‘The Count may know something.’
‘He may, but who would take his testimony seriously, in his state?’ He scratched the tuft of hair in the centre of his balding pate. ‘All this is speculation.’
‘But I have a feeling we are drawing closer to the truth than we have been all along,’ I said.
‘Still, only this mysterious lover can prove or disprove Guise’s involvement.’ He refilled my glass and his own and sat back, his hands folded in his lap, contemplating the flames. ‘You say she persuaded Joseph de Chartres to kill Lefèvre for fear he – de Chartres – would be denounced as a spy? No mention of this conspiracy involving Circe that you thought was the reason for the priest’s death?’
‘No. That was odd, I grant you. Perhaps she feared to put that in writing.’
‘Hm. A spy for whom, though? I thought de Chartres was a loyal League man.’
‘Christ, I don’t know.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘In this city it could be anybody. The young curate at Saint-Séverin mentioned that he’d heard Lefèvre calling Joseph Judas. Perhaps it was true that he had discovered a betrayal.’
‘And I suppose you still won’t heed my advice to leave this business altogether?’ he asked gently.
‘How can I? When I am so close. If I can give the King this, Jacopo – proof that will publicly condemn Guise and his associates for murder – he will be in my debt.’
‘You think he will give you back your position at court?’ I heard the scepticism in his voice.
‘I would not expect that. I only want modest financial support and immunity from persecution for my books. A post at the University, perhaps.’
Jacopo ran a hand across his head and did not look at me. ‘For himself, Henri might do that much, but I don’t know if Catherine would permit it. In any case, you will not get much sense out of the King at the moment. Léonie’s death seems to have affected him badly. He has fallen into one of his fits of melancholy and will see no one.’
‘Then the surest way to lift him from it is to bring her killer to justice.’
‘What do you propose? Break into the house of every woman who associates with the Catholic League and steal a sample of her handwriting?’
I shifted in my chair. The pain in my hip from my impetuous leap earlier was growing worse. ‘If that is what it takes.’
He sighed. ‘Ah, Bruno. Your stubbornness will be your undoing, one way or another.’
An hour ticked by. Jacopo returned to his desk to continue with his paperwork. I picked up a book and tried to read, but I could barely keep my eyes open. Overhead the boards creaked in different tones as the physician moved about the room. My clothes smelled of the gaol again, and from carrying the Count; I caught the stink rising from them in the heat of the fire. Eventually there came a discreet tap at the door and the physician entered, wiping his hands on a linen cloth.
‘He is more comfortable now. I’ve given him a draught to help him sleep.’ He shook his head, amazed. ‘He must have the constitution of a lion, to have survived in that condition for so long. Man’s capacity for endurance is remarkable.’
‘Will he live?’ I asked, standing.
He gave me a frank look. ‘For a while. But do not expect too much. His health is in shreds. He will not get well again, in the sense that you might understand it. His body has been destroyed.’
‘But, for now…?’
‘I see no immediate danger. There is no trace of gaol fever that I can detect.’ He turned to Jacopo. ‘I will return in the morning. If he wakes, I recommend a thin chicken stock – nothing more substantial. His stomach will not cope with it. And – ah – if we might discuss the matter of the fee…?’
‘I will sit with him, in case he wakes,’ I offered, partly because I did not want to hear how much the Count’s life was going to cost Jacopo. That was something else we would have to work out when – if – I eventually had any reward from Henri.
The bedchamber was warm and airless, hazy with woodsmoke from the fire that had been stoked high and now blazed fiercely. A faint vegetal trace of medicinal herbs lingered, but it was not enough to disguise the smell of decaying flesh. The Count lay stretched out under blankets, perfectly still, dwarfed and shrunken against the plump pillows. The doctor had bathed him and dressed his wounds, clothed him in a clean nightshirt and taken the worst of the filth from his face, but if anything this only made his wasted flesh seem more naked, the scarred tissue around his empty sockets more ghastly. He looked entirely bloodless, like a mummified corpse, as if you could snap off one of the desiccated limbs and nothing would spill out but dead insects and dust. But he was alive, I reminded myself, and free.
I fell asleep in the chair by his bed. I do not know how many minutes or hours passed, but I was awakened by a choking noise; I lunged forward and lifted him, holding his torso upright while his breath rattled in his chest like a handful of stones thrown down a dry well. When the coughing fit subsided, he slumped back into my arms. I thought he was asleep; I was about to lay him down once more when he drew a scraping breath.
‘I dreamed I felt the wind on my face.’
‘You did,’ I said, amazed and delighted to hear him speak, though he was barely audible. ‘I’m sorry I could not arrange the sun, but it’s the middle of the night in December.
