Conspiracy

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‘Get in that corner. If they come near my family, I’ll bloody kill you myself,’ she muttered. ‘What do they look like?’

‘I don’t know. One of them might be lame.’ I retreated into the shadows behind a rickety cupboard.

‘Lame? How slow do you run, then?’

One of the children giggled.

‘The other one isn’t. And they’re armed.’

The amused expression vanished; she glanced towards the door, her mouth set tight.

Minutes passed; I heard the children jostling for a place at the window, and a cry from the street. Eventually the woman burst into laughter.

‘Huguenots, you say?’

I stepped out, cautious. ‘Have they gone? Is there something funny?’

‘There were two of them, all right, marching up and down looking for someone. One in a cleric’s robes. The other was a dwarf. Were they the ones?’

‘They were in disguise,’ I said, feeling ridiculous.

She made no effort to hide her smile, but her eyes were gently teasing. ‘The dwarf disguise was very good.’

‘God will reward you for your charity, madame.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ she murmured, eyeing the purse at my belt. I drew out a sou and tossed it to the taller of the children, who caught it deftly and beamed at me through the gap in his teeth. ‘God be with you, monsieur,’ she said, at the door, tucking a strand of hair under her cap. ‘You can always take refuge here if you’re menaced by dwarves again. I’m a widow,’ she added, lowering her voice with a glance at the children, in case her meaning was unclear. I gave a brief nod, embarrassed, and turned towards home, one hand on my dagger, keeping to the centre of the street.

A man in cleric’s robes, the woman had said. An educated, well-born priest, by his voice – a friend of Paul’s, or an enemy? What had they been looking for? Whatever it was, it must be significant; they had immediately jumped to the conclusion that someone else had been looking for it too. ‘Who could possibly know?’ the one dressed as a priest had said; did he mean who would know Paul was dead, or something else? I reached inside my doublet and touched the charred fragment of paper with my fingertips. Was this what they had hoped to find? If so, my resolution not to involve myself further in Paul’s murder was worthless; I was already up to my neck in it.

I returned to the Swan and Cross, still glancing behind to make sure I was not being followed. The fact that I saw no one in the streets made me all the more uneasy. The tavern was crowded now that night covered its patrons’ entrances and exits. Someone had brought out a rebec and struck up a tune; the shrieking of girls and snatches of raucous song carried the length of the street. Gaston spotted me across the room and shoved his way through to intercept me at the door, blocking my view with his wide shoulders.

‘Couple of fellers come round just now asking after you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Said they had an urgent message for you. No one told them anything, so far as I know. Thought you should be warned.’

‘A dwarf?’

‘Eh?’

‘Was one of them a dwarf?’

He laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘What – family, is he?’

It was Gaston’s great joke that all Neapolitans are stunted. This apparently never grew any less entertaining, no matter how often he repeated it – despite the fact that he stood only an inch or two above me himself. ‘Taller’n you, anyway, mate.’ He stopped laughing at the look on my face. He leaned in, his breath hot on my ear. ‘These were soldiers, not dwarves. What’ve you done now, Bruno?’

‘I’m not sure I know, exactly.’

A chill prickled up my spine. Word travelled fast in this city; every faction had eyes and ears everywhere. A dwarf and a priest were one thing; if someone was sending professional soldiers after me, the stakes were already higher than I had imagined, and I had no idea who might have sent them. King Henri had troops of Swiss guards under his command, but the Duke of Guise, leader of the Catholic League, had also mustered private forces of his own. It had become fashionable among the nobility to keep dwarves as servants or jesters, in imitation of the royal court. Both the soldiers and the men in Paul’s rooms could have belonged to anyone.

I stayed at the Swan until late, drinking little, eyes fixed on the door as I lingered over a bowl of mutton stew that Gaston had insisted on adding to my growing bill, though my stomach was so tight with apprehension that I swallowed less than half of it. When, some time after midnight, he bellowed that he was locking up and the company reluctantly began to stir, I borrowed a lantern and drifted down the street in the wake of a group of students I half knew, all of them too poor to go on to a brothel, who invited me to someone’s rooms for cards, eagerly brandishing a bottle of cheap eau de vie one of them had concealed beneath his cloak. I was briefly tempted, if only for the protection of their numbers, but I knew how these nights ended: the muddy light of dawn seeping through shutters, a dense head, furred mouth and always a lighter purse, regardless of the hands played. These boys were twenty; I no longer had the stomach for it. I declined and slipped away towards my own lodgings, though I am not sure they even noticed my absence as they reeled away in the torchlight, striking up another catch involving a country priest and a wayward shepherdess, arms slung around one another’s shoulders. Someone would throw a chamber pot over them before they reached the end of the street.

