I sobbed with fright, even as I addressed the one and only question which confronted me in such a dangerous situation. Was I safe? I huddled down beneath the parapet. What happened if the gate was forced? I could be trapped here at the top of the tower and be either forced to jump or killed like a rat trapped in a barn. I pushed my head over the parapet. Some of the chateau guards were on the curtain walls, forcing back the scaling ladders placed there. Time, I thought, for me to leave. I looked over to the side wall where the postern gate stood and went cold with terror. More pinpricks of light were moving down there. The attack on the main gate was merely a feint.
'It's time old Shallot moved,' I murmured. 'Perhaps search out Benjamin? Get out of the chateau, steal a horse and ride straight to Calais?'
I hurried down the tower steps, across the yard and into the outer bailey. The noise was terrible. Our assailants were now shooting fire arrows and these were already causing havoc amongst the defenders. One soldier lay on the ground like a blazing torch. Others had horrible black wounds to their faces and chests. Dacourt stood grasping his sword like some hero from ancient Troy.
'To the walls!' he screamed. 'To the walls! Don't let the banners fall!'
I am sure the silly old bastard had suffered a blow to the head and believed he was playing out a role from some heroic romance. He saw me and yelled: 'Shallot, where have you been? Now is not the time for a faint heart!'
'Piss off!' I shouted, losing my temper. 'The real attack is not here. They are massing against the side wall!'
I waved my sword like a madman, screamed at some men-at-arms to follow me, and raced like a whippet to the postern gate. We arrived to see the tops of the first ladder against the wall. A burly serjeant-at-arms pushed me aside and bravely told 'his lads' to follow him up. I stayed where I was, shouting out orders and near enough to the postern gate if things should go wrong. Our archers caught the bastards just as they began to climb the scaling ladders, whilst men-at-arms, using the long forked poles lying on the parapet walk, shoved them out of the way. I heard screams of anguish, then the attack faded away as suddenly as it came.
Dacourt, Clinton and the rest congregated in the main hall whilst servants lit torches and others brought ale or wine for the conquering heroes. Horses were saddled and scouts sent out. They soon returned, reporting the attackers had vanished, taking their dead and wounded with them. Five of the chateau soldiers were killed and Benjamin had a small cut high on his cheek. Dacourt estimated we had killed scores of our assailants but only three corpses were dragged in, all of them casualties of the ladder which had been pushed away from the outer wall. They looked scruffy, dirty vermin though surprisingly well armed. Now, I knew the Maillotins, the peasant rebels who lurked in the alleyways and runnels of Paris. I'd lived with them for a while. They were like me, experts in the sudden ambush. Certainly not well armed, organised or brave enough to attack a chateau in the open countryside.
Dacourt praised my prompt heroic action and I played the role of the modest hero, gulping his wine and giving shrewd assessments of the strategy of the attackers. However, when I doubted that the Maillotins had ever launched such an attack, Dacourt bellowed his disbelief.
‘I know these vermin!' he declared. 'They hate the English. They grudge us our victories in France and the occupation of Calais. No, no, the Maillotins were behind this. Or, if not, who is?' His watery blue eyes gazed bulbously at me so I let the fool have his way though Benjamin agreed with me.
'They're too well fed,' he commented. 'And supplied with all the necessary arms. Let's wait till the morning for I am sure Monsieur Vauban had a hand in this.'
Benjamin's words were prophetic. The next morning Vauban and his horde of cavalry trotted into the castle grounds as if they were a welcoming relief. Benjamin and I stayed well away from him as he consulted with Dacourt and Clinton. Only when he had gone did my master ask what had happened.
'Two things,' Dacourt bellowed cheerfully. 'Vauban will leave some of his horsemen camped outside the chateau walls against further attack. Secondly, tomorrow is His Most Christian Majesty's naming day. We have all been invited to the festivities at his palace of Fontainebleau.' The ambassador grinned at both of us. 'On behalf of all of you, I have accepted.'
Both Benjamin and I wisely kept our mouths shut until we were out of the main hall.
'Vauban wanted that attack,' Benjamin muttered. 'He may wish to kill us all, or some of us.' He stared down and studied one of the fire arrows dropped the previous night.
'Or he could just have wished to have an excuse for placing men near the chateau to keep us under closer observation.' He smiled sideways at me. 'But at least we will get to Fontainebleau. A chance to meet His Most Christian Majesty!'
'And examine his damned ring!' I replied crossly. 'Master, in God's name what are we to do about that?'
'Nothing,' Benjamin replied. 'At Fontainebleau we do nothing but watch and listen.' He seized me by the arm. 'At no time, Roger, do we make our move there. What are we but simple Englishmen? The French king is well guarded and he covets that ring more than honour itself. Whatever temptations are presented to us, we must not react.'
'And if we fail to take it?' I asked dourly.
Benjamin grinned. 'In that case, my dear Roger, we learn French well and make friends with Monsieur Vauban because we can never return to England.'
We left the chateau early the following morning, each of us resplendent in whatever finery we could pluck from our wardrobes. Actually, we looked like a group of crows compared to the Lady Francesca who was resplendent in a gown of gold brocade trimmed with lynx skins.
We reached Fontainebleau late that afternoon, and how can I describe it? Its great round towers, the dancing outlines of precise yet beautiful Italian architecture, the splendid red spire of St Hubert's Chapel, the great clock with dogs chasing a stag; on the hour, the bark of the dogs accompanied each chime whilst the stag moved to sound the final chime. Thirteen staircases, hundreds of rooms, alabaster statues of Cupid and Venus with others sculpted in fleshy bronzeness by the French king's Italian artists.
All around the palace were cool, lime-shaded gardens full of lilies, violets and wood sorrel; now and again, white-colonnaded courtyards with shimmering pavements of alternating black and white marble stone. The rooms inside were stuffed with the loot from Francis's expeditions into Italy; tapestries, more statues, gold and silver artefacts, jewelled vases, and the softest carpets of pure wool in various hues.
Grooms took our horses, and minions in the blue and gold tabards of the French king led Sir Robert and Lady Francesca away. Dacourt also was provided with his own chamber but we were taken to the top of the palace. Any higher and we would have been on the bloody roof, and squeezed into rather mean, dark garrets. Now I have always been very particular whom I sleep with and I didn't like sharing my room with a possible murderer. I also resented the way Millet was simpering at me. He was wearing more lace than the Lady Francesca!