‘But you still haven’t answered my question. Why were they killed?’
‘We cannot know that without knowing who killed them.’
‘Speculate, then. Let us imagine, as you say, that I ordered it. What were my reasons?’
‘I would suppose that Paul Lefèvre, as an active supporter of the League, was privy to information that someone felt he could no longer be trusted to keep safe. He was urged to preach a ferocious sermon denouncing the King, after which it would appear that his death was a retaliation from the Palace. Very neat – silence a threat and inflame the people against Henri in one move.’
He nodded, still watching the fire, pulling at the point of his beard. ‘A logical hypothesis, one I presume the King favours. And what do you suppose this secret was, that Paul Lefèvre knew and could not keep?’
‘That is beyond my powers of guesswork. My lord,’ I added, lowering my eyes.
He gave a soft laugh, directed towards the glowing logs. ‘Let me put it another way. What did he tell you the day you made your confession at Saint-Séverin?’ The voice was knife-edged again, the smile evaporated. A chill spread through my gut. If Guise believed our meeting had been prearranged, that Paul had betrayed him to me, and that I was spying for the King, it would mean my impetuous visit to the confessional was directly responsible for the priest’s murder. I swallowed, but my throat was dry.
‘He told me nothing. It was I who approached him, to confess my sins.’
‘Is that right?’ A quick, pitying smile flickered across his lips. Without warning, he took one long stride across the room and struck me forcefully across the face with the back of his hand. I felt the stones of his rings tear open the wound on my lip; I clenched my teeth against the pain and managed not to cry out. My hands trembled from the shock; I clasped them hard around my cup of wine so it would not show. A warm trickle of blood ran down my chin and dripped on to my collar. I did not reach up to brush it away.
‘You are supposed to be a master of the art of memory. Perhaps yours needs refreshing. The way your friend Walsingham had to refresh young Throckmorton’s memory in the Tower. Surprising how much a man can recall with a little prompting.’ He rubbed the knuckles where he had hit me. ‘If you had been confessing your sins, Bruno, you would still be there. You would be there till Candlemas. So let us try again. Why did you meet Paul Lefèvre in the confessional?’
‘I needed to ask him a favour.’ I glanced up; he nodded for me to continue. ‘I wanted him to speak to the Papal nuncio on my behalf. To petition for my excommunication to be lifted.’
I had expected mockery; instead Guise studied me, his eyes thoughtful. ‘What was his response?’
‘He said he would see what might be done, if I showed some evidence of contrition. He insisted I hear his sermon last Sunday. He also urged me…’ I hesitated, swallowed again and tasted blood, ‘… to consider my future and where my loyalties were best placed, if I meant to stay in Paris.’
‘Interesting. What did you take him to mean by that?’
‘I think he meant to suggest that the King could not be relied upon as a patron in the future.’
Something – recognition? – flashed across Guise’s eyes. ‘What else?’
‘That was the sum of our conversation, my lord. He did not give me absolution.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ Guise sucked in his cheeks. He seemed to be deciding whether to accept this testimony. ‘And later – at the abbey, as he lay dying? I understand he called for you by name to impart something urgent. It would be wise for you to tell me of your own volition what that was.’
I tried to keep my voice level, hoping he could not hear how my mouth had dried.
‘I do not know why he asked for me. Perhaps he wanted to tell me who attacked him. But by the time I arrived he was past the point of rational thought or speech. He made one sound only before he died, but it was incomprehensible. Most likely it was the name of Our Lord.’
I looked him straight in the eye, unwavering, as I spoke. He took another step towards me and flexed his knuckles; I flinched, a reflex response before I could stop myself, and he laughed again.
‘This is where I begin to suspect you are playing false with me, Bruno,’ he said, in a soft voice that managed to contain more menace than any explosion of rage. ‘Because whatever he said sent you scurrying straight to Henri that same night.’
‘No!’ I heard the note of panic in my voice. ‘That was coincidence. It was the King who sent for me, on a different matter.’
‘You can see why I might struggle to believe that.’ He was standing close to me now, his voice little more than a whisper, almost seductive. I revised my opinion;
