‘He has the bearing of a warhorse,’ I said, smiling encouragement. ‘Does he belong to your master?’
The boy shook his head. ‘He is the Duke of Guise’s horse.’
‘Of course. He has the scar to match.’
The boy giggled, pressing a hand over his mouth and glancing around hastily. I kept the smile rigid, but my skin prickled with fear; if Guise was here, I had put myself in a far more dangerous situation than I had anticipated. I was a dead man if I were to be caught, and there was no knowing what might happen to my friends. Charlemagne. You had to admire the man’s audacity.
‘The Duke of Guise is a guest here tonight, then?’
The boy nodded and patted the horse again; it was growing restless, its nostrils flaring and steaming in the cold.
‘Filippo!’
It took me a moment to realise it was I who was being called; I turned to see the others waiting by the entrance to the house, Francesco glaring at me pointedly and jerking his head towards the door. I bowed to the stable boy and hurried back to join them, keeping my cloak over my face, afraid to look up and catch a glimpse of anyone watching from the windows.
The steward led us along servants’ corridors until we reached a wide oval salon hung with tapestries. A dozen chairs had been set out in a semi-circle. Francesco and Isabella stood aside with him, debating the dimensions and position of the playing space while the rest of us piled up the boxes at one side, until they had agreed on a suitable arrangement and the steward discreetly retired to allow us to prepare. I was given various menial tasks – mainly holding poles and the end of strings – while the members of the company moved swiftly to rig up a wooden frame across the far end of the room. When this was erected, curtains of black material were draped across to make a partition behind which the players could retreat to change costume between scenes. From the space behind this curtained-off area it would be possible to watch the guests unseen as they entered the room from the door at the other end and took their seats. The partition also gave the players access to a smaller door which opened on to the corridor outside; behind the curtain, no one in the audience would be able to see who came and went through this door. It was perfect for my purposes.
I was helping Isabella hang the costumes on a stand in the correct order when this door behind us opened to admit a large man in a dark blue velvet doublet and breeches, a glass of wine held loosely in his hand. I did not recognise him, but from the hush that fell and the way Isabella dropped immediately into a curtsey, I assumed this must be their host, the Duke of Montpensier. I bowed low and kept my eyes down.
‘Good evening, good evening,’ he said, waving for everyone to straighten up. ‘Will this do you?’ He gestured to the room. ‘It’s where we do the musical recitals. The sound’s rather good, I think. Something to do with the walls. Just came to make sure you’ve got everything you need.’
The players murmured their deferential thanks. While his attention was fixed on Isabella, I took a long look at the Duke. He was loud and affable, in his early forties, with a head of tightly curled hair, a neat pointed beard, and a paunch and broken veins that spoke of good living and a fondness for claret. The glass in his hand was clearly not his first of the evening.
‘Now listen,’ he said, sounding apologetic, ‘I like a bit of bawdy as much as the next man, but my stepmother—’ his voice curdled on the word, as if it could only be said with sarcasm – ‘is currently in mourning and I don’t want to give her cause to make a fuss. So – keep it just the right side of obscene, eh?’
Francesco inclined his head in assent.
‘I mean, I’m not saying make it a performance for novice nuns,’ the Duke added, quickly, ‘but on the other hand, there are things she doesn’t need to see simulated on a stage. Bestiality, sodomy – none of that. And there’s a young lady of delicate sensibilities among my guests tonight and I don’t want her to take away the wrong impression of me. Ideally something suggestive enough to put ideas in her head and bring a maidenly blush to her cheek, but not enough to make her think I’m a complete degenerate. Are we clear?’ He grinned and raised his glass to Francesco, who smiled back politely.
‘Absolutely no bestiality, Your Grace,’ he said, with his most earnest expression. The Duke nodded, satisfied, and turned to go.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Your Grace,’ I said, appearing smoothly at his side while folding a cape.
‘What?’ He stopped, squinting peevishly as if trying to place me.
‘You said your household was in mourning.’
‘Oh, that. Not my household. Just my stepmother,’ the Duke said, with distaste. ‘She’s the one carrying on as if she’s lost her first-born child. He was only a distant cousin, and he was my cousin at that, not hers. I never really liked the fellow much, if I’m honest. Is that uncharitable? I don’t recall her making this much fuss when my father died. In any case,’ he peered into his glass as if trying to comprehend how it could be empty, ‘this is my bloody house now, whatever she wishes to believe, and I’m not going to shut the place up in mourning for a man I had no time for in life just because she demands it.’
He looked aggrieved. I made sympathetic noises.
‘A man wants to feel he is master in his own house. Not to be commanded by a woman.’
‘You have it exactly,’ he said, widening his eyes and wagging a finger at me, as
