Conspiracy

boast of their plans for taking back their homeland. But as Paget had said, the hot-headed plots cooked up here by angry students over a jug of cheap wine need not disturb Walsingham’s sleep; the truly dangerous conspiracies were brewing in more richly furnished rooms than these. In any case, I had not come for Walsingham, but for a purpose of my own. That knock on my chamber door this morning had been a warning; I knew it was only a matter of time now before soldiers arrived to arrest me on some imagined charge – whether sent by Catherine de Medici or the Duke of Guise seemed almost irrelevant. I did not like to leave unfinished business, not when I was so close, and I had waited over a year to conclude this particular matter. But now that I was here, I no longer felt sure of myself. My name, if not my face, would be familiar to many of these young Englishmen thanks to the Throckmorton business two years ago; I would need to approach softly if I were not to rouse their suspicions.

I dipped a heel of dry bread into the stew – it was as well my expectations on that score had been low – and strained to catch any of the exchanges around me, when the door opened and a man entered, clapping his hands against the cold. He pulled down his hood and stood for a moment looking around uncertainly, until a barrage of protests at the draught from the open door prompted him to shut it in haste, with muttered apologies. I recognised him as the young man with the freckles I had seen at Brinkley’s print shop, the one who had delivered the package that Paget later collected. He was still casting around the tap-room as if expecting to meet someone. Evidently whoever it was had not arrived; he pulled off his gloves and took a seat at the next table from mine, his eyes on the door.

‘Turned colder today,’ I said cheerfully, lifting my cup of wine in a manner of greeting. I recalled how fond the English were of talking about the weather. ‘We might have snow before the week is out.’

The young man stared at me as if I had insulted him. Too late, I also remembered how affronted the English are at being addressed by a stranger in a public place. After a moment, his face creased into a frown. I could see he was trying to place me.

‘We met at the printer’s shop last week,’ I said, to help him out. He nodded, though his face grew guarded.

‘I remember. You were asking for illegal books.’

‘I was advised by a friend – God rest him – that Brinkley might be one of the few brave souls to print the truth about the persecution of the true Church in England. Books the Valois regime do not want the people of France to read, while they plot their alliance with the heretic queen.’

His eyes widened at this, but he remained cautious. ‘You said it was the priest who was killed. The friend you spoke of, I mean?’

‘Yes.’ I assumed an appropriately sombre expression. ‘Père Lefèvre. We used to lecture together at the university. Did you know him?’

Instantly his gaze swerved away, guilty. ‘No. But I had heard him preach. It was dreadful, what happened to him.’

I nodded sadly. ‘He has still had no justice, despite the protests.’

‘Nor will he,’ the boy said, suddenly animated, ‘unless the people take justice into their own hands.’

‘Rise against the King, you mean?’

‘Why should they not, when the King scorns true religion and murders those who defend it? He will fall, just like our heretic queen at home, who spills the blood of faithful Catholics. It is written in scripture. The wicked have drawn out their sword; they have bent their bow, to cast down the poor and needy, to kill the upright of heart,’ he quoted solemnly. ‘But the Lord says, Fret not thyself because of the wicked men, for they shall soon be cut down like grass, and shall wither as the green herb.’ He nodded an emphatic full stop. I looked impressed.

‘No doubt they shall be. But how soon, is the question?’

‘Sooner than they think,’ he said, with the satisfaction of one whose inside knowledge gives him an advantage. His manner reminded me of Paul’s hints to me in the confessional that the King was not long for his throne: not quite able to resist a tacit boast.

I was considering what more to ask without putting him on guard when the serving girl slumped her flat-footed way towards us again and demanded to know what my companion wanted to eat. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and mumbled about expecting to meet a friend. From his clothes and his general demeanour, I guessed he had little money. I wondered if he was there to pass over another package, and who he might be meeting.

‘Take a drink with me while you wait,’ I offered. He shot me an anxious glance from the tail of his eye and returned his attention to his fingernails. ‘No obligation. You look as if you could do with something warm.’

He acknowledged this with a rueful nod, but still he hesitated.

‘You are worried about talking to a stranger,’ I said, with a nod of understanding. ‘Perhaps you fear I am a spy.’

He glanced up with an expression caught between guilt and apology. ‘This is Paris, after all.’

‘Quite. You are probably one yourself.’ I thought of the package I had seen him hand to Brinkley. At this he coloured so violently that I knew I had struck a nerve. ‘Don’t worry, I am only teasing you. Let us not discuss politics, then,’ I said. ‘We could talk about women instead.’

His face suggested he found this even more alarming. He was reprieved by the arrival of the wine. I poured a cup for him and lifted my own.

‘We are two foreigners,