The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 3

My master and I left London. I changed and bathed at the tavern where my master was staying in Great Mary Axe Street near Bishopsgate. (Oh, by the way, I didn't forget Waller. I'd bought a special bottle of wine. I half-emptied it, filled the rest with horse piss and re-sealed it. Then I sent it to him. I hope the bastard enjoyed every drop!) Two days later we reached Kingston and, leaving our horses at the Robin Hood tavern, went by barge to Hampton Court.

The poet Cavendish described the new palace as a paradise on earth and so I thought when we first glimpsed its towers and golden cupolas above the trees. Wolsey had bought the manor of Hampton from the Knights Hospitallers, levelled it to the ground and, bringing in craftsmen from every part of Europe, built a palace breath-taking in its opulent beauty.

We were given lodgings in the gatehouse and were virtually kept prisoner as the king and the court, as well as the great cardinal, moved into residence. This palace swarmed with retainers either wearing the golden '‘I. C of Thomas Cardinalis or the scarlet of Henricus Rex. Carts full of precious belongings were being unloaded in the courtyards; ostlers, grooms and farriers shouted and yelled. Chamberlains with white wands of office rapped out orders and, until the king and the lord cardinal were settled in their respective rooms, the common people were banished from the corridors and the galleries.

Wolsey never liked the common man. The Earl of Shrewsbury once told me that when he walked in the park, Wolsey would suffer no one to come within bowshot of him. Benjamin, his favourite nephew, was an exception and on the evening following our arrival Wolsey summoned us to his private apartments. We were led down black-and-white-tiled corridors, through a series of presence chambers, all huge and hung with tapestries which Wolsey had brought from abroad. Not just little square hangings. Some of these were five or six yards long and eight yards high, depicting scenes from the Bible or themes from Petrarch's love poetry.

We were ushered into a small chamber ostentatiously furnished. I noticed with amusement that the tapestries hanging there illustrated the seven deadly sins. Of course, I was fascinated by Lust, a young girl with long, golden hair, breasts like ripe melons, and long, white, slender legs. (I wager Wolsey kept an eye on that, too, being most interested in the sins of the flesh. He had a mistress, you know, a fat, dumpy, little thing, though Wolsey adored both her and the illegitimate children he had by her.) He was awaiting us, a small skull cap pushed to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince, his face dark and swarthy like an Italian's, thick, sensuous lips, a beaked nose and lustrous dark eyes. He was dressed in purple silk and satin trimmed with gold. On his feet were purple woollen buskins. Beside him, on a table, the flat tasselled hat of a cardinal.

Naturally, my master bowed and I had to follow suit, reminding myself with a secret smile that Wolsey was only a commoner and no better than me. The floor was of polished cedar wood and I glanced round enviously at the stools covered with red satin and silver tassels: '‘I. C, Wolsey's personal monogram, was everywhere, sometimes a foot high in carved gold. The air smelt faintly of incense and, of course, that strange smell of faded flowers which emanated from the figure dressed in black who squatted beside Wolsey: Doctor Agrippa, supreme practitioner of the black arts though he looked like a mummer's version of Friar Tuck in some masque about Robin Hood.

Agrippa's face was round, cherubic, his features small and neat like those of a child, except for the hooded eyes and the look of sardonic amusement with which he watched everything about him. A strange man, I thought. Some people said Wolsey hired him as a defence against other wizards and warlocks. No one knew where he came from. I was wary of him though he was always pleasant to me. He once told me not to be afraid as my death was many years off and would come in a way I least expected.

(I see my chaplain sniggering at me so I'll voice my fear. I know that secret agents and societies still hunt me. I have given strict orders to my henchmen that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to hang my chaplain immediately. Ah, good, that's wiped the smile off the bugger's smug face!)

Anyway, back to Wolsey. He was eating sweetmeats from a silver dish and, whilst Benjamin and I knelt before him, he kept popping them into his mouth, watching us impassively. I glanced up under my eyebrows and caught Agrippa's eye. He grinned and winked, then studied the ring on his right hand, a stone of indeterminate colour.

