Mary Gentle (38 page)

It became plain to me from his expression that he did not care for Dariole’s boy-girl existence; nor could he conceive of her life being important, never mind the loss of it. I expected nothing else.

“If that happens—if she dies,” I explained gently, “I will have no further interest in this conspiracy, and will no longer consent to take part in it.” I put out of my mind, for the moment, how I would afterwards get information from Paris. I am not to be held Mr Secretary’s slave. “Mlle Dariole’s survival is a matter of honour, monsieur.”

Cecil did not like that plain
monsieur.
His face, as he found himself in the position of needing to request a conspirator to continue with their plans against his King’s life, was also well worth the seeing.

He gazed up at me, seemingly unaware of how I towered over him. “Perhaps I
should
have sent M. Herault back to Paris under armed guard, as I at first suggested. I still can.”

I have handled this badly; I desired to pique him, not cause him to stand upon his dignity.

Behind me, Saburo rumbled his first words.

“If Darioru-sama is killed, I’ll report it to King-Emperor James. And my Shogun.” Saburo stopped and folded his brawny arms. “I am under obligation to her. Giri. Burden. Duty. As Rosh’-fu’-san is. I will seek help from King-Emperor James for her, as a diplomat and ambassador of Nihon.”

Cecil blinked, also halting. I realised I had my mouth open, and shut it. Master Saburo’s description of himself as an ignorant captain of foot soldiers is incorrect in at least one respect: he must have paid some attention to his Ambassador’s diplomatic manipulations.

If I had had Dariole there with me, I would have burst into laughter, and let Milord Cecil’s dignity fly where it may.

“Very well.” Cecil nodded. “I will have my men look for Mistress Dariole. If she is found, I will send word. More I cannot reasonably do. Master Rochefort, I expect to hear fully from you of this matter in Somerset.”

“I will send you plans and drafts of the caves,” I said. “Milord…is it possible to ask—”

“I do not wish the Earl Henry Percy to be warned.” Cecil gave me the look of a man ahead on all points. The shimmering candles where we stood illuminated his ruff, his white hands, his white face, leaving the rest of him as velvet darkness. He continued, “Yes, it is possible the young woman may have been taken into his quarters in the Tower.
You
have no excuse to go there, Master Rochefort. And if you do, it will alarm my lord of Northumberland. I will not have this conspiracy ended until
I
choose.”

“Milord, you must have agents of your own, that Fludd and Northumberland will not recognise?”

“I cannot be sure of that.” Cecil frowned. “But…it is true that I dislike the idea of men abducting and harbouring a young woman in a royal castle, for the purpose of hurting his Majesty. I am owed favours by Sir William Waad, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower. I will have Sir William instigate a search, so much as he may do covertly.”

I bowed, with a flourish of the plume of my hat; Saburo bowed deeply, and with great dignity.

“Need audience soon!” the samurai observed gutturally, as he rose. “Am I to see King-Emperor James yet, great daimyo?”

The English Secretary of State glanced ahead, towards a junction of the corridors. I guessed him to intend us to take the one out of the palace. “It may not be soon, I regret. His Majesty has gone north, now, to Newmarket, for horse-racing. But this will be of use to Master Rochefort—will it not? It will give him time to appear to rehearse the masque in Somerset, and thus appear to be obeying the instructions of Robert Fludd.”

Go to Wookey; do as you are told.
From Cecil as well as Fludd. It could not be plainer.
And I must; I will be being watched by Fludd’s men.

I bowed acknowledgement, looking down at the tiny man.

It would not completely surprise me—since Mlle Dariole’s absence holds me to England and this conspiracy—if Cecil himself might know more of her whereabouts than he claims, and keeps silent. But there is nothing to be done about that at this juncture.

“I will send word from Somerset,” I said. “Milord, a last thing. If there is no fresh news out of France, then may I entreat your lordship to pass word in the other direction—a message to Monseigneur the Duc de Sully?”

