I tucked the papers carefully into the secret pocket sewn into the lining of my doublet – an alteration I had had made to all my clothes when I lived in London, for just such a purpose. Reaching again into the mattress to check I had not missed anything, I rummaged around until my fingertips touched another object; this time a leather purse, tied with a drawstring. I opened it and tipped the contents into my palm: two gold écus and a torn strip of paper, on which was scribbled, in the same hand as the pamphlets, Brinkley, 28 11 4h.
Was it a code? Who or what was Brinkley? It was an English name, if I was not mistaken. Many of the émigrés who had fled to Paris rather than renounce their faith under Elizabeth had established connections with the Catholic League; if Joseph de Chartres was involved in distributing propaganda against the King, he might also be collaborating with the English Catholics – the anti-Elizabeth pamphlet among his papers suggested as much. Or perhaps Brinkley was a reference to the mistress, and the money was for her. As I stared at them, it struck me that perhaps it was not a cipher at all, but a far more obvious explanation – 4h could mean simply a time, quatre heures, in which case the other numbers might be the date. The 28th of November was tomorrow. A rendezvous, then? Even if my guess were correct, I had no way of knowing where or with whom, but at least it was one more thin thread I could follow, now that I was certain that Joseph must be Paul Lefèvre’s killer. I touched a thumb to my bruised mouth. Evidently he had exaggerated the limitations of his crippled hand.
I was crouching to return the money to its hiding place when the cell door juddered open and light flooded the walls. I whipped around, startled; a figure filled the doorway, lamp held aloft. He appeared to be fully dressed, despite the hour.
‘Put down the weapon,’ he said, in a voice accustomed to giving orders.
I stood and held out my hands, palms up, to show I was not armed. He eyed the purse.
‘The one at your belt,’ he said, with a touch more steel. He was a solid man, tall and broad, nearing sixty but still possessed of a vigorous energy apparent in his florid cheeks and quick, sharp eyes under bristling brows. His abbot’s robes were trimmed with fox-fur and patterned in gold thread that winked in the light; a jewelled crucifix hung from his neck, so large it almost reached his belt and would have made a lesser man stoop. ‘Let us see, now,’ he continued, as I unstrapped my knife and dropped it to the floor, ‘carrying a weapon inside the abbey precincts – that is an offence in itself. Unlawful intrusion, theft, violent assault-’ he gestured to the blood on my lip. ‘Quite a list of charges to be going on with.’
‘It was I who was assaulted,’ I said.
He raised an eyebrow. I realised I would do better to affect a degree of humility.
‘Father Abbot – I can see how this must look. But I can explain. If you send someone to look outside the gate, you will find soldiers from the King’s personal guard who will vouch for me. My name is-’
‘I know exactly who you are, Doctor Bruno,’ the Abbé said. His look suggested this knowledge was not going to work in my favour. ‘As for the soldiers – there are armed guards here, but not, I fear, the ones you requested in this letter.’ He flicked his wrist up to show a piece of paper held between his first and second finger. My heart dropped to my stomach. ‘Do you imagine I allow messages in and out of this abbey without knowing what they contain? Especially ones addressed to the Louvre. Cotin should have known better. But perhaps he stood to gain as your accomplice.’
‘Father Abbot, you must listen. I believe you have a murderer in your abbey.’ I looked him in the eye and spoke solemnly. If I betrayed a hint of alarm, I would be giving him the confirmation he wanted.
‘I have a thief in my abbey, that much seems beyond doubt.’ He sniffed.
‘I am not a thief, Your Grace, I swear.’
‘That is your money, is it?’
We both looked at the purse in my hand.
‘I pray you, send to-’ I hesitated. Not the King. Cotin was right – Henri would not risk inflaming further ill feeling among the religious orders by coming to the defence of a heretic accused of theft in defiance of a powerful abbot. As I had already worked out, he had chosen me precisely because he could dissociate himself from me if things became awkward. But I still had one friend with a degree of influence. ‘Jacopo Corbinelli, at the palace. You must know him – he is secretary to the Queen Mother and the King’s librarian. He will vouch for me.’
‘No doubt. You Italians always stick together. Though he would be a fool to soil his hands in this instance. And in any case, I am not your messenger boy.’ He crushed the letter Cotin had written for me in his fist and turned in the doorway, motioning to someone out of sight. Still believing I might negotiate my way out of the situation, I dropped the purse on the bed and picked up the candle. Without thinking, I bent to retrieve my knife – it was valuable and I did not want to leave it behind if I was to be escorted out under guard. But the Abbé glanced back as I was reaching for it and cried out with as much drama as if I had stuck the blade in his ribs. Before I could surrender the weapon, he had retreated and two men armed with pikestaffs barged into the room; one seized me by the hair while the other twisted my arm behind my back and wrenched the knife from my grasp. In the commotion I let go of my candle, which caught the edge of Joseph’s bedding; a small conflagration erupted and the man holding my arm yelped and let go, flapping his hands at his leg where the flames had singed his hose. I took advantage of the confusion to tear myself away from the other one, leaving a clump of my hair in his fist. I hurled myself towards the door and out into the corridor; by now most of the cell doors stood open and a row of pale, awed faces stared at me.
The Abbé stood blocking my way to the stairs; there was no sign of Cotin and I could only hope he had had the sense to vanish with the statue before anyone had seen him.
‘Stop that man!’ the Abbé thundered. I glanced back, in time to see the arc of a pikestaff descending, a moment before I felt the impact of the blow and my knees buckled beneath me. I tried to speak but no sound emerged; my sight blurred as the soldier crouched over me and the world turned black.
It remained dark when I opened my eyes some time later, to find I was lying on my side, face pressed to the ground. My senses were still dulled from the blow to my head, though not sufficiently to block out the fierce smell of excrement that assailed my nostrils as soon as I was conscious. Where was I? I raised my head an inch as pain seared up the back of my skull like a hot needle. Under my cheek, the prickling of dried straw. A stable, perhaps? But it was not the clean, grassy smell of horse dung making me retch; this stink was human. Mine? I could hardly tell. When I tried to roll over, I found I could not move my arms; my wrists had been bound together behind me. I struggled to my knees and twisted my right shoulder up to try and wipe the dirt, or caked blood, from my eyes on my sleeve, but it made no difference to the darkness. There was no source of light in the room. I was frozen through, shivering so hard that my teeth clattered together and I was in danger of biting my tongue. I slumped back on to my heels, rolled my shoulders to ease the pain and tried to join the jolted fragments of memory. I had drifted in and out of consciousness after I was struck; they had put me on a horse, or had I imagined that? With a hood over my head, so I had no idea where they had taken me. I forced myself to my feet, feeling the world tilt and sway unnervingly as if I were at sea. I could at least stand upright. Despite the filthy air, I breathed slowly and deliberately, in and out. The pain in my head advanced and receded, making my eyes swim. When I was reasonably certain that I was not about to faint or vomit, I called out.