Agrippa claimed he used it to make sure wine was free of poison, though I don't think it was possible for Agrippa to die. I believe he was the Wandering Jew, doomed to live forever.

Wolsey finished the plate of sweetmeats and told us to sit. Strangely enough, he first addressed me.

'Well, Shallot, you've met the Luciferi? You'd call them bastards, yes?'

'You could have protected me!' I replied bitterly.

'Oh, but we did. Don't you remember, in the alleyway?'

'What about my trial?'

'You would not have been hanged. A reprieve would have come through. That tavern wench was a stroke of good fortune – but then you go and get yourself lost!'

'It was all arranged, wasn't it?' I accused. 'You gave Ralemberg licence to trade. You put the handbill in my room. The Luciferi kept away other sponsors, and so did you-till I arrived.'

Wolsey smiled and pulled out a gold-edged handkerchief to wipe his nose. He was in good fettle, otherwise he would never have traded words with me.

'You could have saved the Ralembergs,' I added.

His face hardened. 'We tried to. Ralemberg was very useful. But the Luciferi sent their decoys.'

'And de Macon's ship?' I asked.

Wolsey shrugged. 'The fortunes of war, Master Shallot. If Ralemberg had been more open, such misfortunes would never have happened.' He saw my angry glance at Benjamin. 'My nephew had nothing to do with it, I assure you.'

'But now that road's closed,' Agrippa intervened. 'What road?' I queried.

'Oh, come, Roger. To the Luciferi, Vauban, the five archangels, Raphael!'

He must have seen from my face that I knew what he was talking about. Wolsey played with the gold pendant around his neck and smirked patronisingly at Agrippa as if he was a favourite son. A black cat, wearing a jewelled studded collar, crept from beneath a curtain, padded towards Agrippa and, lithe as a dancer, sprang into his lap. Agrippa stroked it carefully. (You know, he always wore black leather gloves. I saw his left hand ungloved once. The palm bore the inverted cross and the Eye of Osiris and on the back a blood red pentangle. Those of you who know about black magic will know what all that means, Agrippa was one of the high-ranking Dark Lords.) Anyway, enough of that. On that sunny evening at Hampton Court, Agrippa sat and chattered like some benevolent uncle.

'Let us come to the point,' he said briskly.

'Yes,' Benjamin agreed. He had been sitting quietly. 'Uncle, if you have a task for us, then let us begin it. Master Shallot and I have sworn to be your men in peace and war.' Benjamin quoted the last phrase from the agreement he had signed with Wolsey. 'Uncle, you must trust us more!'

Wolsey's hard eyes softened as he gazed back at Benjamin. For a few seconds that stony-visaged politician looked kindly and I realised that, apart from his mistress, Benjamin was one of the few people Wolsey really loved. The cardinal turned and stroked Agrippa's cat.

'My nephew is right,' he said softly. 'Let us describe the task.'

Agrippa rose, putting the cat gently down on the floor.

He stood beside the cardinal's chair, leaning against it with one hand on its gilded back.

'Our noble king,' he began, 'now wishes to contain the power of France. He can do that by alliance with the Emperor Charles V and the Hapsburgs who control the Low Countries and Spain. We intend to ring France and contain it like an army encircles a castle. Unfortunately, the French know in advance every move we make. We have spies in Paris, and the French Luciferi are in London. The difference is, the Luciferi have someone close to our hearts who betrays our every step and turn. Matters have now come to a head. The English embassy in France has a mansion in the Rue des Medeans, but in early spring they moved to a small castle outside Paris, the Chateau de Maubisson.

'At the chateau are a number of officials: Sir John Dacourt, our ambassador; his chief clerk, Walter Peckle; Doctor Thomas Throgmorton, physician; Michael Millet, personal assistant and clerk to Sir John Dacourt; and the man responsible for our agents… or rather, who was, Giles Falconer. We already knew there was a spy either in England or France selling secrets to the French. It was Falconer who discovered the spy's code-name: Raphael.'

