Conspiracy

by Stephanie Merritt

  ‘You look radiant, Your Majesty,’ I said, with a small bow. ‘That is an unusual necklace, in the picture.’

  A shadow crossed her face. ‘Catherine had it made by Italian goldsmiths for Henri to present to me on our wedding day. As a symbol of my duty to give him a Dauphin. Not especially subtle.’

  I looked back at the painting. Of course – Dauphin meant ‘dolphin’ in French, but it was also the title of the heir to the throne. So the medallion was to celebrate the future Dauphin, the prince who never came. Had Léonie stolen it, then?

  ‘Do you still wear it?’ I asked.

  ‘That would hardly be appropriate,’ she said bitterly. ‘Catherine made me give it back to the King for safekeeping. She said he would return it and I could wear it again when I had fulfilled its promise. So you see why the men are no threat to me. It is the women I fear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She laid a hand flat across her abdomen. ‘What do you suppose? Ten years of marriage and no Dauphin. I have done everything humanly possible, but it seems all the saints are deaf to me.’ Her face pinched, as if with a sharp pain. ‘And what of Catherine – are you close to her?’

  I hesitated. ‘I think Catherine would gladly see me dead, Your Majesty. Except for the rare occasions when she finds I can be useful to her.’

  ‘Hm. That makes two of us, then.’ She turned her attention to a loose thread in her sleeve. ‘Since the King’s brother the Duke of Anjou died last summer I feel I have been teetering on the edge of a precipice, waiting for her to push me. I am no longer useful, you see.’

  I looked at her, beginning to understand. ‘You think the King wants a new wife?’

  ‘For himself, I don’t think Henri would cast me off. He feels too guilty. But she controls everything. She will not see the House of Valois lose the throne without a fight. I knew it had begun when Ruggieri pronounced his new prophecy. So I wondered if Henri had said anything to you?’

  ‘His Majesty did not mention any prophecy,’ I said. She watched me with a clear, level stare.

  ‘Nothing you say will go beyond this room. I will give you my word, if you will do the same.’ She pointed at the wall, tracing a circle around her with her finger. ‘Day after day I am trapped here, knowing there are plots being woven all around me, and no one will tell me anything. Do you know how that feels?’

  ‘I know what it is to feel friendless,’ I said. She regarded me for a moment and nodded; her eyes suggested she was struggling with her desire to confide in someone. ‘What did this new prophecy say?’ I prompted, gently.

  ‘That the King would have a son within the year.’

  ‘But that speaks in your favour, does it not? If one believes Ruggieri truly has a divine gift,’ I added, in a tone that made my own view clear.

  ‘He did not say it would be with me,’ she said. ‘He predicted a son born to a fertile union – those were his exact words. It was carefully ambiguous. But I know, because Balthasar told me in confidence, that around the same time Catherine held a private audience with the Papal nuncio. I am sure it was to discuss the possibility of annulling my marriage.’

  ‘You think she would do that?’ I was surprised not by the suggestion of Catherine’s stratagems but by how astute the Queen was in guessing at them.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said, shortly. ‘I think such a process would be drawn-out, diplomatically fraught and expensive. Catherine would not want that. And why should she go to all that trouble when there are easier ways to remove me?’ She toyed with her cuff again. ‘Then she sent that Circe woman to join my household. To spy on me, I supposed at first. She would not have been the first. I thought then it had begun. And I have been so ill these past weeks, I feared she was already practising against me. I had good reason to believe it, too.’

  She pressed her lips together and turned back to the window. I watched her, the pent-up agitation making her thin frame quiver with nervous energy. It was impossible to know how far her fears were exaggerated by loneliness and her sense of isolation at court, but with Catherine de Medici, everything she was saying sounded entirely plausible.

  ‘But – if you will forgive me, Your Majesty, you are looking better. I pray that your health is returning.’

  She glanced at me over her shoulder. ‘I thank you. Yes, I feel a little more like myself these past couple of days.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Coincidence, isn’t it – that woman dies and immediately I begin to recover. Perhaps the priest was right after all.’