Their song still rang in the air as I stopped at the house where I rented rooms on the top floor. I set down the lantern and struggled to unlock the street door with my left hand, dagger drawn in my right. While I was fumbling, two figures unpeeled and gathered shape and substance out of the shadows to either side. I had been so nerved for them that I was barely caught off guard; I stepped back, holding the blade out before me, levelling it between them. They acknowledged it with amused indulgence, as you might a child waving a stick. Each of them held a broadsword, pointed downwards and resting casually against his leg, though I knew the blade could take my head off with one practised stroke before I could get close enough to graze them.

‘Are you the Italian they call Bruno?’ The taller of the two spoke with a thick Provençal accent.

‘Who is asking?’

He lifted his sword a fraction. ‘I suggest you put that away, sir,’ he said, nodding to my dagger. ‘Keep things civilised. We don’t want to disturb anybody, do we?’ I followed his eyes upwards to the windows. It was true that I preferred not to wake my landlady, Madame de la Fosse, who already had her views on the desirability of a rumoured heretic as a tenant, and she had the hearing of a bat; the first sign of a scuffle and she would throw back the shutters, screaming for the night watch. Although perhaps that would be to my advantage in the short term.

Reluctantly, I sheathed the dagger. ‘What do you want with me?’

‘We just need you to come with us, sir,’ said the second one, in an accent as rough as his colleague’s. Clouds covered the moon and I could see little of their expressions in the flickering glow from the light on the doorstep; both were broad-faced and bearded, with grim mouths and unsmiling eyes. The ‘sir’ was, I presumed, wholly mocking. They wore no livery over their leather surcoats.

‘Someone wants a word with you,’ said the first, picking up my lantern. ‘Won’t take long.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, as we began walking towards the river, each of them a solid presence hemming me in, so close I could feel the pressure of their shoulders against mine on either side and smell their stale sweat. I knew these streets well enough in the dark, but there was no prospect of running. The one holding the lantern turned his head to offer a sideways grin with missing teeth.

‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, breaking into a low laugh that was the opposite of reassuring.

THREE (#ua64309e4-61c3-5734-9347-6c90532311a5)

‘I tell you, he will not rest until he has my head on a spike in the Place de Grève.’ Henri folded his arms and nodded vaguely out through the blue-black darkness towards the river, his face cratered with shadows in the torchlight. ‘And you roasting on a pyre in the Place Maubert with the other heretics. Crackling like a pig on a spit,’ he added, with relish, in case I had failed to picture it.

‘Even the Duke of Guise must acknowledge that Your Majesty is God’s anointed king,’ I said carefully. I was still weak with relief from the realisation, as we approached its walls, that I was being escorted to the Louvre. Even as we twisted up a series of narrow windowless staircases, my fear did not loosen its grip until I emerged with my taciturn escorts on to this hidden rooftop terrace in the oldest part of the palace, under the shadow of the great conical turrets where, by the light of one guttering torch, I could make out the figure of the King pacing, swathed in an extraordinary gown of thick damask silk that must have taken half a convent a lifetime to embroider.

‘Must he? Ha! Then someone had better explain that to him. Hadn’t they, Claudette? Yes, they had.’ He bent forward to kiss the quivering nose of the lapdog whose head protruded from the jewelled basket slung around his neck with a velvet ribbon. It yapped in protest; apparently it had not yet learned deference to its sovereign master. This was the newest fashion at court; one of the King’s own innovations, he had been proud to tell me: now every courtier who wanted to please him sashayed through the palace with a small dog hanging beneath his chin. Whatever else may have changed in Paris since I had been away, the court’s dedication to making itself ridiculous remained reassuringly steadfast.

‘The Duke of Guise is of the opinion that, in this instance, God has made a mistake,’ Henri continued, tickling the dog between its ears. ‘Anyone who tolerates heretics makes himself a heretic, in his view. Ergo, I am now a heretic, because I gave the Protestants freedom to practise their religion in my kingdom.’

