If you follow the left-hand path down from the terrace,’ she said, quietly, ‘and pass the fountain and the ornamental gardens, you come to a sort of wilderness beyond with a stretch of woodland. There’s a clearing there. Give me an hour.’

  I nodded. I felt obscurely as if the power of choice had been stripped from me, and all I could do was to follow orders. ‘But I must ask you something before you go,’ I said, recovering my wits enough to remember why I had wanted to speak to her.

  ‘Be quick, then.’ She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered again. Her eyes behind the mask darted from one side of the crowd to the other, as if she were looking out for someone in particular, or afraid of being caught.

  ‘The girl who played Circe �
�� what can you tell me about her?’

  She stiffened. ‘Ah. You have your eye on her now, do you?’ Her voice sounded pinched. ‘I don’t suppose you can be blamed, after that display. But take my advice – keep well away. That one is not for you.’

  ‘That was not my meaning,’ I said, realising my lack of tact. ‘I am not interested in her for myself. I only want to know more about her.’

  She turned to me, curiosity quickening in her eyes. ‘You cannot expect me to be satisfied with that.’ She ran her thumb across her lower lip; I could see her calculating. ‘So you want information about Circe. What will you trade me for it?’

  ‘Well – what do you usually trade for information?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think my currency will work for you, Bruno. Here are my terms – when you meet me in the copse, I will tell you what you want to know about Circe, and you will tell me why you are asking about her.’

  ‘Very well.’ I reasoned that by then I would be able to think of something. ‘But at least tell me her name.’

  She sighed. ‘Her name is Léonie de Châtillon. Youngest daughter of the Marquis de Châtillon. Widow of the Comte de Saint-Fermin. But everyone at court knows her as Circe. Not always as a compliment.’

  ‘Because she has played the part before, or because she is known to enchant men?’

  Gabrielle made a noise that sounded like derision. ‘She became notorious dancing it half-naked at the marriage of Queen Margot to the King of Navarre.’

  ‘The night before the massacre,’ I murmured. ‘Thirteen years ago.’

  ‘She’s older than she looks,’ she said, with a gleam of pleasure. ‘Childless, of course – that’s how she can still get away with it. So far, anyway.’

  It was not clear whether she meant Circe was childless so far, or had got away with it so far.

  ‘And is she—’ I was silenced by her finger laid across my lips.

  ‘I said I would trade with you, Bruno. Information for information. Look how much you have pried out of me already. No more until later.’

  She clutched her hood around her face and turned to leave.

  ‘One more question,’ I said, pulling her back by her cloak. ‘Unrelated.’ A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but I cut her off before she could refuse. ‘Do you know the Duchess of Montpensier?’

  This evidently wrong-footed her; she looked first incredulous, then amused. ‘You will have even less luck there, Bruno. I know her by reputation, of course. Chaste and devout guardian of the flame of true religion. You may safely assume our paths do not cross often.’

  ‘Have you seen her here tonight?’

  She nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘I will tell you later, if you can tell me what costume she is wearing.’

  ‘I see you are learning to barter.’ She reached up and stroked a finger along my jaw. ‘Very well – but you must promise to tell me everything about your interest in these other women. I want to know what you are up to.’

  ‘I promise,’ I said, reasoning that a promise to Gabrielle need only be as binding as one of hers.

  ‘Good.’ She glanced over her shoulder, then leant in and planted a kiss on my jaw below the mask, just where she had touched me. ‘She is dressed as Jeanne d’Arc, in silver chain mail. You will know her – skinny like a boy, with the Guise chin. Now I must go. Try not to get yourself into any trouble. I will see you in an hour.’ She reached down inside my cloak and ran a practised hand up the outside of my thigh to my belt, like an ostler checking a horse. She stopped when she encountered the sheath of my dagger. ‘What a bad boy you are,’ she murmured. ‘So you came prepared for trouble.’

  ‘I always travel prepared,’ I said. She stepped back a pace.

  ‘Until later, then.’ A note of wariness had appeared in her voice; I wished I had thought to conceal the dagger better. Perhaps she now feared that I had tricked my way into the palace with some malicious intent. I hoped she would not feel the need to warn anyone.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ I said, though I was already harbouring doubts about this meeting. She turned and disappeared into the crowd just as the final fireworks flared brightly before falling in a shower of sparks that faded quickly to black.

  The next hour passed in a blur. The crowd dispersed, drifting back into the warm, and I followed, looking out for a woman in silver chain mail, or the man in the Greek mask. I took another drink from a tray and swallowed it down. Inside the Grand Salle, the light seemed dimmer as the banks of candles had begun to burn down and the smoke from the braziers hung thicker in the air, blurring my vision. Musicians were playing, dark, urgent pieces a long way from the airy tunes of the earlier singers; the drink and the incense were already having a visible effect on the inhibitions of the guests. On the floor between the stands of tiered seating, dancers whirled in frenzied steps, bodies pressed together, and in every alcove and behind every drape I saw couples entwining themselves with little regard for privacy. Through the haze and the milling outlines of people I thought I glimpsed a woman in silver chain mail; I followed her out of the Grande Salle and into a maze of dimly lit corridors and galleries lined with guests seeking darker corners. I wandered a room full of mirrors, starting each time I saw my own shape swaddled in the hooded cloak with the twisted mask of the Doctor leering back at me. A distant clock chimed.

