Page 245 of A Column of Fire

‘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 Jerónima. 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, Jerónima 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, pot-bellied old priest.

Sometimes Ned felt he lived in a rotten world.

*

THE ILLNESS OFOdette 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 advisor, 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 long-time maid Nath. He had been given the lordship of a small village in Champagne, which permitted him to call himselfsieur 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, diarrhoea, bloody stools, and tiredness. She had always been heavy, but her fat had melted away, probably because the pain discouraged her from eating. Doctor Paré 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 Paré 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 Paré called he said Odette was on the mend, and Pierre’s heart sank farther. 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, liquorice, 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.