  ‘What?’ I fought to keep my voice level. ‘Which priest?’

  ‘I don’t know. I received a letter, almost a month ago now. Anonymous, of course. But the author said he had good intelligence that Circe meant me harm. He spoke of the confessional, so I assumed it came from a priest. And the de Châtillon girl was silly and superstitious enough that she would seek absolution for murder even before she committed it.’ Her fingers moved to pick at the beads on her belt. ‘No doubt you think I am full of absurd fancies. But if you lived as I do, knowing Catherine, you would be afraid for your life too. Don’t be deceived by these clothes—’ she held out the fabric of her skirt – ‘I am a prisoner awaiting execution like any in the Bastille. So I am pleading with you to tell me if Henri has said anything to you that would confirm my suspicions. Because I would go quietly – you can tell him that. To a convent, if he wished it. There is no need to kill me.’ I could hear the desperation in her voice, even as she tried to keep her face stoical.

  ‘Dio mio,’ I said forcefully. I had misunderstood everything from the beginning. ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked at me expectantly.

  ‘No, I meant—’ I could only stare at her, wondering how I could have made such an obvious mistake. All along, I had assumed that Paul Lefèvre’s letter had been intended for the King; it had never occurred to me that the same form of address, Votre Majesté, might refer to the Queen, or that she might be in danger. Like everyone else, I had barely given her a thought.

  ‘Do you still have the letter?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I burned it.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’

  ‘No. Who could I tell, in this place? I did not think anyone would take it seriously. They would tell me it was the ravings of a madman and I should ignore it. They would say that especially if there were any truth in it.’

  ‘Who brought you the letter?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It just arrived with all the others. I suppose any of the servants.’

  ‘Could anyone have read it before it reached you?’

  A small crease appeared in her brow. ‘It was sealed, I do remember that, because I recall looking to see if there was an insignia. But the wax was unmarked.’

  ‘Did you ever confront Circe? Léonie, I mean?’

  ‘Yes. I began refusing any food or drink she brought me. When she asked why, I made a joke of it. I said, “You would never do anything to hurt me, Léonie, would you?” She burst into tears.’ Her lip curled with contempt. ‘Fell on her knees, swore to me her love and duty were all mine as long as she lived and she would give her life for mine. I have never seen such a performance. She didn’t realise I knew she was fucking my husband, of course.’

  I gaped at her.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Doctor Bruno – I am not a child, though everyone treats me as if I were.’ She hitched up her skirts and crossed back to the window. This time I came to stand beside her. We looked down over the courtyard. A few flakes of snow had begun to drift into the light of the torches. ‘She was bursting into tears a lot these past few weeks,’ Louise mused, touching her fingertips to the glass. ‘At everything and nothing. I suppose one becomes emotional in her condition.’

  ‘Condition?’ I said faintly.

  ‘She was pregnant. I am sure of it, though I lack experience.’

  ‘I am certain of it too.’

  She turned to me, amazed. ‘Did Henri tell you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think h
e knows. I observed it for myself. That Circe costume did not leave much to the imagination.’

  She made a face. ‘The costume was Catherine’s idea. My original design was much more subtle. You see?’ She indicated the table to her right. I moved closer and saw that it was spread with sheets of paper covered in brightly coloured sketches of women showing the various costumes from the Masque of Circe. The drawings were beautifully executed, with an artist’s eye for the human form; the women had been rendered as if in the midst of the dance, so that the drape and movement of the fabric appeared charged with energy. Each one had been carefully painted, the colours suggesting the play of light and shadow as the dancers whirled. I recalled that Queen Louise had been involved in the ballets de cours in the past, but I had not realised the extent of her creative talents. Beside each dancer was a brief note on her place in the masque and how she would move.

  ‘This was how I pictured Circe,’ she said, pointing to a sketch that was clearly a likeness of Léonie, in a more modest Grecian gown of deep azure.

