The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 10

I just kicked my horse into a gallop, leaving Benjamin no choice but to follow. I tell you this, if that had been a race against the speediest horses in King Henry's stable, I would have won by a length and a half! I didn't rein in until my horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge of the chateau and I yelled at the guards to let us through. Of course, our dramatic arrival caused a little fuss but Benjamin smoothed things over with Dacourt and the captain of the guard. Then he hustled me up to our chamber.

'Who was that?' I whispered hoarsely.

I was squatting on my bed, wiping the sweat from my face and neck. Benjamin pushed a brimming cup of wine into my trembling hands.

'Vauban, I suppose,' he answered. 'Though I didn't stay to find out. I suspect he has been watching us since we left here this afternoon.' He sat on a corner of the rickety table. 'I am tired, Roger,' he continued. 'I am tired of providing Monsieur Vauban with such amusement.'

'Let's question Millet,' I demanded. 'Let's get the bastard down to the dungeons and apply a few hot irons!'

Benjamin shook his head. 'What good would that do, Roger? If I was tortured I could confess to being Raphael, to murdering Falconer, Waldegrave and Throgmorton.

Indeed, I'd confess to anything just to stop the pain.' He grinned sheepishly at me. 'No, Roger, as I sometimes say, three things will solve this. Observation, deduction and proof!'

'And luck!' I intervened.

'Yes, Roger,' he replied wearily, dropping his cloak and kicking off his boots. 'Luck or fortune.' He smiled brightly. 'And, of course, our opponents may make a mistake.'

We spent the next two days considering possible culprits from every point on the compass, but could reach no conclusions. The Clintons? Why should they be traitors? Moreover, Falconer and Abbe Gerard had died whilst they were in England. Dacourt? Again, lack of motive, and the same applied to Peckle, leaving only Millet as a probability. On the whereabouts of Abbe Gerard's famous book we were like hapless gamblers who constantly drew a blank card, yet we still had confidence in our plans to steal King Francis's ring.

The rest of the household at Maubisson now became involved in frenetic preparations for the French king's visit: rooms were swept, hangings cleaned, fresh rushes laid, whilst servants were sent out to buy supplies of flour, meat, sugar, salt, fresh casks of wine, and the chateau kitchens were thronged with sweating scullions gutting, preparing and roasting what the huntsmen brought in. Of course, Broussac arrived at Maubisson. I could have laughed like a jester: he turned up clean, well shaven, and dressed in the sober garb of a clerk – filched, I suppose, from some poor bastard who made the mistake of drinking in the same tavern as he. His companion was hooded and cloaked. She revealed herself only after Benjamin and I had hurried them up to our chamber. Now, I tell you this, if Broussac was a beast (and he was a veritable hog), his companion was Beauty in warm flesh. She was small, petite, like a miniature Venus. Her hair was silver, or was it gold? I forget now. But I know it shone, glittered in the candlelight of our room. Her figure was perfectly formed and her eyes were violet, or were they green? Good Lord, my memory's slipping, but her mouth was made for kissing. She had skin like alabaster with a touch of rose in her cheeks and, when she smiled, she had all the merriment of the devil incarnate.

'Messieurs,' Broussac grandly announced, 'may I introduce Mademoiselle…'he stuttered '… Beatrice. Yes, Beatrice de Cordeliere.'

'Is that her real name?' I asked.

'No, it isn't,' the girl replied in perfect English. Those beautiful eyes caught mine. In one glance I knew that I was looking at a kindred spirit, a Shallot in petticoats.

'My name is my own concern,' she continued evenly. 'And, if you wish to question me, ask me directly. I am here at Monsieur Broussac's request, and because I will be well paid. But if I don't like what I see or hear, then I'll be gone within the hour.'

Benjamin took the girl's hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it softly. 'Mademoiselle,' he apologised, 'we have been so long without such beautiful company that we forget our manners.' The subtle flatterer threw a sharp glance at me. 'So,' he continued, 'I shall tell you why we invited you here. But first, Monsieur Broussac,' a bag of silver suddenly appeared in my master's hand and disappeared just as quickly up Broussac's sleeve, 'we have no further need to delay you. You are a busy man and Roger will see you safely to the chateau gates.'

