Conspiracy

Whatever the Count knew, by tomorrow it would be too late to find out. There was still time to save him, and only one possible way of doing it. I looked back at Guise’s horse. It had lost interest in me and returned its attention to the bale of hay that had been placed on the ground by the post, but it was saddled and harnessed; Guise must have given the boy instructions to have it ready in case he wanted to leave early. I peered once more around the courtyard for any sign of movement, but could see no one nearby. Crouching low, I crept the few paces out from the shelter of the cart and tried to untie the horse’s reins from the post, my fingers clumsy with cold. It whinnied loudly in protest; I hushed it with a whisper, fumbling with the knot until, to my surprise, it came loose. I gripped the reins, jammed my foot into a stirrup and hauled myself up into the saddle with some difficulty as the beast reared backward. The clatter of its hooves brought the stable boy running from his dark corner, shouting for me to stop, but I had already wheeled the horse around. I leaned down – not easy, it was an impatient creature and did not like standing still – and unlatched the gate, trying to pull it open; the horse was in the way and for one terrible minute the boy was on us, lunging for the bridle, but the horse lurched back, almost trampling him, a gap opened up and I kicked the beast hard in its flanks, causing it to take off out of the gate so fast I was almost flung out of the saddle backwards. I could do nothing but cling on as we bolted down the rue Saint-Antoine, the boy’s outraged cries giving way to the sound of the wind rushing past my ears and my own manic laughter at my audacity. It was only when it showed no inclination to slow down that I remembered I had relatively little skill or experience as a horseman, particularly with a strong-willed animal like this one.

‘Come on, Charlemagne, do me this favour,’ I muttered, pulling the reins and concentrating on remaining upright, one foot still flailing around for the other stirrup. Perhaps he responded to pleading, or perhaps he had lost interest in his dash for freedom, but he gradually dropped to a trot just as we neared the turning for rue des Tournelles. He seemed to have his own ideas of where he wanted to go, but I managed to wrench his head around and point him in the direction of Jacopo’s house. As we approached, I could only offer a silent prayer that Jacopo was at home; if he were still at the palace, I had no hope. I did not dare risk showing my face there.

An armed watchman, freezing and bored, snapped to attention as I rode up the path, lowering his pike and demanding my business. I slithered down from the saddle, insisting I was a friend, and handed him the horse’s reins while I hammered on the door. The watchman seemed too surprised to protest. Jacopo’s steward answered. He was also startled to see me in a state of evident desperation.

‘Is he home?’ I said, without a greeting.

‘He has only just come back from the Tuileries,’ the steward began, ‘and he has not yet eaten—’

‘Thank God. I must see him. Please tell him it is a matter of life and death.’

The man hesitated, but behind him I could see Jacopo’s silhouette move forward into the light. I almost wept with relief at the sight of him.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, ushering his servant inside, ‘I can always make time for Bruno. Now then. What has happened?’ In the flame from his candle he looked drawn, as if he had not slept since the ball.

‘Do you have the King’s seal?’ I blurted.

He frowned. ‘No, not here.’ He must have read my expression, because he stepped forward and laid a hand on my arm. ‘I have Catherine’s, though. I require it sometimes when I am sent on her business. Why do you need a royal seal?’

‘You must come with me, right now. Bring the seal, and some money. We have to save a life.’

He hesitated; I could see he wanted to ask me more, but after a moment he merely nodded and turned back. ‘Wait inside. I will fetch it, and a warm coat.’

I could have embraced him. ‘Fetch a spare too, if you have one. And ask your steward to send for a physician, to be waiting when we return.’

‘A physician?’

‘I will explain on the way.’

When he returned, I gestured for him to mount. He turned to me, brow creased with concern.

‘Where did you get this horse?’

‘I borrowed it.’

‘From whom?’ He peered more closely at the saddlecloth. A spasm of alarm crossed his face, but he mastered it. ‘Dear God, Bruno – these are the Guise arms. Please don’t tell me you have stolen the Duke of Guise’s horse?’

‘Borrowed,’ I repeated firmly. ‘Come on – we can’t waste time.’

‘Where are we going?’ he asked, clinging around my waist as we set off at a more sedate pace towards the river.

‘The Conciergerie. We have to prevent a murder.’

I felt him tense behind me. ‘Whose?’

‘The Comte de Saint-Fermin.’

‘But – that is absurd. He was killed thirteen years ago, on Saint Bartholomew’s night.’

‘No, he wasn’t. But he will be killed tomorrow morning by Guise if we don’t reach him first, and I believe he may hold the key to all the murders – including his wife’s.’

Jacopo fell silent then, and did not ask me anything more until we arrived at the gates of the prison.

He showed Catherine’s seal to the soldiers on the gates and we were waved through. The squalid gaoler was fetched, the growth on his face looking more malignant in the light. He squinted at me for a moment