The Poisoned Chalice (14 page)

(It just goes to show you that Henry could fool anyone, and invariably did. At least two of his wives and three of his principal ministers paid the price, not to mention a legion of others whose only reward for speaking their minds was a short journey to the executioner's block on Tower Hill.)

'And King Henry's gift to him?' Benjamin pointedly asked.

'Oh, the abbe was very proud of the gift. A copy of St Augustine's
On Chastity,
I believe. He showed it to me once. I am not a scholar but I saw it was personally annotated by your king. Abbe Gerard usually kept it well hidden.'

'And you never saw it?'

'As I have said, only once.'

'Where is it now?'

'I don't know. You see the abbe had very few possessions. I searched for that but never found it.'

Benjamin stared at the carp pond.

'Monsieur le Cure, since the abbe's death, has anything strange happened here?'

'No. Of course, there was mourning and grief at the abbe's sudden death and his funeral caused disruption in the normal tedium of our lives.' The cure's voice quickened. 'Ah, yes, one incident. The day after the funeral I was out visiting all day. Simone had gone back to her family. On my return I found the doors had been forced. Someone had carefully searched the house from top to bottom but nothing was missing. I did wonder if they were searching for the book. In itself it is valuable, being recently translated from the original Greek and annotated by a king.'

'Did the abbe ever say what would happen to the book after his death?'

'Yes, he joked and said he would take it to heaven with him. How it deserved to go to Paradise.'

'Ask him where the abbe is buried,' I said, an idea half-forming in my mind.

'In our cemetery,' Ricard replied. 'Under the old yew tree. The parishioners bought him a head stone. You can see it there. It's marked simply with his name and the cross of Lorraine.'

'May we see inside the church?' Benjamin asked.

Ricard agreed and was searching for the key on the ring of his belt when we heard the sound of horses and men shouting. We followed the cure back to the kitchen. Simone was standing by the front door which she held ajar, her hand to her mouth. Ricard pushed her aside, stared out then stepped back, his face pale. Benjamin eased by him and I reluctantly followed. The path down to the lych gate was packed with armed men, soldiers in conical steel helmets and tough, leather jerkins. Some wore breastplates, greaves and other pieces of armour, all carried swords and daggers, with shields slung round their necks. They also carried arbalests, huge wicked-looking cross bows, the type used by Genoese; at our appearance they fanned out into a semicircle. Beyond the lych gate I could see their horses milling about, raising small clouds of yellow dust.

'What is the matter?' Benjamin demanded.

'A Goddamn!' one of them replied in a thick, Scottish accent. I peered closer and my stomach curdled. These did not look French and, despite the royal livery of France some of them sported, they were not regular troops. Most were red-haired with thick beards and moustaches. They had the cruel faces of born killers. I stared around. Some carried standards, chevrons, gules and badges. I glimpsed one displaying the Red Lion rampart of Scotland as well as the fleur de lys of France.

'Le Garde Ecossais!’
Benjamin voiced my thoughts.

I took a step back. These soldiers were the most cruel and professional in the French army, Scottish exiles who served the French crown because of their hatred for England.

(Did you know that whenever the English went to war with France, our soldiers immediately hanged any of these Scottish mercenaries they captured? Indeed, Henry V used to burn them alive. And if any of them captured an Englishman, God help him! I have heard stories of such men taking days to die. These mercenaries were particularly concerned about the skill and accuracy of English archers. The first thing they'd do if they captured one would be to hack off the two forefingers of each hand, the very ones our archers used to pull a long bow. Consequently, our lads, whenever they wished to express their contempt for the French, would show them two fingers. I thought you might find this little aside interesting. My chaplain does. It's a gesture I often use with him when I'm too drunk to argue.)