Broussac took the hint, grinned wickedly at the girl and, with me trailing behind, we left the beauty with Benjamin as I hurriedly escorted the beast back to the chateau gates.

'Where did you find such a woman?' I whispered.

Broussac tapped the side of his fleshy nose. 'Ask no questions, Master Shallot, and you'll get no lies.'

And, without a shake of his hand or a backward glance, the old rogue trotted off across the drawbridge. I ran like a greyhound back to our chamber, only pausing outside to regain my breath and resume my usual serene demeanour. Inside, Benjamin and Beatrice were seated on the edge of his bed, quietly conversing in Latin as if they had known each other for years.

'Ah, Roger.'

'Ah, Benjamin,' I answered, and sat down on the edge of my bed, determined not to move.

'I have told Beatrice why we need her and she has agreed, on three conditions. First, she is allowed to keep any gowns or jewellery we give her. Secondly, she is paid half before she meets the king and half after.'

'And thirdly?' I rasped, gazing at the little minx's face.

She had the face of an angel but the eyes of a tax-collector.

'Thirdly,' Benjamin continued evenly, trying to stifle his laughter, 'Mistress Beatrice has declared that we are both personable young men with whom she is prepared to spend the next few days, but the nights she keeps to herself!'

I gazed speechlessly at this girl with the face of a sixteen year old and the shrewd mind of a merchant.

'She need have no worries about that,' I mumbled. 'And if she comes anywhere near my chamber,' I added discourteously, 'I'll take my strap to her.'

Beatrice leaned forward, her eyes clear pools of innocence.

'Oh, yes please,' she murmured. 'Such masterfulness!'

Then she sat back and burst into peals of laughter.

Benjamin joined in and, to be honest, I soon saw the funny part. She was not being insulting. She was here to carry out a task and nothing else. In a way, I respected her honesty and in doing so broke Shallot's second golden rule: Never judge a book by its cover.

(I see my little chaplain flinching on his stool, his little bum waggling with pleasure. 'You mean to say you never seduced her?' he cries lustily. If he's not careful I'll take my strap to his arse. Believe me, by the time I've finished this story he'll be a damn' sight more careful and reflect a little further before yielding to the lusts of the flesh with young Mabel in the hay loft.)

Anyway, Beatrice, Benjamin and myself soon became sworn companions and friends. Of course, her arrival at the chateau created innumerable questions and consternation. The men goggled and Lady Francesca glowered at the presence of a possible rival to her own beauty. I rather enjoyed that and spent most of my time making the most elaborate courtesies to our Lady Beatrice. Benjamin, however, pressed ahead with his plans. The day before the French king was to arrive, he whisked young Beatrice off to Les Halles in Paris to buy gowns, petticoats, shifts, a lace veil, perfume and jewellery (which he assured me was imitation). I reluctantly stayed at the chateau, being dragooned by Dacourt and Clinton into helping with the preparations for the king's arrival. Benjamin and Beatrice returned later that evening but the young minx kept to herself in a chamber specially provided by Dacourt. I was tempted to pursue and show her the true ardour of my feelings but Benjamin had strictly cautioned me.

'Roger,' he insisted, 'Beatrice is here for one task and one task only. She is to be the companion of King Francis and be seduced as Mademoiselle Beatrice de Cordeliere, the daughter of a local bourgeois merchant. She is to be the king's companion, ensnare his affections and, in doing so, seize the ring.'

'How will she do that?' I jibed. 'Just ask old Long Nose to hand it over?'

'No, I will give her an imitation one, an exact replica of what Francis wears. Or at least what I think it looks like. Anyway, it will be exact enough to cause sufficient confusion and allow the girl to steal it.' Benjamin shrugged. 'And, if the French king finds out, we will say Mistress Beatrice has gone: we are the envoys of Henry of England and cannot guarantee the honesty of Francis's subjects.'

