‘It’s possible—’
‘It must have been. So you need to find out who killed the almoner. And do it quickly. Joseph de Chartres is not some parish priest of no name. He came from a noble family and they will seek justice for him by whatever means serves their purpose.’ He tapped his fan on the balustrade, his body tense.
I cleared my throat. ‘I think the family may try to blame me for his death.’
Henri turned, eyebrows arched. ‘You?’
‘The Abbé of Saint-Victor caught me searching his cell last week, the night before he died. I was looking for papers that might tie him to Guise or Lefèvre.’
‘And?’
I looked at the ground. ‘Nothing.’
He puffed out his cheeks and let his breath escape in a sharp laugh. But when he turned to me, his eyes were hard. ‘Damned stupid of you. How could you let yourself be caught? Abbé Renaud is a notorious tyrant. And no friend to heretics, nor to me. You were lucky he didn’t have you thrown in gaol.’
I considered, briefly, the consequences of telling the King what had happened that night, but to recount the business of the Conciergerie would oblige me to explain how I had been rescued, and Henri was agitated enough without giving him reason to believe that I now owed a debt to a notorious English conspirator and ally of his greatest enemy. It seemed wiser to say nothing.
‘It will be assumed that you are working for me, of course. The Abbé will make sure the Montpensiers believe that. Christ, Bruno – I thought I could rely on you to be discreet.’ His voice was tight; he picked up his glass and for a moment I feared he might crush it in his fist, or dash it to the ground. Instead he took a sip, winced and shook his head. I lowered my eyes and tried to look contrite.
Henri wrapped his arms around himself and stared out over the frosted garden, his face sombre beneath the gaudy make-up. From somewhere beyond the reach of the torches came the staccato moans of a woman copulating. He nodded towards the sound. ‘Not even eight o’clock yet. At it like foxes. No wonder my court has a reputation. What can you expect, when my mother deploys a squadron of harlots to spy for her?’ He lifted his head as if to pick up the scent. ‘Did you ever succumb, Bruno, when you were here before? I do recall they took a keen interest in you.’ He turned and gave me an enquiring look. I did not reply. A triumphant smile spread slowly across his face, causing his white paint to crack as he wagged a finger in affirmation. ‘You did! I remember now – the de la Tour girl, wasn’t it? That was the talk anyway. The one who broke down your iron resolve. Was there truth in it?’ He jabbed me again in the shoulder, playfully this time. ‘I command you as your sovereign to tell me.’
‘Only the once,’ I said, looking away. ‘The flesh is weak. But there was very little conversation. I knew what she really wanted from me, and she didn’t get it.’
‘Huh. She wanted to find out if you were teaching me magic, I suppose? My mother was determined to know.’ Henri laughed. ‘They have talent, those women, no denying it. They know ways to loosen a man’s tongue far more efficient than anything dreamed up in my prisons. You look at my mother and you think, what could that desiccated crone in her widow’s weeds possibly know of such matters? But I tell you, Bruno, she is the subtlest and shrewdest madam in France, as well as the greatest intelligencer. Not an image one would wish to have of one’s mother, but we must be pragmatists. She knows men’s weaknesses better than we could hope to understand ourselves.’ He picked up his glass and turned it by the stem, considering. ‘You should tell that to your friend Francis Walsingham,’ he added, with a sideways look. ‘Tell him he’d learn more by employing nubile young women than men like you.’
‘What makes you think he doesn’t?’
He smiled. ‘Get him to send some over here, then. I’m sure we’d relish the challenge of resisting them. What’s that look for, Bruno – you didn’t think that would be my taste?’ He leaned against the balustrade. ‘I took a mistress recently. Does that surprise you?’
I was glad he could not see my face behind the mask. ‘A little.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read in street pamphlets. All that “King of Sodom” – it’s a convenient stick for my enemies to beat me with. Which is something else I’d enjoy, if you believe the pamphlets. But in truth, you know, my tastes are far more catholic.’ He paused to chuckle at his own joke, as if it were expected of him, then looked thoughtful. ‘It’s more that, once the business is over, I would choose the company of men over that of women. Would not you? Would not any man?’
‘Surely that depends on the woman, sire.’
He lifted his chin and grunted a grudging acknowledgement. We stood a moment in silence, considering.
‘Is she still at court?’ I asked, after a while.
‘Who? My mistress?’
‘Gabrielle de la Tour.’
‘Ah.’ A sly look crossed his face. ‘Thinking of trying your luck again? Yes, I believe she came back last year.’
‘Back?’
‘Retired discreetly to the country for an interval. Usual business – got herself a full belly and my mother sent her away before it started to show. Catherine likes to preserve the appearance of decorum, at least.’ He added this with a brief, dry laugh.
‘When was this?’ An odd tightness had crept into the base of my throat.
‘After you’d
