The Poisoned Chalice (16 page)

Dacourt praised my prompt heroic action and I played the role of the modest hero, gulping his wine and giving shrewd assessments of the strategy of the attackers. However, when I doubted that the Maillotins had ever launched such an attack, Dacourt bellowed his disbelief.

‘I know these vermin!' he declared. 'They hate the English. They grudge us our victories in France and the occupation of Calais. No, no, the Maillotins were behind this. Or, if not, who is?' His watery blue eyes gazed bulbously at me so I let the fool have his way though Benjamin agreed with me.

'They're too well fed,' he commented. 'And supplied with all the necessary arms. Let's wait till the morning for I am sure Monsieur Vauban had a hand in this.'

Benjamin's words were prophetic. The next morning Vauban and his horde of cavalry trotted into the castle grounds as if they were a welcoming relief. Benjamin and I stayed well away from him as he consulted with Dacourt and Clinton. Only when he had gone did my master ask what had happened.

'Two things,' Dacourt bellowed cheerfully. 'Vauban will leave some of his horsemen camped outside the chateau walls against further attack. Secondly, tomorrow is His Most Christian Majesty's naming day. We have all been invited to the festivities at his palace of Fontainebleau.' The ambassador grinned at both of us. 'On behalf of all of you, I have accepted.'

Both Benjamin and I wisely kept our mouths shut until we were out of the main hall.

'Vauban wanted that attack,' Benjamin muttered. 'He may wish to kill us all, or some of us.' He stared down and studied one of the fire arrows dropped the previous night.

'Or he could just have wished to have an excuse for placing men near the chateau to keep us under closer observation.' He smiled sideways at me. 'But at least we will get to Fontainebleau. A chance to meet His Most Christian Majesty!'

'And examine his damned ring!' I replied crossly. 'Master, in God's name what are we to do about that?'

'Nothing,' Benjamin replied. 'At Fontainebleau we do nothing but watch and listen.' He seized me by the arm. 'At no time, Roger, do we make our move there. What are we but simple Englishmen? The French king is well guarded and he covets that ring more than honour itself. Whatever temptations are presented to us, we must not react.'

'And if we fail to take it?' I asked dourly.

Benjamin grinned. 'In that case, my dear Roger, we learn French well and make friends with Monsieur Vauban because we can never return to England.'

We left the chateau early the following morning, each of us resplendent in whatever finery we could pluck from our wardrobes. Actually, we looked like a group of crows compared to the Lady Francesca who was resplendent in a gown of gold brocade trimmed with lynx skins.

We reached Fontainebleau late that afternoon, and how can I describe it? Its great round towers, the dancing outlines of precise yet beautiful Italian architecture, the splendid red spire of St Hubert's Chapel, the great clock with dogs chasing a stag; on the hour, the bark of the dogs accompanied each chime whilst the stag moved to sound the final chime. Thirteen staircases, hundreds of rooms, alabaster statues of Cupid and Venus with others sculpted in fleshy bronzeness by the French king's Italian artists.

All around the palace were cool, lime-shaded gardens full of lilies, violets and wood sorrel; now and again, white-colonnaded courtyards with shimmering pavements of alternating black and white marble stone. The rooms inside were stuffed with the loot from Francis's expeditions into Italy; tapestries, more statues, gold and silver artefacts, jewelled vases, and the softest carpets of pure wool in various hues.

Grooms took our horses, and minions in the blue and gold tabards of the French king led Sir Robert and Lady Francesca away. Dacourt also was provided with his own chamber but we were taken to the top of the palace. Any higher and we would have been on the bloody roof, and squeezed into rather mean, dark garrets. Now I have always been very particular whom I sleep with and I didn't like sharing my room with a possible murderer. I also resented the way Millet was simpering at me. He was wearing more lace than the Lady Francesca!

I'll keep away from you, my fine bucko, I thought, and if I drop anything I'll kick it to the door before I pick it up. (No, my chaplain is wrong. I'm not being unkind. I just find such people strange though I admit some, like Marlowe, have been great friends. What I am saying is, it depends on the person. Marlowe was charming, witty, and very, very funny, but there was something about Millet I didn't like.) Peckle grumbled about the treatment due to envoys but the good physician, Throgmorton, laughed sourly and said he was pleased to be as far away from the Frogs as possible. Servants brought up our baggage, we unpacked, then heard a knocking on the wall outside. Benjamin, who had been sitting on the edge of his trestle bed, got up and opened the door. He looked out and came back, torn between anger and laughter.

