I drew it out and held it between thumb and forefinger, the edges falling away to dust as I lifted it closer to my face, barely breathing lest it disintegrate. Only a few words remained visible between the scorch marks, written in a strong, flowing hand. ‘… to violate the sanctity of the confessional’, read one line, the remainder of the sentence blackened beyond recognition. ‘… wrestled with my conscience…’ was visible in the line below. Followed by this: ‘… what harm Circe intends you’; a gap, scorched away, then ‘… may God forgive me’. The only other words I could make out with any certainty were those which caused my chest to tighten: ‘Votre Majesté’.
I stood, still pinching the scrap of paper, steadying myself as the blood pounded in my ears and my mind raced to make sense of these shreds. The first thing that struck me was that the hand was different from the pamphlets I had seen in the box, suggesting that one or the other was not written by Paul – unless he had taken the trouble to disguise his writing significantly, which was possible if he did not want to be associated with the libellous handbills. The reference to the confessional suggested that Paul was the author of the letter, and that he was trying to warn the King of some danger to him from whoever or whatever Circe may be. But why burn it? Perhaps he had had second thoughts about the risk to himself – to break the sacrament of confession would mean the end of his priesthood, not to mention the jeopardy to his immortal soul – or else he had already sent a more polished draft and wished to destroy any possibility of tracing it back to him. I tucked the brittle paper into the pocket sewn into the lining of my doublet; I doubted it would survive, but instinct told me I should keep hold of it. Paul had tried to burn this letter, shortly before he was killed; it was hard to believe the two were unconnected.
If Paul had been destroying incriminating documents, perhaps there were more stashed away in the box on the desk. I returned to it, but as I reached for the papers I caught again the sound of a door creaking and closing, softer but definitely inside this time, and below me. I held my breath and heard the unmistakable tread of feet on the stairs; two pairs, and a muffled exchange in lowered voices. I closed the lid of the box and retreated as silently as I could into the alcove with the bed, pulling the curtain tightly across.
‘Unlocked. I don’t like that.’ The speaker’s voice was curiously throttled, as if it were trapped at the back of his throat. He rattled the latch and I heard the door close behind them.
‘Perhaps he was in a hurry.’ His companion’s voice was cultivated, Parisian. There was a sliver of a gap between the curtain and the wall. I edged closer to see if I could glimpse them.
‘You think he’d leave his door open for all-comers?’ The first man clicked his tongue; the boards squeaked as he paced around the room. His movements sounded off-kilter, as if he walked with a lurching gait. Lame, perhaps. That might make things easier. I eased the catch of the casement free, as quietly as I could. ‘Not he. Someone’s got here first.’
‘Who? Who could possibly know—’ The other broke off suddenly; I felt the stillness of them, alert, breath held, only feet away. The faint sound of a board underfoot; the whisper of a weapon drawn from its sheath. One error of judgement here and I would find myself as skewered as Saint Teresa. I sensed them hesitate, deliberating where to strike – just long enough for me to push open the window and roll out at the exact moment a sword’s point thrust through the curtain and buried itself deep in the straw mattress where I had been crouching.
I hit the protruding roof of the ground floor at an awkward angle, but dug my heels in enough to slow my fall, so that I was able to clutch at the edge and drop to the ground with a degree of control. A furious cry echoed from the window above, but I did not look up; instead I pulled my hood around my face, brushed myself down – bruises, nothing broken – and scrambled over the back fence into an alley. They would come looking for me in a few minutes and there were two of them, even if one was lame. I glanced left and right: a dead end, the only way out would take me into the street that ran perpendicular to the rue Macon. If I ran towards the river, I might be able to hide along the quay, but if they found me there, I would be trapped, and the dark water and deserted riverbank would be a gift to my pursuers. But if I tried to flee south, I would run straight into them as they turned the corner. I hesitated at the mouth of the alley, expecting to see them at any moment, when I noticed the laundress I had spoken to earlier unlocking the door of a house opposite. I hurtled up behind her just as she was about to close it; she gave a little