  I followed the sounds of the music back to the hall and stumbled out to the terrace. On the far side, by the wide stone steps to the gardens, the oily flames of torches revealed two figures, heads bowed together in earnest conversation: a masked woman in the costume of Joan of Arc, light rippling on her silver chain mail, and the tall man in the tricorn hat and the Greek mask. My blood quickened; I pressed myself back into the shadows by the palace wall and crept closer to see if I could catch what they were saying. They gave no sign of having seen me, and I was certain that I had been silent, but when I was a few feet away they drew apart with no warning, the woman walking quickly with her head bowed back to the hall, the man slipping down the steps to the gardens without a backward glance. I hesitated briefly, but decided my best option was to follow him; his behaviour had already given me cause for suspicion, and now I had caught him in intimate conference with a woman who matched Gabrielle’s description of the Duchess of Montpensier, I had all the more reason to watch him closely. This was not so easy in practice. The man in the Greek mask either had the night vision of a cat or knew the layout of the Tuileries gardens by heart; though he had taken no lantern, he walked quickly, with sure steps, through the formal borders where the paths were lit and on into the darkness beyond.

  I hurried after him, with the uneasy sensation that he knew very well he was being followed and was deliberately leading me on. Frost crunched under my boots; I gulped in cold air as if it were spring water, feeling my head begin to clear as I left the palace behind. The torches along the path burned low, giving out little light; I took one from its bracket and held it before me. To each side I encountered more couples barely concealed among the bushes, oblivious to the cold. In the lee of a box hedge, a woman stood with her bodice unlaced and her head thrown back, one man behind her caressing her breasts, while from beneath her skirts emerged the legs and haunches of a second, his head and torso swallowed up by her petticoats. None of them gave any acknowledgement of my presence; I turned away, adjusting myself, irritated by the old familiar ache of desire. I wanted to forget the man in the Greek mask, and instead to find Gabrielle in the velvet darkness of the woods and take some fleeting satisfaction in her embrace, like before.

  As if in silent complicity, the man in the mask appeared to have melted away into the shadows while my attention was distracted; I could see no sign of him against the line of trees ahead. The woods bristled with night noises: the call of an owl, the uncanny screech of a fox – though that might just as easily have been the sound of an amorous couple, as might the scufflings and rustlings of brittle leaves underfoot that caused me to pause every few steps as I strained to l
isten for the sound of anyone approaching. As the trees thickened, the path dwindled until I was no longer sure I was following any marked trail at all, or perhaps I had wandered from it long before, but I pressed forward, trying to keep the torch flame away from the bare twigs, hoping I would soon stumble on the clearing Gabrielle had mentioned.

  Presently, I became aware of a curious noise, one I could not recognise at first, but which sounded like the muffled whimper of a wounded animal. I slowed my steps, afraid of startling the creature, but as I listened I realised it was the sound of a woman crying. My first thought was of Gabrielle in distress; I moved as carefully as I could manage towards the sobs until I emerged unexpectedly from the trees into a small hollow. On the far side, I made out the figure of a woman sitting on a fallen trunk, bent over, a flickering lantern at her feet. At my arrival she jerked her head up, swiped a tear from her cheek with a savage gesture, and lowered her eyes again.

  ‘You came, then. I had almost given up. I cannot do it,’ she said, without preliminary, in a tone that dared me to argue. I almost did not recognise her, now that she was no longer wearing her mask. I opened my mouth to reply but she held up a hand to stop me. ‘No – let me speak. What you are asking of me – I cannot. Before God, I cannot. If I continue, I am damned. Surely you see that? And so are you,’ she continued, fiercely, before I could say a word, ‘for your hands will be as dirty as mine in God’s sight.’

  Her voice trembled and she broke off in a gulping sob. She was turning something over and over between her hands. It glinted in the light; a coin, perhaps, or a ring. I coughed and moved a step closer.

  ‘Say something, then,’ she urged, ‘or is your conscience quite dead? Will you not release me?’ There was no mistaking the desperation in her voice. The best thing I could do now would be to turn and leave, rather than add to her distress. Instead I took a few steps closer.

  ‘Madame – I fear you have mistaken me for someone else.’ I held the torch nearer to my face so that we could see one another clearly. She peered forward and I lifted my mask on to my head. I did not know what prompted me to do so, except some desire to reassure her, she looked so vulnerable. She stifled a little scream, pressing a hand over her mouth, and I found myself looking into the wild frightened eyes of Circe.