‘Thank you, madame,’ I said, graciously. She gave me one of her looks and retreated into her own quarters, though it was clear she had not fully closed the door to the entrance hall. She disliked my notoriety, but that did nothing to dampen her interest in my business in the hope of some gossip.
‘Come,’ I said to Benoît, nodding to the street, ‘let’s walk.’
The rutted mud underfoot had frozen to hard peaks and troughs, as if the ground had been turned to stone overnight. I pulled on my gloves as we set off in the direction of the rue Saint-Jacques and the colleges of the university. ‘Have you news?’ I asked, when we were beyond the reach of Madame’s eavesdropping. Benoît blew on his hands.
‘Frère Guillaume sent me with a message. He needs to speak to you.’
‘Why? Did he say?’
The boy shook his head. ‘He said only that it was important. He had found something he thought you should see urgently. He wants you to meet him at the back gate to the abbey this evening before Vespers.’
‘No hint of what it might be? No letter for me, perhaps?’ I tried not to show my hesitation. I wanted to trust Benoît but this would be a laughably easy trap to spring; Paul Lefèvre had died because he had walked trustingly to a rendezvous on that deserted river path behind the abbey. The Abbé of Saint-Victor was a League supporter and had already had me thrown in gaol once; outside the city wall I would be under his jurisdiction, and I would not be surprised if he found a kind of poetic justice in luring me to the same end. On the other hand, if the message were genuine, I was curious to know what Cotin might have found that he considered so important. Something to do with Joseph? I looked at Benoît. His habitual manner was so jittery that it was difficult to judge whether he was lying.
‘Tell him I will be there,’ I said, slowing as we reached the cloister of the Mathurins. I would need a better weapon than the knife I had taken from the guard at the Tuileries, though; it would be folly not to prepare myself for an ambush. I wondered if I could persuade someone to go with me, even if only for the sake of appearances; no one looks so vulnerable as a man alone. Francesco and some of his players, perhaps, or even Paget? But I could not justify dragging the Gelosi into possible danger – I had too much need of them the following night – and there was always the chance that Cotin had genuinely found something connected with the murders, in which case Paget was the last person I wanted as a witness.
‘Well, this is where I must say goodbye,’ I said, offering my hand in the English style more as a hint than a farewell, since Benoît still lingered at my side, hopping from foot to foot.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his eyes eager.
‘To collect my laundry from a washerwoman,’ I said, stepping back, afraid that he might offer to come with me. He seemed well-meaning but I could not discount the possibility that he had been sent by his abbot to report on me. To pre-empt any such suggestion, I gave him a curt nod and set off up the street; he looked disappointed, and stood watching me for a few minutes as if making up his mind whether to follow, so that I was obliged to turn the corner and loiter in the shadow of a doorway until I was sure he had gone on his way. God, this city! I pushed both hands through my hair and leaned against the wall. So many factions, so many plots; everyone an informer with two faces, playing one party off against the others. At least in London my enemies had been more visible, and I had known who my friends were. Here, I could rely only on Jacopo, and even then I knew that if he were forced to choose between the various loyalties he owed, Catherine and the King would trump me every time: that was mere self-preservation.
When I was certain that Benoît was no longer watching my movements I hurried down the rue du Fouarre, reminding myself that at some point I really would have to collect my clothes from the laundress, and tip her well for her trouble. I wound my way along narrow back streets until I saw the sign of the Eagle hanging above a narrow doorway. Entering, I found myself in the low-beamed tap-room of a tavern, broad and well furnished with a wide hearth along one side. The place was half-full, the customers all men, mainly young, though by their coats and boots they crossed all divides of class. Most striking was the rhythm of their talk, the unmistakable flat cadences of English; before I had even closed the door behind me I felt I had been transported back to London. The tables nearest the fire were occupied and the conversations tailed off as the drinkers turned to look at me. I met no one’s eye and slipped into a seat in a poorly lit corner. After a while, the other customers appeared to lose interest and the low hum of talk resumed, though they leaned in closer and spoke more quietly than before, casting the occasional glance over their shoulders in my direction.
I ordered a bowl of stew and a jug of wine from a surly serving girl and tried to observe the young men by the fire without being noticed. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here in daylight; I was more obvious alone, and less likely to fall into easy conversation. It was clear they were wary of a stranger; hardly surprising, if this was where the disaffected English Catholics gathered to