Cecil’s lugubrious expression did not change. “I don’t see why not, Master Rochefort. The English Ambassador to the Queen Regent’s court is used to handling matters of a diplomatic nature. I might request him to speak with Monsieur de Rosny.”

To have Cecil know my business did not please me; to get a cipher carried in any other way to my master the Duke defeats me.
And he must be warned
.

As I bowed agreement, and made to leave, Saburo gave a rumbling grunt, pointing at himself—not at his chest, I noted, as a European might, but into his own face. “Rosh’-fu’-san go to Wōki.
I
wait here. I see the King-Emperor whenever he desires it, great daimyo Seso. And if I hear of Darioru-sama, Rosh’-fu’, I tell you.”

T
ents covered the Somerset grass, set wide apart in case of fire among the linen and canvas.

Use-paths had begun to wear through the turf to the brown earth beneath.

The hardest thing in my profession is not the death of an associate, but the never knowing whether he is dead or not—although, as weeks and years go past, a man’s opinion can only tend to one conclusion. The unanswered questions pile up in a corner of the mind.

I stepped aside, momentarily, waiting with my boots deep in muck as the carters whipped their beasts up the slope to Wookey Hole. The track from the paper-mill to the cave entrance lay covered six inches deep in straw; I had ordered it put down to stop the horses’ hooves slipping. Yet more of the gear that goes with cooks, servers, dressers, players, musicians, butlers, and stewards went past me.

From here, I might look down the slope at the tents. Memory tugged at me.
Very like the herring-haunted Low Countries,
I thought.
On the two or three days in a year when it forgets to rain
. The camp had that air of temporary permanency that I well recall from when Gabriel Santon and I ordered a company on behalf of the United Provinces. All the immediate land about the mill resembled an army camp, for all it held Prince Henry’s players.

Three weeks. Precisely: three weeks and three days. June coming into its last week.

Is this to be how it is? Diminishing enquiries as weeks become months, become years?

Cecil’s latest curt missive lay under my doublet, against my shirt; a word or two confirming that the Lord Lieutenant’s enquiries—so far as they might go without causing suspicion—found nothing.

Found nothing yet,
I corrected myself.

From this higher station on the path to Wookey Hole, I could count at least a hundred men among the tents: some being actors, dog-handlers, props-masters, armourers, and sword-instructors, but the most of them servants, boys, and a number of women too well-dressed or idle to be anything but harlots, waiting the time when King James’s hunting party should finally be persuaded to join us.
Where is he now? Bedfordshire? No, Devon
. Both Cecil and Fludd—unknown to each other—agree.

As the last pack-horse went past, and I could walk on down the track, I smelled the not-unpleasing scent of horse-droppings, and the sun on dry grass. A skylark sang high in the pale sky.
I know where none of them are,
I thought. Gabriel. The Duc. Only Cecil’s reports assure me M. de Sully still walks unharmed. As for Dariole….

Echoes of loud, harsh language disturbed me as I approached the mill. Englishmen standing in groups, talking the one with the other, but their faces further apart than is common in France, and with little of that aid to discourse that gesture gives. Cold-blooded English, in high-necked doublets, and wide stuffed trunk-hose, all in the court fashion—men crowding and hurrying about their business, in and out of the mill, up and down between the tents and the bridge over the mill-stream, rolling barrels of stage-decorations to be brought up to the main cave.

And no man knows whether we must be ready today, or a month from today. How long must I allow myself to be compelled to stay here?

Leave aside, ‘Where is King James?’
I thought, stepping with some care in the straw. ‘
Where is our young Prince?’
Would it not be amusing if Fludd has miscalculated, and his Henry Stuart is a picture of filial piety, and never arrives here?

As I set foot on the mill-bridge, the mill-owner’s son came hurriedly towards me. Ned Field did his best to meet my gaze. I politely did not draw attention to the fact that he had not, as yet, re-entered the Wookey caves. Even though his Witch was nowhere to be found—I having taken the precaution, when I first arrived, of removing her eight miles north, to where Cecil’s company of thirty horsemen, under one Captain Spofforth, concealed themselves in a great gorge in the limestone rock.