‘Then you took it away again.’

There was no reprimand in my tone, but the words were enough. He rounded on me, nostrils flared. ‘God’s blood, Bruno – what choice do you think I had? France is rushing headlong into civil war, have you not noticed? The Protestants are massing armies in the south, the Catholic League holds key cities and Guise has turned most of Paris against me. You have no idea – agents of the League go about the city undercover, swearing the loyalty of dull-brained guildsmen to those who would defend a unified Catholic France against heretics and libertines, when the time comes. Meaning me,’ he added, for clarity, slapping his breast with the flat of his hand. The dog jumped in alarm. ‘He has priests spouting propaganda against me from the pulpits every Sunday, declaring God’s wrath on France for our lack of piety, and the people swallow it whole. When the time comes – what do you suppose that means?’ He swept his hand out towards the rooftops; a tragedian’s gesture. ‘The whole city is poised to rise up and overthrow me at one word from Guise – everyone from the pork butchers to the boatmen on the river, to say nothing of half the nobles at my own table. I fear for my life daily, Bruno, truly I do. But I fear more for France.’ His voice trembled a little at the end; I had to admire his stagecraft.

‘The people of France would not rise against their sovereign,’ I said, aiming to sound soothing, though I was not convinced myself.

He gave a strangled laugh. ‘You think not? William of Orange probably thought the same. I tell you, I have not had an untroubled night’s sleep since he was murdered. On his own stairs!’ He flung out his hands, as if the case were proved, then turned away to lean on the balustrade. The rain had eased, leaving a damp chill in the night wind; violet and silver clouds scurried across the moon, threatening to burst again before morning. Below us, the city lay in darkness. The King shivered and pulled his robe closer around him. ‘This is all my brother Anjou’s fault, the Devil take him. If he hadn’t died last summer, I would not have had to name a Protestant as my successor. That’s what threw the taper into the kindling. France won’t stomach a Huguenot on the throne, even if Henri of Navarre is the nearest in blood.’

‘It was extremely selfish of your brother to leave you in such a predicament.’ I kept my face straight and stared out over the ridges of the roofs below. He turned to me slowly, his eyes narrowed. I wondered if I had misjudged. After a short silence, he let out a burst of laughter and rested a hand on my shoulder.

‘Ah, how I have missed you, Bruno. No one else would dare talk to a king the way you do.’

Not enough to have troubled yourself to see me in over two months, I thought. To his face, I gave a tight smile. ‘Your Majesty is only thirty-four, and the Queen is in good health. You may yet resolve the question of an heir without a civil war.’ As I said the words, I thought of the drawing on Paul’s pamphlet.

Henri looked at me with a strange expression, as if making a difficult calculation. ‘Well. Perhaps I may,’ he said, with an air of enigma. ‘My cock is the subject of much learned speculation, you know.’ He patted his codpiece with mock pride. ‘And I don’t just mean the handbills that circulate in the street. I tell you, Bruno – Europe’s most senior diplomats scribble frantic dispatches to one another about it. Whether it functions sufficiently for the task, whether it is the right size, whether it might be deformed or poxed – or is it perhaps that I don’t know where to put it with a woman?’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I ought to be flattered. How many men can boast that their members are the business of council chambers from the Atlantic to the Adriatic?’ He scratched the dog’s head absently.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ I said, leaning on the parapet beside him, ‘the same scrutiny attends the Queen of England and her private parts.’

‘I suppose it must. God, to think my brother Anjou almost married her. Imagine having conjugal obligations to that dried-up old quim. Some would say death was a lucky escape.’ He laughed again, but his heart was not in it, and his expression sobered. ‘Elizabeth Tudor is the last of her line now, like me. Two dying royal houses. And her kingdom will be carved up by factions before she is cold in her coffin, just like mine.’ He plucked down his sleeves, straightened the sparkling dog-basket around his neck; the dog let out a small whine in sympathy.

