“And where is she now?”
“Married to someone else. I can’t change that. Do what I did, Bruno. Write her a fucking poem and learn to live with it.”
“Will it help?”
“No.” He grinned, but there was still pain in his eyes. “But it fills up the time. Come, the horses are ready at the gatehouse. Let us shake the dust of this place off our heels. There have been no certified cases of plague in London, you know. Another two weeks and the court will return.”
“There is one thing I need to do before we leave,” I said. “Lend me one of your armed men, will you?”
THE DOOR OF the weavers’ house was opened by Olivier’s father, who flinched when he saw me as surely as if I had struck him. I saw his eyes flit fearfully over my shoulder to where my companion stood at a discreet distance with his pikestaff.
“Non, monsieur,” he faltered, shrinking, and made as if to close the door in my face, but I stuck my foot in the gap and leaned in.
“Listen, Pastor Fleury,” I said, in French, “I know enough to put your whole family in front of the justice if I choose. He is still at the Cheker. You know the assize is not officially closed until he leaves town?”
“What do you want?” he asked, looking at my foot as if he would like to spit on it.
“I want to speak to Hélène.” I nodded over my shoulder to the guard. “He will stay out there.”
“For all the neighbours to see.” Fleury closed the door behind and heaved a great sigh. A lifetime of fear was written into the lines on his face; I was sorry to contribute further.
“I wish you no harm,” I said.
He looked at me with infinite pity.
“Monsieur, you are the kind who brings harm without meaning it. You and that girl. I will take you up to my daughter now, but please do not trouble us for long.”
He led me to a small parlour on the first floor, where Hélène sat with her mother, dressed in mourning black. Madame Fleury rose when she saw me, her expression appalled, but she exchanged a glance with her husband and left the room. Hélène did not seem surprised to see me.
“I am glad you came.” Her voice was flat, her eyes calm. “I wanted to thank you. You found him.”
I bowed my head.
“I am so sorry, Hélène. If I could have spared you that—”
“No.” She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Better to know. Now we can mourn him, and bury him. And I have this.”
She reached inside her collar and showed me the Saint Denis medallion on its chain. “You will think it strange that a Protestant should care about saint’s medals, I suppose?”
“If I am honest, it has not been the question uppermost in my mind.”
She smiled. “My best friend in Paris was a Catholic. She sent me this when Denis was born. I kept it for her sake. Now I wear it for him. My beautiful boy.” Her eyes filled with tears and she swiped them away with the back of her hand, as if she were tired of their interruption.
I looked at the medal glinting between her fingers.
“Did your brother give you that?”
She nodded.
“Before he left?”
Another nod.
“Where have they gone?”
“I don’t know.” Her eyes slid to the window.
“Hélène, please.” I knelt in front of her. “I need to know. They have taken something of mine … Sophia has taken something.”
She looked down at me, her liquid eyes full of sympathy.
“Your heart,” she said solemnly. “Ours too. My father can hardly bear it. My son dead, his own son gone.” She bit her lip and looked back to the window.
“At least Olivier gave you justice, of sorts. He could not have stayed, after what he did.”
Her face froze, shocked. “Do you—”
“Do I know? Yes. But no one else does. They will think Doctor Sykes was killed on John Langworth’s orders.” I paused, nodding to the window. “That little jetty at the back of your property must have been useful.”
She pressed her lips together. “Why would you keep our secret, monsieur? What do you gain?”
“Because …” I ran a hand through my hair. “Because I find that in my heart—what is left of it—I cannot condemn your brother for wanting justice.”
“Then I will tell you something else, monsieur,” she said, leaning down close enough that I could feel her breath on my face. “My brother put him in the boat, but he did not hold the knife.” She looked me straight in the eye when she said this, her face inches from mine, fire flashing in her look. No man should underestimate the ferocity of a mother, I thought. I imagined that fiery glare was the last thing Sykes saw as the light faded for him. Well, I could not pity him.
“And the stone? Whose idea was that, to reference the Scripture?”
She frowned.
“What Scripture?”
“The millstone.”
She looked blank. “It was not a millstone. It was just—a stone. To weight him down.”
I gave a wan smile. Sophia was right; sometimes things are no more than they appear. I stood, bowing my head in farewell.
“Goodbye, Hélène.”
“God will pardon me,” she said, defiantly. “It is the least He owes us.”
As I reached the door, she called me back.
“Monsieur? Olivier always used to say he would not be afraid to live in Paris. He was only a boy when the massacre happened, he thinks it would be different there now.”
I watched her as she twisted the medal between her fingers.
“Thank you.”
At the front door, Jacques Fleury leaned in and kissed me once on each cheek in the French manner.
“Do not think me discourteous, monsieur,” he said. He spoke as if every word required a supreme effort, as if it had to be dragged up from the depths of his being like a stone. “You gave us back our boy. For that I thank you. But please, monsieur, I ask you one favour.”
“What?”
“Do not come back to Canterbury.”
I smiled. “Have no fear on that score, Pastor Fleury. I will not look back.”
“Dieu vous garde, monsieur.”
“Et vous.”
From a room somewhere above, I heard the sound of a woman crying.
Epilogue
HAMPTON COURT PALACE
NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1585
“Viens.”
Michel de Castelnau, ambassador of France to the court of Queen Elizabeth, adjusted his silk doublet, arranged his short cape over his shoulder, and rolled his shoulders back, drawing himself up to his full height. He touched me lightly on the elbow and ushered me forward. I took a deep breath, pausing to tuck the book under my arm so that I could wipe my sweating palms on my doublet. My eyes remained lowered as protocol demanded, so that as the ambassador and I walked the length of the hall all I saw was the synchronised step of our leather boots across the flagstones, but I felt the many eyes trained on us, felt the hairs on my neck prickle at the sense of exposure, as if I were standing naked before the sceptical gaze of the highest nobles in England. All the while I reminded myself to breathe, slow and steady, and to concentrate only on not tripping or dropping the book. One of the court musicians picked out a tune quietly on a lute and from all around came the murmur of conversation and the whisper of rustling silks, but all I heard was the pounding of the blood in my own ears.
The queen kept the twelve days of Christmas at her palace of Hampton Court some miles to the west of London, on the banks of the river. Here the Great Hall was wreathed in garlands of holly, ivy, pine, and yew, and smelled of cloves, logs, and good beeswax; outside, in the damp air, the scent of spiced wine drifted into the courtyard from the kitchens and the light from the blaze of candles warmed the early dark. All across London there had been an edge of manic relief to the festive celebrations; plague had not, after all, come to London in the summer, the queen was still alive and well and England’s shores mercifully free from foreign invasion. None of the year’s dire forecasts had come to pass, and the city was determined to fete its own survival.