Conspiracy

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‘So you were punished,’ I murmured, understanding. ‘For not seeing.’

‘He took my eyes. And I thanked God, because then I was spared the sight of the little children lying in their gore. Would he had taken my life too. But he will not let me die. Nor will he let me live. He says he still has a use for me in here.’

‘Who do you mean? Who blinded you?’ I asked.

He heaved a great sigh. ‘You know who. Young Henri.’

‘The King?’ I drew back, staring.

‘No. You are confused, boy. Charles is the king.’ The old man gripped my hand tighter. ‘I mean Henri Le Balafré.’

The Scarface. The popular nickname of Henri, Duke of Guise, on account of his prominent war wound.

‘But you said it was her doing. Whose? Do you mean Catherine?’

It was asserted as fact by many that the Queen Mother had issued the order for the Protestant leaders to be killed, to isolate her new son-in-law and ensure he knew where his loyalties now lay. In her defence, people said, she had not anticipated how the flame of murder would catch and consume the entire city, and spread through France until perhaps seventy thousand Protestants lay slaughtered. But the uncomfortable fact remained that, before the bells rang out at midnight, someone’s agents had slipped silently through Paris, marking every Protestant home with a white cross, ready for the Angel of Death. There were plenty of others, of course, who pointed the finger at Guise.

‘No more now,’ the Count said, his voice drained.

I let go of his hand and felt him slump against the wall beside me. He had been in this pit for so long he had no idea King Charles was dead, and his brother now on the throne. But his memory seemed sharp enough when it came to the terrible events that had brought him to this place. If it was true that he was being kept here by the Duke of Guise, then we must be in a Guise prison, and I had no prospect of sending word to anyone with the influence to save me. Another wave of panic overwhelmed me; I had to stand and pace the limits of that confined space before the pounding in my chest and head would subside. Perhaps after some weeks the King would notice I had disappeared, but would he make the effort to find me? Would he dare to confront Guise for my liberty, if I were still alive by then? I forced myself to cling to the gaoler’s words about food; if I was to be fed, they surely did not mean to kill me immediately. Cotin had said that the Abbé wanted me questioned about Paul Lefèvre; it was no great leap to suppose that it was Guise who was interested in the answers, and that the Abbé had handed me over. Perhaps I was only here as a prelude to interrogation – a thought which did not bring comfort. When I had brought my breathing under control again, I crouched beside the Count.

‘You were at court when Charles was king?’ I asked.

‘Another kind of prison,’ he murmured. It appeared he had not lost all his wits, then.

‘Did you ever hear mention of Circe?’ It was a long shot, I knew; the man had been shut away from the world for thirteen years. Much had changed at court since then, but perhaps not that much.

‘Circe.’ His voice drifted off again, as if he were searching his memory. He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I know that name.’

A small flame of hope flickered. ‘What does it mean? Is it a person? A woman?’

He took a long time to answer.

‘She is a witch,’ he said, at last. ‘A temptress. You must know this. She robs a man of his will, until he is no better than a beast.’

‘I know the story from the Odyssey, yes,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘The enchantress who turned Odysseus’s men into pigs. But is there another Circe? Someone in Paris?’

‘A temptress,’ he said, again, more forcefully this time, his voice weighted with contempt. ‘But they all are, behind the mask. They bewitch you, then betray you. You will learn, boy.’

He fell silent. I could not tell if he was speaking of Homer’s mythical enchantress, or someone specific, or women in general. If the latter, he need not have feared; I had already learned that lesson the hard way.

Perhaps I slept; it was difficult to tell down there in the unchanging dark. I tried to keep my mind occupied, anything to steer it away from the edge of despair. I had no idea how much time had passed before I was jolted back to awareness by the sound of the bolt and the sudden intrusion of light from the hatch.

‘Oi. You. The foreign whoreson.’ The gaoler leered into the opening; I could see only his mouth and chin. ‘Seems Dame Fortune is smiling on you tonight, my friend.’

‘I can’t remember when I felt luckier,’ I said. I guessed from his sarcasm that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

‘Shut your mouth and get on your feet against that wall while I fetch the ladder. Governor’s orders. Someone’s just paid your bail.’

