‘I searched the friar’s cell after he fled. If he wrote these polemics it suggests he was actively involved with the League. The Abbé interrupted me before I could find anything more conclusive. He didn’t appreciate my intrusion. Hence the Conciergerie.’
He nodded. ‘Abbé Renaud of Saint-Victor is ultra-conservative in religion and politics, that is well known. He would not want one of his friars accused of murder, especially if he could be linked to Guise. You were lucky to escape with your life.’
I agreed. A thought occurred. ‘Do you know anyone called Brinkley? It is an English name, I think?’
He looked startled. ‘Yes indeed – Stephen Brinkley, a printer, originally from Oxfordshire. He spent time in the Tower for printing Jesuit books in ’81, fled here when he was released. He has a small shop by the Palais de Justice. We keep an eye on him – he’s been smuggling Papist works and we suspect he’s a link in that filthy trade in martyr’s relics coming out of England. Why, do you think he has something to do with this business?’
‘A printer. Would he print propaganda for the League?’
‘This, you mean?’ He tapped the pamphlet with a forefinger. ‘Yes, I would not be surprised. The English Catholics here are a tight community, and most of them look to Guise and Mary Stuart as their best chance of restoring their fortunes. They often use the printers’ shops as meeting places with their League contacts.’ He curled his lip. ‘Look into it, by all means, if you can be discreet. And, ah – there was also this.’
He slid another paper towards me. I saw that it was the love letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress.
‘Something else I am investigating. It may or may not be important.’
He gave me a long look. ‘I wondered if it might be your personal property.’
‘I should be so fortunate.’ I held his stare, but could not help a roguish tilt of one eyebrow, just to keep him guessing.
‘Hm. Well, then.’ He gave the letter a little shove with his finger and gestured for me to take it. ‘I am more interested in the news you might bring us from the Louvre. My audiences with King Henri are infrequent these days, and unhelpful when they do occur.’ He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead again. His appearance suggested he had not slept much. ‘I think Catherine de Medici dislikes me.’
‘Don’t take that to heart. She dislikes most people, including her own family. Apart from Henri.’
‘True. In any case, you are better placed to know the King’s mind than I, and that is information that would be of great value to Walsingham.’ He patted the chest from which he had taken the coins. ‘We will work out an arrangement. In the meantime, if you want to speak to me, you can always send a message or call in here. Preferably not at three in the morning.’
‘No – I see you entertain other visitors at that hour.’ I had meant it as a light-hearted aside, but Stafford’s head snapped up and his eyes burned into me.
‘You overstep the mark.’ He pointed his quill at me. ‘You should understand that some embassy business needs to be conducted away from public view.’ He dipped the nib in the ink and with a show of ceremony turned his attention to the pile of papers before him. It appeared that my audience was at an end. ‘Geoffrey will see you out. You can return my clerk’s clothes in due course.’
‘You said you had letters for me, from England,’ I reminded him. He gave a small, impatient exhalation and reached into another drawer, from which he withdrew two folded papers, both sealed with plain wax. One bore my name on the outside in Sidney’s exuberant hand; the other was blank, save for a small symbol inked in the bottom left corner: the astrological sign for the planet Jupiter. The sign I always used to validate my correspondence with Walsingham. I reached for the letters, feeling that old kick in the gut, the anticipation of the chase. A quiet life: I had tried so hard, these past two months, to convince myself that I could be satisfied with that. Avoiding risk, keeping my head down, invisible among my books; I was a philosopher, after all, and the business of putting my ideas into print was dangerous enough. But the fierce, pure thrill that surged through me at the sight of that symbol made me realise I could not go on pretending. Walsingham had asked for me. That exhilaration that came with intelligence work; the giddy sense of walking a knife-edge with every step – it was hard to give up, once you had tasted it. Only now could I acknowledge how adrift I had felt without that sense of purpose. I ran my thumb over the smooth wax seal. It looked suspiciously pristine.
‘Have you read them?’
‘One is in cipher,’ Stafford replied, without looking up.
‘So you have read them.’
He raised his head this time, and had at least the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I don’t possess the code. I presume you do, or it will remain forever a mystery.’ He scrawled a flourish and scattered a pinch of sand across the lines he had written. ‘Philip Sidney’s had a daughter, though,’ he remarked, blowing the excess away.
The throwaway delivery angered me; I would have liked to hear that news direct from Sidney’s pen. But I kept my face straight and thanked him as I tucked all the papers inside the borrowed doublet and fastened it tight.
‘One piece of advice, Bruno,’ he said, as I reached the door. ‘The Duke of Guise is still looking for you. You would be wise to make a friend of Paget.’ He held up a hand before I could protest. ‘I can see you do not trust him, but his intervention