'How?' Benjamin asked quietly.

'One of Falconer's agents was discovered in the Rue des Billets. He had been stabbed a number of times but, before he died, he used his own blood to etch on a piece of parchment the name Raphael. Now on Easter Monday last [almost six weeks ago I thought], Falconer retired to his chamber. Late that night both Millet and Throgmorton heard him going upstairs to the top of one of the towers of the chateau. Millet peeped out of his chamber, Falconer had a goblet in his hand, he was smiling but not drunk. Throgmorton heard him singing. On Tuesday morning, Falconer was found at the base of the tower, his neck broke, his head shattered.'

'He could have slipped,' Benjamin said.

'Impossible. The tower does have a crenellated wall but the gaps have iron bars across to prevent anyone falling. Moreover, the tower roof is sprinkled with fine sand to prevent anyone slipping. Throgmorton, who surveyed the area after Falconer's body had been discovered, found no trace of any such slip or, indeed, of anyone else being with Falconer on the top of the tower.'

'Could it have been suicide?' I asked.

'I doubt it. The rest of the embassy met Falconer at dinner that Monday. He was as happy as ever. Falconer was a bachelor but a man in love with life. He enjoyed his work and was one of the best agents we had.' Agrippa's eyes hardened. 'Indeed, he was a personal friend of mine.'

Another black magician? I wondered.

'No,' he snapped, 'Falconer was murdered.'

'The wine,' I asked. 'Was it poisoned?'

Agrippa smiled sweetly. 'We considered that but Sir John Dacourt, an honest old soldier, was with Falconer in his room when he broached the bottle. Dacourt had a cup of the same wine and suffered no ill effects.'

'Who could be the murderer?' I asked.

'Any of those four. Oh,' he added, 'we missed out one person: Richard Waldegrave, the chaplain.'

'You wish us to go to Paris?' Benjamin interrupted.

'Yes, we do, so perhaps it's time you met your companions.'

Wolsey picked up a silver bell but Agrippa raised his hand.

'Lord Cardinal, I believe your nephew has further questions?'

Benjamin gazed at the cardinal, then at his familiar.

'Doctor Agrippa,' he asked, 'when matters are decided regarding France, how are such conclusions reached and despatched abroad?'

'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.'

'Then what happens?'

'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.'

'Why is that?'

'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'

I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction.

'What happens then?' my master asked.

'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.'

'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'

'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.'

'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'

Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves "Maillotins" or "Club-Wielders".'

(Oh, I knew about these. Last time I had been to Paris they had rescued me from the freezing streets and hungry wolf packs.)

'These Maillotins attacked the messengers and killed them but a party of royal guards, who by chance were in the vicinity, hunted the outlaws down. The bags were returned in accordance with diplomatic protocol, and were found to be unopened and untampered with.'

'Could the spy be in England?'

'We suspect he is in France at our embassy.'

'Why?'

'The French do not betray what they have learnt until the despatches reach our embassy.' 'What happens then?'

'The chief cipher clerk, Walter Peckle, decodes them and hands them to the ambassador.'

Benjamin tapped the toe of his boot on the soft carpet. 'These messengers?' he queried.

'They are professional couriers. There are two in England and two in France. They often cross each other in their travels.' 'And two of them were killed?'

'Yes, but they have been replaced,' Agrippa answered. 'They are trustworthy men?'

'They cannot be faulted. You may question the two in England before you go. Now,' Agrippa picked up the bell, 'perhaps you should meet your travelling companions?'

The silver bell tinkled. A servant wearing the cardinal's livery slipped like a shadow into the room.

'Ah, yes.' Wolsey got up. 'Sir Robert Clinton?'

'He is in the presence chamber, Your Grace.'

'Bring him in!'