'What's the matter, Daunbey?' Throgmorton asked.

'The French have just put a painting up outside our room.'

'Oh, that's nice,' Peckle observed sarcastically. 'What is it? A picture of the French defeat at Agincourt?'

Benjamin shook his head.
'La Belle Jardiniere:

'So what?' I muttered. 'What the hell are they doing?'

'The painting's by Raphael,' Benjamin replied. 'They are mocking us.'

Do you know, that's the first time I began to wonder about the name Raphael. Why did the spy use it? Why not Ragwort? Or Fat Cheeks? Why Raphael? The name of an angel, an archangel to be sure, and therefore linked to Vauban's motley crew, but also the name of a great Italian painter. Our debate on this intended insult by the French was summarily ended: a wand-bearing chamberlain told us to assemble in the great hall below for the rare privilege of an audience with His Most Christian Majesty.

Dacourt and the Clintons were waiting for us, Sir Robert dressed in cream silken hose, darted below the knees, and padded doublet and breeches of dark sea blue; Lady Francesca was clothed all in white, a small, lace veil over her lovely hair, pearls clasped round her neck. I gasped at her beauty and, like the rest, threw envious glances at her most fortunate husband. Dacourt, however, was dressed as if he didn't give a damn, in sloppy jerkin and breeches which would have shamed an intelligent plough boy. Millet giggled and, whispering to the old soldier that his points were undone, asked did he wish to astonish the French with his apparent prowess? Dacourt laughed gruffly and turned surreptitiously away to adjust his dress.

The snotty-nosed chamberlain tapped his wand on the floor and we were led along marble corridors, through chambers being prepared for the great banquet, past nobles draped in velvet and cloth of gold, retainers in blue, violet and scarlet liveries, all chatting merrily in French. They stood aside and let us pass, though we heard the sniggers and laughter caused by their little jokes. We stopped before a great, gold-embossed door and the chamberlain turned.

'You are,' he announced in English, 'to be ushered into the presence of His Most Christian Majesty.'

(Most Christian Majesty . . . that was the biggest lie, especially when Francis was allied to the Ottoman Turks, who were devils incarnate. You wait till you read my later journals. I still wake trembling at the horrors I suffered at Suleiman's silk-draped, terror-filled court.) Anyway, at Fontainebleau the doors were thrown open so we could feast our eyes on this Most Christian of Kings. We all trooped in, two by two, as if we were the animals going into Noah's bloody ark. The room shimmered with light, a treasure house of precious cloths and beautiful jewels. At the far end I glimpsed a small crowd who stopped talking and drew apart at our approach. I glimpsed a cloth of state under which two figures sat on thrones and then the devil Vauban appeared.

He looked gorgeous, dressed in a pink silk gown with a gold-tasselled cord round his waist. He wore blue leggings and his feet were pushed into soft leather buskins. His chest gleamed like a mirror as the thick, cheap jewellery draped across it caught the sunlight. Down each arm, from shoulder to sleeve, gleamed those bloody little bells which tinkled every time he moved. He smiled effusively, gave a mock bow, and went to stand beside one of the thrones.

'May I present,' he announced, 'Sir Robert Clinton and his wife, the Lady Francesca, Sir John Dacourt and the other English envoys.'

By now I had forgotten Vauban and was surreptitiously staring at the two seated figures. Francis and his Queen Claude perched like waxen images under a cloth of state of red silk, the oriflamme. The thrones they sat on were fluted and heavily decorated with clusters of mother-of-pearl along the back and arms.

We all bowed, then Dacourt began the usual boring, diplomatic speech bearing messages from Francis's 'brother' the King of England. I noticed a flicker of a smile cross the French king's face at the usual flowery hypocrisies; Francis hated Henry and the English king responded in kind. In a way I preferred Francis. He was a big-nosed bastard with heavy-lidded eyes, high forehead and a weak mouth which he hid beneath a moustache and beard. He was dressed in cloth of gold from head to toe, a simple crown on his head, and I could see he was as bored as I by Dacourt's vapid pleasantries.

