Stephanie Merritt: Conspiracy

‘Where will I find you?’ he asked, his back to me.

I hesitated. ‘The library at the Abbey of Saint-Victor. I take refuge there most days.’

‘Writing another heretical book?’

‘That would depend on who is reading it.’

‘Ha. Good luck finding a printer. As I say – you will find Paris greatly changed.’ He lifted the latch; the door swung open with a soft complaint. ‘And – Bruno?’

‘Yes?’

‘I know it does not come naturally to you, but try a little humility. You may have enjoyed the King’s favour once, but that means nothing now. I wouldn’t go about proclaiming your sins with such relish, if I were you.’

‘Oh, I only do that in the sanctity of the confessional. Father. ’

‘And you only do that once in nine years, apparently.’

His laughter grew faint as he walked away, though whether it was indulgent or scornful was hard to tell. I sat alone in the closeted shadows until the tap of his heels on the flagstones had faded completely, before stepping into the chilly hush of Saint-Séverin.

I did not know then that this would be the last time I spoke to Père Paul Lefèvre. Within a week of our meeting, he had been murdered.

They found him face down in the Seine at dusk on November 26th, two bargemen on their way home after the day’s markets. The currents had washed him into the shallows of the small channel that ran south from the shore of the Left Bank along the line of the city wall, close to the Abbey of Saint-Victor; near enough that, being outside the wall and since he was wearing a black cassock that billowed around him in the murky water, the boatmen turned first to the friars, thinking he was one of theirs. It was only when they hauled him out of the river that they realised he was not quite dead, despite the gaping wound on his temple and the blood that covered his face.

I was reading in my usual alcove in the library that evening, a Tuesday, two days after Paul preached the sermon he had promised all Paris would remember, when a young friar flung open the door and cast his eyes about the room in a state of agitation. I watched him exchange a few urgent words in a low voice with Cotin, the librarian. They were both looking at me as they spoke; Cotin’s jaw was set tight, his eyes apprehensive. My presence in the library was not entirely official.

‘You are Bruno?’ The young man strode down the aisle between the bookcases, his face flushed. When I nodded, half-rising, he turned sharply, beckoning me to follow. ‘You must come with me.’

I obeyed. I was their guest; how could I refuse? He led me at a brisk trot across the main cloister, his habit flapping around his legs. Though it was not much past four in the afternoon, the lamps had already been lit in the recesses of the arcades; moths panicked around them and the passages retreated into shadow between the pools of light. I followed the boy through an archway and across another courtyard, wondering at the nature of this summons. I had done nothing to attract unwelcome attention since I arrived in Paris two months ago, or so I believed; I had barely seen any of my previous acquaintance, save Jacopo Corbinelli, keeper of the King’s library. At the thought of him my heart lifted briefly: perhaps this was the long-awaited message from King Henri? But the young man’s evident anxiety hardly seemed to herald the arrival of a royal messenger. Wherever he was taking me with such haste, it did not imply good news.

At the infirmary block, he ushered me up a narrow stair and into a long room with a steeply sloping timber-beamed ceiling. The air was hazy with the smoke of herbal fumigations smouldering in the corners to purify the room – a bitter, vegetable smell that took me back to my own days as a young friar assisting in the infirmary of San Domenico Maggiore in Naples. It did not succeed in disguising the ferric reek of blood, or the brackish sewage stench of the river.

Two men in the black habits of the Augustinians flanked a bed where a shape lay, unmoving. Water dripped from the sheets on to the wooden boards in a steady rhythm, like the ticking of a clock. One, grey-bearded and wearing a leather apron with his sleeves rolled, leaned over the bed with a wad of cloth and a bowl of steaming water; the other, dark-haired, a crucifix around his neck, was performing the Anointing of the Sick in a strident voice.

The bearded friar, whom I guessed to be the brother infirmarian, raised his eyes as we entered, glancing from me to the young messenger and back.

‘Is this the man?’ Before I could reply, he gestured to the bed. ‘He has been asking for you. They brought him here no more than a half-hour past – your name is the only word he has spoken. To tell the truth, it is a miracle he can form speech at all. He is barely clinging to this world.’

The other friar broke off from his rites to look at me. ‘One of the brothers thought he remembered an Italian called Bruno who came to use the library.’ His voice was coldly polite, but his expression made clear that he was not pleased by the interruption. ‘Do you know this poor wretch, then?’ He stepped back so that I could see the prone figure. I could not stop myself crying out at the sight.

‘ Gesù Cristo! Paul?’ But it seemed impossible that he could hear me. His eyes were closed, though his right was so swollen and bloodied that he could not have opened it, even if he had been conscious. Above his temple, his skull had been half-staved in by a heavy blow – a stone, perhaps, or a club. It was a wonder the force had not killed him outright. The infirmarian had attempted to clean the worst of it, but the priest’s skin was greenish, the right side of his head thickly matted with blood drying to black around the soaked cloth they had pressed over the wound. Beneath it, I saw a white gleam of bone.

‘His name is Paul Lefèvre.’ I heard the tremor in my voice. ‘He’s the curé at Saint-Séverin.’

‘Thought I knew his face.’ The one with the dark hair and the crucifix nodded at his colleague, as if he had won a private wager. ‘I’ve heard him preach. Bit fire and brimstone, isn’t he? One of those priests that’s bought and paid for by the League.’

From the corner of my eye I caught the infirmarian sending him a quick glance, a minute shake of the head that I was not supposed to see. I understood; it was unwise to express political opinions in front of strangers these days. You never knew where your words might be repeated.

‘Can anything be done for him?’ I asked.

The infirmarian pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes. ‘I fear not. Except to send his soul more peacefully to Our Lord. Frère Albaric was already giving the sacrament. But if it is any comfort, I do not think he feels pain, at this stage. I gave him a draught to ease it.’

‘Did anyone see anything? Whoever found him – do they know who did this?’

The dark-haired friar named Albaric made a small noise that might have been laughter. ‘I don’t think you need look much further than the Louvre Palace.’

I stared at him. ‘No. The King …’ I was going to say the King would not have a priest killed just because that priest insulted him from the pulpit, but the words dried in my mouth. I had not seen the King for three years; who knew what he might be capable of, in his present troubles? And even if the King lacked the temperament to strike at an enemy from behind, his mother certainly did not. I wondered what Paul had been doing in this part of town; had he been on his way to see me when he was ambushed? A worrying thought occurred.

‘Did he have any letters on him?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Frère Albaric jerked his head up, his voice unexpectedly sharp.