Her eyes met his. There was a flash of recognition, then she looked away.
He could not approach her openly: their meeting had to look accidental. It also had to be brief.
He contrived to get close to her. She was with Cardinal Romero, though for the sake of appearances she was not on his arm, but walking a little way behind him. When the cardinal stopped to speak to Viscount Villeneuve, Ned casually came alongside her.
Continuing to smile at no one in particular, Jeronima said: "I'm risking my life. We can talk for only a few seconds."
"All right." Ned looked around as if in idle curiosity while keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might notice the two of them.
Jeronima said: "The duke of Guise is planning to invade England."
"God's body!" said Ned. "How--"
"Be quiet and listen," she snapped. "Otherwise I won't have time to tell you everything."
"Sorry."
"There will be two incursions, one on the east coast and one on the south."
Ned had to ask: "How many men?"
"I don't know."
"Please go on."
"There's not much more. Both armies will muster local support and march on London."
"This information is priceless." Ned thanked God that Jeronima hated the Catholic Church for torturing her father. It struck him that her motivation was similar to his own: he had hated authoritarian religion ever since his family had been ruined by Bishop Julius and his cronies. Any time his determination weakened, he thought of how they had stolen everything his mother had worked for all her life, and how a strong and clever woman had seemed to fade away until her merciful death. The pain of the memory flared like an old wound, and reinforced Ned's will.
He glanced sideways at Jeronima. Close up, he could see the lines on her face, and he sensed a hard cynicism below her sensual surface. She had become Romero's mistress when she was eighteen. She had done well to maintain his affection into her forties, but it had to be a strain.
"Thank you for telling me," he said. His gratitude was heartfelt. But there was something else he needed to know. "The duke of Guise must have English collaborators."
"I'm sure."
"Do you know who they are?"
"No. Remember, my source of information is pillow talk. I don't get to ask probing questions. If I did, I would fall under suspicion."
"I understand, of course."
"What news of Barney?" she said, and Ned detected a wistful note.
"He spends his life at sea. He has never married. But he has a son, nineteen years old."
"Nineteen," she said wonderingly. "Where do the years go?"
"His name is Alfo. He shows some signs of having his father's aptitude for making money."
"A clever boy, then--like all the Willards."
"He is clever, yes."
"Give Barney my love, Ned."
"One more thing."
"Make it quick--Romero is coming."
Ned needed a permanent channel through which to communicate with Jeronima. He improvised hastily. "When you get back to Madrid, a man will come to your house to sell you a cream to keep your face young." He was fairly sure he could arrange that through English merchants in Spain.
She smiled ruefully. "I use plenty of that kind of thing."
"Any information you give him will reach me in London."
"I understand." She turned away from Ned and beamed at the cardinal, sticking out her chest as she did so. They walked away together, Jeronima wiggling her ample behind. Ned thought they looked sad: a no-longer-young prostitute making the most of her tired charms to retain the affection of a corrupt, potbellied old priest.
Sometimes Ned felt he lived in a rotten world.
The illness of Odette excited Pierre even more than the invasion of England.
Odette was the only obstacle on his path to greatness. He was the duke's principal adviser, listened to more carefully and trusted farther than ever before. He lived in a suite of rooms in the palace in the Vieille rue du Temple with Odette, Alain, and their longtime maid Nath. He had been given the lordship of a small village in Champagne, which permitted him to call himself sieur de Mesnil, a member of the gentry though not of the nobility. Perhaps Duke Henri would never make him a count, but the French aristocracy had won the right to appoint men to high clerical office without approval from Rome, and he could have asked Duke Henri to make him abbot of a monastery, or even a bishop--if only he had not been married.
But perhaps now Odette would die. That thought filled him with a hope that was almost painful. He would be free, free to rise up in the councils of the mighty, with almost no limit to how high he might go.