You see, Francis was the Salamander King, that wondrous creature of magic which was surrounded by fire but never burnt. Someone had called him this more as an insult than a compliment but Francis took a liking to it and you will find salamanders carved all over his palaces. You know, he shouldn't have been king. He was fortunate enough to marry Louis XII's only daughter and so became the appointed successor. And what a change! Old Louis, feeble and doddering, choking on his own spit. Henry VIII saw him off or, more truthfully, his sister Mary did. You see she was as hot for the joys of the bed as her brother, the Great Killer. She was married for three months to poor old Louis before he collapsed and died of exhaustion and Mary went home to marry the love of her life, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. If she had been married to Francis, Mary might have had a harder time for he was a consummate bed player. As one of his courtiers later whispered to me, 'He slips readily into the gardens of others and drinks water from many fountains.' Oh, yes, Francis was ardent, he had his own
petite bande,
a group of young blondes led by Madame D'Estampes who joined in the antics on the black satin sheets of his bed. Do you know, at Fontainebleau he set up a system of mirrors so he could watch his young ladies pose and inspect them from every angle, whilst his palaces were full of secret passageways with peep-holes in every bedroom for Francis was deeply interested in the sexual exploits of others.

(Poor Francis! Yes, I say 'poor'. At Fontainebleau he was full of the juices of spring but that's before he caught syphilis and his nether parts began to drop off. He got it from
La Belle Fertoniere:
her husband knew she had syphilis and allowed Francis to seduce her. King Francis became so rotten that when they took his corpse to St Denis they had to put it in a lead coffin. It still stank and his nobles were so keen to avoid the putrid smell, they sent waxen images of themselves to the church. Can you imagine it? A church full of wax statues mourning a waxen image?)

Ah, the passage of time! When I met Francis on the first occasion in that throne room, life had not turned sour for him. He was still the great lover, and the woman beside him was the reason for his constant philandering. Queen Claude - or 'Clod' as the courtiers called her - was fat, lame and revolting. Yet she had a kind heart! (Ah, there goes my clerk, the clever little fool: 'You're no better than Henry VIII!' he cries. 'You, too, regard women as objects of lust!' What the hell does the little hypocrite know? Don't you worry, some of the women I've met have proved to be the most formidable of foes. Like little Catherine de Medici who married King Francis's son, Henry. She practised the black arts. Oh, yes, I know about the secret metal box she owned; her turreted chamber at Blois with its magic mirror which told her the future; and her employment of that terrible prophet Nostradamus who prophesied the end of the world. I'll tell you some other time about Catherine's special squad of ladies, the
Escadron Volant,
whom she used to seduce her opponents. I'll finish with this about women: they make the best of friends and the worst of enemies! A man forgives and forgets. A woman can forgive but she never forgets. You mark Shallot's words!)

Now in that room at Fontainebleau so many years ago, I studied Francis but my eyes were drawn to that bloody ring which sparkled on the fourth finger of his left hand. I knew it was the one Henry wanted back. The French king, his elbows resting on the arms of the throne, kept playing with the ring, taking it on and off, twirling it around, whilst throwing heavy-lidded glances and the soupcon of a smirk at Benjamin and myself. Beside him Vauban seemed to share the joke; that extraordinary bastard leaned against the arm of the throne as if he was the king's brother, openly stifling a yawn at Dacourt's ponderous phrases.

The ambassador, however, kept rambling on. Lord, I thought, he'll never shut up. I even considered swooning so as to get out of the room when suddenly a secret door just behind the throne was thrown open and the most incredible sight emerged: a man, black as night, well over two yards high. A crimson turban was wrapped round his head, the upper part of his body was bare except for gold bands round his arms and wrists. He wore white, baggy trousers which billowed like silken sails and red, high-heeled, velvet slippers with ornately curled toes. Dacourt stopped speaking and gaped like a carp. The big, black mameluke was an eye-catching sight but the beasts which went before him on silver chains were really alarming. Two great cats, amber-eyed, with tufted ears and spotted skins of burnished gold, padded as soft as death across the polished floor. The French king suddenly stirred, laughed and clapped his hands. 'Akim, you're late!'

The mameluke grinned vacuously, his mouth opening like a great, red cavern. I closed my eyes in disgust. Where the tongue should have been was a rag of skin.

