‘I was there,’ he croaked, trying to sit up. ‘I saw it all, before he put my eyes out. Dragged them from the house, slaughtered them like beasts on the steps. My cousin, his wife, the little girls in their new gowns …’ He tailed off into another bout of coughing. ‘It was her doing,’ he said, with sudden vehemence. I recalled he had said those words before, the night I was imprisoned with him. I closed my eyes and forced myself to be patient. He was not talking about the murders after all; he was tumbling back into the past, to the night of the massacre.
‘Did Guise kill anyone else?’ I asked, as gently as I could.
‘Thousands, I heard. All the Huguenots … they came for the wedding of the Princess Margot to the King of Navarre. My cousin …’
‘I mean – more recently? Did Guise ever visit you in prison?’
‘Oh yes, he came. He could not resist. What has happened to my wife?’
‘Your wife?’ I was caught out by the question. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘If Guise no longer needed me alive, he must have married her or killed her. One or the other. He only kept my life to bargain with.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Water,’ he rasped, his hand fluttering.
I passed him a cup and tipped it carefully to his parched lips. Most of it was spluttered over the bedclothes, but at length he lay back against the pillow.
‘It was my pride,’ he said sadly, raising his head a fraction, just when I thought he had fallen asleep again. ‘I thought I could have whatever I wanted. I chose her. I was forty-five, she was a child of fifteen. I was a powerful man. And the Medici woman needed my alliance. I demanded Léonie. Catherine granted her. It never occurred to either of us that she might have desires of her own.’
He fell back, as if the length of this speech had exhausted him. I did not want to press him too hard, but I felt he was on the verge of revealing something.
‘She did not wish to marry you?’ I prompted.
‘She had no choice. But she was in love already and would never love me, she made that clear. I punished her for it.’ A spasm jerked his face; I could not tell if it was pain or remorse.
‘She loved Guise?’
‘So she said. It was she who brought him to my house with his soldiers that night. She wanted me dead. She thought then he would be rid of his wife and marry her.’ He gave a sigh that shook his frame with alarming force. ‘Well, she learned that night not to trust Le Balafré. He did not give her what she wanted. She was not free, and she knew it. My life kept her bound to him.’
‘So—’ I hesitated, trying to work it out – ‘by keeping you alive, he made sure she could not marry again?’
‘I was the card in his sleeve,’ he whispered. ‘If she wished to marry, he threatened to bring me out to destroy the match. All this time, she was in thrall to him.’
‘Did he ever hint that he had pressured her into anything? A plot to kill the King, for instance?’
‘The King?’ A vein trembled at his temple; his face twisted with the effort of remembering. ‘Charles?’
‘Henri. His brother. Henri of Valois is king now.’ This was hopeless. Jacopo was right, I thought; the Count’s memories were so scattered that, though I believed there was truth in them, it would be impossible to sift through in search of anything solid.
‘Henri …’ His voice drifted away. ‘He never mentioned Henri. But he did say—’ He tried to raise his head again to cough; I slipped my arm beneath his shoulders and lifted him, trying to curb my impatience. ‘More water.’
‘What did Guise say?’ I asked, when the water had been dealt with.
‘He said she was going to put a Guise bastard on the throne. He laughed like a madman about it.’
‘Circe was? I mean, Léonie?’
‘That’s what he said. I did not understand his meaning.’
No, but I was beginning to see a glimmer of light.
‘When did he say this? Was it recently?’
The Count made a papery noise that might have been laughter. ‘I could not tell you, son. Time had no shape in that darkness. It might have been yesterday, might have been years ago.’
I patted his hand and settled him back among the pillows. There was no use pushing him any harder tonight; I did not want to risk his fragile state any further. He lay very still again, his chest barely rising and falling, though with no eyes it was impossible to tell if he was asleep. I tucked the blanket closer around him and crept towards the door, when I thought I heard him murmur. I rushed back, laid my hand over his and bent my head close to his lips.