Odette's symptoms were pain after eating, diarrhea, bloody stool, and tiredness. She had always been heavy, but her fat had melted away, probably because the pain discouraged her from eating. Dr. Pare had diagnosed stomach fever complicated by dry heat, and said she should drink plenty of weak beer and watered wine.
Pierre's only dread was that she might recover.
Unfortunately, Alain took good care of her. He had abandoned his studies and rarely left her bedside. Pierre despised the boy, but he was surprisingly well liked by the staff of the palace, who felt sorry for him because his mother was ill. He had arranged to have meals sent to their suite, and he slept on the floor of her room.
When he could, Pierre fed Odette all the things Pare said she should avoid: brandy and strong wine, spices, and salty food. This often gave her muscle cramps and headaches, and her breath became foul. If he could have had the exclusive care of Odette he might have killed her this way, but Alain was never absent long enough.
When she began to get better, Pierre saw the prospect of a bishopric receding from his destiny, and he felt desperate.
The next time Dr. Pare called he said Odette was on the mend, and Pierre's heart sank further. The sweet prospect of freedom from this vulgar woman began to fade, and he felt disappointment like a wound.
"She should drink a strengthening potion now," the doctor said. He asked for pen, paper, and ink, which Alain quickly supplied. "The Italian apothecary across the street, Giglio, can make this up for you in a few minutes--it's just honey, licorice, rosemary, and pepper." He wrote on the piece of paper and handed it to Alain.
A wild thought came into Pierre's head. Without working out the details he decided to get rid of Alain. He gave the boy a coin and said: "Go and get it now."
Alain was reluctant. He looked at Odette, who had fallen asleep on her feather pillow. "I don't like to leave her."
Could he possibly have divined the mad idea that had inspired Pierre? Surely not.
"Send Nath," Alain said.
"Nath went to the fish market. You go to the apothecary. I'll keep an eye on Odette. I won't leave her alone, don't worry."
Still Alain hesitated. He was scared of Pierre--most people were scared of Pierre--but he could be stubborn at times.
Pare said: "Go along, lad. The sooner she drinks that potion, the sooner she will recover."
Alain could hardly defy the doctor, and he left the room.
Pierre said dismissively: "Thank you for your diligence, doctor. It's much appreciated."
"I'm always glad to help a member of the Guise family, of course."
"I'll be sure to tell Duke Henri."
"How is the duke?"
Pierre was desperate to get Pare out of the room before Alain returned. "Very well," he answered. Odette made a faint noise in her sleep, and Pierre said: "I think she wants the piss pot."
"I'll leave you, then," said Pare, and he went out.
This was Pierre's chance. His heart was in his mouth. He could solve all his problems now, in a few minutes.
He could kill Odette.
Two things had kept him from doing it before she fell ill. One was her physical strength: he had not been sure he could overpower her. The other was the fear of Cardinal Charles's wrath. Charles had warned that if Odette died he would destroy Pierre, regard
less of the circumstances.
But now Odette was weak and Charles was dead.
Would Pierre be suspected anyway? He took pains to play the role of devoted husband. Charles had not been fooled, nor had Alain, but others had, including Henri, who knew nothing of the history. Alain might accuse Pierre, but Pierre would be able to portray Alain as a bereaved son hysterically blaming his stepfather for a quite natural death. Henri would believe that story.
Pierre closed the door.
He looked at the sleeping Odette with loathing. Being bullied into marrying her had been his ultimate humiliation. He found himself shaking with a passionate desire. This would be his ultimate revenge.
He dragged a heavy chair across the room and pushed it up against the door so that no one could come in.
The noise woke Odette. She raised her head and said anxiously: "What's happening?"
Pierre tried to make his voice soothing as he replied: "Alain is getting you a strengthening potion from the apothecary." He crossed the room to the bed.
Odette sensed danger. In a frightened voice she said: "Why have you barred the door?"
"So that you're not disturbed," Pierre said, and with that he snatched the feather pillow from under her head and put it over her face. He was just quick enough to stifle the scream that started from her throat.
