We pulled up at a plainer landing stage further downriver, for tradesmen and workers. Jacopo stood and exchanged a few words with the official who waited by the entrance, checking names off on a list; after a cursory head count, he waved us through. I was given a box of stage properties to carry; the rest of the players had kept their masks on too, save Francesco, who had pushed his back to talk to the man with the list. No one gave me a second glance.
We processed through a maze of back corridors, where uniformed servants with fixed expressions scurried in silence, arms laden with silver dishes, boxes of candles, glass bowls, stacks of velvet cushions, musical instruments or gilt chairs, until at last we were ushered into a small room and told to wait for the Master of Ceremonies. I stood uncertainly, holding my box, as the players moved efficiently around me, until the white-faced boy Ercole took pity on me and lifted it out of my arms.
‘This might be the moment for you to slip away, Bruno,’ Francesco murmured, strapping an imitation sword to his belt. ‘Ah – this reminds me.’ He rummaged in a box of stage weapons and pulled out my knife, which he had had the sense to make me hide there before we arrived, so that I would not be disarmed at the gate. ‘No one will notice you now, among the guests. Go, drink your fill and make merry with these notorious Frenchwomen, and whatever else you came for. Don’t forget to cheer the loudest when we take our bows.’
I pushed the mask up on to my head and strapped the dagger to my belt, making sure it was tucked away under the cloak. Now that I was here in the heart of the court, I had little idea of why I had come. Talk to the women, Paget had said. I had only one way into that secret world, but I did not know if she would be willing to talk to me after all this time. Besides, tonight every man would be trying to get close to Catherine’s women. And if it should reach the Queen Mother’s ears that I was skulking incognito in her halls, being kicked into the street on my arse would be the kindest response I could hope for.
I looked around for Jacopo, but he had vanished to other duties somewhere along the warren of corridors. I was about to wish the Gelosi good luck for their endeavours, but before I could speak, the door opened and a slender, dark man entered the room with a brisk handclap. I twisted my face away and pulled down the mask, hoping he had not seen me. This was Balthasar de Beaujoyeux, the Master of Ceremonies – another of Catherine’s Florentine imports, who had adopted the French version of his name when he arrived in Paris twenty years earlier to take charge of the artistic performances at court. He must be in his early forties by now, though he was still in fine shape; he had been a celebrated dancer in his youth at the court of Catherine’s cousin, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, until an injury had forced him to leave Italy and turn his talents to teaching and choreography. Now he marshalled these great magnificences, as Catherine liked to call them – their extensive casts of dancers, singers, players and musicians, their extravagant staging and special effects – with the fierce discipline and cool head of a military strategist. We had crossed paths a few times when I last lived in Paris; though he had always been courteous to me in the past, I did not wish to attract his attention tonight for fear of word reaching his mistress. He stood in the doorway, neat and wiry in a grey silk suit and velvet slippers, elevating himself on his toes and scanning the room as if checking off each player against a list in his head. As he reached me, his gaze lingered and the echo of my breathing seemed to grow louder inside the mask, but he gave no sign of recognition as his eyes flickered down to the pages he carried.
‘Welcome, friends,’ he began, in Italian, tucking the paper under his arms and clapping his hands again to ensure he had their full attention. ‘The timing is tight tonight so I need you on and off as quickly as possible. Let’s go through the running order. Your first piece will be straight up after the castrati – with luck the audience might still be sober.’
Isabella laughed. ‘Always the optimist, Balthasar.’
He flashed her a brief smile. ‘Regardless, my mistress will be sober all night, so consider yourselves to be performing for her and keep it tasteful. Now then, Andreini—’ he beckoned Francesco over to look at the list. ‘I want you in position in the antechamber before the castrati go on. Is this your full company?’
‘All of them – but let me see again where we come in?’ Francesco slipped an arm around Balthasar and turned him away from the door as he leaned over the director’s shoulder to examine his schedule; I took the opportunity to edge past him before he could ask the company to identify themselves.
Outside the dressing room, a brief lull, the corridor unexpectedly empty. I leaned against the wall and adjusted the mask, pulling the hood of the Doctor’s cloak over my head. As long as I kept my mouth shut, I would remain invisible in this crowd, cut loose from my name; there was an undeniable frisson in this thought. The sound of singing voices carried from somewhere close by, tightly wrapped harmonies over the layered instruments of an air de cours. Laughter rippled outwards. I followed the sound along the corridor, head lifted like a dog after a scent. A boy appeared around a corner, skin dark as varnished wood against the blue and gold of his velvet suit.
