The poisoned chalice

'The French king does not like the Lady Francesca. There seems to be some tension there.'

Benjamin scratched the back of his head. 'Yes, yes, I noticed that too. I wonder about that lady. Sometimes she does not seem at all well. She's secretive, flirts openly, but actually says nothing.'

'When I surprised her at the chateau, she had a phial, or something similar in her hand.'

'What do you mean?'

'Some kind of medicine. I saw the letters sul. Then there's the business of the ring.'

Benjamin grinned at me.

'It's your problem as well!' I added.

'I wonder about that ring.' Benjamin stared across to where a group of courtiers had stopped by a fountain, talking to each other in high-pitched voices which even drowned the strident screams of the peacocks.

'Master, you were going to say?'

'Well, there's a story that Agrippa raised a demon who worked for Wolsey and this demon is controlled by a magical ring.' He laughed. 'I just wondered if the ring Francis has is the one of popular legend? Or it could be a present from our Henry's dead brother and, though I speak in riddles, the king's brother is the cause of our present problems…'

(I see my chaplain snorting with laughter about the magic ring. He doesn't know what he's talking about. We may live in more enlightened days but one of Wolsey's enemies, the Duke of Norfolk, actually hired a conjuror to make him a cloak of invisibility from linen and buckram cloth, treated with horse bones, chalk and powdered glass. Oh, I don't know whether it worked. If I thought it did I would get one myself and go up to the hay loft and see why my chaplain takes the apple-cheeked, full-bosomed Mabel there to instruct her.)

Ah, well, at Fontainebleau I was more concerned with practical realities. Benjamin and I returned to our chamber to prepare for the great feast. My master instructed me to keep careful note of the rest of our companions and watch if any tried to slip away.

That evening banquet was memorable! The banqueting hall was a sea of light and silk; thousands of torches, ten times that number of beeswax candles, silver plate, Venetian glass, and every type of food: sea hogs, beef and garlic, fawn in a ginger salt, and subtle confectionery in the shapes of figures and birds. Naturally, we got the Archangel Raphael sculptured in sugar and wax! Dacourt, Millet and the Clintons were invited to the great table on the dais. We were shoved far down the hall near the door just under the gallery where hordes of musicians played viol, sackbuts and tambours, whilst young boys from the Abbey of St Denis sang sweet carols until some of the guests began to pelt them with sugared almonds and sponge cakes. There were the usual masques and drinking contests but, for once, I kept sober, carefully watching my companions.

Towards the end of the evening the king and his council moved amongst us. I saw Lady Clinton deep in conversation with Vauban, whilst Sir Robert was involved in a fierce dispute with a physician over the elements of certain chemicals. Benjamin remained sombre, watching everything around him. Suddenly, Vauban was between us, placing his hands on our shoulders. My master flinched but Vauban was amity personified.

'You like Paris, Master Daunbey?'

'No,' Benjamin lied, pressing his leg against mine.

I followed his glance: Millet had disappeared. Vauban, however, seemed intent on distracting us.

'Oh, surely you like Paris? You must come to my home near the Rue des Moines behind the cathedral of Notre Dame. It stands in its own grounds. I call it La Pleasaunce.'

'You live there alone?' my master asked.

'Oh, no, Monsieur. I have a family.'

I caught the note of pride in Vauban's voice.

'Little angels,' he murmured.

Now, I had had enough of this baiting so I threw him an angry glance.

'Monsieur Shallot, you are surprised I have a family?'

'No, Vauban, I am not. Even Nero had one. What would surprise me is that you had parents!' His smile dropped, as did his hand to his dagger hilt. 'One day, Monsieur, you will pay for that remark.' 'As you will,' I snarled back.

I watched him walk away whilst Benjamin calmed me by refilling my wine goblet. 'Master, I hate that man!'

'So do I, Roger, and for the same reason.' Benjamin's eyes softened. 'I know about Agnes,' he said gently. 'Vauban was behind her death. But he's a dangerous man, Roger. You have insulted him and he will exact a price.'

