I shivered, cursed again, pulled my mask down – too little, too late – and made my way by the light of the torch back to the formal gardens with their illuminated paths and the great ornamental fountain in the centre, where I broke the thin skin of ice on the surface and plunged my burned hand into the freezing water. The pain flared briefly and began to subside. I sat on the stone rim of the fountain until my hand and right arm grew numb with cold. I was about to withdraw it when I heard brisk footsteps behind me.
‘This is the one.’
I turned to see two armed men pointing halberds at me.
‘Show your face,’ said one.
‘Are you Italian?’ said his companion.
I looked from one to the other without speaking, while I shook the water from my hand and dried it on my cloak. The first man lowered his weapon until the point touched the bottom of my mask, lifting it a fraction. One slip of his hand and the tip would pierce my eye. I clenched my jaw and tried to stop shivering.
‘Take the fucking mask off, whoreson, or I’ll take it off for you.’
I leaned back and lifted the mask. He nodded approval.
‘Come on, then.’ The second man pulled me to my feet while the first kept his halberd lowered in case I tried to run. ‘Hold your arms out.’
I did as I was told. He pulled open my cloak and grabbed at the belt with my empty scabbard. ‘Where’s the dagger?’
‘I didn’t bring one.’
‘Horseshit. Why else would you be wearing that? Doublet and boots off. I’ll find it, even if you’ve hidden it up your arse.’
I unclasped the Doctor’s cloak with clumsy, frozen fingers and removed my doublet, carefully palming the gold medallion from the inside pocket as I did so. I took off both boots and felt the damp of the frost seep up through my hose. The guard shook out the garments I had given him before feeling roughly up and down my torso and legs.
‘Hurry up, mate, they’re waiting,’ said the first man, stamping his feet against the cold. ‘You don’t have to grope him all night.’
‘Shut it. He’s got a weapon somewhere, I know it.’
‘Usually I have to pay for this kind of attention,’ I remarked.
The first guard sniggered; the one patting me stood upright and struck me in the face with the back of his hand.
‘All right, let’s go.’ He handed me back my boots. ‘See how smart your mouth is when we get inside.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, stretching my jaw from side to side to ease the bruising. I knew the question was redundant.
‘Private reception,’ he said, while the first man let out a gurgling laugh which offered no comfort. ‘For the honoured guest.’ He nudged me none too gently towards the palace with the shaft of his weapon.
At the top of the steps to the terrace, a dwarf suited in black velvet waited for us, arms folded across his barrel chest, a thin smile just visible beneath his mask. Someone had betrayed me after all.
FOURTEEN
I was led through the Grande Salle and along a series of corridors, some of which seemed familiar in the way of landscapes in dreams. At the top of a handsome marble staircase we traversed a receiving room papered in violent green; the dwarf pressed onwards into a long, oak-panelled gallery set with window seats at intervals and lined with glass-fronted cabinets of curiosities: Venetian crystal, fine as spun sugar; shelves of polished rocks and minerals; porcelain from Delft, glazed in cornflower-blue; small stuffed rodents posed in tableaux and wearing tiny, hand-sewn clothes; china dolls in elaborate costumes, and one case devoted to the display of reliquaries and minute silver-cased prayer books. In the centre of the gallery stood a large Florentine mosaic table bearing an armillary sphere in brass and silver. Every inch of space on the walls above the cabinets was occupied by portraits of Valois ancestors, creating the air of a family shrine; the King’s father, Henri II, cast a baleful gaze over the room from his canvas in prime position over the fireplace.
The gallery ended in painted double doors; at the dwarf’s knock they were opened to reveal one of the strangest chambers I had ever seen. A reception room of generous proportions, though the sheer quantity of furnishings and clutter which filled it contrived to make the space feel crowded. Tall windows on three sides pointed up to high ceilings, where seven stuffed crocodiles hung in formation by silver chains. A fire roared and crackled in the hearth. On the far wall, opposite the doors, hung a vast portrait of Catherine de Medici as a young queen, her face even then severe and unsmiling. Beneath it, on a raised platform covered by a woven Turkish carpet, the original sat bolt upright in a high-backed chair wearing an identical expression; some of the nymphs from the masque had arranged themselves at her feet, still in their flimsy costumes. Gabrielle was not among them. I was relieved to see there was no sign of Ruggieri either.
The dwarf bowed and swept an arm towards me; I heard the doors shut behind us and the guards step away to either side, leaving me standing before Catherine, my gaze fixed firmly on my boots. When I dared to raise my head I encountered her black eyes boring into me, fierce as a raptor. She was not a physically imposing woman – she was almost as broad as she was tall – but the force of her presence could unnerve a strong man. I understood why Henri had said Guise quaked before her like a child caught stealing sweetmeats.
‘Here is a face I hoped never to see again,’ she announced, in