SIX (#ulink_3f2b3e0d-9f76-51ac-8f1b-a2d2510038fa)

The gaoler bundled me up the steps and out of the pit, a thick wooden club in one hand in case I thought to cause trouble. I was prodded along a dank corridor and up another spiral staircase. With every step away from the bowels of the building I felt better able to breathe.

‘You’re lucky you weren’t left there any longer,’ he said conversationally, as he jabbed me in the back with the club. ‘Last feller they threw in with him died of fever inside a couple of days. When I went to get the body out, there was only half of him left.’

‘What?’ I turned to stare at him; he grinned and mimed a man gnawing a hunk of meat. ‘The Count ate him?’

‘Reckon he had a few bites. Unless there’s rats the size of dogs down there. Keep moving.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought he had the teeth for it.’

‘You’d be amazed what desperate men can do. I’ve seen it all, believe me.’

The sky was still dark outside when we emerged into a cobbled courtyard lit by torches in wall brackets. Though the mist persisted, I could make out the elegant white façades of the surrounding buildings, rising to pointed turrets at the corners, and realised where we were: the Palais de Justice, the former royal residence on the Ile de la Cité, now home to the Parlement, the law courts and a small village of ramshackle stalls built around the walls. Ahead was the filigreed roof of the Sainte-Chapelle, its spire vanishing into the smoky air. No one looking from outside would have supposed such a fine place to contain anything as foul as that dungeon among its foundations.

The sound of hooves rang out on the cobbles; I turned to see a handsome chestnut horse with a cloaked rider approaching from the gate. I could not make out his face in the shadows of his hood, and my throat dried. I had been so relieved at my release that I had allowed myself to believe the gaoler had been swayed by my promise of a reward and sent a message to the Louvre after all. Now I realised that he could hardly have had time to do so, still less to have received a response. Another possibility was that somehow Cotin had managed to send a message to Jacopo after I was arrested – but how would Cotin have known where I had been taken? There was only one other possibility, I thought, as I watched the hooded figure spring from his saddle with the agility of a practised horseman: that I had been taken out of the frying pan only to fall into the fire, like the fish in the fable.

The rider led his horse towards us across the courtyard, sweat steaming from its flanks. He walked with the loping stride of a tall man, straight-backed, with an athletic frame; a description that fitted Guise. Would the Duke bother to come for me in person? I lowered my eyes as he approached, steeling myself.

‘Give him back his belongings before he dies of cold,’ the man said, in an accent that caused me to jerk my head up and stare at him. ‘And hurry up about it, you streak of piss, I’m freezing my balls off here.’ The gaoler mumbled something and scurried away, leaving us alone. The horse’s breath clouded around us as it stamped and shook its head.

‘But – you’re English,’ I said stupidly, in French.

‘Correct.’ My rescuer pushed his hood back from his face and I recognised the man I had seen watching me from the edge of the crowd in the churchyard of Saint-Séverin yesterday. He smoothed a hand over his sprightly hair and looked me up and down, his face creased in distaste. ‘The state of you. Are you injured?’

I touched the lump at the back of my head. ‘A little. Not too serious. Who are you?’

‘Think of me as a well-wisher.’ He gave me a thin smile, and my fear came flooding back. I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he held up a gloved hand. ‘All in good time. Let’s get off this bloody island first. Are you fit to ride?’

‘I think so.’

The gaoler returned and handed me my cloak and, to my great relief, my dagger, glaring at me as if this humiliation was my doing. The Englishman mounted without another word and reached down a hand to pull me into the saddle behind him.

I clung on as he wheeled the horse around and urged it out of the gate. He slowed as we met the Boulevard de Paris, where a man I took to be a servant stood waiting with a flaming torch; he led the way to the Pont Saint-Michel and we followed at walking pace. Even so, the jolting motion sent waves of pain up my spine to the bruise on my head.

