‘Quite. Upstairs,’ I murmured, in a tone of mild interest. God bless the loose tongue of a drinker.
He pointed at the ceiling, in case I was confused. ‘Up there. Whole suite of rooms in the east wing.’ He drained the last dregs from his glass and turned to go. I moved neatly between him and the door.
‘Why didn’t you like him?’ I asked casually. ‘Your cousin?’ Across the room, Francesco shot me a warning look from beneath lowered brows.
The Duke flapped a bejewelled hand, apparently untroubled by the impertinence of my questions. ‘Oh, those Holy Leaguers – they’re all the same. She collects them, you know. Little entourage fawning around her, doing her bidding. With all their talk about the purity of religion, it’s just jostling for power when it comes down to it. Always is. Guise wants the throne for his family in the end, however he dresses it up. She’s frantic for me to throw in my lot with the League, but I say this—’ he pointed an unsteady finger in my face – ‘Henri of Valois may be a useless sybarite, but he’s a prince of the blood and as such I owe him my duty. If that makes me a royalist, so be it. Better than a traitor, however holy you paint yourself.’ He paused, peering closer at me. ‘I haven’t seen you before, have I? What’s your name?’
‘Filippo, Your Grace.’
He leaned down; I could smell the wine on his breath. ‘What part do you play?’
‘Oh, servants, messengers, that sort of thing. I am still learning the trade.’
At the edge of my sightline, I saw Isabella getting ready to intervene; she was afraid I would give myself away.
He waved his glass towards Francesco. ‘Get him to give you a bigger part. You have, what do you call it? Presence.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ I offered a little bow. He seemed pleased. I realised I might have cause later to wish I had made myself less memorable, but the Duke had been remarkably helpful.
It was only as he turned to leave that I caught sight of the ornamental dagger he wore in a sheath at his belt and felt myself flush hot and cold in the same instant. The design wrought on the handle was unmistakable.
‘Excuse me, Your Grace.’ I insinuated myself between the Duke and the door again and saw a minute twitch of pique around his lips. I pressed on, regardless. ‘I couldn’t help noticing – that is a very fine knife you carry. May I see it?’
‘Well. I suppose so. Here.’ He unsheathed it and held it out towards me. The mottled silver-grey of the blade, as if watermarked, was as familiar to me as the patterns of my own fingerprints. I reached out to touch it and he whisked it out of reach.
‘Careful. It’s very sharp. Damascus steel. It will cut—’
‘—a human hair dropped over the blade,’ I said. ‘I know. It is a beautiful piece of work. Have you – had it long?’ I sized him up as I spoke. He was the right height, but he was too broad, too solid around the middle to have been the man in the Greek mask, I was certain.
The Duke blinked, frowning. He seemed unaccustomed to such direct demands from an inferior and therefore at a loss as to how he should respond. ‘Since you ask, I was only given it today.’
‘By whom?’
His face registered open irritation now; for all his hearty manner, this was not how a travelling player spoke to a duke and we both knew it. I lowered my eyes immediately.
‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Federico?’
‘Forgive me, Your Grace. My father was a master bladesmith – I get carried away when I see such fine craftsmanship and I forget myself.’
‘Was he really?’ Montpensier looked mildly interested. ‘Oh. We must talk about blades one day, then – it is a passion of mine. I collect them. That’s why Guise gave me this – he knew I would appreciate it.’
Guise? So he must have been the man in the Greek mask. I was considering whether I dared press Montpensier further when the door opened and the steward’s head appeared through the gap.
‘Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but Sir Thomas Fitzherbert and his party have arrived early.’
‘Ah.’ The Duke’s doughy features lit up briefly and he rubbed his free hand on his thigh. ‘Take them into the blue room. Say I will be there presently. Where is the Dowager Duchess?’
‘Still attending to her toilette, I believe, Your Grace.’
‘Good. Keep her away from my guests for as long as possible. Don’t let her harangue them before they’ve even had a drink.’
When the door had closed behind the Duke, Francesco appeared at my side with a face like stormclouds and grabbed my arm in a pincer grip. ‘You promised me you would be discreet,’ he hissed.
‘Sorry. But I needed to ask him—’
‘Listen.’ He wrenched my arm up, tightening his hold. ‘Maybe the great philosopher Giordano Bruno can get away with speaking to kings and dukes as if he were their equal, but a humble player cannot, and you need to remember that’s what you are tonight, if you are not to drop us all in the shit. You asked me for a favour. Fuck this up for us and I’ll kill you myself. With one of your imaginary father’s knives,’ he added, releasing me with a ghost of a smile. ‘Master bladesmith my arse.’
‘I thought you would appreciate the improvisation,’ I said, rubbing my arm. ‘I have presence, apparently.’
‘You’ll have the presence of my boot in your balls if you don’t watch yourself.’ He cuffed me around the back of the head and returned to his warm-up stretches.
Two hours passed while the Duke and his guests dined in another chamber. Servants brought us plates of meat,