‘God bless you,’ he croaked. His fingers moved under mine, and he fell silent once more.
TWENTY-ONE
I stumbled home and fell into bed as a thin light began to spread over the horizon and a lone bird trilled its dawn song into the brittle air over the river. When I woke, the day was already advanced, the sky clear and pale. I asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought up and cleaned myself thoroughly, examining my new injuries from the night before; a purple bruise spread over my hip and there were fresh scratches on my face and hands from falling into the bush, but the damage was not as bad as I had feared. When all this was over, I thought, I would shut myself away in a library and never again complain of the lack of incident in a life of writing. Then I remembered that I might have to return to England with news of Stafford’s treachery; in my present state of exhaustion I could not work out whether the idea excited or depressed me.
My immediate preoccupation was finding something to eat; I could not remember the last time I had had a proper meal. I dressed in clean clothes, ran a comb through my hair – a quick task now there was less of it – and climbed on my stool to retrieve the bag of items I now thought of as evidence that might link the murders. I slipped the silver penknife inside my doublet, swung my cloak around my shoulders and took myself to the Swan and Cross for a bowl of stew.
‘Seen the latest pamphlets?’ Gaston asked, as he slopped it down in front of me. I shook my head, as my mouth was crammed with bread.
‘That girl that was killed up at the Tuileries the other night,’ he continued, with the air of a professional opinion-former, resting one hand on the table. ‘The pamphleteers are saying Catherine did for her by witchcraft.’
‘Ah. And do they say why she wanted to do that?’
He sniffed. ‘Witches don’t need a reason, do they?’
‘So she just killed one of her ladies for her own amusement?’
‘Well.’ He leaned in and lowered his voice. ‘You know what they say about that Italian sorcerer – no offence – she favours. He has built a chapel to the Devil under the palace where he keeps the severed head of a Jewish child to prophesy for him. And he makes wax dolls of all the royal enemies and sticks them with needles when she commands him. They say he can call up spirits who aid him to walk forth out of his body so he can commit murder invisibly.’
‘Trust me,’ I said, tearing another hunk of bread, ‘I know Ruggieri – he is much less interesting than that.’
‘Anyway, the point is, they’re saying he murdered that girl by mistake. Catherine meant for him to kill someone else.’
‘Perhaps his spirit had trouble recognising people after he left his eyes behind. Who do they think he meant to kill, then?’
‘Don’t know. They say maybe her daughter, Margot.’
‘Margot is not in Paris.’
‘I’m just telling you what I read.’ He held up his hands as a disclaimer. ‘I thought you’d want to keep up with the tide of public feeling.’
‘Thanks, Gaston. I can’t help thinking these pamphleteers run ahead of the facts.’
He gave me a pitying look. ‘It’s a story about a beautiful rich whore killed by black magic. Do you think anyone gives two farts for the facts?’
After I had eaten, I crossed the river and made my way up the old rue du Temple towards the north of the Marais district, where the silver and goldsmiths had their workshops. A
s I walked, my thoughts returned to Sophia. There had been a moment, the previous night, when I imagined I saw a spark of what had once been between us, but now, in daylight, I realised I was fooling myself. Perhaps there had never been anything beyond a superficial attraction. With a twinge of anxiety, I recalled what she had said about keeping her eyes open for Paget by way of payment. I wondered now if she meant within the Fitzherbert household, or in more general terms. Would she run straight to Paget and tell him about seeing me sneaking around the Hotel de Montpensier, jumping off balconies? Sophia was an opportunist, and I could not blame her for that; she had had no choice. Brought up in an Oxford college, educated equally with her brother, she had come of age with ambitions and expectations that far exceeded what society would grant to a young woman of her status. She had rebelled against the constraints placed on her, and she had suffered for it. I had been useful to her for a time, but that time had passed. There was nothing I could offer her in my present circumstances. And yet, for a fleeting moment as she looked into my eyes, I could almost have persuaded myself that I could win her back.