Clinton entered, a small man with silver hair brushed back from his forehead, a neatly clipped moustache and beard. He looked what he was, a veteran soldier, with suntanned face, clear eyes, dark doublet and hose, the only concession to fashion being the ornate, thick silver rings on each hand and a gold cross round his neck. Beside him stood his clerk, Ambrose Venner, a young man with thinning hair and the fat, cheerful face of an over-fed scholar. Agrippa introduced them, ushering them to seats, clicking his fingers for the servant to serve them wine and sweetmeats.

'Sir Robert,' Agrippa began, 'is chief secretary to the French chancery of the Privy Council. Sir Robert, Benjamin Daunbey and his servant, Roger Shallot.'

Clinton smiled and sketched a bow to both of us. He seemed a courtly gentleman with the inbred manners of a diplomat. Venner gave a gap-toothed grin.

'Sir Robert,' Agrippa continued, 'Master Benjamin and his manservant will be in your retinue. They will travel to Maubisson to determine the true cause of Falconer's death and assist you in the hunting down of Raphael.'

'My Lord Cardinal, Doctor Agrippa.' Clinton's face was now severe. 'You already have my thoughts on this matter. Raphael may well be in England. I speak for all the servants of the embassy in Paris. They are loyal to His Majesty.'

'Yes, yes,' Wolsey testily interrupted. 'But we have established that the French only seem to know our secrets after the king's letters and memoranda are delivered to our embassy in Paris.'

'Yes, yes, Your Grace,' Clinton snapped back, revealing the tension between the two of them. 'And you also know my thoughts on that. His Majesty should stop such letters being sent.'

'Sir Robert,' Agrippa smoothly intervened, 'we have been down this path before. If our embassy in France cannot receive its instructions, His Majesty's affairs there will come to a halt.'

'How long has this been going on?' I asked.

Clinton looked at me in surprise, Wolsey in annoyance as if resenting my interruption.

'About eighteen to twenty months!' Agrippa snapped back.

Benjamin nudged me to keep quiet. I looked away and went cold with fright. Agrippa's black cat sat beneath one of the heavy, gold-encrusted arrasses, crouched like a panther, his amber eyes studying me as if I was a mouse. Not a blink, not a change of expression. I looked back at Agrippa. His eyes had turned the same colour and I caught a whiff of that strange perfume which sometimes emanated from him, sweet but sickly. He, too, was watching me and

I shivered. What deadly game, I wondered, was about to begin?

'Your Grace,' Clinton spoke up, 'your nephew and his companion will be most welcome in our retinue but I cannot promise you any success.'

'Like your last mission!' Wolsey snapped.

Clinton flinched. Wolsey stretched out a hand and patted him gently on the shoulder.

'Sir Robert,' he said softly, 'my words were harsh. I withdraw them. It was due to your efforts that we discovered the name of Raphael.'

'How's that?' Benjamin asked.

Clinton smiled and I noticed how white and even his teeth were. A careful, precise man, I thought at the time, one who looked after his health.

'Over two months ago,' Clinton explained, 'I and my wife, the Lady Francesca, visited Maubisson just before Lent to see what help could be given in tracking the spy down.' He shook his head. 'I think it was the week before Ash Wednesday. Falconer – well, Giles, for he and I were friends – devised a scheme whereby one of our agents would use one of Paris's most expensive whores to trap a leading member of the Luciferi. She passed on to our agent the name Raphael, though he paid for it with his life. He was attacked and killed whilst leaving Paris.' Clinton shrugged. 'I returned to England after Holy Week had begun. Six weeks later Falconer was discovered at the base of the tower.' He looked at Wolsey. 'My Lord Cardinal, have you told your nephew of the other matter?'

Wolsey stroked his chin as if feeling the gentle stubble now growing there. 'Ah, yes, the king's matter. Doctor Agrippa?'

