‘What do you mean?’ Henri said.
‘It was only late last night that I realised where I had seen this handwriting. You will recognise it, I think, Your Majesty.’ I approached Catherine and held out the letter to her, but she pointedly turned her head away. ‘It was in Queen Louise’s apartments,’ I continued, undeterred. ‘She showed me the drawings she had made for the costumes in the masque, and beneath them were notes on the choreography. Unmistakably in this same hand. It’s not just your women who use the arts of love to spy for you, is it, Your Majesty?’ I left a pause, while Catherine’s face clouded with fury. ‘Joseph de Chartres was clever – he was a frequent guest of the Duchess of Montpensier, he allowed rumours to flourish regarding their relationship, to disguise where his real interest lay.’ I turned to Balthasar, holding out the penknife. ‘Here – you left this behind in the priest’s rooms with Joseph’s body. Perhaps you should have sent your little go-between to look for it,’ I added. ‘The dwarf. The one you sent to search Lefèvre’s lodging before, to see if he had left behind any other writings about the Circe plot.’
Balthasar stared at me, his mouth hanging open. The colour drained from his face. He turned fearful eyes on Catherine, waiting to be told what to do or say.
Henri stepped down from the dais, covering the distance between us in two long strides, and snatched the letter from my hand. His eyes skimmed the page; when he looked up at Balthasar they glittered with a cold light.
‘You killed my child,’ he said, with deliberate calm.
‘Your Majesty—’ Balthasar was shaking his head, holding his hands up, palms outwards, like a shield. Before he could complete his defence, Henri pulled his arm back and swung his fist until it connected with Balthasar’s jaw with a sickening crunch. For a man in his state of health it was a surprisingly vigorous blow. The dance master was knocked to the floor, where he attempted to scramble backwards away from the King.
‘It was not likely to have been yours, Your Majesty,’ he pleaded, the words distorted in his bruised mouth. ‘She was still seeing Guise. I was the one who found out – your wife had me follow her.’
‘But it might have been. No one has ever proved that I cannot father a child, damn it. But no – I can see it would have been a lot of trouble to murder my wife, rush through another marriage and legitimise a bastard if you could not even be sure it was a Valois. Much simpler just to kill it off along with the woman who carried it.’ He raised his leg as if to kick Balthasar in the ribs; with the quick reflex of an athlete he curled into a ball, arms over his face, begging for mercy.
‘Leave him alone, Henri.’ Catherine rapped out her command as if speaking to a dog. ‘This is not justice. Conduct yourself like a monarch.’
‘Like you, Mother?’ The King spun around to face her, eyes blazing. ‘Is it more fitting to poison people? Strangle them from behind when they are not looking? Is that how a monarch should behave?’
Catherine clicked her tongue. ‘Be grateful you do not hold your kingdom in Italy, boy. You would see all that and more before breakfast, you would learn not to shrink from the smell of blood. Remember you are a Medici as well as a Valois.’
‘You have never let me forget it, Mother.’ Henri pointed to Balthasar, still balled up silent on the floor. ‘Was that where he learned his assassin’s tricks, at the Medici court?’
‘Like all of us who make our home in a foreign land, Balthasar has learned the skills necessary to survive and be useful.’ Catherine’s tone was calmer now.
Balthasar peeled his arms away from his face and pushed himself up on his elbows to look the King directly in the eye.
‘In Florence, Your Majesty, they kill men like us,’ he said, his voice low and unsteady. ‘The street gangs or the Church, it’s all the same. We are easy targets. I was beaten so badly by youths one night that I could no longer dance. But at least I escaped with my life – my friend did not. After that – yes, I learned how to fight.’
Henri held his gaze, his fingers flexing as the conflict of emotions played out across his face. He turned back to his mother.
‘What justice shall he have, then, your hired killer?’ But he sounded more petulant than angry. Already, to my dismay, I could feel the balance of power shifting.
‘Your servant, rather,’ Catherine said firmly. ‘Every decision I take is for the sake of your throne and your name, my son. If Doctor Bruno cared for you and for France as he claims to do, he would have understood this, and learned, as I suggested, to keep his opinions to himself.’ She turned those black eyes on me for the briefest instant, with all the promise of Medici vengeance. ‘Send the others out, Henri. You and I and Balthasar will discuss justice alone.’
The King havered, suspended between choices. Then he seemed to deflate, the raw fury ebbing away as suddenly as it had flared up. He sat heavily on the edge of the dais and hunched over, wracked by another bout of coughing. Catherine stood, wincing as she leaned her weight on her stick, and laid a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, Henri inclined towards her and rested his head against her hip. I knew then that I had lost, and she had won. It had all been for nothing. There would be no justice for the dead; the King would accept her justifications and my reward would be Catherine’s lasting enmity.
‘You may leave my son to my care now, Doctor Bruno,’ she said, her voice gentler. ‘You have done what he asked of you, with a tenacity none of
