Conspiracy. S. J. Parris
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fury that in places his pen had scored right through the paper, yet it was impossible to disguise the relish in his lingering and explicit account of what the King and his mignons – those louche young nobles who hung about the court to fawn on him – were supposed to get up to in the royal bedchamber. Poor Paul, I thought again, if this were his work.
I lifted out the next paper to find another handwritten draft. The headline on the cover of this one ran: ‘An Account of the Most Glorious Achievements and Military Successes of Our Great King Henri III’. Inside, the page was left blank, except for one word in minute letters at the bottom: Rien. I had to bite back a laugh; it seemed Paul had possessed a sense of humour after all. This one would have wounded the King far more than any number of drawings of him being mounted by his friends; he had always enjoyed courting notoriety but he could not bear to be thought a failure. It did not surprise me to find that Paul had been providing the copy for inflammatory handbills, given his affiliation with the Catholic League – though I had to wonder why he had kept these incriminating drafts, knowing that the punishment for printing or distributing such libel against the King was execution. I replaced the papers in the box. Perhaps that was exactly what had happened, but without the courtesy of a trial.
A sound from below – a shout, a door slamming – jolted me from my thoughts. I paused, straining to hear, right hand moving instinctively towards my dagger, until I was satisfied that the sound had come from outside. I moved to the window and peered down, keeping to one side so that I would not be seen, but the street appeared to be empty. Again, I caught a faint smell of woodsmoke and glanced across to the small hearth opposite, where the remnants of a meagre fire lay cold in the grate. Paul had not given any indication during our brief conversation in the confessional that he believed himself to be in danger. Rather, he had spoken with the self-congratulating assurance of someone who considered himself favoured by the rising power. He had even hinted that the King was soon to fall. I wondered if he had had time to recognise his assailant before the blow struck, and whether the killer had waited around to see the bargemen pull him out of the water, or knew that he had been taken to the abbey. It would not take long before my presence at his deathbed leaked out; if that became known to whoever had wanted him dead, that person may fear I knew more than I should.
I picked up the poker and prodded the pile of ashes in the fireplace, jumping back as a sudden shower of sparks burst forth from a smouldering ember. The room was cold, yet it seemed Paul had lit a fire here recently; so small, to judge by the remnants, that it hardly seemed worth the trouble for the warmth it would offer. Two or more hours must have passed since the bargemen had brought him to the abbey; perhaps three, then, since he closed the door to these rooms for the final time, leaving the embers to burn themselves out. I crouched and poked further among the ashes, my pulse quickening as I uncovered a few blackened scraps, curling like charred leaves. So he had been burning papers. I hardly dared hope that anything legible might have survived, but I combed further through the cinders and at the very back of the hearth, where a draught must have blown it out of the flames’ reach, I spotted a fragment that still showed patches of discoloured writing.
I drew it out and held it between thumb and forefinger, the edges falling away to dust as I lifted it closer to my face, barely breathing lest it disintegrate. Only a few words remained visible between the scorch marks, written in a strong, flowing hand. ‘… to violate the sanctity of the confessional’, read one line, the remainder of the sentence blackened beyond recognition. ‘… wrestled with my conscience …’ was visible in the line below. Followed by this: ‘… what harm Circe intends you’; a gap, scorched away, then ‘… may God forgive me’. The only other words I could make out with any certainty were those which caused my chest to tighten: ‘Votre Majesté’.
I stood, still pinching the scrap of paper, steadying myself as the blood pounded in my ears and my mind raced to make sense of these shreds. The first thing that struck me was that the hand was different from the pamphlets I had seen in the box, suggesting that one or the other was not written by Paul – unless he had taken the trouble to disguise his writing significantly, which was possible if he did not want to be associated with the libellous handbills. The reference to the confessional suggested that Paul was the author of the letter, and that he was trying to warn the King of some danger to him from whoever or whatever Circe may be. But why burn it? Perhaps he had had second thoughts about the risk to himself – to break the sacrament of confession would mean the end of his priesthood, not to mention the jeopardy to his immortal soul – or else he had already sent a more polished draft and wished to destroy any possibility of tracing it back to him. I tucked the brittle paper into the pocket sewn into the lining of my doublet; I doubted it would survive, but instinct told me I should keep hold of it. Paul had tried to burn this letter, shortly before he was killed; it was hard to believe the two were unconnected.
If Paul had been destroying incriminating documents, perhaps there were more stashed away in the box on the desk. I returned to it, but as I reached for the papers I caught again the sound of a door creaking and closing, softer but definitely inside this time, and below me. I held my breath and heard the unmistakable tread of feet on the stairs; two pairs, and a muffled exchange in lowered voices. I closed the lid of the box and retreated as silently as I could into the alcove with the bed, pulling the curtain tightly across.
‘Unlocked. I don’t like that.’ The speaker’s voice was curiously throttled, as if it were trapped at the back of his throat. He rattled the latch and I heard the door close behind them.
‘Perhaps he was in a hurry.’ His companion’s voice was cultivated, Parisian. There was a sliver of a gap between the curtain and the wall. I edged closer to see if I could glimpse them.
‘You think he’d leave his door open for all-comers?’ The first man clicked his tongue; the boards squeaked as he paced around the room. His movements sounded off-kilter, as if he walked with a lurching gait. Lame, perhaps. That might make things easier. I eased the catch of the casement free, as quietly as I could. ‘Not he. Someone’s got here first.’
‘Who? Who could possibly know—’ The other broke off suddenly; I felt the stillness of them, alert, breath held, only feet away. The faint sound of a board underfoot; the whisper of a weapon drawn from its sheath. One error of judgement here and I would find myself as skewered as Saint Teresa. I sensed them hesitate, deliberating where to strike – just long enough for me to push open the window and roll out at the exact moment a sword’s point thrust through the curtain and buried itself deep in the straw mattress where I had been crouching.
I hit the protruding roof of the ground floor at an awkward angle, but dug my heels in enough to slow my fall, so that I was able to clutch at the edge and drop to the ground with a degree of control. A furious cry echoed from the window above, but I did not look up; instead I pulled my hood around my face, brushed myself down – bruises, nothing broken – and scrambled over the back fence into an alley. They would come looking for me in a few minutes and there were two of them, even if one was lame. I glanced left and right: a dead end, the only way out would take me into the street that ran perpendicular to the rue Macon. If I ran towards the river, I might be able to hide along the quay, but if they found me there, I would be trapped, and the dark water and deserted riverbank would be a gift to my pursuers. But if I tried to flee south, I would run straight into them as they turned the corner. I hesitated at the mouth of the alley, expecting to see them at any moment, when I noticed the laundress I had spoken to earlier unlocking the door of a house opposite. I hurtled up behind her just as she was about to close it; she gave a little scream and tried to slam the door in my face, evidently thinking she was about to be attacked, but I was too quick and jammed my boot into the gap.
‘Catholic or Protestant?’ I demanded, pointing at her.
‘What?’
‘Don’t be alarmed, madame,’ I hissed, cutting a glance over my shoulder. ‘Are you Catholic or Protestant?’
She looked affronted. ‘Catholic, of course.’
‘God be praised. There are two Huguenots after me. In the name of the Blessed Virgin, give me sanctuary.’
She was so startled that she relaxed her hold on the door enough for