I watched Henri with an unexpected rush of pity. He was never meant to wear a crown, this king; he had a face made for decadence, not statecraft. The full pouting lips, heavy-lidded eyes, the long Valois nose and carefully trimmed triangle of beard all combined to make him, if not exactly handsome, then at least appealingly louche, if that was your taste. He would fix your gaze with a quirk of the eyebrow that always appeared somehow suggestive, even when he was discussing treaties. Even his adoring Italian mother was not blind to the way his effete manner was a gift to his enemies, most of all the supporters of the virile and pious Guise. But Henri was the only survivor of four sons: the last hope of the House of Valois.

‘You should have stayed in London, Bruno,’ he murmured, after a while.

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘I would gladly have done so,’ I said stiffly. ‘It became impossible.’ You made it impossible, I wanted to add. You sent me there to keep me safe from the Catholic League, from those zealots who would bring the Inquisition and all its horrors to France. Then you abandoned me.

‘The Baron de Chateauneuf, you mean?’ He waved this aside. ‘I had to send him. We needed a robust ambassador who would stand up for France as a Catholic country. The previous ambassador was too concerned with being liked at the English court.’

I continued to hold his gaze; he gave a petulant shrug and looked away. ‘Yes, all right, I did it to keep Guise happy. What do you want me to say? Just one of many compromises I have had to make, on my mother’s advice. I must prove to France that I am a true Catholic, she insists, otherwise France will find herself a better one. Do you understand?’

‘Chateauneuf is a fanatic. You must have known he would not tolerate a man like me under his roof.’

‘I thought you might have found yourself a patron in London by then,’ he said, still sulky. Then his expression changed. ‘Or perhaps you did. There were concerns about you at the embassy, you know.’ He lifted his head and gave me a sly look from under his lashes, his lip curled in a knowing smile. ‘Some of the household seemed to think there was a breach of security.’

I kept my face entirely blank.

‘It was suggested that private letters might be finding their way into the wrong hands.’

He left a pause to see how I would respond. If I have learned one thing in these past years, it is how to conceal every shift of emotion behind a face as neutral as a Greek mask when it matters. I merely allowed my eyes to widen in a question.

‘It seems the old ambassador was not the only one who appeared over-familiar with English court circles. Your friendship with Sir Philip Sidney did not go unremarked, for instance. I heard you were sometimes his guest at the house of his father-in-law, Sir Francis Walsingham. Who is called Elizabeth’s spymaster, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

‘Sir Philip and I talked only of poetry, Majesty. I barely knew Sir Francis.’

‘Don’t play me for a fool, Bruno.’ He gripped my arm and his face loomed suddenly an inch from mine, his tone no longer flippant. ‘I’m talking about secret letters between the Duke of Guise and Mary Stuart, and the English Catholics here who support her claim to the throne, sent using our embassy as a conduit. Elizabeth wrote to me. She said those letters were evidence of advanced plans for an invasion of England by Guise’s troops, backed by Spanish money, to free Mary Stuart from gaol and give her the English throne. Whoever intercepted those letters at the embassy, Elizabeth said, probably saved her life.’

‘God be praised for His mercy, then.’

He let go of me and stepped back, eyeing me for several heartbeats in silence. ‘Amen, I suppose. Put me in a damned awkward position though.’

‘You would have preferred it if Guise had succeeded?’

‘Of course not!’ He looked appalled. ‘But how do you think it made me look? I have been striving for an alliance with England, despite my brother’s death and the end of the marriage plan. I send expensive diplomatic missions to flatter the old cow into entente, and all the while there’s a faction in my own country strong enough to raise an army against her. That I know nothing about! How can Elizabeth have any faith in me as an ally? It makes a mockery of my kingship.’

You do that all by yourself, I refrained from saying. ‘But it can only inflame the situation to send an ambassador whose first loyalty is to your enemies and who hates all Protestants, including the English Queen.’

He slapped his hand down on the balustrade. ‘God’s teeth, Bruno – I do not pay you to teach me diplomacy.’

‘You do not pay me at all at the moment. Majesty,’ I added, holding his gaze. It was a gamble. Henri liked men of spirit who had the courage to speak frankly to him, but only up to a point. His eyes blazed.

‘Do I owe you? Is that what you think?’ He pointed a finger in my face; the dog yelped again. ‘I sent you out of danger, at my own expense, and you repay me by taking money from the English to spy on my ambassador.’

‘I thought you said those letters came from Guise.’

