Game Of Seduction

Chapter 20

Brad opens the door of the apothecary and waits. There's no one behind the counter at the moment so he looks round, taking in the surroundings. The strong musky scent of ingredients, mysterious things floating in jars of preservative, the neat serried rows of jars, mortars and pestles and scores upon scores of books. A lifetime of arcane knowledge and learning. He tries to read some of the book spines that are visible: Herbes that kill, Herbes that heal, The Compleat Apothecary, Poisons and Antidotes: A Compendium.

A small shuffling man with thinning mousy-brown hair and a battered pair of wire rimmed spectacles perched on his nose appears from a back room and hastily greets him. This must be the contact: Padre Tolomeo, thinks Brad.

'Padre Tolomeo at your service'. His voice is no more than a reedy whisper. 'If you would like to follow me into the back room, Lord Colbert. Sir Francis told me to expect you.'

He brushes past him as he turns the sign to closed and bolts the door. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed, especially since what we are going to discuss is so sensitive.’

‘Sir Francis sent me to you. He said you have expert knowledge of poisons.’

‘Lord Colbert, may I be candid with you?’

Brad nods. ‘You may. Please, Padre-‘

‘We are on very dangerous ground here. I have to be sure that anything I tell you will be kept in the strictest confidence.’

‘I know how to keep a secret, Padre.’

The man looks at him with grudging approval. ‘Good. Come into my storeroom and we shall talk at length in there.’

*

The storeroom is a small airless room, lined with ingredients and dusty tomes. Brad can’t help but feel a twinge of claustrophobia in the confined space.

‘What did you want to know, Lord Colbert?’

‘I have been asked to investigate a plot against Queen Elizabeth. Conspirators sent by the Jesuits and the de Guise family to harm her. I hear of a new poison which is undetectable and hard to find antidotes for which they plan to use.’

‘Yes.’ Padre Tolomeo says. ‘Do you know anything else, sir?’

‘I am no expert in toxicology; I was hoping you could shed some more light on the matter. I would like to know what we are up against.’

‘There are many methods they could use apart from the obvious, like food and drink. You know the story of Jeanne d’Albret?’

‘The poisoned gloves alleged to have been sent from Catherine de’ Medici-‘

Padre Tolomeo looks around apprehensive as a sparrow sensing a predator, despite his precautions at security. Brad thinks he looks truly frightened, enough to know something concrete which he may tell him once he feels more secure.

‘’Tis only hearsay, Sir. You must be very careful about which circles you express such an opinion.’

‘What else?’

‘Bouquets, items of clothing, handkerchiefs, cosmetics. As fast as we come up with antidotes, the Italians are coming up with new, more sophisticated and fiendish products. They are the world leaders in the field and it is big business there.’

‘How hard is it to tell if something has been doctored?’ Brad asks. ‘I mean, you’d notice if something was stained with product, would you not?’

‘Let me show you something, my lord.’ He slips on a pair of thick leather gauntlets before taking two ribbons out of a drawer with a pair of tongs. Brad wonders at the precautions but says nothing for now.

‘Tell me, Lord Colbert; which one do you think has been treated with poison?’

Brad looks at the brightly coloured ribbons. There’s little difference between the two, just a slight difference in colour. So slight it would take a highly trained eye to discern the divergence.

He moves to point at the duller green ribbon.

‘Lord Colbert, do not touch it, I beg you! I do not exaggerate when I say that there is enough poison in one of those ribbons to kill three people if it makes contact with exposed skin.’

‘That one.’

Padre Tolomeo cracks a grim smile that splits his wrinkled visage. “Very well observed, Lord Colbert but you would be wrong.” He takes up the brighter ribbon with a pair of tongs and throws it neatly into the fire. Brad stares as the fire turns green for a couple of seconds and gives off black acrid smoke.

“Now do you what we are up against? This is one of my countryman René’s latest concoctions.”

“Dear God-” Brad mutters, fascinated by his glimpse into the challenges set by the new direction of the investigation.

“It has to look innocuous. Untraceable you see.” He douses the fire, though the sweet slightly acrid scent of the poison still lingers in the fireplace. “Tell me more about your case, sir.”

