No, on second thoughts, I wasn't sulking. I thought a lot about Agnes, her violent death and those of her family. I was satisfied that the Luciferi had killed her and I was determined, in my own cowardly way, to exact revenge once I was in France. Something else nagged at my mind and gnawed at my soul. An idea whose substance eluded me. Once I was aboard the Mary of Westminster and facing the terrors of the Narrow Seas, I put the matter aside.
Our cog was a sturdy merchantman escorted by a small man-of-war. We raised anchor, turned, dipping our sails three times in honour of the Trinity, and made our way to the open sea. Two days later, after a peaceful voyage, we disembarked at Calais – a dreadful place, England's last foothold in France, nothing more than a glorified fortress packed with men-at-arms and archers, who staggered the streets in their boiled leather jerkins, drinking in the many ale houses and generally looking for trouble.
The town was packed with carts and horses for the Great Killer always kept Calais well fortified. All a waste of time for his daughter, poor Bloody Mary, lost it to the French and died of a broken heart. (Oh, by the way, I was there when she died. I held her hand as the death rattle grew in her scrawny throat. 'Roger,' she whispered. 'My dear, dear Roger. When I die, pluck out my heart and you'll find Calais engraved upon it.' I bowed my head. She thought I was weeping. Nothing of the sort! I was terrified she might see the guilty look in my eyes for I am the man who lost the English Calais. Oh, yes! I was the silly, drunken bastard who left the gate open and let the French in, but that's another story.) We were soon free of Calais and heading south for Paris. The Normandy countryside baked under a warm summer sun. A peaceful journey. Even the scaffold and gibbets at the crossroads were empty; indeed, I even saw two festooned with garlands.
'Strange,' I muttered to Benjamin as we stayed at a tavern on our first night out of Calais. 'What is, Roger?'
'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.'
'So?'
'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'
Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?'
'Yes.'
'So who did the French hang?'
'God knows!' I snarled, and turned away.
Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.'
'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'
Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.'
'She seems to like you.'
Benjamin shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste, Roger.' He smiled, finished his wine, and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.
Just before we entered Paris we left the main road, and, following winding country tracks, approached the Convent of St Felice, its white stone buildings basking in the sunshine amongst soft green fields and small dark copses. A beautiful place, one of those convents which reeked of wealth, security, and its own strange kind of serenity. Everything was clean, precise and in its place. Even the convent yard, just within the great arched gateway, was neatly strewn with white stone pebbles, whilst around the walls small strips of garden full of flowers gave off their own fragrant perfume.
We were left in the guesthouse, drinking chilled white wine, whilst the sisters welcomed Lady Francesca and Sir Robert Clinton in a flurry of joy at seeing their old pupil and protege. Lady Francesca was treated as a favoured daughter but Sir Robert was idolised, treated with a deference which I found quite surprising. You'd have thought he was some fat cardinal from Rome. The nuns fussed around the Clintons like a group of mother hens. I found it difficult to follow their chatter (you know old
Shallot, nosy as hell and always looking for mischief), but they seemed most concerned about Lady Francesca's health. Anyway, they left us alone.
Lady Clinton went to see old friends whilst Mother Superior, a formidable old bird in her gold-edged habit, took Sir Robert away, her arm linked through his, for quiet chatter in her own private apartment. We stayed for about an hour, then with the sisters' greetings ringing in our ears rejoined our escort outside the walls and continued our journey.
We entered Paris by the Porte St Denis. It was strange to be back there and my memories were not pleasant: starving in the depths of winter, being beaten up, arrested for some misunderstanding and half-hanged at Montfaucon. The scaffold there was the first thing I clapped my eyes on when we entered the stinking streets of Paris. The city fathers had decided to improve the site since I last encountered it. A few corpses swayed in the breeze at the end of a rope but they had built a wall so when the bodies decayed and fell, their sight, if not their stink, was hidden from passersby. We followed the narrow, crooked streets, most of them unpaved and packed with a motley crew of citizens, monks, scholars and a legion of beggars. Stagnant pools of filth made us cover our mouths and noses whilst we kept bobbing our heads to avoid the painted signs which hung outside every house. All the time we were assailed by the noise of a hundred bells and the screams of hawkers and traders who sold everything from a piece of iron to hot chestnuts. We crossed one of the five big bridges built over the Seine and passed under the brooding mass of Notre Dame.
Near the Place des Greves, or rather the square close to it, a great crowd had gathered to witness an execution. One of the most horrible sights I had ever seen. A huge vat full of oil was bubbling over a monstrous bonfire and, bound hand and foot inside, stood a criminal being boiled to death. The screams, the smoke and the stench were, perhaps, a prophecy of the horrors which awaited us. Lady Clinton turned pale and would have fainted in the saddle if Benjamin had not caught her, whilst Sir Robert shouted abuse at the outriders, telling them to move on. We left Paris by the Porte D'Orleans and found ourselves back amongst the tilled meadows and windmills which ring the city. The suburbs dwindled and, after an hour's travelling, we turned a bend in the road and there, on the brow of a hill, outlined against a forest, stood the Chateau de Maubisson, a pleasant sight. It was ringed by a curtain wall protected by a moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge.
We clattered over this into the outer bailey where chickens pecked and pigs rooted for food. The place was busy and alive with noise from the stables, forges and outhouses built against the wall. We rode under another arch, guarded by serjeants-at-arms wearing the royal arms of England; great iron gates were flung open and we passed through these into the inner bailey, stopping before the great four-towered keep which soared up to the skies. Someone had quite recently built a wing on either side of this huge donjon but at each corner of the central building was a tower. Clinton said they were named after four ladies: Yolande, Mary, Isabel and Jeanne.