On that sun-drenched day at Maubisson I kept my fingers well hidden, smiled politely and quietly prayed that these wolves in human flesh were seeking other quarry apart from us. Suddenly the groups divided and a most extraordinary sight sauntered down the path. He was their leader, a soldier, but dressed like a popinjay in multi-coloured hose, a billowing tabard of blue and silver jagged at the edge, a lace-ruffed collar, lambskin gloves and high-heeled Spanish riding boots festooned with bells which tinkled at every step he took. He wore a sort of bonnet on his jet black hair, apparently dyed, and four great eagle feathers were clasped to this. A jewelled necklace round his throat glittered in the sun as did the pearl earrings which hung from fleshy lobes on chains of pure silver. His face was equally extraordinary, pale and soft, smooth like a young girl's, with pursed, prim lips and above them a slightly crooked nose. The eyes were deep-set and shadowed. Is this a woman? I thought, catching a strong whiff of perfume. You see, the fellow didn't walk, he had this strange mincing walk, hips slightly swaying. He was unarmed except for a dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle pushed through an ornately embroidered belt. I stared at that face and something stirred in my memory. Had I seen him before? Yet, surely I would remember such an apparition?

The fellow stopped, one leg pushed slightly forward in a pose which, in other circumstances, I would have found laughable. He peeled one glove off and beckoned like a woman. Ricard stumbled forward.

'Not you!' The voice was soft, well modulated, the command of English perfect.

I had heard that voice before in an alleyway in London. The apparition waved soft, white fingers.

'Go away, you dirty little priest, and close the door behind you!'

Ricard vanished and I wished I could follow him. The apparition smiled lazily at us and beckoned once again.

'Stay where you are!' Benjamin hissed, grabbing my arm.

He didn't have to tell me a second time. I was rooted in terror to the spot. I don't like soldiers and I particularly hate those who dress like women and smile a lot.

Again the apparition smiled.
'Preparez-vous!’

The command was tossed languidly over his shoulder and immediately loaded crossbows were brought up and aimed at our chests.

'On second thoughts,' I murmured to Benjamin, 'let's do what he asks.'

Benjamin grasped my wrist again. 'I will take one step,' my master called out, 'if you take one.'

The apparition shrugged.
'D'accord,'
he murmured, making a languorous movement with his hand. The crossbows were lowered, he moved forward, so did we. The apparition tapped Benjamin on the chest. 'You are Benjamin Daunbey.' His eyes did not leave Benjamin's. 'And your companion is the creature Shallot.' His eyes flicked coldly over me. 'Creature, we meet again.'

His words confirmed my worst fears. This fellow was one of the Luciferi who had threatened me in London, carried out the dreadful murders of the Ralembergs and put the blame on me. (Now the chaplain thinks I should have sprung at him. If I had loved Agnes so much, surely my passionate nature would have broken all bounds? He does not know old Shallot. Do unto your enemy before he does it unto you, but always make sure his back's turned!)

'My name is 'Sieur Raoul Vauban. I am a clerk in the service of His Most Christian Majesty, King Francis I. We were passing through the village and we heard that the cure had visitors.'

Bloody liar, I thought.

'What are you doing here?' He stared at Benjamin.

'We are the accredited envoys of His Majesty the King of England, and of His Eminence, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. We are staying at the Chateau de Maubisson and have brought to the village our royal master's deep condolences on the sudden and tragic death of the Abbe Gerard.'

'No!' Vauban rasped. 'You are spies!'

'Then, Monsieur, we have a lot in common.' Benjamin held open his cloak so the Frenchman could see his sword. 'What is more,' he continued conversationally, 'you must be a member of the Luciferi. Perhaps their principal archangel. Where do you carry that damned candle you always leave at your crimes?'

Well, that shut the bastard up, and, for a few seconds, that infuriating smile disappeared. My master just stood, cool as you like, his arms folded. I could see he had taken an intense dislike to Monsieur Vauban.

'You are not passing through the village,' Benjamin continued. 'You followed us here. You have also been watching the chateau. Like me, you know the Abbe Gerard was murdered, and you are looking for that book, a gift from our royal master which, by rights, should now be returned to its proper owner.'

Vauban, offended by Benjamin's bluntness, stepped back, his hand falling to his dagger. Once again those bloody crossbows came up and I heard the click of bolts being placed. I edged behind my master, ready to give him support and wondering if Ricard had locked the door behind him. Then, suddenly, Vauban threw back his head and laughed like a girl.