Sister Caterina had been waiting ready to move in the first cavern, when I rode up to the Wookey caves, with her most essential documents wrapped in rags.

“At least be
decent,
” I had instructed her, passing the skirts and bodices I had brought with me from London.

She dropped a woollen skirt over her head, despite the summer heat, and thrashed her way up through it, buttoning it with nimble fingers, and lacing the bodice. “You are concerned only that I should not be a disgrace to you, Valentin?”

“Precisely.”

“Ostrega!” she had remarked, but would not consent to tell me why she laughed.

“I have no belief in your prophecy,” I said as we climbed the chiseled steps to the open air, craning my head to avoid the hanging limestone spikes. “But, if you have overheard anything from the mill-workers, or seen anything…do you know anything of where Mlle Dariole might be? Is it possible they have brought her here?”

Caterina’s limpid dark eyes shifted away from me. The sunlight outside showed her face dirty and evasive. “Sometimes it is better not to know what is possible, Valentin. Better to wait, and discover what
is
.”

Exasperation moved me to rant—to plead, even; and to swear oaths a man should not in front of a religious woman. I could not persuade her. I put my hand down and closed it around her small shoulder. “You will have used your mathematics, signora, don’t tell me you have not! Is she alive, at least?”

“That, I cannot tell you for certain. It is…possible.”

Her tone was not that of a woman who finds it inarguable good news.

“Possible? ‘Alive, but imprisoned?’ ‘Alive, but not for long?’ Come—what? Tell me!”

She only shook her head, refusing to say anything more.

I told myself I need not believe her any more infallible than I believed Robert Fludd to be.
That,
I resolved in my private mind, as I set up and began rehearsals of the assassination-masque.

Now, on the mill-bridge, with machinery rumbling dully in the air around us, I turned to business with Field fils. “I’ve timed the walk. Royalty will be getting their banquet cold, if they must use the mill-kitchens. But that’s a constant ill with court feasts. Fontainebleau is the same.”

“Sir.” Ned Field nodded. He muttered words. I at last made them out to be, “Your tailor’s looking for you, Master Herault, sir.”

Neither my height nor my face should, ideally, be the first things noticed by men; both being aids to identification, and so not helpful to a spy. Noticeable clothing is better, distracting from all else. I’d commandeered a tailor who came down with the players, and (despite their complaints about leaving masque costumes unfinished) had him make me a suit in oak-green satin, with gold silk ribbons and points; the doublet slashed to show a gooseturd-green lining. Only the final fitting now remained. Then, with the feathers in my hat dyed a similar colour, I should have all of Fludd’s men despising the foppish Frenchman. That never hurts, either.

“He wants me? Good.” I slapped Field on the shoulder, and followed the direction he indicated, down among the tents. I brushed off other men’s requests as I walked, with a curt, “Later!” I had taken the precaution of making a roundabout trip of the camp be my business every day, and so made men used to my presence at irregular hours. Some of my perambulations took me south, into the endless flats and marshes of the Levels; some towards Wells, or round by the hillocks north of Wookey, towards the great cleft stone gorge. That enabled me to contact Captain Spofforth. A man who is anywhere at any time is nowhere suspicious.

Where, in desperation, might a man begin to look for Mlle Dariole? I
thought.

If I’m to consider the unlikely, perhaps she’s escaped their custody and traveled back to France. I could forgive her an impatience with England and my business. She is rash enough, also, to think the Queen Regent would not have an interest in her. Perhaps she is even now back on the estates of de la Roncière….

The English sun fell hot on my back. I wiped away sweat. My thoughts by association went from Queen Regent Marie de Medici to my master the Duke. Of whom I know nothing certain since a month after Henri’s death—only Cecil’s acknowledgement that the English Ambassador has met briefly with him at the Arsenal, and a warning been passed on.

To be too dependent on one patron is another reason to dislike my position in England,
I considered, as my stride ate up the ground.