  ‘These drawings are exquisite, Your Majesty,’ I said. She flushed with pleasure and I was moved again with pity for her. ‘Did you contribute to the choreography too?’

  ‘Not really. A few suggestions. Balthasar added the notes but the costumes are all mine. It was Catherine who wanted Circe to look more titillating. I could not understand it – I would have thought in the circumstances she would have preferred to conceal the girl’s condition until the timing was more favourable.’

  ‘Favourable – how?’ I thought of how swiftly Catherine had dismissed my suggestion that Léonie was pregnant.

  ‘Catherine was deceived if she thought it was Henri’s,’ the Queen whispered, half to herself, watching her wavering reflection in the window. ‘Ten years of being probed and scraped by doctors and not one can find anything wrong with me. But it is always said to be the woman’s fault if she cannot conceive a child. To suggest it is the man’s failure casts doubt on his virility. And it is easier to replace a wife than a king, is it not?’

  ‘You mean you don’t think Henri can father a child?’ I asked.

  ‘To say so would be treason,’ she replied carefully. ‘I am saying I did not believe Léonie de Châtillon’s child was Henri’s. So I had her followed. I wanted to see if she met other men. I could not see the King so grossly deceived. I still care for my husband, you see. And I was terrified.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That if Catherine believed Léonie was carrying the King’s child, it would hasten her plans for me. I had to do something.’ She spoke so softly I could barely hear her. She remained by the window, her gaze unfocused, toying with the lace of her collar.

  I crossed the room and studied the wedding portrait hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace. In the lower right-hand corner two coats of arms had been painted to symbolise the joining of the two houses. One was the Valois arms, the other a gold shield with a crimson band showing three white eaglets displayed. I closed my eyes briefly and felt a cold sensation spread from the nape of my neck along the length of my spine. I realised now where I had seen the emblem sewn on the scarf I had found in the copse where Léonie was killed. This was the arms of the House of Lorraine; the Queen had been Louise of Lorraine before she married.

  I turned slowly to find that she too had moved from the window and was looking at me across the room. I tried to keep my face steady but my mind was racing. She had seemed so ill the night of the ball, barely able to hold her head up during the masque. Could she have been feigning?

  ‘I want you to do something for me,’ she said. ‘I will pay you.’

  ‘I am your servant, Your Majesty.’ I dipped my head, watching her; the nervous movements of her hands, the way she bit the corner of her lip. She did not look like a killer, but then a desperate woman might defy anyone’s expectations. Even so, if I had been forced to guess, I would have supposed a more detached method, such as poison, to have been her preferred choice.

  ‘Take a message to the King. Tell him I need to speak to him alone. Ask him to grant me a private audience.’

  ‘I’m not sure they will allow me to see him again, Your Majesty. His physicians are with him now, and he is very weak. Perhaps, when he is better, one of your servants might—’

  ‘They will not let any of my servants near him,’ she snapped, and I caught a sudden flash of steel in her eyes as she advanced a pace. Perhaps I had underestimated her. ‘That is why I sent for you. They will admit you. Tell the King he must see me as a matter of urgency. Say he owes me that, at least. But do not let her know that I sent you.’

  ‘I can try, but I fear—’

  I was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Without waiting for a summons, it opened to admit Balthasar, who looked from me to the Queen with puzzled consternation, as if trying to unpick a mathematical sequence.

  ‘Your Majesty, forgive me—’ he made a brisk bow – ‘but this man is expected at the Tuileries by Queen Catherine. He should not be in your private apartments alone.’

  ‘Peace, Balthasar. I sent for him, it is not his fault. I only wanted to hear from the horse’s mouth how my lord husband does. You know I have been praying for his well-being.’

  ‘You could have asked me, Your Majesty,’ Balthasar said, with gentle reproach.

  ‘But you did not speak with him. I am the King’s wife – I have a right to hear the news of his health directly.’ She drew herself up, bravely facing Balthasar down, but his expression was one of pity.