Such a brilliant plan! My master used all his ingenuity and subtlety to prepare it and everything augured well for its success. The vanguard of the French king's party arrived early on the morning of the Feast of St John the Baptist. Outriders, trumpeters and heralds came first, bearing the blue, silver and gold banners of Valois clustered around the sacred oriflamme, the King's own personal banner. Behind these, the multi-coloured pennants of other nobles in his retinue snapped and fluttered in the early morning breeze. They cluttered across the drawbridge followed by chamberlains, stewards of the household, officers of the royal buttery, kitchen and scullery. These inspected the apartments prepared for Francis and made a thorough search of the kitchens, cellar and corridors to ensure all was safe. They unpacked their caskets and chests, supplying us with fresh cloths to hang on the walls and insisting that in France their king walked on carpets not rushes. We left these minions alone, unable to make any sense of their constant demands, though Dacourt was sharp enough to place armed guards on his chancery, muniment, library and other writing rooms.

'We don't,' he snorted with laughter, 'want any spies digging up any juicy morsel!'

'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.

'Good day, Messieurs."

The bastard seemed as fresh as a spring morning.

'On behalf of my master, I thank you for the comfort and solace provided by Mistress Beatrice.' He looked slyly over his shoulder at King Francis. 'I understand she was most accomplished in her arts.' He leaned closer and shook his head, a solemn look on his face. Once again I tried to remember where I had seen him before.

'But you should be careful,' he continued in a mocking half-whisper. 'She is not what she claims to be. One of my men recognised her as a member of the dreaded Luciferi who often works alongside another rogue named Broussac. Do you know him, Shallot?'

I could have driven my fist into his impish face as the enormity of his trap became apparent. The rogue turned away, muttering, 'Lackaday, lackaday, whom can we trust?'

He sauntered back to join his master who, raising his ungloved hand, allowed that damned ring to dazzle in the sunlight. We stood like two fools and watched them depart. Dacourt, Clinton and Peckle swaggered over to congratulate Benjamin on the success of the occasion. My master just glowered at them, grabbed me by the arm and walked away.

'Enough of this tomfoolery!' he snarled.

We followed the French cavalcade across the drawbridge and stood watching them disappear in a cloud of dust.

'We were tricked!' Benjamin announced sourly. 'Vauban was manoeuvring us all the time. Broussac must be a member of the Luciferi. He's probably their spy amongst the Maillotins and would have been the organising spirit behind the recent attack on the chateau. The same applies to Mistress Beatrice.'

'So, Master, we are back at the beginning?'

Benjamin turned and winked. 'Not quite, Roger. Last night's wine loosened my memory.' He stood staring into the distance. 'Let's go back to the Abbe Gerard.'

'Must we?' I groaned. 'Why?'

'The abbe was a man who liked the new learning. A friend of King Henry VIII of England who had given him a book. The abbe said he would take the book with him to Paradise. Now, he died unexpectedly so he could not have burnt it but he had hidden it away where no one else could find it. We did think it might have been buried along with him but,' he grinned sheepishly at me, 'we found nothing at all. Now, last night I remembered the choir loft, for two reasons.' He ticked off the points on his fingers. 'First, the slang word for a gallery can be a "Paradise". Secondly, did you notice the carving on the choir screen?'

'No, it was too bloody dark!' I grumbled.

'It was Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.'

'In other words, Paradise!' I exclaimed.

Benjamin turned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'So, my learned friend, we shall return to the church. Vauban and his royal master will be laughing their heads off all the way back to Paris, thinking we are still too half-drugged with wine to do anything.'

I needed no second bidding and two hours later we confronted the Cure Ricard in his stone-flagged kitchen.

Benjamin showed him two gold coins drawn from our dwindling supply of money supplied by the cardinal. The priest's eyes bulged in excitement.

'These are yours,' Benjamin began, 'on a number of conditions. You allow us to go into the church, do what we have to, and after we leave, repair any damage we cause. I assure you it won't be much. Finally, if you value your life, tell no one what has happened.'

