The poisoned chalice

Now, if you have read the earlier instalment of my memoirs, you will recall that the previous year I'd spent some time in Paris as the enforced guest of the Maillotins, or 'Club-Men' as they called themselves. They were the bottom layer of Parisian society who constantly plotted and conspired to bring about a bloody revolution and create God's kingdom here, where justice and prosperity would reign and the meek would surely inherit the earth. Of course, they were idiots or dreamers. As far as I can see, the only earth the meek inherit is a shallow hole in the likes of Holy Innocents graveyard, and even then the dogs make sure they don't have that for long. Now, I had become friendly with the Maillotins, especially two of their leaders, Capote and Broussac. Capote had died, choking his life out on the gallows of Montfaucon. I hoped Broussac had not yet received his just reward as I slipped like a cat along the dark, foul, smelly alleyways of Paris to the tavern where he and his court of whores always assembled.

I was not disappointed. Broussac was in the same corner, drinking himself stupid, surrounded by some of the most loud-mouthed harridans of the city. At first he didn't recognise me, but isn't silver wonderful? I produced two coins and Broussac's red, beery, dark-whiskered face broke into a gap-toothed grin and those wicked eyes danced with merriment.

'Of course,' he bellowed, throwing one smelly arm round my neck and planting wine-drenched kisses on my cheeks. 'Ladies,' he shouted, 'may I present Master Roger Shallot, the only good Goddamn – the only man who was hanged at Montfaucon and survived to tell the tale!'

I told the noisy bastard to shut his mouth as I did not want to be arrested by the Provosts as a spy. Another piece of silver was produced. Broussac became as sober as a priest, ordered a fresh jug of wine, two of the establishment's cleaner cups, and a table far enough away from any would-be eavesdropper.

'Listen, Broussac,' I began. 'Forget old times. Here's a coin. Answer one question: the attack on Maubisson, did the Maillotins organise it?'

Broussac grabbed the coin.

'No,' he replied. 'We did not. We never leave the streets of Paris. But, for another coin, I can tell you who did.'

I flicked a further piece of silver across the table. Broussac clutched it and it disappeared in a twinkling of an eye. I don't know how he did it, whether he had purses in his sleeves: one minute he had it in his hairy paw, the next it was gone.

'Well, come on,' I demanded. 'Who the hell did?'

'Look around you, Monsieur.'

'That's no answer.'

He saw my hand go to my knife.

'Now, now,' he purred like some benevolent cat. 'Come on, old friend, what are you going to do? Draw on poor Broussac? If you do, you'll never leave this tavern alive. As it is, you still might not!'

I looked around. In the poor light of the smelly, tallow candles, every customer resembled a rat on two legs. Their thin, pallid or yellowing faces, greedy looks and sharp glances proved Broussac right and I cursed myself. I was in the devil's own kitchen and these were his scullions: dice-coggers, coin-flickers, pickpockets, pimps, conjurors (most of them failed), footpads and nightwalkers. Indeed, in any other circumstances, I would have felt very much at home but I'd been so eager to see Broussac I had blundered in and now began to wonder how I would get out. He leaned over and seized my wrist.

'Don't worry,' he whispered as if reading my thoughts. 'You're Broussac's friend. I have given you the kiss of friendship.'

'Aye, and so did Judas!'

Broussac threw back his head and bellowed with laughter until his devil's eyes disappeared in rolls of flesh.

'Listen, Broussac,' I continued, 'I have no wish to quarrel but I asked you a question and paid you good silver!'

'And I gave you fair answer. These villains took part in the attack on Maubisson. They were hired by bully-boys and organised by some great lord, I don't know who.'

I knew I would get no further. 'There's something else,' I hastily added. 'I need a whore.' 'Don't we all, my friend?'

'No, I want a high-ranking courtesan brought to the Chateau Maubisson within three days. She is to assume a new name and tell no one her true identity. If you do this you will be richly rewarded.'

Broussac's smile widened as if he could almost hear the chink of coins falling in his purse. He rose and beckoned me to follow.

'Come, we cannot talk here.'

We went upstairs to a small, dust-laden chamber where Broussac ordered some stools and fresh wine, shouting for the best, not the vinegared water I had been sipping down in the tap room. A slattern, having lit candles, hurried up with this. Broussac, his face as serious as a father confessor, leaned forward.

'How much?' he asked.

'For your expenses, two hundred pounds.'

'Sterling?'

'No, livres tournois or fifty pounds sterling, in freshly minted coins.'

'And for the whore?'

'Four hundred pounds, livres tournois or one hundred pounds sterling.'

'Where's the money?'

I emptied the contents of one small purse into his grimy paw. 'There's twenty-five pounds. Before you get the rest the girl must be with us, suitably clad, and bringing one fresh gown with her. She must be,' I continued, 'beautiful, wholesome and pleasing. Not one of your doxies,' I added. 'I want a courtesan, someone skilled in the social arts and graces.'

The old rogue heard me out.

'One final thing,' I added. 'I want to leave here and reach Maubisson without let or hindrance. I have seen the pack of weasels below. I don't want to be followed and quietly knocked on the head.'

Broussac smiled, rose, and pointed to the wafer-thin pallet bed in the corner. 'Tonight, rest here. Tomorrow,' he picked up the wine jug and cup, 'you will be safely back at Maubisson.'

He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and I heard the bolts being pulled across. That night I slept the sleep of the just. You see, I trusted Broussac. He'd walk to Cathay and back if he thought there was enough profit in it for him. The next morning he roused me, his manner all servile. I broke my fast on bread and wine, and Broussac, true to his word, led me through the streets of Paris to the Porte D'Orleans, not leaving me until the turrets of Maubisson showed above the trees.

My return provoked little interest. Benjamin scrutinised my face and immediately hustled me to a quiet part of the garden where he let me speak freely.

'The king will be here in four days' time. We have a suitable lady friend?' he asked.

'She will arrive in three days.'

Benjamin nodded and bit his lip in excitement. 'Good, that will give us time to prepare. And the rest?'

I described exactly what had happened to Millet. Benjamin shook his head. 'You are sure it was one of Vauban's men?' he asked.

'As certain as I am of sitting here.'

Benjamin stood and half-cocked his head, listening to the liquid song of a wood pigeon. 'Too simple,' he murmured. 'Far too simple. Oh, I believe you, Roger. Master Millet is a man who likes the best of both worlds, but you say he went to the tavern and turned others away?'

'Yes.'

'Perhaps,' Benjamin continued, 'we are only thinking what we are supposed to think.' He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. 'As for the chateau, nothing untoward has happened here.' He crouched, plucked a wild flower, raised it to his nose and sniffed the sweet fragrance. 'Mind you,' he said absent-mindedly, 'I have been thinking.'