Conspiracy. S. J. Parris
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at midnight, someone’s agents had slipped silently through Paris, marking every Protestant home with a white cross, ready for the Angel of Death. There were plenty of others, of course, who pointed the finger at Guise.
‘No more now,’ the Count said, his voice drained.
I let go of his hand and felt him slump against the wall beside me. He had been in this pit for so long he had no idea King Charles was dead, and his brother now on the throne. But his memory seemed sharp enough when it came to the terrible events that had brought him to this place. If it was true that he was being kept here by the Duke of Guise, then we must be in a Guise prison, and I had no prospect of sending word to anyone with the influence to save me. Another wave of panic overwhelmed me; I had to stand and pace the limits of that confined space before the pounding in my chest and head would subside. Perhaps after some weeks the King would notice I had disappeared, but would he make the effort to find me? Would he dare to confront Guise for my liberty, if I were still alive by then? I forced myself to cling to the gaoler’s words about food; if I was to be fed, they surely did not mean to kill me immediately. Cotin had said that the Abbé wanted me questioned about Paul Lefèvre; it was no great leap to suppose that it was Guise who was interested in the answers, and that the Abbé had handed me over. Perhaps I was only here as a prelude to interrogation – a thought which did not bring comfort. When I had brought my breathing under control again, I crouched beside the Count.
‘You were at court when Charles was king?’ I asked.
‘Another kind of prison,’ he murmured. It appeared he had not lost all his wits, then.
‘Did you ever hear mention of Circe?’ It was a long shot, I knew; the man had been shut away from the world for thirteen years. Much had changed at court since then, but perhaps not that much.
‘Circe.’ His voice drifted off again, as if he were searching his memory. He let out a bitter laugh. ‘I know that name.’
A small flame of hope flickered. ‘What does it mean? Is it a person? A woman?’
He took a long time to answer.
‘She is a witch,’ he said, at last. ‘A temptress. You must know this. She robs a man of his will, until he is no better than a beast.’
‘I know the story from the Odyssey, yes,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘The enchantress who turned Odysseus’s men into pigs. But is there another Circe? Someone in Paris?’
‘A temptress,’ he said, again, more forcefully this time, his voice weighted with contempt. ‘But they all are, behind the mask. They bewitch you, then betray you. You will learn, boy.’
He fell silent. I could not tell if he was speaking of Homer’s mythical enchantress, or someone specific, or women in general. If the latter, he need not have feared; I had already learned that lesson the hard way.
Perhaps I slept; it was difficult to tell down there in the unchanging dark. I tried to keep my mind occupied, anything to steer it away from the edge of despair. I had no idea how much time had passed before I was jolted back to awareness by the sound of the bolt and the sudden intrusion of light from the hatch.
‘Oi. You. The foreign whoreson.’ The gaoler leered into the opening; I could see only his mouth and chin. ‘Seems Dame Fortune is smiling on you tonight, my friend.’
‘I can’t remember when I felt luckier,’ I said. I guessed from his sarcasm that things were about to take a turn for the worse.
‘Shut your mouth and get on your feet against that wall while I fetch the ladder. Governor’s orders. Someone’s just paid your bail.’
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