‘We found a conspirator who claims he was put up to it by the Jesuits. He had the de Guise seal and a wealth of French gold.’

‘He had poison on him?’ Padre Tolomeo sounds surprised as he turns from the hearth.

“No. He claimed that poison was the next step if they didn’t succeed. Naturally, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth takes this very seriously.’

“Well, I’ll keep my ears close to the ground though I cannot prove anything.”

“What about this René? You said the ribbon was one of his works.”

Padre Tolomeo looks grave. “Ah, well. You may find it more difficult to bring Master René to justice. It seems he is Catherine’s personal cosmetician and under her protection.”

“Under her protection?” Brad picks up the words at once. “Does that mean he works for her? Under her instructions?”

The apothecary clutches his arm in terror.‘You must not say this in public, not even as a jest. I am deadly serious. Her crimes are widely known, but few dare oppose her. ‘Tis dangerous to do so openly.’

‘Are there any that dare? Surely the whole of France cannot be terrified by this woman?’

Padre Tolomeo fidgets. ‘Gaspard de Coligny accuses her of every crime in the book. It is well known that of he didn’t have the good favour and love of the king, he would be dead a long time ago.’

Godfather and Espera are nearly ready to go on their mission. Brad has to admit to a certain amount of professional jealousy. At least Poke gets to actually get some investigating done, rather than spend his time dallying at court. Getting entangled in the intrigues and petty games of court.

"Have you made contact with 'Piéta' yet?"

"We will once we get to the Jesuit stronghold. He’s ready to talk , but we have to do it under the guise of Confession. It's quite a coup us getting someone like him, willing to talk to us about the Jesuit's activities." Sir Francis says.

"Well, report back to us as soon as possible. We need to start wrapping this up, especially with Queen Elizabeth breathing down our necks." Brad tells him.

"If she wants results, she's going to have to wait for them. We can't do anything until we have the information we seek. It pains me to have to say this, but Trombley's efforts at the hunt that day actually came in useful. We know De Guise and his brother are planning something. We just need details.”

Brad’s mouth curves into an ironic smile. "Is that the sound of you eating humble pie, Espera? I never thought I'd see the day."

"All right, all right. Don't push it." he says good naturedly. "I know I had my misgivings about the lad when he first started the mission. But I 'm happy to admit so far he's proved not to be a complete f**k up."

Espera goes to his first meeting with 'Piéta' that night. As he enters the confession booth, he wonders not for the first time who it is he's actually talking to. All his encounters with their agent haven't been face to face, just a disembodied voice on the other side of a grille. 

By Godfather's account this person is quite high up in the Jesuit structure, and yet they're prepared to feed them information and turn traitor. He wonders how on earth Lord Walsingham and Godfather managed to recruit them to their cause.

"Good evening my child, are you ready to confess your sins and seek the forgiveness of Christ?" the contact says aloud for the benefit of any people in earshot.

"Yes, Father." He leans towards the grille as soon as the coast is clear. "What have you got for me?"

There is a pause as the unseen agent gathers their thoughts. "What is it you want to know?"

"The attempt on Elizabeth's life. Are your people involved?"

"Which one?" comes the reply.

"Symond Funteyn, you know of whom I speak."

The voice chuckles rather nastily. "The failure."

Espera has to smile in amusement at that one. "He was lucky enough to be caught by our men before any damage was done."

“I fear that it’s a matter of opinion, my son, but never mind that now.”

"Very unlike the Jesuits to do such a half-hearted job. Funteyn was barely briefed, before being sent out on his mission. He claimed he was recruited under duress."

The agent deliberates. "There was some disagreement as how the whole affair was going to be handled, to put it tactfully."

"Was this a commission?" Espera asks boldly.

“From whom?"

"The de Guise family. We know they are great patrons of the order. We know they are devout Catholics. Is this all their idea?"

"What do you think, my son?"

He’s warm, he knows that. This agent likes to make him work for his scoops. Espera considers the little information the agent has given him, tries to mould the disparate strands of information into one plausible theory . "You and the order didn't want this assignment. It was done half-heartedly on purpose. Why?"