Dismissing these thoughts, I made for a narrow shop with no sign over the door. Inside it was clean and well kept, though dim, since the small windows allowed in little light. A skinny apprentice leaned against the ware-bench polishing a monstrance. He glanced up as I entered, his eyes suspicious.
‘Is your master in the back?’
The boy jutted his chin out as if to argue, then thought better of it and disappeared through a door into the workshop. A moment later an older man in a leather apron appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth.
‘Help you?’
‘You are the master silversmith?’
‘I am.’
I removed my gloves and took the penknife from inside my doublet.
‘What can you tell me about this?’ I handed it to him.
He turned it over, running a finger along the carvings on the handle.
‘Selling it, are you?’
‘Possibly. I want to know more about it. Do you recognise this maker’s mark?’
‘Fetch my lenses,’ he barked at the boy. He peered more closely at the blade, affecting detachment, but I had seen the gleam in his eye when I had mentioned selling it; clearly it had some value. The boy returned with a thick disc of glass, cut and polished to magnify objects, like one lens of a pair of spectacles. The silversmith fitted it to his right eye and examined the knife.
‘Florentine,’ he said, with satisfaction.
‘You are certain?’
‘No doubt. This symbol of the tower has been used by the guild of Florentine silversmiths since the last century. Fine piece of work, this. Fifty years old, I’d say, maybe more. Worth something though.’
‘Could it have been bought in Paris?’
‘I’ve not seen anything like this for sale here in all the time I’ve been working, and that’s over forty years myself. No, I reckon this came out of Italy a while ago.’ He removed the lens and squinted at my expression. ‘Is it stolen, then?’
‘No. It’s been in my family for a long time.’
He shrugged, unperturbed.
‘Not my business how you came by it. But I’ll give you a good price, as long as the owner won’t come looking for it.’
‘I am the owner,’ I said, holding my hand out for the penknife. ‘And I thank you for your time – you’ve been a great help. If I decide to sell, I will certainly come to you.’
‘Don’t you want to know how much I’m willing to offer?’
‘Next time,’ I said, tucking it away again and rushing out of the shop before he could ask any more questions.
I hurried back towards the river, mulling over this new possibility. There were Italian merchants and traders in Paris, of course, as well as diplomats and couriers from Rome, but the majority of Florentines were to be found at court, orbiting around Catherine. Just as I had thought everything pointed indisputably to the Duke of Guise, the penknife seemed to tell a different story. I was so confused by this conflicting information that I stopped still in the middle of the Pont Saint-Michel to puzzle it out, drawing curses from those trying to pass through the narrow street around me. The letter Cotin had found among Joseph de Chartres’s private papers made it clear that he had feared being exposed as a spy; he had feared it so much, in fact, that he had been willing to kill Paul Lefèvre to prevent such a denunciation. So the letter implied, anyway. The question was: who was Joseph spying for, and on whom? I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead and tried to think clearly, as the crowds jostled past. Had I been looking in the wrong direction all this time? If Joseph’s lover was not the Duchess of Montpensier, could she be someone within the court – someone with access to an antique Florentine penknife?
An elbow in the back from an impatient passer-by jolted me out of my reverie and I walked the rest of the way home thinking that perhaps Jacopo was right and I should make the decision to walk away. Too many powerful interests were pitted against one another for this to be resolved with anything as simple as identifying a murderer. It was folly to imagine the King would dare bring Guise to justice, even if I turned up with irrefutable proof against him. Henri was too afraid of the Duke’s popularity and, as Gaston pointed out, people don’t much care about the facts if the truth is less exciting. If they want to riot against the King because Guise tells them Henri killed a priest, they won’t put down their weapons and go quietly home because someone like me turns up with the real perpetrator. They’re rioting against the shortage of bread, the poor harvest, the endless wars, the instability, the failure of their leaders to tell them once and for all who God favours and who He will burn. None of them really cared who killed Lefèvre.
