‘Do you still have the letter?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘I burned it.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘No. Who could I tell, in this place? I did not think anyone would take it seriously. They would tell me it was the ravings of a madman and I should ignore it. They would say that especially if there were any truth in it.’
‘Who brought you the letter?’
‘I don’t remember. It just arrived with all the others. I suppose any of the servants.’
‘Could anyone have read it before it reached you?’
A small crease appeared in her brow. ‘It was sealed, I do remember that, because I recall looking to see if there was an insignia. But the wax was unmarked.’
‘Did you ever confront Circe? Léonie, I mean?’
‘Yes. I began refusing any food or drink she brought me. When she asked why, I made a joke of it. I said, “You would never do anything to hurt me, Léonie, would you?” She burst into tears.’ Her lip curled with contempt. ‘Fell on her knees, swore to me her love and duty were all mine as long as she lived and she would give her life for mine. I have never seen such a performance. She didn’t realise I knew she was fucking my husband, of course.’
I gaped at her.
‘Don’t look so shocked, Doctor Bruno – I am not a child, though everyone treats me as if I were.’ She hitched up her skirts and crossed back to the window. This time I came to stand beside her. We looked down over the courtyard. A few flakes of snow had begun to drift into the light of the torches. ‘She was bursting into tears a lot these past few weeks,’ Louise mused, touching her fingertips to the glass. ‘At everything and nothing. I suppose one becomes emotional in her condition.’
‘Condition?’ I said faintly.
‘She was pregnant. I am sure of it, though I lack experience.’
‘I am certain of it too.’
She turned to me, amazed. ‘Did Henri tell you?’
‘No. I don’t think he knows. I observed it for myself. That Circe costume did not leave much to the imagination.’
She made a face. ‘The costume was Catherine’s idea. My original design was much more subtle. You see?’ She indicated the table to her right. I moved closer and saw that it was spread with sheets of paper covered in brightly coloured sketches of women showing the various costumes from the Masque of Circe. The drawings were beautifully executed, with an artist’s eye for the human form; the women had been rendered as if in the midst of the dance, so that the drape and movement of the fabric appeared charged with energy. Each one had been carefully painted, the colours suggesting the play of light and shadow as the dancers whirled. I recalled that Queen Louise had been involved in the ballets de cours in the past, but I had not realised the extent of her creative talents. Beside each dancer was a brief note on her place in the masque and how she would move.
‘This was how I pictured Circe,’ she said, pointing to a sketch that was clearly a likeness of Léonie, in a more modest Grecian gown of deep azure.
‘These drawings are exquisite, Your Majesty,’ I said. She flushed with pleasure and I was moved again with pity for her. ‘Did you contribute to the choreography too?’
‘Not really. A few suggestions. Balthasar added the notes but the costumes are all mine. It was Catherine who wanted Circe to look more titillating. I could not understand it – I would have thought in the circumstances she would have preferred to conceal the girl’s condition until the timing was more favourable.’
‘Favourable – how?’ I thought of how swiftly Catherine had dismissed my suggestion that Léonie was pregnant.
‘Catherine was deceived if she thought it was Henri’s,’ the Queen whispered, half to herself, watching her wavering reflection in the window. ‘Ten years of being probed and scraped by doctors and not one can find anything wrong with me. But it is always said to be the woman’s fault if she cannot conceive a child. To suggest it is the man’s failure casts doubt on his virility. And it is easier to replace a wife than a king, is it not?’
‘You mean you don’t think Henri can father a child?’ I asked.
‘To say so would be treason,’ she replied carefully. ‘I am saying I did not believe Léonie de Châtillon’s child was Henri’s. So I had her followed. I wanted to see if she met other men. I could not see the King so grossly deceived. I still care for my husband, you see. And I was terrified.’
‘Of what?’
‘That if Catherine believed Léonie was carrying the King’s child, it would hasten her plans for me. I had to do something.’ She spoke so softly I could barely hear her. She remained by the window, her gaze unfocused, toying with the lace of her collar.
I crossed the room and studied the wedding portrait hanging on the wall opposite the fireplace. In the lower right-hand corner two coats of arms had been painted to symbolise the joining of the two houses. One was the Valois arms, the other a gold shield with a crimson band showing three white eaglets displayed. I closed my eyes briefly and felt a cold sensation spread from the nape of my neck along the length of my spine. I realised now where I had seen the emblem sewn on the scarf I had found in the copse where Léonie was killed. This was the arms of the House of Lorraine; the Queen had been Louise of Lorraine before she married.
I turned slowly to find that she too had moved from the window and