Of course, the fellow agreed: he would have sold us the church and the house for the money we offered. Benjamin grasped the keys and we half-ran to open the door, locked it behind us and hastily mounted the wooden spiral staircase. Now the choir screen was really a balustrade with oaken panelling on either side. Benjamin had brought both dagger and crowbar and, within the hour, he had carefully prised loose one side of the screen and there, behind the carving of Adam and Eve in their Paradise, wedged between the two slats, was a small, leather-bound book. Benjamin seized it, stuffed it down his doublet and replaced the screen as best he could. We collected our horses and galloped back to Maubisson as if the devil himself was pursuing us.

We found everyone at the chateau still recovering from the rigours of the previous evening. Only after we had unlocked the door of our own chamber did Benjamin bring the book out and carefully examine it. At last he closed it and cradled it in his lap.

'I did promise you, Roger, that when we found this book I would explain why it is so important and what secret instructions my uncle gave me at Hampton Court. This,' Benjamin paused and drew a deep breath, 'is St Augustine's work On Chastity. Inside it are annotations by our king; one of these is most significant.' Benjamin opened the book and pointed to where the royal hand had scrawled in the margin: 'Quando Katerina devenit uxor mea, virgo intacta est.'

'When Queen Catherine became my wife,' I translated, 'she was a virgin.' I shrugged. 'So?'

Benjamin looked down at the book. 'My uncle has advised me that our royal master wishes to divorce his wife, Catherine of Aragon.'

I just stared dumbstruck as I recalled the sad, dark face of Henry's Spanish wife.

'On what grounds?' I stuttered.

Benjamin made a face. 'You may recall, Roger, that Catherine was formally betrothed and married to Henry's elder brother Arthur in December 1501. Five months later he died at the Palace of Ludlow. Arthur was always a sickly boy and our royal master became heir-apparent. Now the old King Henry VII did not wish to give up either the alliance with Spain or Catherine's very generous dowry.'

(By the way, I knew my master wasn't lying. The old king was a proper, tight-fisted, pinch-pursed man who counted every penny and never paid a bill. I have seen his household books in the Tower muniment room. He used to check and sign every page. He could tell to the last farthing how much the royal exchequer held and how much it was owed. I can confidently assure you that it was the only time in the history of our kingdom that the royal exchequer had more going in than going out. The great Elizabeth, when she visits me, tells me in hushed tones how she still finds caches of gold hidden away by her miserly grandfather in secret compartments in palaces all over the country.

Anyway, in that dusty chamber at Maubisson the seeds of such greed began to germinate. The opening of a wound which sent hundreds to a bloody death, provoked the northern shires to rebellion and led to the suppression of every convent, monastery and abbey in England. It snatched old Thomas More from his Chelsea home, his walks by the river with his tame fox, ferret and weasel, and sent him to the headsman's block. I had a premonition of all this and shivered as I remembered Doctor Agrippa's famous prophecy of how Henry would become the Mouldwarp, or Dark One, who would plunge his realm into a sea of blood.)

'How could he divorce Catherine?' I spluttered. 'She has borne him children!'

'Yes, but only the girl Mary has survived,' Benjamin replied. 'Our king wants a male heir and every one of Catherine's boys has died within a week of birth.'

(Oh, by the way, that's correct. On one occasion when Venetian assassins were pursuing me through the streets of London I hid in the crypt of Westminster Abbey. I crawled through some fallen masonry and entered a dark, mysterious tomb where little coffins lay on slabs like ghastly presents in some grisly shop. I later discovered these were the still-born children of Catherine of Aragon, God give them rest. I must have counted at least six.)

'Anyway,' Benjamin continued, 'Henry now believes that the deaths of his sons are God's judgement on him for marrying his brother's widow in contradiction of Leviticus Chapter 20, Verse 21: "Thou shalt not marry thy brother's widow".'