By the time I reached the Place Maubert I had almost convinced myself to heed Jacopo’s advice, but I could not shake off the thought that, if someone within the court was involved in Guise’s plot, the King was still in real danger. As I turned into rue du Cimetière and approached the front door, Madame de la Fosse shot out and launched into an attack as if she had been watching for me from the window.
‘This is a respectable house.’ She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes blazing accusation.
‘Has someone suggested otherwise?’ I asked, with wide-eyed innocence, though my stomach lurched; she would not forgive me if armed men had turned up to arrest me in full view of the neighbours.
‘I’m not having fornication in here.’ She drew herself up, bristling with indignation.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said, trying to edge past her. ‘I wish you better luck in future.’
‘It’s not a joke.’ She blocked my way. ‘Some doxy appears on my doorstep, insists on seeing you, refuses to leave. Says if I don’t let her in she’ll wait outside until you come back. What would people say to that? Well, I couldn’t have her hanging about where everyone could see her.’
‘So, where is she now?’ My heart was hurtling, tripping over itself in a mixture of relief that I was not being arrested and a fierce thrill that Sophia had come to find me so soon. I had been right about that frisson last night, I thought.
‘Well, I had to let her in, didn’t I? I told her she could wait on the landing outside your door. But I’m not happy.’
‘Madame, you are magnificent.’ I planted a kiss on her cheek before she could protest and bounded up the stairs two at a time, my spirits revived by optimism. I rounded the turn of the stairwell and had to fight not to let my disappointment show on my face when I saw Gabrielle de la Tour leaning against the frame of my door.
‘Oh. This is an unexpected pleasure,’ I said, hoping to sound sincere.
She offered a charming smile, which looked equally unconvincing, and kissed me awkwardly on both cheeks.
‘Catherine wants to see you.’
‘Is that an invitation or a summons?’
She arched an eyebrow to indicate that this was a foolish question.
‘I was expecting her to send armed guards for me.
’
‘Oh, she will do that if you don’t come willingly.’ She nodded at the closed door. ‘Can we go inside for a minute?’
I hesitated. I knew I had hidden away anything incriminating – I always did before leaving the house, as a precaution – but I did not trust her and the idea of allowing her inside my private rooms made me feel oddly vulnerable. Perhaps that was also because I did not wholly trust myself to resist her.
But I unlocked the door and let her step inside, closing it behind us. She dropped on to my bed and sat with her head in her hands. I hovered by the door, disconcerted; I had half expected her to pounce on me as soon as we were alone. I had not anticipated this complete deflation.
‘Why does she want to see me?’ I asked, more sharply than I had intended. ‘Did you tell her I had asked questions about Circe?’
‘What?’ She peeled her hands away from her face and stared up at me. She looked pinched and worn, her eyes bruised with sleeplessness; she appeared to be fighting to keep her mouth from trembling. ‘I told her nothing, Bruno.’
‘You told her I was at the ball. She sent soldiers to find me shortly after I spoke to you.’
‘That was not my doing, I swear.’ Her eyes widened in distress. I watched her with caution; I could not discount the possibility that this was all an act.
‘Oh God. We are all so afraid,’ she whispered, bunching her hand into a fist and pressing it against her mouth.
‘Of what?’
‘What happened to Léonie. In case it should happen to any more of us.’
‘Why would you fear that? What do you think happened to her?’ I crossed the room to sit beside her, softening my voice. If she were telling the truth, it may be that she knew something, though I was still wary of being manipulated.
‘I don’t know. But none of us – in the Flying Squadron, I mean – believe that she took her own life.’
‘That is still Catherine’s view?’
She nodded, pressing her lips together as if she were fighting back tears. ‘So she says. I think she’s trying to avoid any gossip. But we talk among ourselves – we all fear that someone killed Léonie as a way of getting to Catherine. As a warning, you see. We fear that he may pick off more of us if she fails to heed it. We’re so scared, Bruno.’ Her voice quavered and she reached out a hand for me, turning to bury her face in my shoulder. Tentatively, I put my free arm around her.
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