Conspiracy

Italy at that time, but my friend Philip Sidney had been living in Paris and told of barricading himself into the English embassy along with Sir Francis Walsingham and his young family as the mob tried to break down the doors. Neither ever forgot the horror of that night: the screaming, the smell of blood, the sight of heads, limbs, entrails scattered in the streets the next morning as if on a battlefield. The shovelling up of corpses, so many that there was not room in Paris to bury them all, the unclaimed dead left to rot along the banks of the Seine. The memory of it drove every decision Walsingham made with regard to the defence of England; he believed the same horrors would come to London if Catholic forces invaded. When King Henri talks of an uprising, it is another Saint Bartholomew’s that he fears – as does every citizen of Paris, Catholic or Protestant. It is a fear that the Catholic League has learned to exploit, as the pamphlet I had found in Joseph’s room made clear.

‘What happened to your cousin?’ I asked the Count.

‘It was her doing,’ he said, with unexpected vehemence, clutching at my hand. I felt his spittle fleck my cheek. ‘The soldiers came, demanding I give them up. I said I had not seen them. But they broke the doors down and ransacked my house. They found them all. Even their servants.’ He paused to draw a rattling breath. ‘I said I had not seen them,’ he repeated, in a hollow voice.

‘So you were punished,’ I murmured, understanding. ‘For not seeing.’

‘He took my eyes. And I thanked God, because then I was spared the sight of the little children lying in their gore. Would he had taken my life too. But he will not let me die. Nor will he let me live. He says he still has a use for me in here.’

‘Who do you mean? Who blinded you?’ I asked.

He heaved a great sigh. ‘You know who. Young Henri.’

‘The King?’ I drew back, staring.

‘No. You are confused, boy. Charles is the king.’ The old man gripped my hand tighter. ‘I mean Henri Le Balafré.’

The Scarface. The popular nickname of Henri, Duke of Guise, on account of his prominent war wound.

‘But you said it was her doing. Whose? Do you mean Catherine?’

It was asserted as fact by many that the Queen Mother had issued the order for the Protestant leaders to be killed, to isolate her new son-in-law and ensure he knew where his loyalties now lay. In her defence, people said, she had not anticipated how the flame of murder would catch and consume the entire city, and spread through France until perhaps seventy thousand Protestants lay slaughtered. But the uncomfortable fact remained that, before the bells rang out at midnight, someone’s agents had slipped silently through Paris, marking every Protestant home with a white cross, ready for the Angel of Death. There were plenty of others, of course, who pointed the finger at Guise.

‘No more now,’ the Count said, his voice drained.

I let go of his hand and felt him slump against the wall beside me. He had been in this pit for so long he had no idea King Charles was dead, and his brother now on the throne. But his memory seemed sharp enough when it came to the terrible events that had brought him to this place. If it was true that he was being kept here by the Duke of Guise, then we must be in a Guise prison, and I had no prospect of sending word to anyone with the influence to save me. Another wave of panic overwhelmed me; I had to stand and pace the limits of that confined space before the pounding in my chest and head would subside. Perhaps after some weeks the King would notice I had disappeared, but would he make the effort to find me? Would he dare to confront Guise for my liberty, if I were still alive by then? I forced myself to cling to the gaoler’s words about food; if I was to be fed, they surely did not mean to kill me immediately. Cotin had said that the Abbé wanted me questioned about Paul Lefèvre; it was no great leap to suppose that it was Guise who was interested in the answers, and that the Abbé had handed me over. Perhaps I was only here as a prelude to interrogation – a thought which did not bring comfort. When I had brought my breathing under control again, I crouched beside the Count.

‘You were at court when Charles was king?’ I asked.

‘Another kind of prison,’ he murmured. It appeared he had not lost all his wits, then.

‘Did you ever hear mention of Circe?’ It was a long shot, I knew; the man had been shut away from the world for thirteen years. Much had changed at court since then, but perhaps not that much.

‘Circe.’ His voice drifted off again, as if he were searching his memory. He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I know that name.’

A small flame of hope flickered. ‘What does it mean? Is it a person? A woman?’

He took a long time to answer.

‘She is a witch,’ he said, at last. ‘A temptress. You must know this. She robs a man of his will, until he is no better than a beast.’

‘I know the story from the Odyssey, yes,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘The enchantress who turned Odysseus’s men into pigs. But is there another Circe? Someone in Paris?’

‘A temptress,’ he said, again, more forcefully this time, his voice weighted with contempt. ‘But they all are, behind the mask. They bewitch you, then betray you. You will learn, boy.’

He fell silent. I could not tell if he was speaking of Homer’s mythical enchantress, or someone specific, or women in general. If the latter, he need not have feared; I had already learned that lesson the hard way.

Perhaps I