‘Did Jacopo send you?’ I asked, in English, when it seemed he would not speak. The houses ranged precariously along the bridge remained dark, though I thought I glimpsed movement behind the windows; people evidently roused by the sound of the horse’s hooves, curious – or afraid – to know who was abroad at this hour.

‘Jacopo Corbinelli? No, he didn’t. Why – were you expecting someone?’

‘I thought – then who? How did you know where to find me?’

‘Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,’ he said cheerfully, over his shoulder, ignoring the first question.

‘Spying,’ I said. I should have guessed. How naïve to think I could have lived quietly in Paris for the past two months without anyone watching me.

‘Well, you’re the expert there.’ He did not say it unpleasantly; more in the spirit of making conversation. But the remark alarmed me further; the only people in Paris likely to accuse me of spying – apart from the King – were those who considered me an enemy. And there might be more of those than I knew; Paris was full of English Catholic exiles now, either banished by Elizabeth’s government or fled illegally, many of them rallying to the banner of the Scottish Queen Mary Stuart, whose ambassador here was at the heart of the conspiracies to free her with the help of the Catholic League. My name would be known to anyone who had been party to the most recent of those plots, the one uncovered – as the King had rightly said – by letters intercepted at the French embassy in London. It was quite possible, I now realised, that my rescuer was one of their number.

‘I have never seen you before yesterday, in the churchyard.’

‘Naturally you haven’t. I do have some skill in this business.’

‘So why now?’

‘I thought it was time we were introduced.’

‘Who do you work for?’

He flashed a smile over his shoulder. ‘I serve God, Doctor Bruno. How about you?’

Merda. Only a Catholic would give an answer like that. I decided it was best to say nothing. On the far side of the bridge he turned left on to the Quai des Bernardins and it became clear that he was not taking me to my lodgings.

‘I can walk home from here, if you let me down,’ I said, trying not to betray my anxiety in my voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You can barely be trusted to get yourself to the end of the street without someone’s soldiers carting you off. Besides, it’s gone three in the morning – we don’t want to disturb the redoubtable Madame de la Fosse at this hour, do we? And – forgive my candour – but I’m afraid you do smell quite unforgivably of shit. You need a bath and a hot meal before you’re fit to go home. A few more hours won’t hurt.’

I fell silent again as the horse continued its steady pace along the quai, the servant with the lamp plodding doggedly ahead, a wavering pool of orange in the grey air. The fog condensed on my lips with a taste of earth and smoke. This man was clever, that much was certain; in one response he had managed to convey how much he knew about me, down to the name of my landlady and my visit from the King’s guard the night before. I could only assume that he was taking me to Guise. I leaned out and looked at the ground; the horse was moving slowly enough that I could slip off without too much damage, but I would be unlikely to outrun him and his servant.

‘I wouldn’t jump if I were you,’ he said, without turning. ‘Francis is easily startled. He might very well trample you before I could stop him, and then I’d have paid out all that money for nothing. You didn’t come cheap, you know.’

‘Is Francis the horse or the servant?’

‘The horse. Named for my favourite member of the Privy Council.’

‘You named your horse after Walsingham?’

‘He’s really quite intelligent. For a horse.’

I could not help a burst of laughter, despite myself. I felt his shoulders relax.

‘Who the devil are you?’ I asked.

He considered the question for a few moments. ‘My name will not be unfamiliar to you, just as yours is not to me. We have a number of acquaintances in common – not all of them well disposed to either of us. So it may be that you have heard things about me which are partially or entirely untrue. In any case, I urge you not to overreact.’

‘For God’s sake,’ I said irritably.

‘Very well. My name is Charles Paget.’

I let go of him instantly and pushed myself backwards over the hindquarters of the horse, landing hard on the ground. I heard him pull the horse around, barking a command in French; before I could scramble to my feet or reach for my dagger, the torch-bearer loomed over me, his response surprisingly swift for such a lumpen man. He took hold of my arm in a grip that was not worth arguing with and dragged me to my feet.

‘Now, you see, I call that an overreaction,’ Paget observed from above, holding the horse on a short rein as it stamped on the spot. ‘If I wished you harm, I would have left you where you were, would I not?’

