‘Jacopo Corbinelli? No, he didn’t. Why – were you expecting someone?’
‘I thought – then who? How did you know where to find me?’
‘Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,’ he said cheerfully, over his shoulder, ignoring the first question.
‘Spying,’ I said. I should have guessed. How naïve to think I could have lived quietly in Paris for the past two months without anyone watching me.
‘Well, you’re the expert there.’ He did not say it unpleasantly; more in the spirit of making conversation. But the remark alarmed me further; the only people in Paris likely to accuse me of spying – apart from the King – were those who considered me an enemy. And there might be more of those than I knew; Paris was full of English Catholic exiles now, either banished by Elizabeth’s government or fled illegally, many of them rallying to the banner of the Scottish Queen Mary Stuart, whose ambassador here was at the heart of the conspiracies to free her with the help of the Catholic League. My name would be known to anyone who had been party to the most recent of those plots, the one uncovered – as the King had rightly said – by letters intercepted at the French embassy in London. It was quite possible, I now realised, that my rescuer was one of their number.
‘I have never seen you before yesterday, in the churchyard.’
‘Naturally you haven’t. I do have some skill in this business.’
‘So why now?’
‘I thought it was time we were introduced.’
‘Who do you work for?’
He flashed a smile over his shoulder. ‘I serve God, Doctor Bruno. How about you?’
Merda. Only a Catholic would give an answer like that. I decided it was best to say nothing. On the far side of the bridge he turned left on to the Quai des Bernardins and it became clear that he was not taking me to my lodgings.
‘I can walk home from here, if you let me down,’ I said, trying not to betray my anxiety in my voice.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You can barely be trusted to get yourself to the end of the street without someone’s soldiers carting you off. Besides, it’s gone three in the morning – we don’t want to disturb the redoubtable Madame de la Fosse at this hour, do we? And – forgive my candour – but I’m afraid you do smell quite unforgivably of shit. You need a bath and a hot meal before you’re fit to go home. A few more hours won’t hurt.’
I fell silent again as the horse continued its steady pace along the quai, the servant with the lamp plodding doggedly ahead, a wavering pool of orange in the grey air. The fog condensed on my lips with a taste of earth and smoke. This man was clever, that much was certain; in one response he had managed to convey how much he knew about me, down to the name of my landlady and my visit from the King’s guard the night before. I could only assume that he was taking me to Guise. I leaned out and looked at the ground; the horse was moving slowly enough that I could slip off without too much damage, but I would be unlikely to outrun him and his servant.
‘I wouldn’t jump if I were you,’ he said, without turning. ‘Francis is easily startled. He might very well trample you before I could stop him, and then I’d have paid out all that money for nothing. You didn’t come cheap, you know.’
‘Is Francis the horse or the servant?’
‘The horse. Named for my favourite member of the Privy Council.’
‘You named your horse after Walsingham?’
‘He’s really quite intelligent. For a horse.’
I could not help a burst of laughter, despite myself. I felt his shoulders relax.
‘Who the devil are you?’ I asked.
He considered the question for a few moments. ‘My name will not be unfamiliar to you, just as yours is not to me. We have a number of acquaintances in common – not all of them well disposed to either of us. So it may be that you have heard things about me which are partially or entirely untrue. In any case, I urge you not to overreact.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I said irritably.
‘Very well. My name is Charles Paget.’
I let go of him instantly and pushed myself backwards over the hindquarters of the horse, landing hard on the ground. I heard him pull the horse around, barking a command in French; before I could scramble to my feet or reach for my dagger, the torch-bearer loomed over me, his response surprisingly swift for such a lumpen man. He took hold of my arm in a grip that was not worth arguing with and dragged me to my feet.
‘Now, you see, I call that an overreaction,’ Paget observed from above, holding the horse on a short rein as it stamped on the spot. ‘If I wished you harm, I would have left you where you were, would I not?’
I said nothing. There were worse harms than being left in the Conciergerie; I feared that was about to become all too apparent. My free hand crept across to my belt.
‘Don’t touch the knife, Bruno, or I shall regret my generosity in returning it to you. You can walk if you choose, but it would be easier for everyone if you stop being a bloody fool and get back in the saddle.’
I planted my feet and looked up at him. ‘I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me where, and why.’
He let out a theatrical sigh. ‘Very well – let us continue with this pretence that you have some agency here.’ The horse danced its feet forward and back in a square and snorted. ‘I am taking you to the English embassy. Happy? Now get on the horse.’
‘I am not stupid. You mean to kill me.’
He laughed at this. ‘How dramatic you
