Jacopo Corbinelli had taken a discreet seat at the back of the royal platform, behind Queen Louise’s right shoulder, still cheerful beneath his Pantalone mask. If I could get word to him, he would surely know what to do; he would be able to rally the King’s armed men and search for him in the gardens.
I edged nearer to the dais through the standing spectators, those who had not managed to find a seat on the tiered benches. Two guards stood at either side of the stage to prevent anyone from encroaching too closely on the royal party, but their presence appeared to be more for show; they held their weapons loosely and their concentration was all bent on the stage at the far end, where the women of the Flying Squadron were expected to appear at any moment in their notoriously revealing costumes. I moved a few steps closer until I was within Jacopo’s eyeline and coughed loudly. One or two people nearby turned with disapproving looks, but Jacopo was leaning forward to speak to Queen Louise and appeared not to have heard. I took another step nearer and coughed again, but this had brought me out of the fray of the spectators so that I stood exposed near the dais, too close for the liking of one of the armed guards, evidently, as he immediately jerked his attention back from the stage and stepped towards me, brandishing his halberd.
‘You! Get back.’
I held up my hands to show that I meant no harm, but unfortunately he had barked his order during a lull in the general conversation, so that a number of heads turned in my direction.
‘I said back,’ he repeated, louder this time; I had already retreated several paces, not wishing to draw further attention, but the man clearly wanted his royal employers to know he was doing his job, so he jabbed the weapon towards me again and I realised that the party on the dais were now peering across to see the cause of the fuss. I caught Jacopo’s eye but was unable to make any signal to him as I was distracted by the sight of Catherine de Medici staring straight at me with eyes like arrowheads. I saw her incline to her right, still watching me, and whisper to the attendant standing by her chair, a masked dwarf clad in black velvet. The dwarf bowed his head once, and promptly vanished. When he moved I noticed, among the spectators standing on the far side of the dais, the tall man with the tricorn hat and the Greek mask, his blank face fixed on me, or so it seemed; the candlelight and shadows could play tricks at that distance.
I was spared any further scrutiny by another commotion at the back of the hall, heralding the breathless and apologetic arrival of King Henri himself, dressed this time in more manly attire of doublet and breeches, though of a startling violet satin with legs and arms puffed. His doublet hung open to show his unlaced shirt and his cheeks were flushed, traces of white lead paint still visible in the creases of his ears and chin. He wore a purple feathered mask pushed up on to his forehead. Flinging himself into the central throne, he stretched out his long legs and leaned across to mutter to his mother, who responded with a sour look as the assembled courtiers swept off their hats and bowed to their sovereign. Henri waved a hand as if such affectation were unnecessary and pulled his mask down over his face. I was greatly relieved by his arrival, not just because he was clearly very much alive, but because I appeared to have been forgotten in the excitement.
I scanned the audience on both sides; most of the guests were busy in conversation, animated by drink and anticipation. There were enough cloaks and voluminous costumes among them to make it easy to hide a weapon, I thought; I had concealed one myself under my doublet. But it was too late to do anything now; the musicians struck up a new tune and servants hastily snuffed some of the candles at our end of the hall, so that all the light was concentrated on the stage where the masque was about to begin.
An expectant hush fell over the room. Eight young women, bare-legged, their skin gleaming with oil, in short costumes of animal skin and wearing masks intended to represent wolves and lions, danced on to the stage and proceeded to circle one another in formation, hands clawing the air to indicate ferocity. The audience emitted a low, male murmur of appreciation. The wild animals were followed by eight more girls, this time dressed as nymphs, their hair loose and woven with garlands of leaves, their gowns made of some clinging, diaphanous fabric that emphasised the curves of their thighs and breasts, so thin that the outlines of their nipples, stiff with cold, were clearly visible. The nymphs undulated down the length of the hall in the space between the two stands, towards the royal platform, weaving in and out of one another in movements carefully choreographed to give the seated spectators an uncompromising