I said nothing. There were worse harms than being left in the Conciergerie; I feared that was about to become all too apparent. My free hand crept across to my belt.

‘Don’t touch the knife, Bruno, or I shall regret my generosity in returning it to you. You can walk if you choose, but it would be easier for everyone if you stop being a bloody fool and get back in the saddle.’

I planted my feet and looked up at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me where, and why.’

He let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Very well – let us continue with this pretence that you have some agency here.’ The horse danced its feet forward and back in a square and snorted. ‘I am taking you to the English embassy. Happy? Now get on the horse.’

‘I am not stupid. You mean to kill me.’

He laughed at this. ‘How dramatic you Italians are. I don’t know where you got that notion. If that were my intention, I could have managed it before now with a lot less trouble. And I’m afraid you can be remarkably stupid. For a man with so many enemies, you don’t look over your shoulder nearly as often as you ought.’

This needled me, because I knew he was right; I had allowed myself to grow careless.

‘Why should I trust you?’

‘Because—’ and there was an edge to his voice now – ‘I’ve just handed over a hefty purse of money to free you from that hole. I didn’t see any of your friends from the Louvre queuing up to get you out.’

‘Who sent you?’

He rolled his eyes to Heaven. ‘Who do you think?’

I shook my head, blank. The only people I could think of who would send Charles Paget after me wanted me dead. He slapped the horse’s neck twice and gave me a meaningful look. My eyes widened.

‘Walsingham? But—’

‘Let’s not discuss it in the middle of the street, eh? For the last time, Bruno, get on the damned horse.’

He reached down and the servant crouched to give me a forceful shove in the backside with his shoulder, as my arms were too tired to heave myself up into the saddle. Exhaustion crashed over me; I slumped against Paget’s back and could not even muster a smile when he said, ‘On, Francis, good fellow,’ nudging his mount’s flanks with his heels. He was right; I had no choice in the matter.

‘Is Walsingham here in Paris?’ I asked, as we rode along beside the river.

‘All will become clear,’ he replied, enjoying his enigmatic act as much as it was infuriating me. I tried again.

‘But you work for the Queen of Scots. You are still secretary to her ambassador, unless I am mistaken?’

He hesitated; I waited for him to deny it.

‘Our Lord Jesus Himself said a man cannot serve two masters,’ he replied, after a while. ‘I venture to suggest He had little experience of intelligence work.’

He was so pleased with that answer that I did not bother to reply. We reached the grand, four-storey houses of the Quai de la Tournelle, with their wide leaded windows overlooking the river. The torch-bearer stopped outside one with a heavy studded front door, and knocked. There was no response. He pounded again; after some time the door was opened by a harassed-looking servant, who regarded us with understandable outrage. Paget’s man exchanged a few words with him, gesturing up at us; the servant appeared to be protesting, until finally he nodded and closed the door in our faces.

‘They are all abed. Let me go home,’ I said to Paget, when it seemed we had been turned away.

‘Wait.’ He pointed to a high double gate at the side of the house. After some minutes, it swung open and he clipped through into a cobbled stable yard. A boy came forward to take the reins; Paget hopped down lightly and held out a hand to assist me. I ignored it and slid to the ground. I could not help but notice that the boy seemed nervous. He may have been skittish at being roused from sleep, but I did not think that was the case; he was dressed in outdoor clothes and seemed alert, his eyes flitting past us as he led Paget’s horse towards the stables. Following the direction of his gaze, I saw a fine black stallion tethered to a post in the yard, a handsome creature with four white socks, saddled up with expensive tack, as if someone had that moment arrived, or was about to leave. There was no distinguishing badge or livery on the harness or saddle cloth. The horse turned its head to regard us with dark liquid eyes and I noticed a pink scar running along its nose and down one cheek.

We were met by the servant who had answered the front door, who led us, apologising, through a tradesmen’s entrance to a stone-flagged scullery and on into a spacious kitchen, where a fire burned in a hearth large enough to accommodate an entire cow on a spit; Paget gently urged me towards it and I crouched by the embers, shivering violently, grateful for the heat but conscious of the prison stink rising from my clothes.