‘Don’t cavil, damn you. If you were opening his letters, you were reading everybody else’s too. You don’t know how hard I had to work to defend myself against the rumours that followed you, after you left.’

‘Lies spread by my enemies.’

‘I know that!’ He threw his hands up. ‘The people of Paris don’t know it. All they hear is that their sovereign king, whom they already believe to be a galloping sodomite and friend to heretics, keeps a defrocked Dominican at his court to teach him black magic. Why do you think I bring you here like this—’ he gestured to the night sky – ‘in secret?’

‘I never understood why I was considered such a threat,’ I said mildly. ‘Your mother keeps a Florentine astrologer known as a magician in her household, and the people forgive her that.’

‘Oh, but the people love my mother,’ he said, not bothering to disguise the bitterness. ‘Her morals and her religion are beyond reproach. Even so, she’s had to banish Ruggieri on occasion to quash gossip, you know that. He keeps his mouth shut at the moment, I assure you.’ He grimaced. ‘Look – I cannot give you back your old position at court, Bruno. I cannot risk any public association with you while my standing is so precarious – you must understand that. Recognise what you are.’

‘I know what I am, sire. But I was also your friend, once.’ I kept my eyes to the ground. A long silence spread around us. When I looked up, I was amazed to see tears in his eyes.

‘And so you are still,’ he said, a catch in his voice. He raised a hand as if to touch my face, but let it fall limply to his side. ‘I miss the old days. Those afternoons shut away in my library with Jacopo, talking of the secrets of the ancients. Do you not think I would bring those days back, if I could?’ He shook his head and the fat pearl drops in his ears scattered reflections of the torchlight. ‘I don’t know how it has come to this, truly. The people loved me when I first wore the crown. They crowded the streets to watch me ride by. The processions we used to have!’ He turned to gaze fondly into the distance. ‘My mother emptied the treasury putting on public entertainments to win their goodwill. And look how they now flock to Guise. Well, let them, filthy ingrates. See if he would give them fountains of wine in the public squares.’ His face twisted. The dog let out a mournful whine, as if sensing the mood.

They loved you only because you were not your brother Charles, I could have said. And they cheered him when he was first crowned too, because he was not your brother Francis, and Francis, because he was not your father, the last Henri. That is what people do. Those who now say they love Guise do so mainly because he is not you. Say what you will about the people of Paris, their capacity for optimism seems bottomless, despite all the lessons of history. Or perhaps it is just an insatiable desire for novelty.

‘How does your royal mother, anyway?’ I asked, hoping to rouse him from self-pity.

‘Oh God,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Still convinced she wears the crown, of course. If she’s not haring around the country on some diplomatic mission of her own devising, she’s leaning over my throne dictating policies in my ear. I fear I shall never escape her shadow. But she refuses to die.’ He broke off, looking shocked at himself. ‘God forgive me. You know what I mean. She’s wracked with gout, but she won’t even give up hunting, and she still has more stamina for la chasse than any of the men who ride out with her. Sometimes I think I should have sent her to a convent long ago.’

‘I cannot picture the Queen Mother retiring without a fight. She lives for political intrigue.’ You’d have lost your throne years ago without her leaning over it, I thought.

‘True. And she’s far better suited to it than I am,’ he said, with rare candour. ‘She positively thrives on it. Her chief advantage to me is that the Duke of Guise is terrified of her.’ He broke into a sudden grin. ‘In her presence he’s like a boy caught stealing sweetmeats. So I have to keep her around – she’s the only one who can negotiate with him. Why can’t I have that effect on my enemies, Bruno?’ The plaintive note had crept back.

If it had been a serious question, I might have replied: because you possess neither your mother’s iron will nor her formidable grasp of statesmanship. If Catherine de Medici had been born a man, she would rule all of Europe by now. Instead she has had to make do with ruling France these past twenty-six years from behind the throne of her incompetent sons.

‘Few things strike fear into a man’s heart like an Italian mother, sire,’ I said, instead, but he did not smile.

‘All I ever wanted was to bring accord between my subjects, whatever their church, so there would never be another massacre like Saint Bartholomew’s night.’ He wrung his hands, fully immersed in his own tragedy. ‘Now look at us. Three Henris, tearing France apart between us. And my greatest sorrow is that all this strife has parted me from you. I can count the number of true friends I have on the fingers of one hand, and you are among them. Embrace me, Bruno. Mind Claudette.’

