‘The people of France would not rise against their sovereign,’ I said, aiming to sound soothing, though I was not convinced myself.
He gave a strangled laugh. ‘You think not? William of Orange probably thought the same. I tell you, I have not had an untroubled night’s sleep since he was murdered. On his own stairs!’ He flung out his hands, as if the case were proved, then turned away to lean on the balustrade. The rain had eased, leaving a damp chill in the night wind; violet and silver clouds scurried across the moon, threatening to burst again before morning. Below us, the city lay in darkness. The King shivered and pulled his robe closer around him. ‘This is all my brother Anjou’s fault, the Devil take him. If he hadn’t died last summer, I would not have had to name a Protestant as my successor. That’s what threw the taper into the kindling. France won’t stomach a Huguenot on the throne, even if Henri of Navarre is the nearest in blood.’
‘It was extremely selfish of your brother to leave you in such a predicament.’ I kept my face straight and stared out over the ridges of the roofs below. He turned to me slowly, his eyes narrowed. I wondered if I had misjudged. After a short silence, he let out a burst of laughter and rested a hand on my shoulder.
‘Ah, how I have missed you, Bruno. No one else would dare talk to a king the way you do.’
Not enough to have troubled yourself to see me in over two months, I thought. To his face, I gave a tight smile. ‘Your Majesty is only thirty-four, and the Queen is in good health. You may yet resolve the question of an heir without a civil war.’ As I said the words, I thought of the drawing on Paul’s pamphlet.
Henri looked at me with a strange expression, as if making a difficult calculation. ‘Well. Perhaps I may,’ he said, with an air of enigma. ‘My cock is the subject of much learned speculation, you know.’ He patted his codpiece with mock pride. ‘And I don’t just mean the handbills that circulate in the street. I tell you, Bruno – Europe’s most senior diplomats scribble frantic dispatches to one another about it. Whether it functions sufficiently for the task, whether it is the right size, whether it might be deformed or poxed – or is it perhaps that I don’t know where to put it with a woman?’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I ought to be flattered. How many men can boast that their members are the business of council chambers from the Atlantic to the Adriatic?’ He scratched the dog’s head absently.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I said, leaning on the parapet beside him, ‘the same scrutiny attends the Queen of England and her private parts.’
‘I suppose it must. God, to think my brother Anjou almost married her. Imagine having conjugal obligations to that dried-up old quim. Some would say death was a lucky escape.’ He laughed again, but his heart was not in it, and his expression sobered. ‘Elizabeth Tudor is the last of her line now, like me. Two dying royal houses. And her kingdom will be carved up by factions before she is cold in her coffin, just like mine.’ He plucked down his sleeves, straightened the sparkling dog-basket around his neck; the dog let out a small whine in sympathy.
I watched Henri with an unexpected rush of pity. He was never meant to wear a crown, this king; he had a face made for decadence, not statecraft. The full pouting lips, heavy-lidded eyes, the long Valois nose and carefully trimmed triangle of beard all combined to make him, if not exactly handsome, then at least appealingly louche, if that was your taste. He would fix your gaze with a quirk of the eyebrow that always appeared somehow suggestive, even when he was discussing treaties. Even his adoring Italian mother was not blind to the way his effete manner was a gift to his enemies, most of all the supporters of the virile and pious Guise. But Henri was the only survivor of four sons: the last hope of the House of Valois.
‘You should have stayed in London, Bruno,’ he murmured, after a while.
I looked at him in disbelief. ‘I would gladly have done so,’ I said stiffly. ‘It became impossible.’ You made it impossible, I wanted to add. You sent me there to keep me safe from the Catholic League, from those zealots who would bring the Inquisition and all its horrors to France. Then you abandoned me.
‘The Baron de Chateauneuf, you mean?’ He waved this aside. ‘I had to send him. We needed a robust ambassador who would stand up for France as a Catholic country. The previous ambassador was too concerned with being liked at the English court.’
I continued to hold his gaze; he gave a petulant shrug and looked away. ‘Yes, all right,
