The Poisoned Chalice (23 page)

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.

Chapter
11

After an uneventful journey I arrived in St Germain late in the afternoon of the following day. The village was a rambling, sprawling place, a high-steepled church at the centre with cottages and the houses of the more prosperous peasants around it. Each stood in its own plot of ground guarded by rickety fences. The streets were dusty, full of screaming children, some of them almost naked, and the women dressed so alike in their grey gowns that they looked like members of some religious order. Most of the men were working in the fields but the
auberge,
or tavern, a two-storeyed building with a bush pushed under in its straw eaves, was doing a brisk trade.

I entered its smelly darkness; there were only two windows and the place stank of cow dung. The beaten earthen floor was covered with scraps of rubbish which three scavenging pigs were obligingly eating. I have always found that garrulous old men are the best source of gossip so I pretended to be a student, the offspring of a French mother and an English father, off to the university of the Sorbonne in Paris to continue my studies in law. Like any stranger I was greeted with obvious hostility but silver creates universal friendship. Drinks were ordered, jokes and funny stories shared about the Goddamns, and then I changed the conversation to the great house I had passed by on my way into the village.