Conspiracy

I could hide outside by the players’ cart until they left, though that would mean avoiding the stable boys and anyone else moving around. I stuck my head out of the archway and looked around. I could see no movement in the stripes of shadow that lay across the courtyard. Over by the stable block, the only sound was the stamping of hooves and the occasional snort from the horses. I slipped out into the open and picked my way towards the far side of the yard. As I neared the stables I saw the boy I had spoken to earlier; he was lolling against the upright post of a covered shelter, talking to one of the serving girls. I froze, but the boy had his back to me and the girl, her arms piled with firewood, was laughing up at him; she had not seen me, but they were between me and the house, and I could not reach the servants’ door without attracting their attention. I would have to wait until they moved. The cart stood in front of the stables. I decided to take my chance and dashed across the last few yards of open space just as I heard a pounding on the wooden gate in the outer wall. The stable boy and his girl whipped around in the direction of the noise; I barely had time to duck behind the cart, out of sight.

Crouching in the cart’s shadow, I watched as the side door of the house opened and a figure with a lantern moved briskly down the steps and across to the gates. As the person drew nearer I realised it was a woman, wearing a hooded cloak. A servant followed her, carrying a wooden chest in his arms, which gave a metallic rattle with each step. I could not see the woman’s face, but from her build I guessed it could only be the Duchess of Montpensier. The stable boy hastened after her towards the gate with mumbled apologies – I heard him call her ‘my lady’ – but she snapped back, shooing him away. The Duchess unbolted the gate and drew it open a fraction to admit a man, his features obscured by the brim of a hat worn low over his brow. Her lantern swung between them; by its lurching light I saw him draw out a packet from inside his cloak and pass it to her. She tucked it away out of sight and motioned for the servant to pass the chest to him. It was evidently heavy; the man staggered back a pace under its weight. They exchanged a few muttered words I could not hear and she turned to leave; as she did so, the man tilted his head and the light caught his face long enough for me to recognise him as Sir Edward Stafford’s steward, Geoffrey.

The gate closed again and the Duchess strode back towards the house while I let my breath escape slowly and tried to piece together what I had just seen. I had been so thrown by the conversation with Sophia that I had hardly had time to process what I had overheard on the balcony between Guise and his sister. The three thousand écus he had mentioned, promised by the Duchess in return for papers containing information they intended to sell on to the Spanish ambassador. A deal brokered by Paget, but when she had said he owed too much to risk cheating them, I had assumed it was Paget she meant. Now, with the appearance of Geoffrey, I began to see the greater picture: Catherine de Medici’s reference to Stafford’s gambling habit; Paget’s sly remark that I would not be the first to gamble on credit at his card table; Stafford’s reaction when I joked about his losses; the exchange I had just witnessed. It was hard to find any other interpretation – Stafford was selling secrets to England’s enemies to pay off gambling debts Paget was encouraging him to incur. Dio porco. Walsingham would have to be told – but how? Even with our sophisticated code, I could not risk sending that information by the diplomatic courier; there was always the chance Stafford’s people would find a way to read it somehow, and then they would need to silence me. There was no knowing when this messenger Walsingham had promised was likely to turn up, if at all. Perhaps I would have no choice but to go to London myself. The thought of leaving Paris lifted my spirits briefly.

I was jolted from my thoughts by the sudden snort and stamp of a horse, close by; I turned and saw two handsome mounts tethered to a post a few feet away. The torches in the wall brackets gave out enough light for me to recognise the nearest one as Charlemagne, Guise’s horse, the one I had seen at the English embassy that night. No wonder Stafford had been skittish about his secret visitor. I wondered how long the ambassador had been brokering deals with the Catholic League and the Spanish. The horse regarded me with disdain, mist rising from its flared nostrils. I straightened up and glanced around for the stable boy, but could see no sign of him; perhaps he was still skulking in the shadows with the girl. It was only as I leaned against the cart, debating what to do, that another snatch of Guise’s conversation returned to me, with such a force of shock that for a moment my legs buckled and my stomach twisted with a pang of fear. Get rid of the husband, the Duchess had said. She had called him Saint-Fermin, and mentioned the Conciergerie; that poor blind wretch I had found in the oubliette must be Léonie de Châtillon’s husband, the Comte de Saint-Fermin. He had told me Guise had been keeping him alive; now the Duchess wanted him dead. What did he know that was so important to them?

My pulse was racing.