and looked around.
‘Get in that corner. If they come near my family, I’ll bloody kill you myself,’ she muttered. ‘What do they look like?’
‘I don’t know. One of them might be lame.’ I retreated into the shadows behind a rickety cupboard.
‘Lame? How slow do you run, then?’
One of the children giggled.
‘The other one isn’t. And they’re armed.’
The amused expression vanished; she glanced towards the door, her mouth set tight.
Minutes passed; I heard the children jostling for a place at the window, and a cry from the street. Eventually the woman burst into laughter.
‘Huguenots, you say?’
I stepped out, cautious. ‘Have they gone? Is there something funny?’
‘There were two of them, all right, marching up and down looking for someone. One in a cleric’s robes. The other was a dwarf. Were they the ones?’
‘They were in disguise,’ I said, feeling ridiculous.
She made no effort to hide her smile, but her eyes were gently teasing. ‘The dwarf disguise was very good.’
‘God will reward you for your charity, madame.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ she murmured, eyeing the purse at my belt. I drew out a sou and tossed it to the taller of the children, who caught it deftly and beamed at me through the gap in his teeth. ‘God be with you, monsieur,’ she said, at the door, tucking a strand of hair under her cap. ‘You can always take refuge here if you’re menaced by dwarves again. I’m a widow,’ she added, lowering her voice with a glance at the children, in case her meaning was unclear. I gave a brief nod, embarrassed, and turned towards home, one hand on my dagger, keeping to the centre of the street.
A man in cleric’s robes, the woman had said. An educated, well-born priest, by his voice – a friend of Paul’s, or an enemy? What had they been looking for? Whatever it was, it must be significant; they had immediately jumped to the conclusion that someone else had been looking for it too. ‘Who could possibly know?’ the one dressed as a priest had said; did he mean who would know Paul was dead, or something else? I reached inside my doublet and touched the charred fragment of paper with my fingertips. Was this what they had hoped to find? If so, my resolution not to involve myself further in Paul’s murder was worthless; I was already up to my neck in it.
I returned to the Swan and Cross, still glancing behind to make sure I was not being followed. The fact that I saw no one in the streets made me all the more uneasy. The tavern was crowded now that night covered its patrons’ entrances and exits. Someone had brought out a rebec and struck up a tune; the shrieking of girls and snatches of raucous song carried the length of the street. Gaston spotted me across the room and shoved his way through to intercept me at the door, blocking my view with his wide shoulders.
‘Couple of fellers come round just now asking after you,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Said they had an urgent message for you. No one told them anything, so far as I know. Thought you should be warned.’
‘A dwarf?’
‘Eh?’
‘Was one of them a dwarf?’
He laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘What – family, is he?’
It was Gaston’s great joke that all Neapolitans are stunted. This apparently never grew any less entertaining, no matter how often he repeated it – despite the fact that he stood only an inch or two above me himself. ‘Taller’n you, anyway, mate.’ He stopped laughing at the look on my face. He leaned in, his breath hot on my ear. ‘These were soldiers, not dwarves. What’ve you done now, Bruno?’
‘I’m not sure I know, exactly.’
A chill prickled up my spine. Word travelled fast in this city; every faction had eyes and ears everywhere. A dwarf and a priest were one thing; if someone was sending professional soldiers after me, the stakes were already higher than I had imagined, and I had no idea who might have sent them. King Henri had troops of Swiss guards under his command, but the Duke of Guise, leader of the Catholic League, had also mustered private forces of his own. It had become fashionable among the nobility to keep dwarves as servants or jesters, in imitation of the royal court. Both the soldiers and the men in Paul’s rooms could have belonged to anyone.
I stayed at the Swan until late, drinking little, eyes fixed on the door as I lingered over a bowl of mutton stew that Gaston had insisted on adding to my growing bill, though my stomach was so tight with apprehension that I swallowed less than half of it. When, some time after midnight, he bellowed that he was locking up and the company reluctantly began to stir, I borrowed a lantern and drifted down the street in the wake of a group of students I half knew, all of them too poor to go on to a brothel, who invited me to someone’s rooms for cards, eagerly brandishing a bottle of cheap eau de vie one of them had concealed beneath his cloak. I was briefly tempted, if only for the protection of their numbers, but I knew how these nights ended: the muddy light of dawn seeping through shutters, a dense head, furred mouth and always a lighter purse, regardless of the hands played. These boys were twenty; I no longer had the stomach for it. I declined and slipped away towards my own lodgings, though I am not sure they even noticed my absence as they reeled away in the torchlight, striking up another catch involving a country priest and a wayward shepherdess, arms slung around one another’s shoulders. Someone would throw a chamber pot over them before they reached the end of the street.
Their song still rang in the air as I stopped at the house where I rented rooms on the top floor. I set down the lantern and struggled to unlock the street door with my left hand, dagger drawn in my right. While I was fumbling, two figures unpeeled and gathered shape and substance out of the shadows to either side. I had been so nerved for them that I was barely caught off guard; I stepped back, holding the blade out before me, levelling it between them. They acknowledged it with amused indulgence, as you might a child waving a stick. Each of them held a broadsword, pointed downwards and resting casually against his leg, though I knew the blade could take my head off with one practised stroke before I could get close enough to graze them.
‘Are you the Italian they call Bruno?’ The taller of the two spoke with a thick Provençal accent.
‘Who is asking?’
He lifted his sword a fraction. ‘I suggest you put that away, sir,’ he said, nodding to my dagger. ‘Keep things civilised. We don’t want to disturb anybody, do we?’ I followed his eyes upwards to the windows. It was true that I preferred not to wake my landlady, Madame de la Fosse, who already had her views on the desirability of a rumoured heretic as a tenant, and she had the hearing of a bat; the first sign of a scuffle and she would throw back the shutters, screaming for the night watch. Although perhaps that would be to my advantage in the short term.
Reluctantly, I sheathed the dagger. ‘What do you want with me?’
‘We just need you to come with us, sir,’ said the second one, in an accent as rough as his colleague’s. Clouds covered the moon and I could see little of their expressions in the flickering glow from the light on the doorstep; both were broad-faced and bearded, with grim mouths and unsmiling eyes. The ‘sir’ was, I presumed, wholly mocking. They wore no livery over their leather surcoats.
‘Someone wants a word with you,’ said the first, picking up my lantern. ‘Won’t take long.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, as we began walking towards the river, each of them a solid presence hemming me in, so close I could feel the pressure of their shoulders against mine on either side and smell their stale sweat. I knew these streets well enough in the dark, but there was no prospect of running. The one holding the lantern turned his head to offer a sideways grin with missing teeth.
‘It’s a surprise,’ he said, breaking into a low laugh that was the opposite of reassuring.