The Poisoned Chalice (24 page)

Now, my master told me that Francesca's maiden name was Sauvigne and, as sure as God made little fishes, the old men described the beautiful daughter who once lived there.

'A grand family,' one toothless oldster ponderously stated.

'Are they still there?' 'Well, the old ones are gone.' 'And Francesca?'

'Oh, she was sent off to a convent outside Paris.' 'And who is the seigneur now?'

'Well, in the absence of a male heir, the title went to a distant cousin.' 'Not Francesca?'

The old man shook his head. 'She would never have inherited the title.' He turned and spat. 'You know the customs amongst the great ones. Their sons go to war or court and the women either marry or go to convents. Mind you, she was a very pretty girl.'

'How do you mean?'

The old man gave me a detailed description of the Lady Francesca and I felt a twinge of disappointment at one of my master's theories being so brutally shattered: the woman the old man described could be no other person than Sir Robert Clinton's wife.

'It's strange she wasn't married off earlier?' I queried. 'I mean, such a beautiful woman?'

'Oh, but she was!'

'No, she was not!' another interrupted. "She was betrothed to a young soldier, the Seigneur de Gahers.'

'And what happened?'

'Well, de Gahers went to Italy in the king's army and distinguished himself most bravely in the march on Naples.'

'And he was killed there?'

'Oh, no, he came back laden with honours, but within a year he died of some wasting illness. The Lady Francesca was heartbroken. She refused any further offers of marriage. She must have been about sixteen summers then, so her parents despatched her to the convent.'

The old man turned and spat a stream of yellow phlegm straight between the ears of one of the pigs. The beast snorted in anger and turned away. (And the French have the cheek to call us English dirty!) Well, there was nothing more to be gained. I had spent enough silver and the old men were becoming suspicious, so I slept in a small copse outside the village and then made my way back to Maubisson.

The chateau had recovered from the French king's visit. Peckle was sitting in the courtyard, sheaves of paper in his hand. Millet and Dacourt, the former as bland as ever, were closeted together in the great hall, whilst Clinton and Doctor Agrippa were deep in conversation. I did wonder if the good doctor was warning everyone else about the king's impending wrath. My master was poring over strips of parchment in our chamber, each bearing a name as he tried to make some sense out of what had happened.

'Your journey was successful. Roger?'

I told him what I had learnt. He gave a sigh of exasperation, threw his pen on to the table and went and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

'Did you notice anything untoward?' he asked. 'As you came back into the chateau?
'

'No, why?'

Benjamin propped himself up on his elbow and began to curl his hair around his fingers, one of his favourite mannerisms when he was deep in thought.

'Vauban has withdrawn his men,' he replied. 'A sure sign that the bastard is cocksure we will learn nothing new.' Benjamin threw himself back on the bed and just lay there, staring, as I unpacked my saddle-bags and rested after my journey.

'You said Lady Francesca was betrothed to Seigneur de Gahers?' 'Yes.'

Benjamin got to his feet. 'Stay there, Roger. I need to speak with our two messengers. I wonder if they want to earn some extra silver?'

I thought he'd return but he didn't so I looked about for something to read. I studied what Benjamin had been writing but he had been using some secret cipher known only to himself. I remembered Abbe Gerard's book so retrieved it from its hiding place, bolted the door, and went lazily through its pages, more interested in the king's annotations than anything else. I chuckled to myself. If Fat Henry thought of getting a divorce from Catherine of Aragon then this book would certainly prove him a liar. I had no illusions as to what would happen once the fat bastard got hold of it. The book would be burnt and Henry left free to tell whatever lies he wished. I turned to the loose leaves at the back which, as was the custom. Abbe Gerard had used for his own personal notes. I noticed that the dead priest had written there, 'Chantry Masses to be sung for the souls of the lately departed.' As would be expected these included names of relatives of those at the English embassy. Some I did not recognise, others were quite fresh: a sister of Millet's, John Dacourt's wife, Catherine Stout, as well as that of Sir Robert Clinton's first wife, Clare Harpale. I was disturbed by Benjamin's return. When I unbolted the door he took the book off me.