(The Great Beast loved quoting this verse. For those who are interested in such matters there's another verse in the same book which says that you should marry your brother's widow. It just goes to prove the old saying that even the devil can quote scripture. I hope my chaplain takes note of that. He is fond of garnishing his sermons with verses from the Bible.)

'Yes, but was Catherine a virgin when she married Henry?'

'Of course she was,' Benjamin replied. 'Arthur was a sickly boy, constantly suffering from a flux in the bowels and bringing up yellow sputum. On the morning after his wedding night he shouted for a glass of wine, saying it was hot work being in Spain all night, but that was just boasting. He was incapable of the sexual act. Catherine always maintained she was a virgin, and her second husband,' Benjamin waved the book in front of my nose, 'has corroborated this. So now…'

'Now,' I continued, 'our royal liar has changed his mind. He is going to obtain a divorce and, naturally, he wants that book back.'

Benjamin pulled a face. 'Exactly. This is the only proof that Henry knew his wife was a virgin. Destroy this and he can push his case at Rome for an annulment.'

'And what about Spain?'

'Catherine's parents are dead and Henry wants to desert the Spanish alliance.'

'And the good cardinal?' I asked.

Benjamin looked at the floor. 'He opposes the divorce.'

I stared at my master carefully. 'Why?' I asked. 'Wolsey couldn't give a damn about anyone.'

Benjamin cleared his throat. 'My uncle has always believed that he will lose power and control over the king due to a woman. He quotes the ancient prophecy: "When the cow rideth the bull, then priest beware thy skull", but he has to acquiesce.'

'Is there anyone else?'

'What do you mean?'

'Has our royal bull met his cow?'

'No, not yet.'

Benjamin was speaking the truth. Henry had a string of mistresses: Bessie Blount, Mary Boleyn, and the occasional court wench who caught his eye. However, by the time they lowered Fat Henry's rotting corpse into a special, lead-lined coffin (you see, his body had burst and they had almost to pour it in), he had murdered three of his six wives and was intent on killing the last when death claimed him. In that musty chamber at Maubisson, so many years ago, the first few scenes of that dreadful play were about to begin.

Benjamin took the book and hid it under the wooden lavarium.

'Now we know why the king wanted that book back. And the French, of course, would love to hold it. They suspect our king's intentions: can you imagine Henry protesting the invalidity of his marriage when his opponents could produce such irrefutable proof written in Henry's own hand that Catherine was "virgo intacta"

We both started at a loud rap on the door.

'Come in! Come in!' I snapped.

I expected a servant or Dacourt but the benevolent Doctor Agrippa waddled into the room, swathed in his usual black cloak, his fat face smiling like some friendly friar.

'Good morrow, gentlemen. I come from Calais to find the chateau like the Valley of the Dead.'

He unclasped his cloak and sat down beside me, relishing our dumbstruck looks. He stretched out his short, fat legs. His leather riding boots were covered in a fine dust.

'Well,' he announced, 'aren't you pleased to see me?'

Of course we weren't but we didn't say that.

'For heaven's sake!' he shouted good-naturedly. 'Don't I get a cup of wine?'

I hastened to obey whilst Benjamin, regaining his wits, leaned over and clasped the doctor's hand.

'Why are you here?' Benjamin asked.

‘I was sent by the cardinal.' Agrippa took the brimming cup and smiled his acceptance. 'So, what progress has been made?'

'None.'

'Do you know who Raphael is?' 'No.'

'And the murderer of Falconer and others?' Benjamin smiled wearily. 'Yes and no.' 'Which means?'

'The good news is that we are sure the murderer is Raphael.'

'And the bad news.' Agrippa finished, the smile fading from his face, 'is that you do not know who Raphael is.' He sipped from the wine goblet. "And the ring?'

'I am afraid not.'

'And the king's book? His gift to the Abbe Gerard?* 'No,' Benjamin lied, with a warning glance at me. Agrippa stirred restlessly; his eyes changed to the colour of small, black pebbles and his fragrant perfume of musk and ambergris was masked by that hot. molten smell you sometimes catch in a kitchen when an empty pan is left over the flames too long. The good doctor's body tensed with fury.