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty. I hope Doctor Bruno’s report was encouraging. I am pleased to say the King is now resting in bed and his physicians are attending to him. With God’s blessing he will soon be restored to vigour. And now, pardon me but we must not keep Queen Catherine waiting any longer.’

  ‘No, God forbid she should be inconvenienced,’ Queen Louise said, her face tight. ‘I thank you for your time, Doctor Bruno. I know that you are a loyal servant to your sovereign.’

  She shot me a meaningful look as I bowed and backed towards the door. I could not help a final glance towards the wedding portrait as I left.

  ‘What was that about?’ Balthasar hissed, as he hurried me down the stairs.

  ‘No more than she said. She wanted me to tell her about the King. She is frantic with worry over him. I believe she really loves him,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘I know. Remarkable, isn’t it? After everything he has put her through. I never cease to be amazed by the tenacity of women. I suppose she doesn’t have much choice. So what did Henri say to you in there?’

  We emerged into the courtyard. The snow was falling heavily now and a wind had picked up, causing it to swirl and eddy. I shivered.

  ‘He believes God has forsaken him. The usual. Most of it didn’t make sense.’

  Balthasar nodded, sympathetic. ‘But you mentioned that you had news for him. That was what prompted him to open the door to you. Something about a priest?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I hesitated, knowing every word would be repeated to Catherine. ‘There was a League priest killed a fortnight ago, the curé of Saint-Séverin – you remember? Henri was afraid Guise was going to find a way to blame him and incite the people to riot. He asked me to see if I could discover anything.’

  ‘I remember – there were reports of unrest. Catherine was worried. I didn’t know he had you looking into that. But you found something?’

  ‘No. I only said that to make him open the door.’

  ‘Ah. I suppose there is no doubt Guise ordered it, though you will have a job finding proof of that.’ He quickened his pace, muttering curses at the snow. We made our way across the open space between the two palaces, bordered on each side by buildings housing the vast complex of royal administration. ‘So Henri still has you working for him in secret?’

  ‘He thought so. But Catherine knew all about it.’

  He laughed. ‘Of course she did.’

  ‘Queen Louise showed me her designs for the Masque o
f Circe,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘She has quite a gift for drawing.’

  ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? She conceived of all those designs from her own imagination. And she can draw anything from the life too, with no training,’ he added. ‘It’s the one time I see her truly animated, when we are planning the grand ballets. I sometimes think she would be happier making costumes for a company of travelling players than being Queen of France, poor creature. It’s a pity her health is so fragile.’

  ‘Is she as bad as she looks?’ I thought of what Louise had told me. She had suspected Léonie of plotting to kill her and deceive the King; she said she had had to do something.

  ‘Oh yes. She missed most of the ball the other night. She was so ill she had to retire to her chamber directly after the masque. May I confide something in you, Bruno?’ He stopped abruptly with a hand on my arm as we approached the vast façade of the Tuileries.

  ‘Of course.’ I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering. He fixed me with his solemn dark eyes, though he seemed jittery.

  ‘I am afraid for Catherine’s health too. She is as stubborn in her way as Henri – she barely sleeps now, and she will not delegate to anyone. She feels she must oversee every bit of state business while the King is indisposed, or the kingdom will fall apart.’

  ‘She is probably not far wrong.’

  ‘True, but she stays up all night writing letters, she sits in war councils all day, she plans to travel south to meet Navarre before Christmas, if you please – she will not listen to reason, and she is in such pain, all the time, but she refuses to rest. And I am obliged to be at the Louvre so much now that I can’t watch over her as I would like.’ He appeared to be on the verge of tears. ‘I really fear she will drive herself into her grave, and then we will all be at the mercy of Guise.’

  ‘But the Queen Mother is tough. She has endured worse times than this.’

  ‘Not as tough as people think,’ he said, his voice heavy with implication. ‘And Léonie’s suicide has affected her deeply. She has taken it very hard.’