'What have you been doing, master?' 'Oh, this and that.'

He lay on the bed sifting through the pages of the book, leaving me to my own thoughts.

The next few days dragged by. Benjamin claimed he was waiting for news and went back to his secret writing but I could see from his frayed temper he was making very little progress. Doctor Agrippa's presence only deepened his gloom, and everyone else's. Dacourt became openly nervous, Peckle buried himself in his work and Millet was one of those stupid young men who think music is the solution to every problem. Even Sir Robert Clinton looked agitated as if he realised his friendship with the king would not save him from the royal wrath. Old Dacourt, to lighten the mood, hired a troupe of acrobats, the usual mummers and clowns who entertained great lords and ladies in their halls and bowers. If anything, these idiots only deepened our gloom, their laughter and merriment ringing hollow in the dour atmosphere of the hall.

But isn't it strange how little things can cause the most devastating changes? I am reminded of that childhood rhyme:

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,

For want of a shoe,

the horse was lost.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost.

For want of a rider, the battle was lost.

In this case it was a mongrel dog, an intelligent little beast who, under instructions, could draw painted letters from a small bucket and spell simple words like 'bone' or 'meat'. Sometimes he got them mixed up and this caused unwarranted merriment but it reminded me of poor Falconer's absorption with the name Raphael. A notion occurred to me but I dismissed it until I was alone with my master. I told him and he sat down as if poleaxed.

'I can't believe it! No,' he stuttered eventually. 'It's not possible!'

He rose and paced up and down the room.

'What is it, master?'

'Shut up, Roger, and let me think.'

The pacing continued. He sat down at his desk and began scribbling madly on any available piece of parchment. He was still writing when I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning a red-eyed Benjamin shook me awake.

'Look, Roger,' he said, almost dragging me from the bed. 'You are to dress, go down and join the rest and break fast with them in the hall. You are to draw them into conversation and ask John Dacourt whether his late wife's name was Catherine Stout, but watch Millet and ask him a question: did he have a sister called Gabriel who has recently died?'

'But what's the use?' I asked.

'Oh,' Benjamin jibed, 'his name's Michael, the name of an archangel, his sister was Gabriel, the name of another, and Raphael's the name of a third!'

'But . . .'

'Shush!' Benjamin raised a finger to his lips. 'Please, Roger, just do it. But make sure they are all there.'

I wandered down to the great hall and sat making idle conversation until the rest joined us. I turned the talk to the Abbe Gerard.

'When I was at his house,' I lied, 'I saw his list of Masses for the dead. Sir John, your late wife was the Lady Catherine Stout?'

Well, old Dacourt's eyes immediately brimmed with tears.

'Yes, yes,' he mumbled, tipping his nose into his cup of watered wine. 'She died five years ago. The old abbe and she were friends.'

'And you, Michael? I see you also paid for masses for your sister Gabriel?'

Millet looked self-conscious.

'Yes, she died about eight months ago when the sweating sickness visited Lincoln.'

'Michael and Gabriel,' I smiled. 'The names of archangels.'

Oh, I tell you this, I felt as if I had put a noose round that young man's neck. He writhed in embarrassment. Dacourt looked up sharply, Clinton became agitated, whilst Peckle's eyes narrowed. I saw the cloud of suspicion grow.

'It was a conceit of my father's,' Millet blurted out as if he couldn't stand the silence and unspoken accusations. He laughed. 'We cannot be responsible for what our parents do, eh, Shallot?'

I let the subtle insult pass and changed the conversation to other matters. Yet, whatever my master had intended, his arrow had struck home. I left the hall and went back to report what had been said. Benjamin finished shaving himself, washed his hands carefully in the pewter bowl on the lavarium and grinned as he dried himself.

'Soon, my dear Roger, a new game will begin. Or, as we say in Ipswich, you have shaken the tree, let's see what falls out.'

The first real change was Millet's exclusion by the rest of the embassy staff as if he was already marked out. Dacourt gave him more menial tasks and, when these were finished, the dandified fop spent most of the time in his own chamber. The real game, however, began two days later when Dacourt summoned Benjamin and myself to his chamber. The old soldier glared at us accusingly.