She struggled with surprising energy. She managed to get her head out from under the pillow and draw a panicked breath before he was able to push it over her nose and mouth again. She wriggled so much that he had to get onto the bed and kneel on her chest. Even then she was able to use her arms, and she rained punches on his ribs and belly so that he had to grit his teeth to bear the pain and keep pressing the pillow.
He felt she might prevail, and he might fail to put an end to her; and that panicky thought gave him extra strength, and he pushed down with all his might.
At last she weakened. Her punches became feeble, then her arms dropped helplessly to her sides. Her legs kicked a few more times, then went still. Pierre kept pressing on the pillow. He did not want to take the risk that she could revive. He hoped Alain would not return yet--surely it must take Giglio more time than this to make up the mixture?
Pierre had never killed anyone. He had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of heretics and many innocent bystanders, and he still had bad dreams about the piles of naked bodies on the streets of Paris during the massacre of St. Bartholomew's Day. Even now he was planning a war with England that would kill thousands. But no one had died by his own hand until now. This was different. Odette's soul was leaving her body while he stopped her breathing. It was a terrible thing.
When she had been still for a couple of minutes he cautiously lifted the pillow and looked at her face, gaunt from her illness. She was not breathing. He put his hand on her chest and felt no heartbeat.
She was gone.
He was possessed by exultation. Gone!
He replaced the pillow under her head. She looked peaceful in death. There was no sign on her face of the violence of her end.
His thrill of triumph passed its peak and he began to think about the danger of discovery. He moved the chair from the door. He was not sure exactly where it had stood before. Surely no one would notice?
Looking around for anything that might cause suspicion, he saw that the bedclothes were unusually rumpled, so he straightened them over Odette's body.
Then he did not know what to do.
He wanted to leave the room, but he had promised Alain that he would stay, and he would look guilty if he fled. Better to feign innocence. But he could hardly bear to be in the room with the corpse. He had hated Odette, and he was glad she was dead, but he had committed a terrible sin.
He realized that God would know what he had done even if no one else did. He had murdered his wife. How would he obtain forgiveness for such a sin?
Her eyes were still open. He was afraid to look at them for fear they would look back. He would have liked to close them, but he dreaded to touch the corpse.
He tried to pull himself together. Father Moineau had always assured him of forgiveness, for he was doing God's work. Did not the same apply here? No, of course not. This had been an act of utter selfishness. He had no excuse.
He felt doomed. His hands were shaking, he saw--the hands that had held the pillow over Odette's face so firmly that she had suffocated. He sat on a bench by the window and stared out, so that he did not have to look at Odette; but then he had to turn around every few seconds to assure himself that she was lying still, for he could not help imagining her corpse sitting up in bed, turning its sightless face toward him, pointing an accusing finger, and silently mouthing the words He murdered me.
At last the door opened and Alain came in. Pierre suffered a moment of pure panic, and almost shouted It was me, I killed her! Then his usual calm returned. "Hush," he said, though Alain had made little noise. "She's sleeping."
"No, she's not," said Alain. "Her eyes are open." He frowned. "You straightened the bedclothes."
"They were a bit rumpled."
Alain's voice showed faint surprise. "That was nice of you." Then he frowned again. "Why did you move the chair?"
Pierre was dismayed that Alain had noticed these trivial details. He could not think of an innocent reason for moving the chair, so he resorted to denial. "It's where it always was."
Alain looked puzzled but did not persist. He put a bottle on the little side table, and gave Pierre a handful of coins in change. He spoke to the dead body. "I got your medicine, Mother," he said. "You can have some right away. It has to be mixed with water or wine."
Pierre wanted to scream at him Look at her--she's dead!
There was a jug of wine and a cup on the side table. Alain poured some of the potion into the cup, added wine from the jug, and stirred the mixture with a knife. Then--at last--he approached the bed. "Let's get you sitting up," he said. Then he looked hard at her and frowned. "Mother?" His voice fell to a whisper. "Blessed Mary, no!" He dropped the cup to the floor and the potion spilled oleaginously across the tiles.