The magician turned, stared at the cat and said something in a strange language. The cat immediately rose, padding like a shadow across the floor, and jumped into its master's lap. He played for a few seconds with the animal's jewelled collar then turned his eyes on me. I shivered for they were soulless, clear as ice.

'The matter of the king,' Agrippa announced, and I remembered a previous conversation with him on the wild heathlands of Leicester, how he had described Henry as the Great Dark Prince, the Mouldwarp. He was now using his powers to remind me of that as if the matter he was about to broach was more important than any spy. Undoubtedly, our journey to France was linked to the growing darkness in our king's twisted soul.

'Our noble king,' Agrippa continued, 'in his youth, went to Paris and visited the Chateau de Maubisson. He became friendly with a most learned old priest in the village, Abbe Gerard. Indeed, the abbe was his confessor. Henry gave him a book and now wants it back but the Abbe Gerard is dead, probably also murdered. On the Wednesday after Falconer was killed, the good priest was found floating in his own carp pond, no mark of violence on his body. His house had been searched and the book was missing.'

'What is this book?'

Agrippa grinned. 'A copy of Augustine's work On Chastity:

'Do you think,' Benjamin asked, 'the Luciferi have this book? Why is it so important?'

'No, we think the Luciferi did not find it. The good abbe probably hid it.' Agrippa made a face. 'As for its importance? We do not wish to explain that.'

'And while we are gone?' my master asked. 'What about the manor, my school in Ipswich?'

'All will be well. A steward will manage the manor and My Lord Cardinal has been only too pleased to appoint a schoolmaster so your noble establishment can continue. Now,' Agrippa stirred, 'Master Shallot, Sir Robert, I pray you excuse us. My Lord Cardinal wishes words alone with his nephew.'

Clinton smiled, rose and he and Venner slipped silently out of the room. I would have followed but Benjamin held my wrist fast.

'Master Shallot!' Agrippa repeated. 'I have asked you to leave!'

'Roger is my friend,' Benjamin answered. ‘I trust him with my life.'

' "Master Shallot is my friend!" ' Wolsey mimicked spitefully. 'My good nephew, if you wish to protect Master Shallot, the less he knows the better.' He looked round. 'This is my palace but the king is here and God knows who listens in!'

Benjamin looked at me, his dark eyes troubled. I gently prised my wrist free.

'Master,' I said softly, 'it's best if I go.'

(Quite the diplomat, you think? Oh, no, old Shallot was getting frightened. If knowledge was to be imparted that might threaten me, then it was time to show a clean pair of heels and, perhaps, indulge in some honest lechery.)

My master did not demur and I slipped quietly out of the chamber. I tried to eavesdrop but the door was too thick. So I wandered round the corridors of Hampton Court. Now this was not as magnificent then as it is today. The Great Hall had yet to be built, as had the tennis court and tilt yard. Of course, if you go there now, you can look at the great clock built by those two witches Kratzer and Oursian. You see, when Wolsey fell from power and died in Leicester Abbey, crushing my hand and whispering, 'If I had served my God as well as I served my king, he would not leave me to die like this,' Agrippa transferred his allegiance to Henry and brought those two witches over to build a special clock. It's an astronomical device based on a twenty-four-hour pattern which tells the time of day, the position of the moon, the constellations of the zodiac. You must go and see it. It's a work of art!

Nevertheless, even in my green and salad days (Master Shakespeare has asked to borrow this phrase), Hampton Court was a diamond of a residence. Wainscoted walls. New hangings replaced every week by yeomen and grooms of the wardrobe. Silk coverings on the beds. Massive cupboards which covered an entire wall, all stuffed with silver and gold plate. Fresh water was brought in through leaden pipes built by Italian craftsmen, there were even privies, and underground streams cleaned the sewers. I wandered down to the kitchens where Wolsey's chefs were busy creating subtleties, strange confectionery creations: towers and castles of sugar ready to launch their assault on valiant teeth. The French master chef, dressed in his long bespattered apron, stood by his post chopping, slicing, stirring and mixing with a vigour which drenched him in sweat whilst he swore at his apprentices for this or that. Indeed, with the great roaring fires it looked like hell and the chef, Satan, attended by an army of demons labouring over turning spits and shining platters, interlarding the dripping, roasting lambs and piglets with their own globules of sweat.