"You're close. Carry on.” says the voice. Espera fancies that it sounds amused.

"There was some dissent within the ranks as to how the plot was going to work. There were many in the organisation who didn't want it to succeed. So it was done shoddily, so Funteyn would take the blame for incompetence rather than the Jesuits."

"Very Good." says the voice approvingly. "What other conclusion can you come up with?"

"I'm still trying to work out why the organisation balked at the conspiracy. It’s not as if the order has had any problems getting their hands dirty."

“Now, that’s no mystery. We are his Majesty’s humble servants. We cannot go against his will.”

Espera is interested in this. Perhaps the situation is a great deal more complicated than the team first thought. Brad won’t be happy.

“His Majesty knows about this? He doesn’t want the de Guise clan to carry out this plan? They are acting against his wishes?”

“When someone has two masters we must attempt to serve them as best we can.” The voice says serenely as ever. “Now I must leave. I have little time left to devote to you and none must know of the information I have passed through this grille. You had better be good at keeping secrets, my son.”

What a tangled web we have managed to get ourselves involved in! thinks Espera, exiting the confession booth with no little relief. I must report back to the team as soon as possible.

At the Palace

Charles looks troubled as he stares into the fire. 

"The de Guise family are over mighty. I have known it for a long time. They have tried to destabilise my reign so they they are in a prime position to take over as first family of France."

"You believe that your family's position is precarious? But sire, you are king and you have heirs?"

"Heirs that I cannot trust. Anjou is ruthless in his ambition. Encouraged by my mother he will not rest until my crown lies on his head. It has always been so, since we were children even before I ascended to the throne. I know you have suspicions of them."

Brad is left in no doubt that Charles knows about their mission here. He wonders how he found out. Perhaps the team are under surveillance by agents of the French court. He wonders why the king has played his hand and subtly let the team be aware of his knowledge. Can they trust him to keep his knowledge of their aims to himself?

*

Margot approaches the foundry with Nate. A column of smoke issues from the chimney floating away on the sparse breeze.

"You don't think that he's going to be in a bad mood, do you?" Nate asks. "Because I can come with you if you think-"

She shakes her head. "No, I've got to speak to him myself. Thank you, though." she gives him a tentative smile. "I'll join you for lunch if I can persuade him to stop working."

"What is he doing? I don't know how he can bear to work in a forge in this weather?

Margot sighs. "He's troubled."

Nate doesn't say anything, just squeezes her hand.

She opens the door of the forge, and peers round the corner.

"If you're coming in, then put on a mask and shut the door." she hears her brother shout.

She straps on the iron mask which covers her face completely, donning the thick leather gloves to protect her hands from stray sparks. She knows that Charles is very strict about people disturbing him when he is at work.

"Charlot? Brother?"

He gives her a nod as he hammers the red hot iron into shape, swinging the hammer in an inexorable rhythm.

"I wanted to talk to you, my lord." she says to the whipcord slim muscles of his back covered with soot and sweat. His hair pulled back into a tail is soaked with sweat and clinging to the sweat of his back.

He turns towards her, although he doesn't put down his tools."I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you. "

"I'm glad. I don't like it when we fight, Margot."

"How long have you been here?” she asks, sweat running down from under the mask. How can he bear to work in such conditions? The forge feels as hot as one of the circles of hell. Especially in this weather, in the height of summer. Charles isn't strong, why is he doing this to himself? Wearing himself out like it was some mad cruel penance he'd been assigned?

"Since early this morning. I needed to get away from the palace."

She reaches for him, concerned. "All that time? You're not over working yourself, are you Charlot?"

"Don't fuss!" he says crossly. As he plunges the sword into the cool water to season it, it gives off a hiss as the metal cools.

"At least have a drink. Make sure you don't get too parched."

"You're mollycoddling again-" he warns.

"Promise me-" she insists, holding out a flask of liquid to him.

He pulls off his mask and takes a long draught, the muscles working in his long slim throat.

“Is that better?"

He gives a sigh. "What did you want?"

"I'm worried about you, dear brother."

"Why?"

"You work here in the stifling heat, losing yourself in manual labour."