Lost in thought, I was not aware of the tailor until the small man himself tapped my elbow. I stopped. He smiled, gap-toothed, panting.

“I will pay you when it’s done,” I said automatically, as one does with tradesmen. The little man’s name escaped me; I recognised him mostly by the pale strawberry mark on his left cheek. “
Is
it done?”

“Monsieur can have it this time tomorrow. But I didn’t come for that, sir. I thought you might like to know—there’s a countryman of yours just turned up. Talks the same French language you do, sir.”

A man spying at Wookey who speaks French—

Expansively cheerful, the tailor added, “And I wondered if you might recommend me to him, sir? He wasn’t what you’d call
court
-dressed.”

It’s the Medici!
I realised. At first cold as Winter ice with rage, and then burning with a savage joy. The Queen Regent has at last found where I am, and sent another man to kill me.

“Where?”

The tailor had his gaze focused about my twelfth button, possibly because he found it painful to look up at a taller man. He startled at the harshness of my question. Wilting slightly, he pointed at the paper-mill.

“Down there, sir; I saw him go to stable his horse.”

I set off downhill without a word, heels skidding on the hot grass, yanking the Saxony rapier out of my scabbard as I went.
Too much time spent as quartermaster and Colonel of this play-actors’ regiment!
Now let me relieve myself of anger by taking up the Medici’s gauntlet—and letting her know what she may expect from Valentin Rochefort.

Mud and worse splashed up my boots as I crossed the mill’s paved stable-yard, half-running. I plunged into the stables.

The light shining in at the entrance, succeeded by dimness, blinded me for a vital second.

As my vision cleared, I saw a man looking round from hitching up hay into his mount’s manger. A man in a strange masque-costume all of layered linen over-robes tied with a sash, his black hair drawn up in a brush-shape at the back of his head.

Two weeks and more since I have set eyes on him: he seems newly strange to me
. Especially in his silence. “Saburo?”

His black eyes shone, unreadable in the dimness.

A slighter figure stepped around the horse, that had lowered its head to champ, and threw down the brush that had just curried the beast.

Realisation jolted through me.

Dariole.

“I…am forever meeting you in stables, mademoiselle!” A stab of joy went through me. I stepped forward, intending to swing her up into my arms. “Messire Saburo,
indeed
you are to be congratulated!”

The samurai grunted. He stepped between me and her, swinging saddlebags over his broad shoulders—and walked past me energetically enough that I must step hastily out of his way.

I turned about, staring after him. “Saburo…?”

Pain slammed through the back of my thigh.

As if I had been struck a blow with a workman’s sledge-hammer.
I recognise such pain
.

I looked down.

Something glinted in the light from outside.

It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing.

A black metal blade wide as my thumb, and twelve inches long, stuck
out
of the front of my trunk-hose.

Out of the front of my thigh.

Metal dripping with red blood…that ran down the flat of the steel, and trickled from sharpened edge and point. Wet red blood spreading out almost invisibly, but fast as spilt water, into the burgundy cloth covering my right leg.

Pain wrenched through me so hard that I could not cry out.

A rapier
. Struck through the thigh from behind, with a sword.
Oh dear God, the artery?

Blood ran and dripped, pooling in front of me, soaking into the yellow straw inside the stable. I tilted, slowly; fell—did not desire or intend to; knew, even as I did it, what the cost in pain would be—but fell, as a weakness went through my leg and took it out from under me.

The dripping blade jerked back, vanishing inside my leg; then pulling away with a sickening sucking noise.

I pitched my shoulder against the wooden wall of the stable, full weight hitting it, hearing it creak. I tried to look about me; tried not to fall on my own sword that I held.

A dark silhouette stepped towards me, in the light from the stable doorway. Pain blurred my vision. I could not see her face. A harsh, absent part of me realised,
Such strength in her wrist and shoulder, to put her point clear through a man’s limb!
The rest of me stood on the point of freezing like a green boy. Seeing the blood-dripping sword sticking out of my flesh before my rational mind identified it broke me out in cold horror-sweat.