I walked up this way and down that. Now I knew the king was in residence because his gold and leopard standards had been planted all around the entrance. By chance, I found myself in the royal apartments, a long, polished gallery where the freshly waxed wood winked in the sunlight and the walls shimmered with the exquisite tapestries hung there. I thought the king was hunting with his greyhounds or Flemish falconers. There were no guards about so I tip-toed along the gallery. My ear was caught by the sweet sounds of love-making: delicious 'Oohs' and 'Ahs', interspersed with the grunts and deep groans of a voice I recognised as the king's.

Well, as you know, I am as curious as the devil. I edged along the wall and peered quickly through a half-open door. The small chamber inside was brilliant with differing hues. I saw white wool carpets on the gleaming floor and also glimpsed clothing of the costliest taffeta, lace and cambric, but my eyes were drawn to the great silk-draped four-poster bed. All I could see were a pair of white legs wrapped round a creaking great torso and the royal arse going up and down like a pair of bellows whilst the 'Oohs' and 'Ahs' were chorused by Henry's groans of lustful delight. I wondered who the young girl was, acting the doe for Henry's buck, but I decided not to wait and see and promptly fled. Nevertheless, my excitement was aroused and, when Benjamin left the cardinal's chamber, he glared at my flushed face suspiciously.

'What have you been up to, Roger?'

'Nothing, master, just a little sightseeing. And what did dear Uncle wish to impart?'

Benjamin grinned and linked his arm through mine. 'Matters of state, Roger, matters of state.' He stopped, his face long and serious. 'A dance is about to begin,' he murmured as if speaking to himself. 'The musicians in the gallery are about to put flute to lips and fingers to lyre.' He breathed out heavily. 'A sinister dance, Roger.'

I shivered and wondered if it was time for old Shallot to disappear or go ill with ague, but I remembered my promise. I was Benjamin's man and I was committed, whatever happened. It sounds so brave, doesn't it? If I'd known what was about to happen I would have fled like the wind. (My chaplain squirms on his little bum. He liked my description of royal love-making but that's nothing to what we had to face: murder; secret assassins; blood-thirsty rebels; the gleaming tusks of a wild boar; and that deadly chase in the maze at the Tour de Nesle. And yet these are as naught compared to the sheer wickedness of the Luciferi and the treachery of the masters we served.)

We spent the next day lolling round Hampton Court. Wolsey's clerks drew up the necessary letters of accreditation, warrants and bills for the exchequer. Grooms and ostlers furnished us with horses for our journey. That evening we attended a royal banquet in the magnificent setting of Wolsey's hall. There were so many wax candles you would think it was daylight and the flames dazzled the gold and silver plate stacked high in the ornately carved cupboards. The carpets on the floor were silk, the hangings on the walls fresh from the looms of Flanders, and the air was thick with the smell of red roses arranged in precious vases round the room. The table on the dais where King Henry would sit was overhung with a gorgeous cloth of state.

We sat at one of the two tables just beneath the dais. Benjamin, I remember, was on my left, some beautiful damsel on my right. I would have liked to have got to know her better but I drank too much. All the plate was of heavy gold and the table cloths were silken, perfumed sheets hung heavy with gold embroidery. The meal was delicious, the wines the best from all over Europe. There were eighteen courses, the most exotic being the confectionery. Artists had been hired especially to prepare these culinary masterpieces in the lifelike forms of birds, beasts and cattle, jousting courtiers in full armour, soldiers battling with cross-bows, knights dancing with ladies; all were vividly depicted in the gilded confections which rose over a yard high from the groaning dining tables. Each one of us was given a chess board complete with chess men made entirely of sweetmeats. This was a parting gift but I dropped mine and the bloody dogs were on it in a flash, whilst Benjamin, kind as ever, gave his to the page who served us. Sweet-voiced children from the royal choir sang madrigals and, halfway through the meal, we were escorted by torchlight to watch a Latin comedy by Platus. One thing I must mention to you. During the meal a great spider crawled on to the table cloth and I went to kill it with the leg of chicken I was gnawing, but Benjamin stopped me.

