‘Very well.’ I reasoned that by then I would be able to think of something. ‘But at least tell me her name.’
She sighed. ‘Her name is Léonie de Châtillon. Youngest daughter of the Marquis de Châtillon. Widow of the Comte de Saint-Fermin. But everyone at court knows her as Circe. Not always as a compliment.’
‘Because she has played the part before, or because she is known to enchant men?’
Gabrielle made a noise that sounded like derision. ‘She became notorious dancing it half-naked at the marriage of Queen Margot to the King of Navarre.’
‘The night before the massacre,’ I murmured. ‘Thirteen years ago.’
‘She’s older than she looks,’ she said, with a gleam of pleasure. ‘Childless, of course – that’s how she can still get away with it. So far, anyway.’
It was not clear whether she meant Circe was childless so far, or had got away with it so far.
‘And is she—’ I was silenced by her finger laid across my lips.
‘I said I would trade with you, Bruno. Information for information. Look how much you have pried out of me already. No more until later.’
She clutched her hood around her face and turned to leave.
‘One more question,’ I said, pulling her back by her cloak. ‘Unrelated.’ A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but I cut her off before she could refuse. ‘Do you know the Duchess of Montpensier?’
This evidently wrong-footed her; she looked first incredulous, then amused. ‘You will have even less luck there, Bruno. I know her by reputation, of course. Chaste and devout guardian of the flame of true religion. You may safely assume our paths do not cross often.’
‘Have you seen her here tonight?’
She nodded. ‘Why?’
‘I will tell you later, if you can tell me what costume she is wearing.’
‘I see you are learning to barter.’ She reached up and stroked a finger along my jaw. ‘Very well – but you must promise to tell me everything about your interest in these other women. I want to know what you are up to.’
‘I promise,’ I said, reasoning that a promise to Gabrielle need only be as binding as one of hers.
‘Good.’ She glanced over her shoulder, then leaned in and planted a kiss on my jaw below the mask, just where she had touched me. ‘She is dressed as Jeanne d’Arc, in silver chain mail. You will know her – skinny like a boy, with the Guise chin. Now I must go. Try not to get yourself into any trouble. I will see you in an hour.’ She reached down inside my cloak and ran a practised hand up the outside of my thigh to my belt, like an ostler checking a horse. She stopped when she encountered the sheath of my dagger. ‘What a bad boy you are,’ she murmured. ‘So you came prepared for trouble.’
‘I always travel prepared,’ I said. She stepped back a pace.
‘Until later, then.’ A note of wariness had appeared in her voice; I wished I had thought to conceal the dagger better. Perhaps she now feared that I had tricked my way into the palace with some malicious intent. I hoped she would not feel the need to warn anyone.
‘I look forward to it,’ I said, though I was already harbouring doubts about this meeting. She turned and disappeared into the crowd just as the final fireworks flared brightly before falling in a shower of sparks that faded quickly to black.
The next hour passed in a blur. The crowd dispersed, drifting back into the warm, and I followed, looking out for a woman in silver chain mail, or the man in the Greek mask. I took another drink from a tray and swallowed it down. Inside the Grand Salle, the light seemed dimmer as the banks of candles had begun to burn down and the smoke from the braziers hung thicker in the air, blurring my vision. Musicians were playing, dark, urgent pieces a long way from the airy tunes of the earlier singers; the drink and the incense were already having a visible effect on the inhibitions of the guests. On the floor between the stands of tiered seating, dancers whirled in frenzied steps, bodies pressed together, and in every alcove and behind every drape I saw couples entwining themselves with little regard for privacy. Through the haze and the milling outlines of people I thought I glimpsed a woman in silver chain mail; I followed her out of the Grande Salle and into a maze of dimly lit corridors and galleries lined with guests seeking darker corners. I wandered a room full of mirrors, starting each time I saw my own shape swaddled in the hooded cloak with the twisted mask of the Doctor leering back at me. A distant clock chimed.
I followed the sounds of the music back to the hall and stumbled out to the terrace. On the far side, by the wide stone steps to the gardens, the oily flames of torches revealed two figures, heads bowed together in earnest conversation: a masked woman in the costume of Joan of Arc, light rippling on her silver chain mail, and the tall man in the tricorn hat and the Greek mask. My blood quickened; I pressed myself back into the shadows by the palace wall and crept closer to see if I could catch what they were saying. They gave no sign of having seen me, and I was certain that I had been silent, but when I was a few feet away they drew apart with no warning, the woman walking quickly with her head bowed back to the hall, the man slipping down the steps to the gardens without a backward glance. I hesitated briefly, but decided my best option was to follow him; his behaviour had already given me cause for suspicion, and now I had caught him in intimate conference with a woman who matched Gabrielle’s description of the Duchess of Montpensier,
