Conspiracy

‘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.’