I walked to the edge of the terrace, shivering as I watched a couple steal down the steps to the gardens, pulling one another urgently along a path towards a complicit spread of darkness beyond the reach of the torches that flickered along the paths, spilling pools of uncertain light that served to make the shadows between more impenetrable. I swallowed the rest of the punch and placed the glass on the stone balustrade in front of me, tucking my hands inside my sleeves. Almost immediately, a gloved hand placed another full goblet beside it. Jolted out of my thoughts, I snapped my head around to see the woman in the white mask standing to my right, only a couple of feet away, looking at me. She held a fan over the lower half of her face, but I could tell she was smiling. Her height was her most remarkable feature; I could not place her and yet neither could I shake the sense that I had once known her, in another context. She seemed to think she knew me, too; it could be the only explanation for her intent stare, her air of amusement. Though lean, her frame was large, her shoulders broad for a woman, her hands disconcertingly strong and solid in their lace gloves. It was only as I looked more closely at her hands that understanding began to dawn. I raised my eyes and met her mischievous stare again. She gestured towards her drink, offering it to me. I shook my head. She let out a soft laugh, her breath escaping in plumes behind the fan, held my gaze for a few moments longer, then lowered the fan slowly so that I could see her mouth. Despite the ceruse and the painted lips I saw now where I had met her before. She dropped into a deep curtsey with unexpected grace.
‘Buona sera, Signor Bruno.’ She spoke with a lisp, in a half-whispered little-girl sing-song.
‘Good evening, Your Majesty,’ I replied, with deliberate forbearance.
The mask was lifted with a squeal of delight. ‘You’ve got to admit, from a distance it’s convincing,’ King Henri said, in his own voice. ‘Even close up, if you’re not too choosy. The Marquis de Tours has been giving me the eye since he arrived, short-sighted old goat. It’s my feet that give me away, though.’ He lifted an oversized dancing slipper from beneath his skirts and pointed his toe in a show of daintiness. ‘What did you think, Bruno – were you tempted, even briefly?’
I should have remembered this favourite game of Henri’s. The pamphleteers barely had to stretch their imaginations where he was concerned. ‘I prefer women with a less obvious beard line, sire.’
‘For shame.’ Henri ran his fingers along his jaw. ‘I had myself shaved twice today, you know. And a woman did my make-up, so she ought to know what she was about. I have to avoid my mother, of course. I’m supposed to take part in this masque she’s devised. Another heavy-handed allegory where I save France from ignorance and perdition. I’m tempted to do it in this get-up just to see their faces, hers and my wife’s.’ He sighed. ‘Though Louise has been sick this past week, poor creature. I don’t know if she’ll manage to haul herself out of bed for the evening. I suppose she’ll be too afraid of my mother to do otherwise.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ I gave him a cautious look. ‘Although, if she is sick, perhaps it may be happy news?’
‘Well, if it is, it’s a holy miracle. None of my doing,’ he said, brusquely. ‘Now listen.’ He took my elbow and led me to a corner of the terrace, shadowed by the wall of the palace. ‘What of this priest? I had hoped to hear from you sooner. It’s been over a week.’
I hesitated. I had been putting off any contact with Henri partly because I had wanted to speak to Jacopo first about Joseph’s death, and the meaning of ‘Circe’, but mostly because I was afraid that Guise would know immediately if I tried to see the King. I did not think his threats to harm me or Sophia were made in jest.
‘Forgive me, Your Majesty – I was following leads that needed to be verified. These things take time—’
‘We don’t have time. I expect you’ve heard – there’s been another death. The almoner at Saint-Victor. The Montpensier bitch is up in arms about it, he’s a relative. Is it connected to our priest?’
‘I believe so,’ I said. ‘I think the almoner killed Père Lefèvre on someone’s orders to silence him and was then killed himself for the same reason.’
He stiffened. ‘Silence him about what?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. They both worked for the League. The almoner wrote pamphlets against you and Lefèvre carried them to the printer. That’s how they knew one another.’
Henri clenched his fist. ‘Then it all points to Guise, as I said all along. Can you prove it?’
I thought of the papers Paget had thrown in the fire at Brinkley’s. ‘Not at present. But they used an English printer by the name of Brinkley at the Palais – you could order his shop to be searched. He might talk if you have him questioned forcefully.’
He swatted the suggestion away with his fan. ‘He wouldn’t know anything that could implicate Guise directly. The Duke is too careful for that. Though perhaps I will bring this printer in anyway, to make his friends sweat – these English League supporters could do with a sharp lesson. I give them asylum in