"Thank you for your concern but you don't really need to worry about me, Margot." He interrupts.

"At least come and have some lunch. I brought a picnic."

"You didn't come here alone, did you?"

"Oh no, I brought Nate with me. If you don't mind.

He sighs, putting out the fire. "Very well. I'll join you."

She smiles. "Thank you."

She spreads out the food and they sit informally on the grass, without ceremony. Charles notices how how intimate she is with Nate. How she leans against him, the secret little touches they share when they think they are unobserved. Well, he'd always known that she had feelings for the lad. They were inseperable. She still has feelings for him. The relationship is still going on, he realises.

Charles observes the couple as they sit together. She lies with her head in Nate's lap looking up into the nearly cloudless sky. Nate’s hand idly strokes her silken hair as it streams over his lap out of sheer affectionate habit. She relaxes under his caresses exactly like her puppy would, with that same innocent sensuality.

"It is good to see you both so happy in each other's company. Of course you haven't long, so I suppose you will want to take full advantage of the privacy you have."

Nate understands what the king says subtly. The wedding is coming and Henri de Navarre is less likely to be so understanding about his new wife and her friendships with other men. He wonders what the courtiers have told him, keen to speculate and gossip about everyone. Nate is under no illusion that many at court know about his relationship with the princess though no one has dared to comment to his face. Margot is hardly discreet in her pursuit of him and during their time together there have been times where they have been reckless, caught up in their passion for each other.

"Please, it's such a pleasant day. Must we spend it talking about things that are so unpleasant, dear brother?" she gets up to refill their glasses with the cool white wine. “Come drink, ‘tis a good vintage.”

What worries Nate is that she doesn't want to face reality. They both know what is coming, that they must be parted. They can never be as close as they once were.

"Sire?" he asks as she sits apart from them, idly making a daisy chain from the buttercups that dot the grass.

"Do you think I am cruel? To ask her to marry Henri de Navarre?" Charles says, abrupt as always.

Nate doesn't know what to say. He fidgets under that clear penetrating gaze.

"I know you both care for each other and I thank you for bringing my dear sister back from the brink of despair. But I need religious stability and her union to Henri will achieve that I'm sure of it."

Nate is not so sure. He has first hand knowledge of just how stubborn the lady can be when she puts her mind to it.

"What does the lady think?" he merely remarks.

Charles frowns. "I know she is unhappy, and God knows I would spare her pain if I could. But I have little choice. I have to do my best for her. Can she not see that?” He turns to Nate, earnest in his desire to make him see his point of view. "Can you not persuade her to do her duty? Help me to save my kingdom?"

Nate doesn't know what to say. He dares not lie to the king."Sire, I don't wish to offend you but you cannot ask me to do that."

"Do you still love her?" Charles asks him candidly.

Nate isn't sure of how to respond to that.

“You do, don’t you. I get it now.”

Margot skips up, eager to change the subject. She drapes a linked crown of buttercups on both their heads giving them a playful smile.

“Marguerite, what is this?”

She smiles at him. “Just a bit of fun, my dearest brother-“ She smiles at Charles winningly. “My best friend-“ she says turning to Nate and laying a kiss in the open hollow of his palm. He feels her words against his skin, just a caress. “My heart’s desire.” She whispers.

Henri, Sir Francis and Brad go to the deserted chapel on the edge of the forest. The summer light shines through the trees bathing the area in cool verdant light.

"No one really uses it, and it will give us some much needed privacy to discuss things."

"De Guise would not have got this far without tacit approval for his antics. If you gentlemen are investigating de Guise, you will need to consider that."

"Whose approval?" asks Sir Francis, though Brad can take an educated guess at the identity of the shadowy superior who condones de Guise’s traitorous plots against Elizabeth and Charles.

“Catherine’s made a weapon to belabour her son with, but now she finds it stings her own back.”

So there was a possibility that de Guise was acting under Catherine’s orders. Or at least with her tacit approval. Brad marvels at her hypocrisy, welcoming them to court.

“Why would she want to undermine her own son? Charles presses for religious tolerance. Sir Francis is here to negotiate a settlement between our mistress Elizabeth and Alençon.”