'It would appear,' he began, 'you have made great friends at the French court.'

'We have no friends at the French court,' Benjamin quietly replied.

'Well, sir, it appears that you have.' Dacourt waved a small piece of white parchment with a purple seal on the end. 'An invitation from His Most Christian Majesty, despatched under his signet seal, inviting you to his palace at the Tour de Nesle in Paris to discuss the matter of a certain ring.' Dacourt glanced at the parchment. 'Of course, this was not written by the king but his creature, Vauban.'

Benjamin snatched the parchment from his hand and, with me peering over his shoulder, studied it carefully. Dacourt had not given us the full message. King Francis said he wished to discuss the matter of the ring: 'As well as other matters attendant upon it, which could ease the ring's speedy return to His Most Christian Majesty's royal brother, King Henry of England.'

'What does it mean?' Dacourt snapped.

Benjamin handed the parchment back. 'I suggest, Sir John, you keep this matter to yourself. And whilst we are gone, be most careful what happens here at Maubisson.'

We left the ambassador standing open-mouthed. Benjamin hustled me back through the corridors to our chamber.

'Pack now!' he snapped. 'We leave for Paris immediately. And we go well armed. Roger, I urge you to eat or drink nothing, to touch nothing, and to stay close by me until we are out of the chateau.' He raised one bony finger to his lips. 'Trust me, Roger, and be most careful, for we are to face a most ruthless and skilful enemy.'

'Then why are we going?' I asked.

'My dear Roger, we have no choice. If we stay we are in great danger. You must realise that. And how can we face our own master if there is a letter on record, held by the English ambassador in Paris, that King Francis offered to negotiate over King Henry's ring and we refused?'

Benjamin dragged our saddle-bags from their peg on the wall.

'A clever plan,' he murmured. 'We don't control the game yet, Roger, so we must dance to the tune that's being played.' He started pushing clothes into one of the bags.

'Do you think King Francis wishes to negotiate?'

Benjamin made a face. 'God knows. He may well do. Francis is like our own master, duplicitous. On the one hand he declares Henry is his brother. On the other, Uncle told me that the French king has even consulted an astrologer on how to kill Henry. Francis has already sent assassins to England who, by careful and crafty means, tried to kill the king but were caught and summarily hanged.' Benjamin threw the saddle-bag on to the bed. 'This may be a trick or Francis could be trying to save his master spy, Raphael.' He smiled thinly. 'Be well armed and remember, Roger, when you go to sup with the devil you always take a long spoon!'

We entered Paris just before curfew and made our way through its streets, smelling even fouler after a violent summer thunder storm, to a comfortable tavern near the Latin Quarter. We dined in silence, Benjamin in one of his withdrawn moods, mumbling to himself as if I wasn't there. The following morning, as the church bells were clanging the hour for lauds, we presented ourselves at the ornate gateway to the king's palace at the Tour de Nesle on the right bank of the Seine. A strange building, towers and turrets soaring into the sky, it was half-fortress, half-palace with extensive gardens and orchards all enclosed by a high-bricked, crenellated wall. (A place cursed, or so Benjamin told me, for it was here two hundred years earlier that Philip IV's three daughters-in-law secretly met their lovers. I mean, it's rare enough for a princess to put the cuckold's horns on her husband but these three beauties successfully duped each of Philip's sons with their secret assignations with young knights of the court. But at last Philip found out and the princesses were bricked up in cells and allowed to starve to death; the young men were pulled apart by wild horses in the very courtyard we crossed.)

I thought of the story Benjamin had whispered to me as we followed an arrogant chamberlain into the palace proper, along silk-draped corridors to a small audience chamber where, of course, Master Lucifer himself, Monsieur Vauban, was awaiting us. He was dressed in his usual ostentatious finery: lace ruffs and cuffs, high-heeled boots, a short gown which fell to just beneath his knees, and those bloody bells which tinkled every time he moved. His hair was oiled. I am sure he had some cosmetic on his face and he reeked of perfume. Mind you, the bastard could be charming. He rose from behind his desk and clasped our hands.