Everything depended upon the royal wedding going ahead. Though the marriage contract had been agreed between the Queen Mother and the Queen of Navarre in April – and an August date set for the ceremony – the Louvre Palace was still waiting for dispensation from his holiness the Pope. That was just one obstacle. There were others, not least the Duke of Guise’s continuing love affair with the bride-to-be.
Vidal wiped his face with his kerchief, the furrows on his brow evidence of ten years’ service to the Guise family. He neither knew nor cared if there was genuine affection between Marguerite of Valois and Guise. However, he was certain that when – if – Guise did show his hand, it would not be love sickness which moved him to action but rather an implacable hatred of his rival, Henri of Navarre. That the Huguenot was about to be married into the Catholic royal family, so uniting the Bourbon and Valois dynasties, was a savage blow to Guise’s own ambitions. Vidal had no doubt his master would do anything he could to destabilise the alliance.
His fingers began to tap on the back of his chair, accelerating as his vision took hold. No, he could not waver now. And though God had long since stopped listening, Vidal raised his eyes towards Heaven.
‘Your Eminence.’
Vidal turned. His steward, Xavier, stood in the doorway. The man was as pale as milk, despite the southern sun, and his eyes were a sickly yellow. Yet he was robust and never faltered.
‘What is it?’ he said sharply, replacing his red biretta on his head.
‘Forgive me for intruding upon your repose, sire, but word has come from Paris.’
‘Oh?’
Vidal held out his hand for the letter. Xavier crossed the room in two strides, gave the missive into his master’s hands, then stepped respectfully back.
Vidal broke the familiar wax seal, already a little cracked from the journey, and scanned the words. He frowned, read them again a second time to be certain there was no mistake, then held the parchment to the candle and watched it flame.
‘Eminence?’
He tossed the blackened remains into the cold grate. ‘We are summoned to return immediately to Paris. It seems the Queen of Navarre is unwell. A fever.’
‘Was she previously in ill health?’
‘I believe she was,’ Vidal replied carefully.
‘Then it is to be hoped that her Majesty recovers, although…’
Vidal narrowed his gaze. He had a network of spies working the length and breadth of the country – and beyond – of whom Xavier was one of the most reliable. He did not enquire how the man acquired his information, nor from whom, but his intelligence was rarely at fault. The ends always justified the means in the service of Christ.
Vidal waved his hand. ‘Although?’
‘I would not wish to talk out of turn, my lord.’
‘I will not censure you if your words are not to my liking. Speak.’
The steward hesitated. ‘Though I am sure it is a common fever…’
‘Do not try my patience, Xavier.’
‘The messenger who brought the letter confided that, but three days previously, Catherine de’ Medici had made a gift of gloves to her royal guest.’
Vidal’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Perfumed gloves?’
‘Fashioned by her own glove maker,’ Xavier elaborated, ‘they are said to have been delivered by the Queen Mother herself to the Hôtel de Bourbon, where the Queen of Navarre is currently residing.’
Vidal considered. There wasn’t a woman or man in Paris who had not heard of René the Florentine, perfumier to Catherine de’ Medici, or that, in addition to his legitimate business, the Italian was also the purveyor of poisons. His shop was never empty.
‘This is common talk in the streets?’
‘The messenger said it is spoken abroad in both Catholic and Protestant quarters.’
Vidal’s fingers drummed harder. This did not suit his purposes at all. If there was rumour of a plot against the Queen of Navarre – even if there was no evidence, but the populace believed it – then relations between the Louvre Palace and the Hôtel de Bourbon would become strained and the marriage might not go ahead.
‘Bring the messenger to me. I would question him myself.’
Xavier raised his hands in apology. ‘I did not think to detain him. He has already gone.’
‘Gone? Gone where?’
‘I know not. I am sorry, sire.’
Vidal frowned. ‘No matter. We have our instructions. We cannot let such gossip distract us from our purpose. It is not for Man to question the ways of God, Xavier, for His wisdom and mercy are beyond our comprehension. The soul of the Queen of Navarre is in His hands.’
‘Yes, your Eminence.’
‘Prepare the horses. I will give my apologies to our host for our premature departure. We leave immediately.’
Xavier’s eyes snapped up. ‘We are not to wait for news from Puivert?’
Vidal understood his concern. The intention had been to remain in Limoges until receiving word his orders had been successfully carried out.
‘The Duke of Guise would have me back in Paris without delay – indeed, he commands it so. I shall be forced to assume the matter has been resolved satisfactorily.’ He paused. ‘However, leave instructions that, should any communication be received, word should instantly be sent after us. I would know for certain.’
‘Very good, sire.’
‘On which point, is there word from Amsterdam?’
Xavier met his eye. ‘The situation was as you thought, Eminence. However, the matter is concluded.’
‘Discreetly?’
‘There is no possibility of any connection being made to you, sire. And there was no evidence – if indeed it ever existed – found in the nun’s quarters. Nothing.’
Vidal exhaled in relief. ‘Good. You have done well, Xavier. I will see you are rewarded for it.’
‘It is my honour to serve, sire.’
A shout in the courtyard below drew Vidal back to the window. The child’s game had shifted from play to battle. Louis had his right fist clenched but it was the other boy – a son of one of the prefects of Limoges – who sported a bloody nose.
Despite the fact that he would be obliged to issue some form of reprimand, Vidal was not displeased. Louis had a fighting spirit, a sharp sense of self-preservation and an apparent lack of conscience. Whether he claimed Louis as his own, or continued the fiction that he was the child of a distant cousin taken into his service out of Christian charity, Vidal believed he would prove himself useful.
‘And what of the boy?’ Xavier asked.
Vidal looked down into the courtyard again. His son seemed to sense he was watching, for he glanced up and without a hint of shame in his face. The briefest of smiles crossed Vidal’s lips. He shut the casement.
‘The boy comes with us to Paris.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHÂTEAU DE PUIVERT, LANGUEDOC
Evidence of the storm was everywhere, broken branches and twigs strewn on the wet ground. The heavy smell of damp straw and the bright day assailed them as Minou left the family’s private quarters.
As the rising sun painted its pattern upon the grass, the solemn group walked from the upper courtyard and through the castle grounds towards the gatehouse to bid farewell to Aimeric. Marta skipped ahead while Minou and Alis walked at a steadier pace, with little Jean-Jacques jumping between them.