The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(44)

Julien knew the moment he saw the front of Léonore’s house that he was too late. The door hung off its hinges, splinters around the frame where it had been battered down. There didn’t appear to be any great mob still inside, but there were several men stationed near the front door. Catholics—wearing white crosses on their hats for quick identification.

One of them knew Julien by sight. “LeClerc, isn’t it? Renaud’s son?”

He nodded warily. “What happened here?”

“All dead.” The man jerked his head inside. “Except your brother. You’ll find him in the chamber up the stairs, first on the right. We found a surgeon for him.”

Julien moved without thinking. What the hell was Nicolas doing here? And were they really all dead? Sweet-faced and sweet-tempered Léonore, her grandmother, her two brothers?

There was certainly enough blood for death. And when Julien reached the top of the stairs, there was Léonore, wearing only a torn shift, throat cut and body sprawled like an abandoned doll. Clutched in her right hand was the string of silverwork beads Julien had given her a week ago. He crouched and, swallowing against nausea and sorrow, took back the gift. Something to always remember her by. When he straightened, he caught sight of her two brothers farther down the corridor, so covered in blood that he could not distinguish individual wounds.

In the chamber on the right, Nicolas lay on a bed, white-faced and covered in sweat, eyes wild. A surgeon stood over him.

“Nic?” Julien shoved the surgeon aside. “What the hell is going on?”

It took Nicolas a minute to focus. “Julien,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think this would happen—”

“What happened?”

“I was a block away when I heard the mobs. I remembered the street, because of the girl. Because you were so besotted with her. I tried to warn them, to get them to come away, but the mob was here too fast. I wanted to help her, for your sake—” Nicolas groaned.

Julien grasped his brother’s hand. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

Nicholas closed his eyes. “I hope to God I’m dying,” he said bitterly.

Julien looked at the surgeon, who, rather than answer, removed the linen that was soaking up blood by the moment. When Julien saw his brother’s injury, he knew that, until the day he died, he would never be able to repay Nicolas for what he’d lost in trying to help Julien.

He would simply have to find a way to pay back all that the Catholic fanatics had taken from them today.





ELEVEN




Julien watched Lucette’s expression, judging the moment she went from open disbelief to suspicion to cautious understanding. She opened her mouth and he anticipated the question. “Why?” he asked. “Which I suppose covers all possible avenues. Why do I work for Walsingham? Why am I telling you? And why didn’t Walsingham let you know?”

She coloured, which she always did so appealingly at any emotional moment. What emotion was she feeling just now? Her tone, at least, was caustic. “I imagine he did not let me know because either he does not trust me…or he does not trust you.”

“He has no reason not to trust me,” Julien said.

“Which is precisely what you would say if he had reason. If, for example, you were only pretending to work for Walsingham and instead were using your knowledge to undermine England and help the Catholics.”

Julien couldn’t help himself; he laughed out loud. “That is the problem with conspiracy. It so easily twists back on itself. No, I don’t suppose I can make you believe me. But it is nonetheless the truth. Since September ’seventy-two I have been in the employ of Francis Walsingham. Well, employ is not quite accurate—I will not take English money.”

“Is it any less treachery if it’s done for free?” she shot back. “So why, then, merely as a game? To spite your father and brother?”

He’d have expected her to be happier to hear that he was, in some sense, on England’s side. Instead she seemed truly upset at the thought of him betraying his country.

Fine, she wanted the truth, he’d give it to her. At least to a point. “Tell me, Lucette, what happened in August 1572?”

Whatever her temper or mixed emotions, Lucette could always be counted on to use her mind. He saw the beginning of understanding as she answered him grudgingly. “St. Bartholomew’s Day.”

“And what happened on the eve of St. Bartholomew’s Day?”

“Admiral de Coligny was assassinated.”

“Correct. Two days after the first attempt on his life, de Coligny was pulled from his bed and slaughtered. And he was not the only victim. When the bells for Matins were rung at St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the Swiss Guard spread throughout Paris. They murdered the Protestant leaders that were in the city for the marriage of Princess Margaret and the Prince of Navarre.”

“I know all this!”

“You may know it, but you didn’t live it. What were you…fourteen at the time? I was twenty-one and in Paris myself. Have you ever seen streets actually running with blood, Lucette? I have.”

“What has this to do with Walsingham?”

“Walsingham was resident in Paris at the time as Elizabeth’s ambassador. It was something of a miracle that he and his family escaped death. But not everyone in their household was so lucky. They had a handful of French attendants, one of them a young woman of good family. Only sixteen. Her name was Léonore.”