‘Will I see you again?’ I blurted as he reached the stairs, despising myself for it. I sounded like a needy lover.
Henri turned and considered me, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘You know, Bruno, there is one thing you could do for me, if you are still eager for my patronage?’
I bowed my head. ‘Your Majesty knows I would be pleased to serve in any way you see fit.’
A satisfied smile creased his face. My jaw tensed. I had walked into this; he had stage-managed the entire scene so that, afraid he was about to leave me with nothing, I would clutch gratefully at whatever chance he offered. I already knew I was not going to like his proposition.
‘Good. You there – hold this.’ He untied the basket from around his neck and handed it, with its whimpering contents, to the nearest guard, who almost dropped it in surprise. ‘Careful with Claudette – she doesn’t like rough handling. Now, stand over there. Watch the stairs.’ He motioned them back to their post, steering me with the other hand to the furthest corner of the balcony. I braced myself and tried to assemble an expectant smile.
‘Guise means to destroy me. Sooner or later, I fear he will succeed in having me deposed or murdered, whichever proves cheaper.’ He leaned forward to clasp me by both shoulders, his face uncomfortably close, his tone conspiratorial. Through the perfume, I could smell the fear on him; after all the posturing, this was real. A succession of unpleasant possibilities chased one another through my head. What was he going to ask of me? Assassinate Guise? It would not be beyond him. Henri pulled at an earring and pressed his lips together until they disappeared. He seemed to be fishing for the right words. ‘These priests I mentioned – the ones he sets on to preach against me.’
‘What about them?’
‘One was a particular thorn in my side – virulent little fellow at Saint-Séverin. Gave me a thorough roasting last Sunday – the hour is coming for the godly citizens of Paris to purge the city of her heretic king, all that.’ He let go of me, making a rolling motion with his hand to indicate the monotony of the theme. ‘Even the poor harvest is down to my debauchery, apparently.’
I concentrated all my efforts on keeping my face steady. ‘I know. I was there. He preached for four hours.’
‘Did he really?’ He looked at me sidelong, tilted a plucked eyebrow. ‘How extraordinary. Even I wouldn’t want to talk about my peccadilloes for four hours. I didn’t hear it myself, but I have people who keep me abreast of these things. It was the closest any of Guise’s puppets have come so far to inciting a mob, I’m told. Dangerous, at any rate.’
I nodded. In this, at least, he was not mistaken; there had been a new mood among the congregation after Paul’s sermon: restive, pent-up, angry, a nest of hornets needing only one small prod to explode. It was a miracle there had been no violence; if a Protestant had passed by and happened to say a wrong word, he’d have been torn apart.
‘And?’ I prompted, since Henri had fallen silent again.
He examined his manicure with apparent indifference. ‘It would seem he was murdered yesterday. I’d like you to find out who did it.’
‘Me?’ I stared at him, wondering if it was a trap.
His gaze flickered upwards and rested briefly on me. ‘The streets are already alive with rumours that he was killed on my orders, in revenge for his sermon. Guise will seize on this and fan the flames – it could tip the balance of feeling in the city. The League has people wound so tight, it would take only the slightest provocation to spark a riot or another massacre. An attack on a priest is a direct attack on the Church – people are superstitious about that sort of thing, and it will be seen as further proof of my disregard for the Catholic faith. I assume that’s why he did it.’
‘Who?’
He frowned, irritated. A nerve twitched in his cheek. ‘Keep up, Bruno – you’re supposed to be the finest mind at my court. Guise did it, obviously, to inflame the people against me.’
‘Killed one of his own supporters?’ I could not quite disguise the doubt in my voice. It was a plausible explanation, but less convincing than the simpler version, which was that Henri had done exactly what the rumours claimed. I thought of the burned scrap of letter inside my doublet: the words Votre Majesté. The same cold sensation tightened my throat again.
‘Precisely.’ Henri rubbed the back of his neck, stretching from side to side. ‘He can find himself twenty more hellfire preachers like that one. But the chance to lay the murder of a priest at my door – that serves him beautifully. Wouldn’t that sway any pious citizens unsure about where their loyalties should lie in the event of a coup? So, you see, I need to clear my name before Guise tortures some poor wretch into saying publicly that I put him up to it. I want you to find the man who did this, with evidence that will convict him before all Paris. Justice must be seen to be served. If you can tie the killer to Guise, all the better.’
‘You don’t ask much.’ I moved away to lean against the balustrade. ‘With respect, sire – why me?’
He smiled. ‘Ah, my Bruno. Do you think Francis Walsingham is the only one who has informers at his beck and call? You kept yourself busy in England, I hear. It seems you have quite the knack of sniffing out a murderer.’
Sidney used to use the same turn of phrase,