He held his arms out to me; gingerly, leaning across the dog, I accepted his embrace. A gust of perfume made my eyes water: ambergris and cedar wood. You learned quickly to take much of what Henri said with a heavy dose of scepticism, but there was no doubting his sincerity at the moment he said it. And it was true that we had been friends – in so far as one can be friends with a king. He may have been weak and self-indulgent, but Henri of Valois was a great deal more intelligent and intellectually curious than his subjects supposed. If there was truth in the rumours about him and his mignons, I could not testify to it; he had always treated me with courtesy, and often with the deference of a pupil to his teacher. All that was over, unless I could find a way to have this excommunication lifted, and with Paul dead, my hopes were not high.

I felt him pat my shoulder, just as a wet tongue rasped across my jaw. I jumped back, staring at the King, my hand to my face.

‘Claudette, you are a naughty girl. You are,’ he chided the dog, with a mischievous glint, the tears all vanished. ‘Well, I am for my bed. Or someone’s bed, anyway.’ He flashed me a wink, followed by an ostentatious yawn; at the edge of my vision I saw the guards stirring. Was that it, then? Had I been dragged here in the middle of the night so that he could unburden himself of this half-hearted self-justification and wake feeling he had dealt with the problem of Bruno? Beyond the wavering circle of torchlight, the guards hovered at the end of the terrace, uncertain whether to approach, dark shapes in a thicker darkness. Henri pulled his robe closer around himself and the dog, flicked a hand in the direction of the soldiers and moved a couple of paces towards the stairs. ‘These gentlemen will see you home,’ he said, without looking back at me. ‘They belong to my personal bodyguard. Forty-five strong men and true, every one of them scrupulously chosen from the provinces to ensure he has no affiliations in Paris except to me. Simple, loyal and boasting a good sword arm. And I pay them handsomely for their loyalty, don’t I, boys?’

The soldiers glanced up and mumbled something before dropping their eyes again to the ground.

‘They’ll take good care of you. Well, thank you again for coming.’ It was the same blithely dismissive tone I’d heard him use to foreign diplomats and government functionaries whose names he’d forgotten. He swept his robe out behind him in a whisper of silk.

‘Will I see you again?’ I blurted as he reached the stairs, despising myself for it. I sounded like a needy lover.

Henri turned and considered me, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘You know, Bruno, there is one thing you could do for me, if you are still eager for my patronage?’

I bowed my head. ‘Your Majesty knows I would be pleased to serve in any way you see fit.’

A satisfied smile creased his face. My jaw tensed. I had walked into this; he had stage-managed the entire scene so that, afraid he was about to leave me with nothing, I would clutch gratefully at whatever chance he offered. I already knew I was not going to like his proposition.

‘Good. You there – hold this.’ He untied the basket from around his neck and handed it, with its whimpering contents, to the nearest guard, who almost dropped it in surprise. ‘Careful with Claudette – she doesn’t like rough handling. Now, stand over there. Watch the stairs.’ He motioned them back to their post, steering me with the other hand to the furthest corner of the balcony. I braced myself and tried to assemble an expectant smile.

‘Guise means to destroy me. Sooner or later, I fear he will succeed in having me deposed or murdered, whichever proves cheaper.’ He leaned forward to clasp me by both shoulders, his face uncomfortably close, his tone conspiratorial. Through the perfume, I could smell the fear on him; after all the posturing, this was real. A succession of unpleasant possibilities chased one another through my head. What was he going to ask of me? Assassinate Guise? It would not be beyond him. Henri pulled at an earring and pressed his lips together until they disappeared. He seemed to be fishing for the right words. ‘These priests I mentioned – the ones he sets on to preach against me.’

‘What about them?’

‘One was a particular thorn in my side – virulent little fellow at Saint-Séverin. Gave me a thorough roasting last Sunday – the hour is coming for the godly citizens of Paris to purge the city of her heretic king, all that.’ He let go of me, making a rolling motion with his hand to indicate the monotony of the theme. ‘Even the poor harvest is down to my debauchery, apparently.’

I concentrated all my efforts on keeping my face steady. ‘I know. I was there. He preached for four hours.’