“-Alençon?” Henri looks alarmed. “Elizabeth cannot want Alençon to be king of England?”

“The realm needs a king. He is of royal descent-”

“Not him. Anyone but him!”Henri de Bourbom says with an unaccustomed firmness, at odds with his happy-go-lucky persona.

“Why are you so adamant that he should never marry her? He is of royal blood. An official alliance with France would be most beneficial to both parties-”

“You don’t understand. Alençon is a sneaky unprincipled wretch. I would not trust the boy as far as I could throw him. If you have any loyalty to your queen I would discourage her from such a rash action.”

“You’re very vehement about this.”

“He cannot be trusted. All the Valois are inherently selfish; it’s in their nature. Every single one of them would sell you up the river to save their own hides, but Alençon-“ he shakes his head. “Hercule is a very bitter individual. You see he is bent and twisted. He was not always so. Once he was a healthy child with promising looks.”

“What happened?”

“He contracted an illness which stunted his growth and pitted his face. Catherine bullies and mocks him for her own amusement. It twisted and blighted his soul. I recollect when Margot and I were children he would pretend to be her friend; play upon her tender heart, and she would try and protect him from the worst of her mother’s excesses of cruelty. He repaid her by betraying her secrets to her mother.”

Brad finds this interesting, particularly the part about the princess’s tender heart. “So you have known your wife to be since childhood?”

“Of course, I was brought up at court in the proper noble manner. As was de Guise. We were all brought up together, touring the royal palaces or down at the royal nursery at Amboise.”

“What do you think of her, your Grace?” He cannot help but ask with a certain amount of curiosity.

“Margot?” Henri’s smile is nothing but cynical. “I do not deny she has grown to be a beauty. I mean you have seen the girl, haven’t you? And intelligent, too.”

“Intelligent?” In all honesty Brad had wondered whether it had been a pose. The books with notes in the margin. The volumes of poetry and languages she regularly had her nose in. Her borrowing of Nate’s books.

“Don’t sound so surprised, Lord Colbert. That girl used to beat me in every single test. Her and that troubadour of hers, top of the class every time. Don’t underestimate her. She has a great intellect when she elects to use it.”

So he knows Nate, however briefly. He starts from Henri’s casual phrase to get a picture of Nate’s upbringing at court.Tolerated for his astonishing musical gifts and intelligence, but ignored by the spoilt aristocratic children who looked down on him for not quite having the right bloodline . An echo of Nate’s bitterness by the lake: ‘Some de Guises are better than others.’ Except for Margot and her attachment to him. Brad hadn’t realised how precarious Nate’s position was here, or the closeness of the two.

“You knew Nate Fick?”

“That’s the lad’s name.” Henri slaps his head in remembrance. “I knew I would have trouble remembering it! Is he still here then?”

“Yes-“

Henri muses. “I’m surprised. Lad like that, so gifted and talented could have made a fortune in Italy, or some exotic foreign court. I wonder why he never left.”

Brad knows why. Because Nate was impelled to do Sir Francis’s dirty work for him.

“Let’s see who’s beaten us to the punch-“ Sir Francis remarks with a dry smile. The heavy yew door of the chapel creaks open. They can see de Condé in the dusty pews, breeches down with a woman bent over the back of the pew. They’re making so much noise neither notice they’re being observed.

Brad catches a glimpse of shining strawberry blonde hair. The shade of it reminds him of the ruddy golds of Nate’s hair. He has a good clue as to the identity of Condé’s illicit lover. Anne-Marie de Guise.

“He might as well have put his prick in a vice. It would have been safer.” He remarks.

The team withdraw hastily to the deserted foyer.

“Dirty bastard. And to think he was adamant warning me about the licentiousness of the court maids and how I must not be lured into temptation.” Henri mutters in a voice both scandalised and entertained by the sight of his adviser arse-bare ploughing into some ‘jolie-fille’.

“Oh, I believe they are enjoying themselves tolerably well, my lord. Just watch out for any inexplicable changes in policy. Now she’s got her claws into him sexually, the next step will be to blackmail and influence him to her mistress’s will. By extension, you as well.”