'I don't give a damn!' I replied. 'I only wish I could place him. I have seen his face before.' 'Well, naturally, in London.'

'No, no, all I saw were his paid thugs. I may have heard his voice but I never clapped eyes on him that I can remember until that day outside Abbe Gerard's church. What is more immediately interesting,' I continued, 'is Master Millet's disappearance. I wonder where, and I wonder why?'

We sat and waited. It must have been over an hour before Millet returned. He was followed by a young, French courtier who immediately went up to Vauban, now beside the king, and whispered heatedly into his ear. Vauban grinned, and not for the first time I began to wonder if our Master Millet was Raphael.

8

The feasting and masquerades must have lasted for many hours but we retired early to our beds and in the morning joined our companions in the gardens for a light collation of watered wine and freshly baked bread. Most of our conversation was about the feast the night before. Throgmorton and Peckle had drunk too much, Clinton was describing his dispute with the French physician to a bored Dacourt, Master Millet looked worried, white-faced and red-eyed. Lady Francesca joined us, looking as cold and beautiful as a spring morning. Benjamin complimented her on the perfume she was wearing which drew a snort of laughter from Throgmorton.

'All perfumes smell the same,' he jibed. 'They could be sulphur and mercury for all I care.'

Lady Francesca threw him a dagger-glance and was on the point of replying when a royal herald entered the gardens to summon us to the great courtyard to see the king's justice being done. Sir Robert turned to his wife.

'You, my dear, are excused.' His face became severe. 'I insist. It's best if you return to your chamber and see that all is well.'

I was surprised. I had never seen Sir Robert look so angry or, indeed, Lady Francesca so submissive as she trotted off. Sir Robert whispered something to Venner then stared round at us all.

'What we are going to see,' he announced, 'is not a pleasant sight, but we are in France.' He made a face. 'Convention must be followed. If royal justice is to be done, then all males above the age of eighteen who are attendant upon the king must be present.'

I hadn't any idea what he was talking about, more bemused by Lady Francesca's sudden departure; the others, however, looked strained and nervous and I caught Master Benjamin gulping anxiously. We re-entered the palace, passed down sun-dappled corridors and came out above a great courtyard. We found ourselves on a balcony which stood over a porticoed colonnade, beneath us a great black-and-white stone courtyard. The king, flanked by leading notables, was seated on a throne like a Roman Emperor about to watch some gladiatorial display. The rest of the court whispered nervously, with catches of high laughter and forced bonhomie, clearly apprehensive of what was to happen.

I'll tell you this, it was a nightmare. A herald blew a sharp, shrill blast on his trumpet, a door in the courtyard opened and a small procession filed out, led by the master executioner dressed in black from head to toe. Behind him walked a royal serjeant-at-arms and other assistants. Again a short, sharp burst of the trumpet and a line of chained, condemned men were led out. They looked like prisoners the world over; dirty, dishevelled, haggard, bare-foot, and heavily manacled both at wrist and ankle.

The serjeant-at-arms read out a list of crimes.

I couldn't understand everything he said but the word ‘trahaison’ treason, was repeated. Justice was then dispensed. Now, our Great Killer in England was fond of sending wives and friends to the block – poor John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, had to watch his own scaffold being built -but Henry always kept well away from the killing ground. He was dancing when Boleyn died and hunting when poor Catherine Howard was hustled off to her death on Tower Green. But Francis wanted to see justice done. His court was like that, moving from brilliant scholarship to the stark, bleak horrors of the Dark Ages. (Oh, by the way, he got worse. Men tied in bull-skins were baited to death by dogs. The French palaces became Murder's own playground. One of Francis's sons was killed by a strange poison fused in water. The assassin was torn apart by horses. Another was murdered whilst playing snowballs when someone threw a linen cupboard out of a window above him and crushed his skull. Catherine de Medici, Francis's daughter-in-law, liked to have the bodies of her opponents brought fresh from the scaffold so she could inspect them, and specialised in putting her prisoners in wooden cages suspended from beams. I know, I spent a bloody week in one of them, but that's another story.)