'Monsieur Dacourt,' Francis announced in perfect English, 'I apologise for the tardy arrival and abrupt interruption of your eloquent speech by Akim and his cats. By the way, I call them Gabriel and Raphael. They are a gift from the Pasha of North Africa.' The king waved the mameluke to a small stool next to Queen Claude who continued to sit there as if carved from stone.

It was then that I noticed something suspicious. Never once had the French king offered a seat to Lady Francesca, who stood gazing at the monarch, an awed, frightened expression on her beautiful face. What really intrigued me was that Francis always honoured women but on this occasion he studiously ignored the Lady Francesca. Indeed, the only persons the French king seemed interested in were Vauban and that stupid, smiling mameluke.

'Asseyez,'
Francis said. 'Sit down! Sit down!'

The mameluke obeyed, still grinning vacuously, though his eyes were hard as marble and I caught a gleam of the great scimitar which swung from his side. He sat down, those bloody cats on either side of him, stretching and yawning, their lips drawn back revealing sharp, white teeth. Of course, the mameluke had been deliberately late. Francis had planned that either to impress or terrify us, I don't know which. At last Dacourt finished his tedious speech and stopped boring everyone. Vauban tucked his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his gown and stepped forward. He looked like a benevolent father confessor about to impart some doleful news.

'Monsieur Dacourt,' he began, 'you speak as eloquently as an archangel.' He paused and smiled broadly.

I heard Clinton hiss with anger at this baiting about a French spy at the English court.

'A speech even the Archangel Raphael would have envied,' Vauban continued. 'St Paul said he might have the tongue of an angel, Monsieur Dacourt, you certainly have that. Nevertheless,' his smile disappeared, 'we are concerned by the contrast between the words of your royal master in England and his secret preparations for war.'

'That's a lie!' Clinton interrupted.

Vauban spread his hands. 'Monsieur, why should I lie? We have information that the English king intends to erect a huge mirror on the south coast so that he can see which ships sail from French ports.'

'Nonsense!' Benjamin muttered.

'No, Monsieur, not nonsense. Your uncle, His Eminence the Cardinal, is ordering large quantities of wheat, malt and hops, organising cohorts of bakers, brewers and under-brewers to work on them; vast amounts of fodder for horses and dried meat for soldiers; whilst iron, lead, copper and saltpetre, not to mention six thousand horseshoes, three hundred thousand horse-shoe nails, six thousand pounds of rope and twenty thousand suits of armour, are all pouring into Calais.' Vauban stood, one leg slightly forward, ticking the points off on his fingers like some housewife checking the stores.

I glanced sideways at Dacourt. His face had gone deathly pale and was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

'But,' Vauban clapped his hands, 'perhaps Henry of England intends to help us against our enemies? However, to assure us of his good intentions,' he sighed deeply, 'it would take an archangel to come from Heaven.' He glanced sideways at his royal master, who allowed a flicker of a smile across his face. 'Monsieur Dacourt, Monsieur Clinton,' Vauban continued, 'this meeting is over but His Most Christian Majesty requires your attendance at the banquet tonight as well as the festivities tomorrow.'

Well, Dacourt literally swept from the room. Even his ears seemed to bristle in anger. Clinton seemed subdued whilst the rest of the entourage, with the exception of Benjamin, looked positively frightened. Once we were all away from the audience chamber, Clinton summarily dismissed the Lady Francesca who swept off in a flurry of flowing, perfumed lace.

'Let us go into the garden,' he murmured. 'It is the only damned place no spies can lurk!'

It was late in the day and we all sat near one of the small fountains, taking advantage of the shade against the hot afternoon sun. A servant brought us glasses of cool, white wine and we sipped them, taking stock of our recent interview with the king.

'That bastard was baiting us!' Dacourt blurted out. 'The references to angels, archangels and Raphael! Vauban was reminding us that he has someone close to the heart of the English council.'

'Yes, and they proved that,' Millet piped up.

'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked carefully.

'For goodness' sake, Daunbey!' Throgmorton sourly replied. 'Didn't you notice those two bloody cats, the jewelled collars round their necks? They were part of Henry's gift to the same Pasha of North Africa. Only the French heard about the ship. Galleys from Marseilles captured it as soon as it was through the Straits of Gibraltar.'

'There's more than that,' Peckle intervened. 'He knew about our king's war preparations, even to the detail of how many horse-shoe nails.'