I glanced up at Cotin. ‘But he burned nothing. You’re right, it’s curious.’
‘Perhaps he didn’t entirely trust his lady to protect him. He might have kept this as insurance to bring her down with him, if he was caught and accused.’
‘He didn’t get the chance,’ I said, grimly.
‘He was right not to trust her, then. But this is damning evidence that he killed the priest, it seems.’
‘I never doubted it. Thank you for this.’ I took the letter from him and tucked it into my doublet. ‘When we have the identity of this mistress, we have them all. What do the other friars say of him? I heard there was talk of a married woman – any rumours as to who she might be?’
Cotin glanced up at the wall behind us. ‘There’s always talk in an abbey, you know that. Especially now the man is dead. What they say—’ he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot – ‘is that he had close ties to his family. Too close, perhaps.’
‘The Montpensiers?’
He nodded. ‘Spent a lot of time at their house, apparently. The Duchess has made generous donations to the abbey since her husband died. There is the usual lewd speculation about how Frère Joseph coaxed the money out of her.’
‘So it all points back to the League,’ I said. ‘She mentions this person who can protect him from the consequences. It would have to be someone with significant power to defy the law. That would fit, if she meant her brother Guise.’
Behind us, the bells of the abbey church struck up their melancholy summons to Vespers. Cotin started like a spooked horse.
‘I must go.’ He thrust the remaining papers into my hand. ‘Make of these what you will. And take care of yourself, Bruno. I fear you are coming too near the heart of this business for your own safety.’
He gave me the kiss of peace on both cheeks and fumbled with his keys before disappearing through the gate in the wall. I was left alone in the darkness. A faint gleam of moonlight rippled on the water. Behind me, over the abbey orchards, an owl hooted. I clutched the bundle of Joseph de Chartres’s letters and set off for home with the sinking sense that I was still nowhere near the heart of the business.
EIGHTEEN
‘Just promise me you are not going to get us arrested,’ Francesco Andreini said, hefting a crate on to the cart.
There was a long pause. He finished tying off the rope that held the box and turned to look at me. ‘Oh Jesus. What are you planning to do – steal something?’
I lifted another bundle and passed it up to him. ‘Nothing valuable.’
‘I am serious, my friend. Whatever you are involved in is your business. But if it puts my company in danger, I cannot help you.’
‘You will not be in danger. All I need is to get inside the building.’
‘If you are caught it will be assumed we are all part of your scheme.’
‘I will not be caught.’
‘How can you guarantee that?’
‘Because I am good,’ I said, with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. He returned the smile, but his eyes remained unconvinced. I tried not to think about Joseph’s cell and my subsequent visit to the Conciergerie.
The Hotel de Montpensier stood behind high stone walls topped with ornamental battlements on the rue Saint-Antoine, a broad, tree-lined avenue leading out towards the city gate and the fortress of the Bastille to the east of the Marais, a district favoured by the nobility for their imposing residences. Though it was not much past four o’clock in the afternoon, dusk had already crept over the sky, another clear, bitter night almost fallen, when the company of the Gelosi were ushered through a set of heavy gates into the courtyard and instructed to unload by an outbuilding. I walked along with the others, keeping my head down, my hood pulled around my face, reminding myself that there was no reason anyone in this house should recognise me. I was just another Italian player, come to entertain the Duke of Montpensier and his guests. The pale façade of the Hotel was lit by burning torches in wall brackets, a curious confection of conical towers and delicate crenellations, pointed gables and high arched windows that belonged to a previous century.
A steward came out to greet us and show us to a side door. Francesco and Isabella walked ahead with him, discussing the arrangements for the evening; the rest of us followed, lugging boxes of costumes and properties from the cart. Though the Andreini spoke fluent French, a number of the other players barely managed a few words; I intended to be one of them, but as I was crossing the courtyard I noticed a boy of about fourteen leading a horse over to the stable block, and the sight caused me to stop dead. I peeled away from the group and approached him, still clasping a trunk to my chest.
‘That is a fine horse you have there,’ I said, blocking his path. The boy looked surprised, but he acknowledged the compliment with a nod and made as if to lead the animal around me. A handsome black charger, muscles rippling under its glossy coat, with four white socks and a scar down its cheek. It was the same horse I had seen tethered in the yard outside Stafford’s house the night Paget brought me there from the Conciergerie, the scar left no doubt. ‘I have seen him before, I am sure of it. What is his name?’
‘Charlemagne,’ the boy said, with a flush of pride, patting the animal’s neck. ‘He has been to war,
