TWELVE
The song of the castrati rose up to the canopy of the heavens in layers of shifting harmonies, fluting, unearthly – unnatural, to my ears. I had always been disturbed by the sound of those soft-bodied, hairless creatures, trapped in perpetual limbo between boy and man. Under cover of their music I slipped between masked guests at the back of the hall, behind the raised dais with the thrones – still empty – in search of a vantage point where I could watch both the stage and the crowds unobserved. As I passed behind two women talking in strident, aristocratic voices, I caught a phrase in their conversation which caused me to slow my step and hover, straining to listen.
‘The Fury of the League,’ said one, letting a snigger escape behind her fan. ‘Who’d have thought?’
‘Fervour like that, you can always be sure it’s hiding something,’ her companion remarked. ‘Wanting the world to think she’s some kind of saint. And all the while – incest and murder!’
‘Hardly incest, chérie,’ said the first. ‘He was her husband’s cousin, not hers.’
‘Family by marriage, it’s all one,’ the second woman said, adjusting her lace shawl over bare shoulders. The general noise of conversation in the hall was so great she had to lean in and shout. ‘And he was still a man in holy orders, cousin or no. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it herself.’
‘Stabbed through the heart, I heard.’
‘Really? Henriette said his throat was cut.’
‘How would Henriette know?’
‘She knows people.’
‘Could a woman do such a thing, do you think? A duchess?’
The second woman rippled her fan and shuddered. ‘That one could. She’d stab you with a look if she had the chance.’
‘Keep your voice down – I heard she’s here tonight. Could be right behind us, for all we know.’ She glanced around; I looked quickly at the floor and shuffled a few paces away. The woman’s gaze slid over me without interest behind her scarlet mask. ‘Anyway, she’s a Guise by blood, what do you expect?’ she continued, when she was satisfied that their subject was not within earshot. ‘Her brother the Duke’s had most of the women in this room. Apart from me,’ she added, in case of doubt.
‘At least he’s only had the women,’ the second one said, at the same volume. ‘Unlike the King.’ She gave a merciless snort of laughter.
‘It’s Queen Louise I pity,’ said the first, in a sympathetic voice. ‘Imagine being married to that. If I were her I’d drink poison.’
‘If I were her, I’d bed the nearest courtier, tell the King it was his. Solve everything at one stroke,’ the other whispered. ‘I’m surprised she hasn’t had the wit to try it before now.’
‘She probably did, but the courtiers were too busy bedding each other.’
They collapsed into a fit of malicious giggles, clutching one another’s arms. I moved away before they noticed me. So gossip had already declared that the Duchess of Montpensier was behind Joseph’s murder, because they were lovers. I wondered how long those rumours had been in circulation, and where they originated. I recalled Frère Benoît saying that the abbey gossip declared Joseph’s mistress to be a married noblewoman, and thought of the passionate note I had found among the almoner’s papers, now carefully hidden in a box with my most dangerous writings behind a loose rafter in the ceiling of my lodgings. I knew better than to draw any conclusions from hearsay, but the same unease that had dogged me since my meeting with Guise grew sharper. What meagre scraps of information I had gathered all suggested that the Duchess had a greater motive than anyone – save Guise himself – to silence both Paul and Joseph. I had no idea whether she was a woman who could kill in cold blood, as the gossips claimed, though Paget had remarked that she was ruthless in her brother’s cause. Was it possible that she could have organised both murders – even carried out one of them – without the Duke of Guise knowing? There was also the manner of Joseph’s death to consider, and Paget’s suggestion that he had been killed by his lover while he was naked and off guard. But if that were the case, how would Guise respond if my investigation appeared to be leading towards his own sister? I could answer that too easily; he would be all the keener on his original plan of blaming me for de Chartres’s death as an agent of the King.
I slunk away to the side of the hall and found myself a spot by a pillar with a view of the stage and the dais with the thrones. To my right, a brazier coughed out its scented smoke, stinging my eyes and the back of my throat, though at least it gave off some warmth. I wondered again what herbs they were burning; already I felt a little light-headed and was grateful for the solidity of the stone at my back. The castrati reached the crescendo of their song, though their voices were barely audible by now over the hum of conversation. In the smoky air and torchlight, the
