I emerged into the cold light, into air that smelled of frost and smoke. Even at this hour, the courtyard was already bustling; men struggled to pull barrows stacked with firewood through the rutted snow; others rolled barrels towards the kitchens while women hauled buckets and sacks across their shoulders, bent under the weight. I kept my head down, chin tucked into the collar of my doublet, trying not to draw unwanted attention.
I crossed the rear courtyard of the Tuileries without incident and passed through the gate in the boundary wall that separated it from the Louvre. Here my task became more difficult; there would be several ranks of guards between me and the King’s private chambers and I could expect to be swiftly detained as soon as I tried to get past them. As I edged around the chapel of Saint-Nicolas, I noticed that the door was ajar. I peered inside; there seemed to be no one about except an elderly priest lighting the candles by the altar at the far end for the early Mass. As long as he did not turn around and see me, my luck might hold. There was a closed door to my left; I tried the handle and to my immense relief it opened into a small sacristy, barely bigger than a closet, where vestments hung in rows on the wall. I snatched up a cassock, stole and biretta as quickly as I could, bundling them under my arm; as I was about to leave, I grabbed a prayer book from a table and dashed from the chapel just as I heard the old priest call out to ask who was there.
In the shadow of the porch I pulled on the cleric’s garb, arranged the stole around my neck, and set off towards the King’s apartments, praying I would not run into anyone who might recognise me.
But no one seemed to look beyond my clothes; at the sight of the priest’s garments doors opened and I was waved through by guards until I found myself outside the King’s private chamber, where a number of well-dressed young men lounged in an anteroom. None of them paid me any attention beyond an initial glance of boredom. By the fire, I noticed the physician who had been waiting outside the oratory the day before; I turned my face away, pulled the hat down and approached the soldiers guarding the door.
‘His Majesty sent for me,’ I said, with as much authority as I could muster. They looked at one another as if seeking confirmation. One tapped on the door. After a moment it was opened to reveal – to my dismay – Balthasar de Beaujoyeux, impeccably groomed, despite the early hour.
‘Bruno? Good Lord. How did you get in here?’ His eyes narrowed as he took in my appearance. ‘The costume ball is over, you know.’
‘I need to see the King,’ I said, lowering my eyes and forcing myself to sound humble. ‘Please, Balthasar. It’s urgent.’
‘He’s not receiving visitors.’ Balthasar glanced at the guards. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s a private matter.’
‘Catherine has instructed that he is not to be disturbed, especially with news that might upset him. You had better come and tell her your urgent business. She can decide if he is strong enough.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘I think you will.’ He nodded to the guards. One stepped forward and took hold of my arm.
‘Your Majesty,’ I cried out, struggling as the soldier tightened his grip.
‘Who’s there?’ came Henri’s voice, from inside the chamber.
‘It’s Bruno,’ I shouted, trying to wrench my arm away.
‘Well, for God’s sake come in, then,’ the King called back, peevishly. The guard looked at Balthasar, who sighed and motioned for him to release me.
Henri was sitting up in bed, a book in his lap and a robe draped around his shoulders. He still looked pale and his eyes were ringed with purple shadow, though he seemed more alert than the previous day. I bowed; he beckoned me to approach his bedside, frowning.
‘Why are you dressed as a priest?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m sorry, Your Majesty,’ Balthasar cut in. ‘I told him you were resting. I have no idea how he managed to get into your private apartments.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Henri shot him an irritable glance. ‘It’s only Bruno. Yesterday you couldn’t push him into my presence fast enough. What are you doing here at this hour, Bruno?’
‘I have more pressing news, sire.’
‘Well, go on then.’ He closed his book and drew himself upright, looking interested.
I glanced sidelong at Balthasar, who was standing at my elbow as if ready to wrestle me to the ground, should the need arise.
‘It would be better done in private, sire.’
‘Really?’ Henri’s expression grew more animated. ‘You heard him, Balthasar. See yourself out.’
Balthasar gave me a wounded look, but he had the good grace not to argue with the King, and backed out of the room with a shallow bow. Henri took me by the wrist and drew me towards him. He had at least bathed since I was last this close.
‘He’ll be listening outside, of course,’ he whispered, nodding to the door that had just closed. ‘Scurrying back to my mother with snippets he’s half-heard. Keep your voice down. Have you discovered anything? Do you know who killed Léonie?’
I dropped my voice so that it was barely audible. ‘I believe I do, Your Majesty. It was the same person who killed Frère Joseph de Chartres, and coerced him into killing the priest Paul Lefèvre. And I also know who was behind all the deaths, and why.’
Henri grasped my wrist harder. ‘Well?’
I hesitated. ‘First, Your Majesty, I must extract a promise from you. I need your help.’
I did not miss the flicker of displeasure in his eyes. ‘One does not usually bargain with princes, Bruno.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I pressed on, firmly, ‘my situation is somewhat desperate. Since you asked me to look into these murders, I have crossed the Duke of
