She released her grip, her expression thoughtful. ‘An extremely dangerous heresy, then.’
‘There are men who would kill for the chance to read that book. Others for the chance to destroy it.’ Some have tried already, I thought, recalling my time in England.
‘I do not hold with books being destroyed, whatever lurks within them.’ She set her chin in a posture of defiance. ‘Ruggieri is trying to decipher it, with no success so far.’
‘He will not do it,’ I said, unable to hide my scorn. ‘The cipher is beyond his capabilities.’
‘You think you could do a better job?’
‘I am sure of it,’ I said. There seemed no point in false modesty.
‘Hm.’ She nodded. ‘Very well. Bring my son back from this pig-headed self-destruction and I will employ you to translate the book. On the condition that you do not mention a word of it to anyone.’
‘I am practised in discretion,’ I said, bowing.
Catherine fetched up a sliver of a smile. ‘Not as much as you think, Bruno.’
TWENTY-TWO
She instructed Ruggieri to take me to the King. ‘Try not to fall asleep on the way and let him escape,’ she added drily.
‘You caused me a great deal of trouble,’ the old sorcerer snapped, as we crossed the great courtyard that separated the palace of the Tuileries from the Louvre.
‘Consider it payment for all the trouble you have caused me,’ I said. ‘You want to keep your wits about you, old man.’ I did not feel inclined to soothe Ruggieri’s ruffled feelings. The conversation with Catherine had lifted my spirits a little; she had been forced to acknowledge that she needed me, both with Henri and with the book. Even so, I did not doubt that, if I failed her or made a misstep, she would not hesitate to carry out her threat of having me arrested.
‘At least I have lived to be old,’ Ruggieri said, with a shrewish expression. ‘Somehow I doubt you will see seventy winters, Giordano Bruno, unless you can learn to say what people wish to hear.’
‘Speaking of which – how is the prophecy business? Did you predict the girl’s death, I wonder?’
‘What?’ He stopped dead and levelled a bony finger at me. ‘Are you implying I had some knowledge of it?’
I held my hands up. ‘I am merely asking whether, with your famous gift of divination, you foresaw this chain of events? The girl’s death, the effect on the King, your own failure to persuade him back to reason? Can you predict how it will end?’
‘The only thing I would venture to predict with any certainty,’ he said, loftily sweeping his cloak around him and setting off again, ‘is that you will not be in Paris for much longer.’
‘I look forward to proving you wrong,’ I said, but I was discomfited by the knowing curve of his smile.
We passed under the great gate of the Louvre and into a smaller, inner courtyard.
‘You do realise he won’t see you?’ Ruggieri said, as we crossed to the royal apartments. ‘We have all pleaded with him, even his own mother, and he refuses to come out. I don’t see what you think you can do.’
‘It was not my idea,’ I said. I suspected that his own mother might be a strong reason for Henri to prefer being locked in his chapel.
Ruggieri sniffed. ‘She is clutching at straws,’ he said, as an armed guard held open a door into the most private wing of the palace.
As I entered, I glanced to my left at the adjacent façade and was startled to see a woman’s pale face at one of the windows on the second floor, watching me. I strained to look – the figure was distorted by the glass and the flickering lights of candles, but I was sure it was the King’s wife. Whoever it was, she jumped back when she realised I had seen her. I stood, waiting to see if she would reappear, but the guard holding the door coughed impatiently, and I hurried inside after Ruggieri.
The King’s private oratory was tucked away in a corner on the first floor, adjoining the royal apartments. Outside the door we found two weary soldiers, a white-haired man in the robes of a physician and Balthasar de Beaujoyeux, pacing and twisting his hands. He had an unusually frayed air about him, as if he hadn’t slept, and his collar was awry.
‘Thanks be to Our Lady that you have come, Bruno. We didn’t know what else to do, save force the door, but if he is in a fragile state, who knows what that might cause him to do? We think he has a dagger in there with him. Her Majesty says you may be able to bring him back to himself. You’re our last hope.’
‘So I understand. Has he spoken at all?’
‘Only once, and that was to say that if we break the door down, he will cut his own throat.’ He passed a hand over his close-cropped hair. ‘I have been here all night. His chaplain has tried to reason with him, and a couple of his gentlemen, as well as his mother. No one can move him.’
‘He has not taken food or water in over two days,’ the physician said, his face grave. ‘I feel bound to point out he will die sooner or later if we do not intervene.’
Balthasar clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. His anguish appeared genuine, and I began to grasp the severity of the situation. Anyone who had spent time with Henri was familiar with the way his moods pitched between extremes, often calculated to win attention, but in his most violent dark episodes he was more than capable of harming himself. His attendants knew it; they also knew that their own livelihoods – and perhaps even lives – were in jeopardy if the King did not rally. There were no more Valois sons left.
‘Call to him,’ Balthasar urged, gesturing to
