I hesitated. She let out a sigh. ‘Don’t bother to answer. That way you can say your loyalty to him remains uncompromised. He always was inexplicably fond of you.’ She tilted her head to one side as if trying to comprehend this aberration.
‘Not in any improper way, madam,’ I said, lowering my eyes again to the floor.
‘No, I never thought you posed that danger. You are not his type. Too Italian.’ She gave a short, barking laugh. ‘But your ideas.’ She tapped her temple hard with an arthritic finger. ‘You lead him into sins not of the flesh but of the intellect.’
‘With respect, Your Majesty—’ I looked up and met her stare once more; in the corner of my vision I caught the women exchanging glances – ‘from where I am standing I can see volumes on your shelves that are named on the Index of Forbidden Books. Your library is renowned for its collection of works on the occult sciences. Whatever was said of me, I taught His Majesty the King nothing he could not already have discovered among your own manuscripts—’
‘Then he wasted his money employing you, did he not?’
A titter of laughter rippled through the group of women. Sweat prickled under my collar and armpits. The fire was stoked high and the room had begun to seem stifling.
Her gaze travelled pointedly down to my mud-spattered boots.
‘I see you have been enjoying my gardens.’
‘Yes.’ Then, because she was still looking at me expectantly – ‘I needed to take the air.’
‘Is that what we call it now?’ She cocked an eyebrow and the women giggled again like schoolgirls. ‘Were you in company?’
‘Only the company of my own thoughts.’ But she had caught my hesitation, I was sure of it.
‘Something of a wasted opportunity, then, with all this for the taking.’ She gestured carelessly at the girls and sniffed. ‘Dreaming up more heresies, I suppose?’
‘Madam, my memory system—’ I began, but she held up a hand.
‘I am not interested in your memory system. Walk with me in the gallery. And take that ridiculous thing off your head.’
I did as I was told and removed the mask. Two nymphs leapt up and helped Catherine rise effortfully from her chair, holding her arms as she stepped down from the platform. As soon as she was standing she shook them off and snapped her fingers until another attendant handed her a silver-topped walking stick. The armed men and a couple of girls made as if to escort us, but she turned and froze them with that piercing black stare.
‘You—’ she pointed at the guards – ‘wait by the doors. The rest of you, stay here. I wish to speak to Doctor Bruno in private.’
She set her face, but she walked stiffly and I could see the lines of pain at the corners of her mouth with every step. I glanced up as we neared the doors; overhead, one of the crocodiles cast a sad eye over the room, his jagged little teeth protruding either side of his jaw like the blade of a handsaw. I shuddered; teeth like those, and he still ended up as Catherine’s trophy.
‘They weep, you know,’ she remarked, following my gaze. ‘Have you heard that about crocodiles? Imagine such a thing – a killer who weeps for his victims.’
‘I have seen it happen,’ I said, thinking back to my time in England. ‘Though not, I confess, in crocodiles.’
She shot me a sharp look. ‘I suppose a soldier may do his duty in war and still feel sorrow at the shedding of innocent blood.’ We walked on a few paces in silence, accompanied by the clicking of her cane and the rustle of her skirts. I wondered if she was thinking of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s. ‘Though, of course, there are no true innocents in war,’ she added firmly, pre-empting any argument. ‘Even a babe-in-arms belongs to one side or the other, and will grow up a danger to his enemies.’
I decided it was wiser not to contradict her. The doors closed behind us and we were left alone in the gallery, save for the two armed guards who pressed themselves against the wall and tried to look invisible.
‘And now we may speak in our own tongue,’ Catherine said, falling back into her Florentine Italian with a nod towards the guards. ‘More convivial and more discreet, no? Hold this.’ She handed me the cane.
From a jewelled purse hanging at her waist she withdrew a small silver box and took from it a pinch of brown powder, which she spread on the back of her hand and sniffed vigorously up each nostril. When she had wiped her nose delicately on a lace handkerchief, she replaced the box, held out her hand for her stick and addressed my curious expression.
‘Tobacco. Most beneficial for the health. Have you tried it?’
‘Not like that. I thought one smoked the leaves?’
‘I dislike that method. Makes me cough. Powdered like this, it is efficacious against headaches. In Paris, the people call it l’herbe de la reine, on my account. You might benefit from it. You do not look well, Doctor Bruno. Perhaps it is the strain of meddling in affairs that are not your concern.’
I looked away to catch sight of my hollow face reflected in the glass of one of her cabinets, superimposed on the mad-eyed stare of a china doll inside.
‘Tell me what you know about Circe,’ she said, the conversational tone just as suddenly vanished.
‘I never saw her before tonight.’
‘That was not my question. Tell me what you told the King earlier.’
I paused, weighing my words before I answered. She banged her stick on the floor in