'Monsieur Benjamin! Monsieur Benjamin!' He went up and clapped my master on the shoulder. 'Why do we quarrel? We are both agents of our royal masters. We have better things to do than kill each other.' He grinned impishly at me. 'We get others to do that for us.'

Well, I could have killed the bastard on the spot but I wasn't armed. He was, and had sixty stout friends to support him. So I smiled pleasantly. Vauban stepped back, hands extended, his expression mock-apologetic.

'Look, we mean no offence. We will escort you back to the chateau.'

'We don't want that.'

'No, we don't,' I added.

'I insist,' Vauban purred. 'There are rebels, the Maillotins, about.'

Benjamin shook his head. The crossbows came up again.

'Of course, we agree,' I laughed. 'Good,' Vauban replied. 'Let's go.' We walked down the side of the church and collected our horses.

'I don't like the perverted bastard!' Benjamin hissed.

'Neither do I, master, but keep smiling just in case he changes his mind.'

We mounted and rode back through the lazy summer sunshine, the Scottish troopers massing behind whilst Vauban pushed forward between us. God knows, I thought of Agnes and could have killed him. The bastard chattered pleasantly for a while before suddenly producing a small viol from a bag hanging on his saddle horn. I couldn't believe it. He strummed for a few seconds then broke into a sweet-sounding madrigal known to both my master and myself. (We often sang in St Mary's, Ipswich, my bass a good foil to Benjamin's tenor. Even today there's nothing I like better than to sit in church on Sunday morning and lustily bawl out the hymns.) But on that dusty track outside Maubisson I found the singing macabre. This killer dressed like a popinjay, sweetly singing a madrigal to men he knew were his sworn enemies. He stopped and looked at us.

'I have a good voice, Messieurs?'

'God only knows,' I added sarcastically.

Vauban's eyes narrowed.

'You know this song? You will join me?'

Well, I don't know who was the more insane, he for singing or Benjamin and myself for joining in. Where possible I changed the words, using every filthy, French word I knew. (And believe me there are quite a few!) But Vauban didn't mind. We rode along like three troubadours from some romantic tale. We finished just before we arrived at the main gate of the chateau.

'I enjoyed that,' Vauban said, leaning forward on his horse. 'Perhaps we can do it again? Our voices modulate well.'

'I would love to,' I replied. 'Perhaps one day you can be our guest again in London.' (In the Tower dungeons, I thought, stretched out on the cruellest rack I can find!)

Vauban positively beamed with pleasure, waved us goodbye like an affectionate friend, then he and his horsemen disappeared in a haze of dust.

Once we were arrived in the inner bailey Benjamin gave full vent to his feelings. He tossed his horse's reins to a groom and went storming off looking for Dacourt. I trailed behind, still shaking from a mixture of fear and anger. Benjamin found the ambassador in a small writing office near the great hall.

'We must meet, Sir John. All of us, now!'

'Why? Why?' Dacourt was flustered.

'Because I want the truth!' Benjamin roared back.

The ambassador dithered so Benjamin stormed out, grasped a frightened servant and made him take us to where Clinton was sitting with the Lady Francesca in a small bower built against the chateau wall. Lady Francesca smiled and simpered but, when she glimpsed me, her face became as hard as stone. She rose and flounced off in a swish of skirts and a whiff of fragrant perfume. I stood and listened to those sharp, high-heeled shoes clipping along the flagstones. I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I was sure she had been holding a small phial with the letters '
SUL
' written on it. I glanced at my master but he was too angry to notice, standing tapping the toe of his boot, waiting for Sir Robert to finish reading a letter.

At last Clinton carefully folded the document.

'Master Daunbey, what is the matter?'

My master leaned forward and in curt, clear tones told him exactly what was the matter.

'What do you want to do?' Sir Robert asked.

'I wish to hold a meeting,' Benjamin rasped. 'Of all the ambassador's staff. I need to get certain matters clear and precise. The French are just laughing at us as we stumble around in a fog.'