'There's no need to,' a dry-voiced Peckle answered, pushing back his soiled hair with ink-grimed fingers. 'The French seem to know our secrets before we do.'
His words stilled the clamour of conversation. So intent had we all been on the French king's arrival we had forgotten Throgmorton's and Waldegrave's recent deaths. I scrutinised Peckle carefully. He was the one man who kept well away from the rest, spending every waking hour in his writing office, only joining us for meals or a short walk in the garden. Was he the spy? I wondered. The industrious clerk who kept secrets to himself. I glanced at Millet. His languid, white face betrayed no emotion. Benjamin and I had kept our suspicions about him to ourselves; my master concluding that, for the time being, there was little to be gained by confronting him. But what about Millet's master? I wondered. The bluff, hearty soldier? Or even Clinton, with his courtly ways and mysterious French wife? Or the ubiquitous and ever cheerful servant, Venner, who ate like a horse but drank so sparingly, always insisting on watering his wine?
Further speculation about the identity of the murderer ceased at the faint blare of trumpets and a retainer burst in, shouting down the sun-dappled hall that the French royal party had been sighted. We went to watch King Francis (or old Long Nose) arrive, preceded by halberdiers, archers and members of the Garde Ecossais in plumed helmets and light brigandines. I stayed well out of view. I glimpsed the king's long face under a scarlet bonnet and, beside him in a surprisingly sober grey gown, the heavy-lidded eyes and secret face of Monsieur Vauban. I remembered that strange voice in the forest calling out to us and, in spite of the sunshine, I shivered.
The usual boring speeches were made: the French party, Vauban included, swept off to the apartments set aside for them in one of the wings of the chateau whilst I, following my master's instructions, kept a careful eye on the embassy household, trying to glimpse anything untoward. My vigil proved fruitless. Dacourt and the Clintons joined the French king; Peckle, grumbling to himself, went back to his chancery; whilst Millet and Venner, after dancing attendance on their respective masters, played a noisy game of bowls and quoits in one of the corridors. That in itself was worthy of any comic drama because the chateau was now packed with Frenchmen who, if they had no noble blood in their veins, were left to their own devices to find quarters. Time and again Venner and Millet would set up the quoits, only to be disturbed by troops of grumbling Frenchmen. At last both men gave up hope and, followed by me, trailed off to the relative peace of the garden.
Just before sunset a strange silence fell over the chateau as everyone prepared for the great banquet. Now Dacourt had done us proud. The old hall had been swept, cleaned, polished, and hung with new drapes. White cloths shimmered over the old trestle tables and the long room was lit by thousands of small, white, wax candles. When I glimpsed these I grinned for they were exact replicas of the candles used by the Luciferi, but then I remembered Agnes and all my merriment faded. Benjamin and I stood at the entrance of the hall waiting for Beatrice to join us. At last, just before the French king swept in, she came tripping along, looking absolutely ravishing in a demure dress of rose damask trimmed with lace at neck and cuff, whilst a pure white gauze veil hid her lustrous hair. Rings sparkled on her fingers and what was supposed to be an amethyst pendant dazzled the eye and drew attention to her soft, ripe breasts.
Oh, she was a minx, coyly glancing at us beneath lowered eyelashes, acting the innocent, speaking as sweetly and softly as a young novice. Her long eyelashes fluttered. I even saw a faint blush on those ivory cheeks. The trumpets sounded and we stepped aside as Francis and his court swept into the hall. The king was dressed in doublet and hose of beaten cloth of gold. His courtiers were no less exotic, garbed in German-style jackets of crimson and purple satin, or red velvet doublets open and laced with silver chains. Others had fur-lined cloaks slung over their shoulders, and hats trimmed with pheasant feathers perched jauntily on their heads. There were no ladies with them. (I later learnt King Francis kept his harem at home and on his travels just took whatever female caught his eye.)
This group marched up to the high table where Clinton and Dacourt were waiting to receive them. Vauban was with them. His hair oiled and perfumed, he was dressed in black velvet lined with sables, whilst the studs and buttons on his doublet must have been mother-of-pearl. A man well rewarded by his king, I thought, and no wonder. The Luciferi had been most successful in crushing dissent at home and ferreting out the secrets of other powers. Once the French king and his courtiers were seated at the horseshoe-shaped table on the great dais, we lesser mortals took our seats. Benjamin had arranged that Beatrice sit between us in a place most likely to catch the French king's eye. I leaned over and hissed, 'Master, do the rest know why Beatrice is here?'
Benjamin shook his head. 'No, I told them I have taken a fancy to her,' he whispered back hoarsely. 'And you know the English, Roger. They'd rather die of curiosity than ask a question!'
I gazed at Vauban's face and wondered if he suspected. The bastard smiled beautifully down at us, raising his hand slightly as if acknowledging old friends and trusted comrades. Once more the heralds appeared, titles were proclaimed, trumpets blared, and the lavish banquet began. Beef, plover, pheasant, quail, pike, carp, dishes of vegetables and huge hogs' heads were served on a dazzling array of platters whilst the wine flowed like water. I suppose I drank to quell my fears though Benjamin's plan worked brilliantly. Once the feast was over, the tables were cleared and there was the usual, stupid mummery about George and the Dragon and Robin of the Greenwood. After that the musicians struck up and the dancing soon became daring and merry. King Francis, of course, swooped on young Beatrice like a hawk on some plump pigeon. He seemed captivated by her and we had to sit and watch old Long Nose work his evil ways.
Eventually I was dragged off to bed by Benjamin who appeared to have drunk as much as I had. We both sat on the floor of our chamber, sang a two-voiced madrigal and then promptly passed out. I was awoken early the next morning by a servant rapping on the door. 'Master Shallot! Master Shallot!' I tossed a cloak round me and flung open the door. 'What is it, man?'
'The young Lady Beatrice. She has left the castle. She asked me to give you this.'
He handed me a sealed leather purse.
'There are no coins in it,' the insolent fellow said. 'Just a ring.'
I gazed in utter joy, resealed the pouch and, despite the heavy wine fumes which still cloyed my brain, raced down the stairs and across the courtyard where the servant's news was confirmed by a guard.
'By herself?' I asked. 'That's rather dangerous.'
The fellow gave me a weary smile. 'Exactly what I said,' he replied. 'But she said others would meet her.'
I hurried back up to my room to arouse Benjamin.
'Master,' I hissed. 'Master, we have the ring!'
He opened his sleep-laden eyes and stretched out a hand.
'Show me.'
Benjamin opened the purse, took one look inside and fell back with a loud groan. 'The stupid woman,' he moaned. 'All she has done is return the replica I gave her!'
'It can't be! She's left. You haven't paid her the second half of the sum!'
Benjamin sat up, shaking his head. 'Yes, I did. She demanded it last night before the banquet, saying otherwise she would refuse to proceed any further.' He shrugged. 'So I gave her the money.'
'Now the little trollop's disappeared!' I wailed. 'And we are left like two coneys in the hay!'
We both washed and dressed and went down to the courtyard where the French king, looking a little more tired than he had the previous evening, was preparing to leave, his household minions swirling around him. Vauban, dressed in a monkish cowl, sauntered across.