Conspiracy

‘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.