'We must not,' he whispered, 'harm such insects. They are the cardinal's spiders.'

He then explained in a hushed voice how these bloody insects roamed all over the place. God knows why but the cardinal had taken a liking to them and decreed that no one should harm them. They were known (and still are) as the cardinal's spiders. I always wondered if they were his demons or familiars which could scuttle along the walls to listen for treason and search out conspiracy. (A strange place, Hampton Court! You know it's haunted? First, by the nurse of the young Edward VI. She is said to be bricked up in her room, spinning her hand loom for all eternity.

She was a treacherous bitch who tried to kill the young king, but that's another story. The other ghost is Catherine Howard. After she had been arrested for playing the two-backed beast with Culpepper – and me, though I wasn't caught, but there again that's another tale – the king's guards came to take her whilst she was staying at Hampton Court. Catherine heard that Henry was praying in the royal chapel so ran screaming down the corridor. It didn't save her. She went to the block bravely, announcing to the world that she preferred to die the wife of Culpepper than Queen of England. That really infuriated Henry! Good Lord, he was hopping mad!

'Roger,' he whined, the tears falling down his fat, pasty face, 'how could she? How could she?'

Very well, I thought. She was marvellous but I didn't tell the fat bastard that. Anyway, as I have said, that's a tale for another time. But I have seen Catherine's ghost. A white form screaming down moonlit galleries.)

Ah, well, back to that banquet in Hampton Court where I got royally drunk. Henry was there, beginning to get a little fat but still magnificent in his jewel-encrusted cloth of gold and drenched in the perfume of his own making; he had to hide the smell of his ulcerated leg. All right, I'll tell you what happened. I was fascinated by the woman sitting opposite me: Francesca Clinton, Sir Robert's wife. She was a real beauty, or so I thought at the time. She wore her thick, black hair loose and long. It cascaded unbound below her waist. Her skin complemented her hair; she had an olive complexion which shone like burnished gold. Her lips were red, half-open as if waiting to be kissed, displaying teeth as white as ivory, though I noticed one tooth slightly out of line with the others. But like Agnes's, it was her eyes which fascinated me – large, dark, and almond-shaped. Whenever she turned, whenever she spoke, they exuded an excitement which had my young loins stirring. She hardly noticed me but I was fascinated by her. I listened to her voice, rather deep but very sensuous, and turned to Benjamin.

'Is she French?'

'Who?'

'Lady Francesca,' I whispered.

Benjamin stared across the table to where Sir Robert sat, captivated by his wife.

'Of course she is,' he whispered back. 'She is Sir Robert's second wife. They have been married for two years.'

I suddenly remembered that elegant pair of legs wrapped round the royal torso.

'What does the king think of her?' I asked.

'He does not like her,' Benjamin whispered back. 'He does not like the French.'

I nodded and gazed adoringly across the table at those dark, passionate eyes. Of course, I thought, she has olive skin. The legs I saw were white. Suddenly Francesca seemed to notice me. She smiled dazzlingly.

'Master Shallot,' she called in her beautiful French voice, 'my husband says you are to join us in France.'

I just stared back. I would have joined her in Tartary! Lord, when I first met her she was exquisite. I could have sat and stared all evening but Benjamin suddenly realised the drift of my eyes as well as my lechery and, at the appropriate time, seized me by the arm and hustled me from the hall. I went unresistingly. I was drunk as a pig and insisted on stamping on every bloody spider I found on my way back to our chamber.