The Seal(116)
The Count of Valois frowned, but then slowly his face contorted into a smile. ‘You are a serpent, monsieur, but . . . a useful one . . . If he does the doing no one can suspect . . . well, you, monsieur.’
De Plaisians grinned his teeth. ‘And no one can suspect you, my dear Count!’
The man gasped. ‘Me?’
‘If he fails, there are always other ways, of course.’
‘Other ways?’
‘Several.’
A disquiet had settled over the count’s form. He made little blowing noises into the cloth and cleared the mucus in his throat. ‘And should I come to power, that is, once my brother has been safely installed in the brown earth, what of Marigny?’
‘The King had Dubois write a pamphlet against him, it accuses him of sorcery.’
‘Sorcery . . .’ The count became anxious, a pallor moved over his features and he bit his thumb again. ‘There is something heinous about it.’
‘No more heinous than murder.’
‘And yet to me it rings ill to accuse falsely of sorcery.’
‘Honesty is praised and left out in the cold,’ answered de Plaisians, ‘but I shall tell you that heroes are very often those whose brave acts are driven by duplicity.’
‘And what brave act shall I perform? It seems you have done it all for me, Monsieur de Plaisians.’
De Plaisians wanted to laugh. ‘Convince the King to imprison the princesses for life . . . they must not be executed, and Respice finem . . . look to the end . . .’
‘And you? What shall you do?’ he asked, as de Plaisians prepared to leave.
‘I shall live as if every day were my last.’
And he left the count to his sneezes.
51
MIDNIGHT OIL FOR BURNING
Hath thy toil o’er books consumed the midnight oil?
John Gay, FABLES
Mademoiselle de Vigiers was beautiful. Towards the street of the tailors she walked, her copper hair tossed, her spine a straight line all the way to a small waist, and her steps brisk. She was on an errand of some importance for her eyes did not stray to those men who stopped to watch and comment and to reach out to touch. She walked on and on until she arrived at her destination.
She wondered as she walked if she should have worn a black cape, but it had been her reckoning that such a woman would have drawn more curious attention than a pretty one walking the streets.
She knocked on a door. A moment later it opened and a thin, one-legged man answered; his face, scarred and yellow, poked out of the gloom.
‘What?’ he said with a squint.
The woman smiled sweetly. ‘I have come for the oil.’
Puzzlement changed to cunning. ‘Get in.’
Once inside, the man looked appreciatively over her form and licked his lips. ‘You have the money?’ he asked, keeping his mouth open and smiling.
‘Yes,’ she said and gave him a small pouch.
‘This will be greatly beneficial.’ The man grinned and left her.
A moment later he returned with a bottle. ‘The oil must burn all night, for the poison to kill.’
The woman gave him a frosty stare. ‘And who said that much work benefits a man?’
52
THE POPE AND THE DEVIL
Ye are of your father the Devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do.
St John 8:44
When Iterius entered the Pope’s private garden the sun was pitched low and made shafts through air scented with lavender. It had been planted everywhere around the Pope’s summer house at Grozeau, as his doctors had instructed.
Iterius, dressed in dark apparel and capped against the sun, looked to the Pope like a black cloud that spoils a bright day. He bowed low and his hat fell from his balding head.
Clement grunted and sat back upon his cushioned day bed, sipping poppy tea as the last rays of the sun warmed his troubled skin. He said nothing to the Egyptian, preferring to leave him to busy himself awhile with his thoughts. Above, the full-grown cypress trees rustled in the light breeze and bees buzzed about. He could feel the flatulence; soon he must have recourse to its discharge.
His eyes moved torpidly to the man standing before him. ‘What do you want? You have failed me,’ he said and yawned.
Iterius bowed low once again. ‘I am still your loyal servant.’
Clement raised a brow, his round face cold and bland, but his eyes now were lit up like candles. ‘You are a servant of the Devil . . . How comes it that you have not been successful? Failure is only something one ascribes to the angels of the Lord . . .’
Iterius, at a loss for words, made a twitch of his mouth; an uncertain voice came out of his throat. ‘Your Holiness . . . please . . . I am a servant of the Lord . . .’
‘Ahh!’ The Pope spat and saliva lingered wetly on his lips and chin. ‘Do not meddle with me, Egyptian! I am no fool! God works in mysterious ways, even pacts with devils must he employ in order to perform his wonders!’ Then he sat forward; his watery legs hanging over the side of the bed became visible beneath the layers of fabric. ‘You have watched over Philip . . . yes . . . but after so many years, Jacques de Molay has kept his mouth shut and you have not found me what you promised . . . I could not care less now.’