On that sunny morning in Fontainebleau I certainly saw the dark side of Francis's court. Two men were quickly garrotted, their last gasps sounding like a thunder clap in that silent courtyard. Two more had their noses slit and ears cropped whilst the fifth, poor wretch, had his lips and eyes sewn together. He would then be put in a huge sack with two starving mongrels and thrown into the nearest river. Sentence was carried out in a deathly silence broken only by the shrieks and groans of the prisoners, the grunting of the executioner, and the stifled sobs of some of the courtiers. Benjamin turned his back but I stood as if rooted to the spot, fascinated by the horrors being perpetrated.
I could see why Sir Robert Clinton had told Lady Francesca to withdraw, or at least I thought I did. Eventually the macabre show was over: the trumpet shrilled, the executioner's assistant cleared the courtyard, whilst others began to wash the blood and gore away until it seemed as if the strangulations and mutilations were all part of a bad dream. A herald shouted we were to return to the square to see a show of a different kind. The French king rose, clapped his hands. The courtiers, most of them like me pallid and a little green about the gills, went back to their different pursuits. Very few expressed a desire for anything to eat or drink. Benjamin tugged me by the sleeve and we left Dacourt and the rest murmuring about French severity compared to the clemency of the English king. I found that really amusing!
Benjamin led me back to the gardens. 'What do you think, Roger?' he asked.
'Barbaric,' I replied.
Benjamin stared up at the blue sky. 'No man should be dealt with like those poor captives.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Our French king must have read Machiavelli. Those executions were meant as a warning: no matter how beautiful the palace is, how generous the prince, how gorgeous the garden, the king will not be brooked.'
'Do you think he was warning us, master?'
'Perhaps. He may know we wish to seize that ring. Of course, it could be a general threat. I wonder who our spy is?' he murmured, changing the subject.
'Millet went missing last night.'
'Yes, and I noticed he slipped away during the executions. He whispered to Dacourt that he felt sick but our good friend Vauban was also missing and I find that strange. Vauban strikes me as a man who would like to watch others die.'
'We know one thing, master.'
'Which is?'
'The spy and the murderer are one and the same person.'
'Yes, I can see that. It must have been someone in the chateau the night Falconer died and someone who could take a poisoned flask of wine down to Abbe Gerard.' Benjamin chewed his lip. 'It would also seem that our good Monsieur Vauban and his Luciferi only reveal their knowledge of English secrets when letters reach France.'
'So that rules out Robert Clinton, his wife and his servant?'
'Why?'
'Well, they were in England when Gerard and Falconer died.'
'True, true,' Benjamin murmured. 'But I wonder about the Lady Francesca. Why do royal messengers take presents to that convent?'
'And why does the spy use the name Raphael?' I asked. 'Oh, I know, master, it's the name of an archangel, but Falconer seemed fascinated by it and I wonder if the actual name contains any clue to this mystery?'
We talked for a while, sitting in a quiet garden bower, sifting through names and wondering about the identity of this traitor and assassin until Venner arrived.
'Sir Robert Clinton requires your presence!' he shouted good-naturedly, catching sight of us. 'The French king has another masque. Don't worry,' he grinned, 'I don't think it's a repetition of this morning's horrors.'
We followed Venner back as he chattered gaily about the boar he'd glimpsed in a cage in another part of the palace grounds.
'A magnificent beast,' he murmured. 'The French king captured it himself. He's as obsessed with the hunt as he is with the ladies. Did you know that when his favourite greyhound died he had the dog's corpse skinned and a pair of gloves specially fashioned for him which he wore for months to remind him of the animal?'
'I hope he doesn't have us skinned!' I retorted. 'What's he going to do, make us fight the boar?'
(All I can say is that many a true word is spoken in jest!)
We found the rest of the courtiers reassembled on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Millet had rejoined our group. He still looked pallid and the front of his doublet was stained with vomit. The rest, however, were chatting happily, drinking and eating from the different dishes being carried round by young girls dressed in cloth of gold. Lady Francesca was also there, teasing Dacourt about his moustache, whilst Sir Robert was loudly lecturing Throgmorton on the veracity of the science of alchemy. He turned and waved at us to join him, drawing Benjamin into the debate, whilst I stood and stared around.
The French king lounged on his throne, his fat queen beside him, whilst on his other side stood Vauban, whispering softly in his master's ear. He looked up, caught sight of me, grinned and waved as if we were old friends. I looked away. The courtyard below had been cleaned and life-sized mannequins placed there. Now, let me describe what happened and be precise about the details. I was standing overlooking the courtyard, a drop of about twelve feet but protected by a thick, oaken palisade which rose about waist high. Behind me the rest of our group talked and chattered whilst servants bustled about. A trumpet sounded, the door below was once again thrown open and the most gigantic boar I have ever seen bounded into the courtyard. He looked as if he had swept in from hell itself; massive shoulders where the muscles hunched, a high ridge of hair bristling down the line of his spine, powerful, black hindquarters and a face as ugly as my chaplain's. Most notable were a huge, wet snout and white, cruel tusks which curved up like scimitars. Even from where I stood I could see the rage blazing in those eyes and throbbing in every muscle of that brutish body.
The beast stood pawing the ground, his breath coming in short gasps, and I caught a whiff of the foul stench. A deathly hush fell as everyone pushed towards the palisade, necks strained, all eyes on this terrible beast. For a few seconds he stood, head swaying slightly from side to side then he caught a glimpse of the gaily caparisoned mannequins and charged wildly at them. He moved his massive bulk with the speed and grace of a greyhound, smashing the statues over, then turning to rip them to pieces with those cruel tusks. The crowd 'Oohed' and 'Ahed', following with a ripple of applause. The beast stopped, his head came up and he glared in fury at his tormentors.
I was fascinated. I was leaning forward like the rest when someone gave me a vicious shove in the middle of my back and I tilted head first over the parapet. Oh, I was supposed to fall to the courtyard below but fear always sharpens old Shallot's wits. Even as I fell, I gripped a rib of stone which ran just beneath the parapet. I could hear the shouting and screaming. Benjamin called my name. I scrabbled for a better grip even as I heard the boar charge and stop just below me, craning its neck, head swaying from side to side, those wicked tusks narrowly missing the heels of my boots.