'This is not pleasing,' he grated. 'His Eminence the Cardinal is most perturbed, and someone,' he glanced sideways at me, 'will feel the royal wrath.' He smiled as if trying to shake off his irritation. 'The cardinal is most anxious,' he continued wearily. 'The king cannot fart without the French knowing about it. God knows what might happen!'

'Such as?' Benjamin asked.

Agrippa shrugged. 'Let us speak candidly. We all know our royal master. He will not be brooked in any matter. If he thinks the spy is here he will send troops from Calais. Everyone will be arrested, accused of treason, and face summary execution.'

"But we could all be innocent!' I yelled.

'King Henry will leave that to God to decide.'

I stared through the sunlit window and shivered. Agrippa was right. Henry had the malice to do that. (I always remember his instructions to old Thomas Cromwell about the abbot of a large monastery who resisted royal oppression. 'Give him a fair trial!' Henry had snapped. Then hang him high over his own main gate!')

'Does that include you, good doctor?' Benjamin asked.

Agrippa grinned. 'Let me put it this way, Master Daunbey. I am certainly not going to go home to report such failure. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll saddle my horse, slip out of some postern gate and go.' He raised his head and screwed up his eyes. 'Yes, I could follow the sun south to Italy and take ship to Byzantium.'

'Byzantium's gone.' I remarked. 'The Turks took it seventy years ago.'

Agrippa stared at me. his eyes now liquid clear. 'I know," he replied. 'I was there.' I gazed back in disbelief.

'I was there,' he said, 'when the Turks found a gate open and stormed into the city. I stood beside Michael Palaeologus, the last Roman Emperor. He died drenched in his own blood and that of his attackers.'

(By the way, I half-believed Agrippa. Only two years ago when I was in London I saw him waving at me from an upstairs window; he hadn't aged a day but, when I looked again, he had gone.)

'Lackaday!' Agrippa murmured. 'We have little time left. The king has sent letters under secret seal to his captain at Calais. We have a month to clear this business up.'

'But Dacourt and Clinton are his friends,' Benjamin stammered. 'Surely the king wouldn't hurt them? Dacourt fought with him at the battle of Spurs, and Clinton and his first wife were often Henry's hosts at their manor in Hampstead.'

'King Henry VIII has only one friend,' Agrippa answered, 'and his name is Henry VIII. Never forget that. Master Daunbey.' He rose. 'If you do, like others you will pay for it with your life. I leave you to your plotting, gentlemen. If there is anything I can do to help?' He let his words hang in the air, gathered his cloak and slipped out of the room.

'Is Clinton one of the king's friends?' I asked.

'Of course. My uncle told you that.'

'And his first wife?'

'Sir Robert loved her to distraction. She died of a tumour, a malignant abscess, some years ago. Our problem,' Benjamin continued evenly, 'is what do we do next?'

'We could challenge Millet?'

'And prove nothing.' Benjamin licked his lips. 'There is one loose strand,' he said. ‘Which is?'

'The Lady Francesca. When we visited the convent on our way to Paris we noticed how the sisters there adored Sir Robert and were very fond of their former pupil.'

'What's suspicious about that?'

'Nothing, except they gave her a gift just before we left. I have talked to the messengers. They not only take presents from Lady Francesca to the nuns, but carry their gifts to her.'

'You think there's something wrong in that?'

Benjamin shuffled his feet. 'I don't know. I would like to know more about her.'

(My heart sank to my boots. I had a suspicion what would come next.)

'Would you go, Roger?'

'Go where?'

'To the Lady Francesca's home town, St Germain-en-Laye. It's only a few miles south of Paris.' 'And do what?'

'Ask a few questions about her.' Benjamin shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps the woman we know is not the same Lady Francesca who lived there.'

'That's impossible,' I snapped.

'Stranger things have happened.' Benjamin leaned forward. 'You must go. At the moment it's all we have, that and the book.'

'And what about the bloody ring?' I asked.

Benjamin just gazed blankly back and my despair deepened.