Pierre watched him with horrid fascination. After a frozen moment of shock, Alain bounded forward and bent over the still form. "Mother!" he shouted, as if a louder voice could bring her back.
Pierre said: "Is something wrong?"
Alain grabbed Odette by the shoulders and lifted her. Her head flopped back lifelessly.
Pierre moved to the bed, judiciously standing on the side opposite Alain, out of striking range. He was not afraid of Alain physically--it was the other way around--but it would be better to avoid a brawl. "What's the matter?" he said.
Alain stared at him in hatred. "What have you done?"
"Nothing but watch over her," Pierre said. "But she seems to be unconscious."
Alain laid her gently back on the bed, with her head on the pillow that had killed her. He touched her chest, feeling for a heartbeat; then her neck, for a pulse. Finally he put his cheek next to her nose, to see if there was any breath. He stifled a sob. "She's dead."
"Are you sure?" Pierre touched her chest himself, then nodded sadly. "How terrible," he said. "And we thought she was recovering."
"She was! You killed her, you devil."
"You're very upset, Alain."
"I don't know what you did, but you killed her."
Pierre stepped to the door and shouted for a servant. "In here! Anybody! Quickly!"
Alain said: "I'm going to kill you."
The threat was laughable. "Don't say things you don't mean."
"I will," Alain repeated. "You've gone too far this time. You've murdered my mother, and I'm going to get you back. If it takes me as long as I live I will kill you with my own hands, and watch you die."
For a brief moment, Pierre felt a chill of fear. Then he shook it off. Alain was not going to kill anyone.
He looked along the corridor and saw Nath approaching, carrying a basket, evidently back from the market. "Come here, Nath," he said. "Quickly. A ver
y sad thing has happened."
Sylvie put on a black hat with a heavy veil and went to the funeral of Odette Aumande de Guise.
She wanted to stand beside Nath and Alain, both of whom were terribly upset; and she also felt an odd emotional link with Odette, because they had both married Pierre.
Ned did not come. He had gone to the cathedral of Notre Dame to see which prominent English Catholics were in Paris: perhaps the men who were collaborating with the duke of Guise might be foolish enough to reveal themselves.
It was a rainy day and the graveyard was muddy. Most of the mourners looked, to Sylvie, like minor Guise family members and maids. The only prominent ones who came were Veronique, who had known Odette since they were both adolescents, and Pierre himself, pretending to be stricken with grief.
Sylvie watched Pierre nervously, even though she felt sure he would not penetrate her disguise. She was right: he did not even look at her.
Only Nath and Alain wept.
When it was over, and Pierre and most of the mourners had departed, Sylvie, Nath, and Alain stood under the canopy of an oak tree to talk.
"I think he killed her," Alain said.
Alain had the Guise good looks, Sylvie noticed, even with his eyes red from crying. "But she was ill," Sylvie said.
"I know. But I left her alone with him for just a few minutes, to fetch a potion from the apothecary, and when I got back she was dead."
"I'm so sorry," said Sylvie. She had no idea whether what Alain said was true, but she felt sure Pierre was capable of murder.
"I'm going to leave the palace," Alain said. "I have no reason to stay now that she's not there."
"Where will you go?"
"I can move into my college."
Nath said: "I have to leave, too. I've been dismissed. Pierre always hated me."
"Oh, dear! What will you do?"
"I don't need employment. The book business keeps me run off my feet anyway." Nath was indomitable. Since Sylvie had turned her into a spy, all those years ago, she had just become stronger and more resourceful.
But now Sylvie was perturbed. "Do you have to leave? You're our most important source of information on Pierre and the Guises."
"I've no choice. He's kicked me out."
"Can't you plead with him?" Sylvie said desperately.
"You know better than that."