I let my head drop into my hands as a wave of giddiness washed over me, blurring the edges of my vision; the bench seemed to tilt beneath my weight, as if the reed-strewn floor of the Swan were the deck of a ship. I blinked hard and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until the sensation passed. Perhaps the blow to the head had affected me more than I realised. I had wanted this, I reminded myself: to be taken back into Walsingham’s service. The strain of leading a double life was the price of admission.
‘Doctor Bruno?’
I jerked my head up and focused on the eyes of a young man across the table, peering into my face as if he feared I might need a physician. I took in his appearance, tensing at the realisation that he wore the Augustinian habit. I had not seen Frère Joseph’s face last night, and this man appeared to know me. Slowly, I slipped one hand under the table to feel for my knife. I saw from the flicker of his eyes that he had noticed.
‘You look unwell,’ he observed, with an uncertain smile.
‘Just a few scratches,’ I said, hoping the waves of dizziness would hold off if I had to fight.
He looked at my face, then shrugged. ‘Frère Guillaume sent me, though he wasn’t certain you’d be here, after last night. He said you had something to return to him. He was unable to come himself.’
I peered more closely, squinting to focus my blurred vision on him, and realised why he seemed familiar; he was the one who had first come to find me in the library when Paul had asked for me at Saint-Victor. I let my shoulders relax, and unhooked Cotin’s keys from my belt.
‘Is Frère Guillaume all right?’
The young friar looked pensive. ‘He’s been confined to his cell for a few days while the Abbé considers how to discipline him. He asked me to tell you not to worry about him, and that Denis was safe and well, if you needed him. He said you would know what that meant.’ He hesitated, his eyes expectant. When I only nodded, he continued: ‘He also said you’d be interested to hear about Frère Joseph.’
‘What about him?’ I kept my face neutral.
‘He’s missing. No one has seen him since last night. The Abbé is worried. He has people out scouring the city for him, the brothers are saying.’
‘Really? What else are they saying?’
He lowered his voice. ‘The talk is that it has something to do with you.’ He hunched forward with an air of complicity. ‘Some of the brothers said you were arrested last night stealing money from his cell.’
‘There was a misunderstanding. As you see, I am not in custody.’ I held up my wrists to prove the point. The young friar looked dubiously at the bandages and back to the cut on my lip.
‘Were you spying on him?’ He seemed intrigued by the idea. ‘The rumour in the abbey is that Joseph is the Abbé’s go-between. That he carries secret letters.’
‘To whom?’
He shrugged. ‘No one knows. It is all speculation. Some say the Duke of Guise, some say the Queen Mother, others say Navarre.’
‘Well, that covers most possibilities. So the Abbé is concerned that Joseph might have disappeared with letters in his possession?’
‘I suppose. Where do you think he is?’
I eyed him, weighing up how much to say. This boy could not be much more than twenty, and he had the same harried air that had struck me when he came to summon me to the infirmary. Perhaps that was his habitual manner. I noticed his fingernails were bitten down raw to the quick. Cotin evidently trusted the boy enough to send him; still, I needed to be careful.
‘No idea. What are the guesses at Saint-Victor?’
He considered. ‘Joseph comes from a noble family – he is related to the Duke of Montpensier. I suppose the Abbé is trying all those connections. Also—’ he glanced up to make sure he had my attention, and a faint colour stained his cheeks – ‘there were rumours he had a mistress.’
I sat up at this. ‘What, a courtesan?’
‘No one knew for certain. Some said a married noblewoman.’ He lowered his eyes, abashed. ‘I don’t know if there is truth in it. But friars like to run with that kind of gossip.’
I thought of the love letter I had found in Joseph’s mattress, with its suggestion of forbidden desires. Doubly illicit, if his lover were married, though abbey rumours were hardly a reliable source of information.
‘Oh, I know how friars love the smell of scandal. The way crows love carrion.’
He gave me a shy smile. ‘Frère Guillaume said you were once a friar too. Though you abandoned your order.’ I saw the shine of admiration in his eyes. ‘I envy you your liberty,’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘You should not envy me anything, Frère…’
‘Benoît.’
‘What may appear liberty to you—’ I broke off, seeing the way he twisted his features and turned his gaze to the window. I remembered all too well being his age, staring down the years into a lifetime of cloistered confinement, picturing your youth and vigour withering, unused; what right had I to tell him how to feel? ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Frère Joseph?’ I asked, to change the subject.
He shook his head and returned his attention to the table. ‘But if I hear anything, I can bring you word. We are not a closed order, as you know. I come into the city to study theology with one of the doctors at the Sorbonne. We could meet. I should like to talk further with you…’ He looked up with a hopeful expression; his boyish eagerness made me sit back, as if he had encroached too close. I hardly felt worthy to be anyone’s advisor at present.
‘I would be glad if you could bring me any word of how it goes with Cotin,’
