‘Whatever made her think of that, I wonder?’ Francesco said, with his deep-chested laugh.
She rolled her eyes at me in complicity. ‘Jacopo said something that would cover you as much as possible. This is the best costume to hide behind.’
I looked down at the mask. I had never liked these faces – the bulbous brows and cheeks, the curved beak of a vulture in place of a nose, the painted lips pulled back in a grimace or a sneer; there was an implicit malice in their expressions, a grotesque exaggeration of baseness. But she was right; it would conceal my identity sufficiently, I hoped, to allow me to roam the Tuileries undetected. The ruse had been Henri’s suggestion, according to the letter I had received from Jacopo the previous day instructing me to arrive at his house this evening; with a troupe of costumed Italians expected at the palace gates, who would notice one more among their number? Apparently the King was delighted with his ingenuity. I shrugged on the Doctor’s black cloak and glanced around, my gaze resting on Isabella as she eased a cascade of silk over her narrow hips, the smooth muscles of her back rippling as she twisted to fasten the skirt behind her. Francesco caught me looking and threw me a grin; I darted my eyes away, embarrassed, before it occurred to me that, if he objected to people looking at his wife, he would not be in this business. I leaned back against a chair. For all its frantic energy, there was a sense of serenity in this room that I had not experienced for a long time, and which was not solely to do with relaxing into my own language. I would have given much to spend the evening here with them instead of piling into a boat for the palace.
A draught chased through the room as the door was flung open; the candle flames ducked and shrank in concert. In the doorway stood a figure in a blue and silver gown, peering around the company from the suspicious eye-slits of a white mask with rouged cheeks, its mouth a twist of bitterness.
‘I am Pantalone,’ the figure cried, in a strong Florentine accent, ‘and I have come to stop you stealing my silver and looting my chests of gold!’ An accusing finger stabbed towards Francesco. ‘Turn out your pockets – I know what you Milanese are like. Yes, and you Nolans.’ This last was addressed to me, as the pinched face turned in my direction. I smiled politely, but the fixed grimace unnerved me.
Pantalone pushed his mask on to his forehead to reveal the neat grey beard and mischievous eyes of Jacopo Corbinelli, creased with laughter. ‘What’s the matter, Bruno? You don’t like my performance?’
I laughed, a beat too late. ‘Pantalone is a stubborn, ignorant miser. It seems to me a poor choice of costume for one who is known to be wise and generous.’
‘Now I know you flatter me.’ He put an arm around my shoulder and drew me away from the players, lowering his voice. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I have sent you messages this past week asking to meet. I began to fear you were avoiding me, Jacopo.’ I tried to keep my voice light, but the anxiety was real; I had wondered if he had been instructed to keep me at a distance. He looked away, though I thought I caught a flash of guilt in his eyes.
‘I know. One reached me, late, and the rest I suspect not at all. Too many open eyes and deep pockets between the palace gates and my rooms. I’m sorry I have not had a chance to see you this week,’ he said. ‘The Queen Mother has kept me at court the whole time with preparations for tonight. She has been preoccupied—’ He broke off, as if he had thought better of sharing royal troubles. ‘Henri has you chasing after this priest’s killer, I understand?’
I glanced behind me, but the players were too busy with their costumes to take any interest in us. ‘He wants me to find proof it was a Guise plot, before Guise fabricates proof against him. He seems to think it would be a simple matter.’
Jacopo frowned, his hand still resting on my shoulder. ‘Henri always thinks it will be simple for others to solve his problems. But you should not be mixed up in this, Bruno.’ He slid his fingers under the mask and scratched his head, where one stubborn tuft of silver-grey hair survived in the middle while the rest receded like a tideline. His brows remained defiantly black, so they looked as if they had been stuck on for a disguise. Though only midway through his fifties, there was a gravity to Jacopo that lent him the air of an elder statesman; he, too, understood the pain of exile. Catherine de Medici had brought him to France as a young man after he was banished from Florence due to a series of ill-judged political allegiances by his family. His expression now was one of paternal concern.
‘What choice do I have? I cannot refuse the King.’ I stopped, wondering if this was a coded warning. ‘Why, do you know something I do not?’
Jacopo shook his head. ‘Only that whoever had the priest killed is more than likely to strike again to protect himself, if he fears someone is coming close to the truth. A business like this rarely finishes at one corpse. You know, the young almoner of Saint-Victor was found dead last week.’ He raised an eyebrow, leaving a space for me to expand on that, if I chose.
‘I heard,’ I said carefully. ‘But he was discovered in an alley behind a gaming house, was he not? Is
