‘She is quite something, isn’t she?’ Balthasar murmured. ‘But wait until you see my girls dance their masque. Holy Mother – I must go and rally them, we are next. You’ll enjoy this one – the Masque of Circe.’ He let go of my arm and levered himself forward from the pillar with a little bounce before setting off around the back of the stand.
‘Wait!’
I had raised my voice too far, and in Italian; a few guests standing nearby turned their heads to look. Balthasar spun on his heel and gave me a hard look.
‘The Masque of Circe, you said?’ I caught up with him, clutching at his sleeve.
‘That’s right. The enchantress who deprives men of their reason and turns them into beasts. Well – you know your Homer. Allegorical, naturally. France lulled into complacency by the Protestants, rescued by our gallant king.’ He arched an eyebrow to acknowledge the irony. ‘But you will spend yourself in your breeches when you see our Circe. I must go.’
‘One more thing. Is Gabrielle de la Tour still among your dancers?’
He broke into a knowing smile.
‘Ah. Cara Gabrielle. One of my finest, though by rights she is past her prime. Do you have a particular interest to declare?’
I made the calculation; Gabrielle would be no more than twenty-eight, at most. A cold sensation prickled up the back of my neck, despite the rising heat of bodies and braziers in the room.
‘Is she…’ I hesitated. ‘She is not dancing the part of Circe?’
‘You will see for yourself in a few moments. I would not wish to spoil the surprise.’
‘Will you tell her…’ Again I paused; this was truly a risk, to reveal myself to a woman I had not seen for more than three years, and who had no reason to show me loyalty. But Gabrielle was my only point of access to the secret life of the court, as Paget had intimated, and if I did not take my chance now it may not come again. ‘Tell her I am here, and I would be glad to speak to her, if she is so inclined.’
Balthasar twisted his mouth; he seemed uncertain.
‘If you think that wise. But she will not be free until after the masque, and it may be that others have a prior claim on her time… Still, I will convey your regards, in any case.’
‘I will be in your debt.’
‘I know you will.’ He nodded, turned again and disappeared through clusters of standing spectators with his sprightly gait. I did not entirely trust him to keep my secret; I could only hope that his anxiety about being implicated in having allowed me to enter with the Gelosi would keep his lips sealed as far as Catherine was concerned.
The Masque of Circe. I turned the phrase over and over, my feet rooted to the floor as my mind raced. It was like trying to assemble shards of a broken mirror; a few fragments now appeared to fit together and I had begun to see a jagged, if partial, reflection. Paul’s letter had warned of some harm to be perpetrated by ‘Circe’, a threat I had to assume he was trying to reiterate to me with his dying breath. I had supposed it was a code name for an operative of the Catholic League, but after what Balthasar had told me, it seemed possible – likely, even – that Paul’s last word had a less cryptic meaning; surely it could not be a coincidence that the women of the court were to present the story of Circe tonight? Henri had already observed that many of his adversaries were in attendance at the ball; still others might have slipped in uninvited. Where, then, did the danger lie? In the masque itself? In the person of ‘Circe’?
I became aware that the guests had broken into applause and cheering. I forced myself to focus and saw that Francesco and his troupe were already making their bows, blowing extravagant kisses to the audience. At each side of the stage, servants had taken up positions ready to shift scenery and replenish the candles for the next act. The masque would begin shortly. I felt a sudden wave of dizziness; my knees buckled as all the sounds of the hall receded, falling away like a retreating wave, and I was overcome by a terrible premonition. Something was going to happen to Henri during the masque, I felt sure of it. That was what Paul had been trying to tell me. Sitting there in the centre of a raised platform for all to see, relaxed, guard down, his attention on the dancing girls – the King would be an easy target. One lead shot in the chest from close range would be all that was needed; though there were guards armed with halberds positioned around the dais, they would not be able to move fast enough to prevent a hit. It would be suicide, of course; the assassin could not hope to escape in such a public place, but Paris was not short of fanatical Catholics who would willingly martyr themselves for the chance to rid France of her heretical monarch.
I glanced across to the royal party; Henri’s throne was still empty. Another possibility occurred: that the King had been lured into an assignation in the gardens – he had hinted earlier that he intended a tryst tonight – where some violence
