‘But then who did Joseph tell? Who decided – at considerable risk – that he could not be trusted either?’
‘Well, you know my answer to that. Our friend Le Balafré.’
‘Perhaps. But the Duke of Guise did not kill de Chartres with his own hands, I am certain of it. Whoever did that is the link in our chain. He – or she – will lead us to whoever is conspiring against you.’
‘Then find him – or her, if you insist,’ Henri hissed. ‘Because until you do, this plot may still be active. Suppose it is meant to unfold tonight?’ He reached out for my arm again. ‘All my enemies are here, at my mother’s invitation. She calls it diplomacy – but a masked ball? What possessed her? Anyone could approach me – I wouldn’t know them. What better place to put a blade or a bullet in me and disappear?’ He whipped around as if an assassin might be lurking behind the nearest ornamental shrub, but we saw only the gaggle of women, defeated by the cold and retreating, still shrieking with laughter, back to the hall, pulling their fur capes around them. When they had cleared, I noticed a tall man standing further off along the terrace, looking out over the darkened lawns, his silhouette in profile against the light of a torch. He wore a tricorn hat and a dark red floor-length cloak. When he turned his head for an instant, I saw that he wore a blank white full-face mask, such as the chorus would wear in a Greek tragedy. The effect was unnerving. He turned back; though he was too distant to have heard any of our conversation, and he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, I had the sense that he was aware of us, and that we were the reason for his presence.
‘You should be on your guard tonight, sire,’ I whispered. ‘Drink only from the common bowl. Do not go walking in the gardens alone.’
‘If I take a turn in the gardens, Bruno, I would hardly bother to go alone.’ He smiled, but it died on his lips. ‘What did it say? That letter you found. What danger did he want to warn me of?’
‘There was almost nothing left of it,’ I said. I laid my hand over his; he was trembling, or perhaps just shivering, it was hard to tell. ‘He wrote only of possible harm, from…’ I hesitated, taking a deep breath. I had carried this name in my head for eleven days, since Paul had rasped it out with his death rattle, not knowing what further danger I might unleash by repeating it. But Henri was right: if the threat of which Paul had written remained imminent, I had no choice but to see if he understood the dead priest’s mythical allusion.
‘From whom, damn you?’ Henri rubbed his hands together, impatient, his breath clouding in the cold.
‘Someone called Circe.’
‘What?’ He pushed the mask back on to his head and stared at me as if I had slapped him. ‘How would he—?’ He broke off and continued to gape at me, his jaw working soundlessly as if to form words.
‘Majesty? You know who this is?’ A curious sense of relief washed through me; if the name meant something to Henri, perhaps the mystery was solved, and he would know how to deal with it without my further involvement. The changing expressions on his face – from shock to fear to anger and back – suggested that my revelation had not improved the situation. He looked like a boy sledging across a frozen lake who had just been told the ice was not strong enough to hold him.
‘That is not possible,’ he said, after a long pause, though he sounded uncertain, and it was no longer clear whether he was speaking to me or thinking aloud. His gaze roamed the air behind me for a moment before his eyes snapped on to mine again. He grasped me by both shoulders and shook me. ‘Where did he get this name?’
‘It was written on a letter he subsequently burned. He spoke of the confessional. That is all I know.’
Henri lowered his head, still leaning on my shoulders for support, breathing hard as if he had been running. When he looked up again, his expression was bewildered. Hairline cracks had appeared in the white lead of his face.
‘He said that Circe confessed the intention to do me harm?’ His eyes searched mine for reassurance. ‘I don’t understand. What else?’
‘Nothing else, sire. I understand no more than you. Less, it seems.’ I recalled what Jacopo had said – that Henri always wants someone to solve his problems for him – and briefly pitied him. ‘Who is Circe, sire?’ I prompted, gently, but at that moment I felt him start, just as a presence materialised out of the dark at our side. I looked down to see a dwarf in a black mask bowing discreetly. The same one who had approached me earlier? It was impossible to tell behind his disguise.
‘To the Devil with you – what is it?’ Henri barked at the man.
‘Your lady mother wishes to speak with you urgently, Your Majesty.’ His voice was thick and guttural. It reminded me of the man I heard in Paul’s rooms, but I could not be certain – perhaps it was a quality particular to dwarfs, like the rolling gait. I stared at him and he acknowledged me with an insolent glance.
Henri clicked his tongue. ‘Tell her I will be there presently.’
The dwarf did not move. ‘She has instructed me to return with you in person, sire.’
The King threw his hands up. ‘Does she think I need a nursemaid?’
