by Paul Doherty
Millet but, first, we don't know for certain if the wine sent to the Abbe Gerard was in fact the same he was drinking the night he died. Secondly, we don't know if Millet took it. Thirdly, the night Falconer died, Dacourt tasted the same wine he drank.'
'We have only his word for that.'
'Yes, but Throgmorton examined the wine later. He said it was free of any infusion. He also said neither Falconer nor the Abbe Gerard showed any signs of being poisoned.'
I watched my theories slowly crumble.
'And, of course,' I added wearily, 'though Dacourt's horse killed Waldegrave, anyone could have dragged the drunken priest into the stable.'
Benjamin grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'I did not say your reasoning was wrong, Roger, only that it was faulty.'
We stayed in the hall and dined with the rest of the company. The conversation was desultory, passing from one banal matter to another. Benjamin did establish that all memoranda, letters and documents sent from Westminster were handled by Dacourt, Peckle and Millet, whilst our mysterious young secretary did take the ambassador's presents down to the Abbe Gerard.
We retired to bed a little more hopeful that some glimmer of light had been shown but, just before I fell asleep, I realised Benjamin hadn't answered my question about disliking Vauban, so I asked him again.
'Go to sleep, Roger,' Benjamin drowsily replied. 'I'll tell you in God's good time, as I will about the secret instructions dear Uncle gave me at Hampton Court.'
Chapter 7
They say lightning never strikes twice but it does when old Shallot's around. I could hardly believe it. We were aroused late that night by the most terrible screams and a pounding on the door. I leapt from my bed and threw open the door. (In my youth I was rash. Now, I'd let someone else do it, whilst I checked to see what window I could jump out of!) Peckle stood there, eyes rounded in fear.
'The castle is under attack!' he screamed. 'Maillotins! They are forcing the main gate!'
Benjamin and I seized our arms and rushed out. This time I made sure my master went first and, whilst he ran down the stairs, I scampered like a rabbit to the top of the tower, forcing back the trap door, standing in the same place that poor Falconer had. I looked up. Stars dusted the sky but it was an attacker's moon which slipped treacherously in and out of the clouds. I peered over the battlements. The wind whipped at my hair whilst my stomach lurched in horror at the dreadful sight below. The dark fields in front of the castle were covered in what seemed to be pinpricks of light until I realised they were men carrying torches, streaming towards the main gate. Indeed, most of the fighting was taking place there. I heard the hiss of arrows and the crashing of some makeshift battering ram buckling the beams of the iron-studded gates. The chateau was ill prepared. I glimpsed half-dressed soldiers seizing crossbows and other armaments and heard Dacourt's voice on the breeze screaming out orders. Most of our archers were massing in the gatehouse, shooting at those trying to force an entry.
I sobbed with fright, even as I addressed the one and only question which confronted me in such a dangerous situation. Was I safe? I huddled down beneath the parapet. What happened if the gate was forced? I could be trapped here at the top of the tower and be either forced to jump or killed like a rat trapped in a barn. I pushed my head over the parapet. Some of the chateau guards were on the curtain walls, forcing back the scaling ladders placed there. Time, I thought, for me to leave. I looked over to the side wall where the postern gate stood and went cold with terror. More pinpricks of light were moving down there. The attack on the main gate was merely a feint.
'It's time old Shallot moved,' I murmured. 'Perhaps search out Benjamin? Get out of the chateau, steal a horse and ride straight to Calais?'
I hurried down the tower steps, across the yard and into the outer bailey. The noise was terrible. Our assailants were now shooting fire arrows and these were already causing havoc amongst the defenders. One soldier lay on the ground like a blazing torch. Others had horrible black wounds to their faces and chests. Dacourt stood grasping his sword like some hero from ancient Troy.
'To the walls!' he screamed. 'To the walls! Don't let the banners fall!'
I am sure the silly old bastard had suffered a blow to the head and believed he was playing out a role from some heroic romance. He saw me and yelled: 'Shallot, where have you been? Now is not the time for a faint heart!'
'Piss off!' I shouted, losing my temper. 'The real attack is not here. They are massing against the side wall!'
I waved my sword like a madman, screamed at some men-at-arms to follow me, and raced like a whippet to the postern gate. We arrived to see the tops of the first ladder against the wall. A burly serjeant-at-arms pushed me aside and bravely told 'his lads' to follow him up. I stayed where I was, shouting out orders and near enough to the postern gate if things should go wrong. Our archers caught the bastards just as they began to climb the scaling ladders, whilst men-at-arms, using the long forked poles lying on the parapet walk, shoved them out of the way. I heard screams of anguish, then the attack faded away as suddenly as it came.
Dacourt, Clinton and the rest congregated in the main hall whilst servants lit torches and others brought ale or wine for the conquering heroes. Horses were saddled and scouts sent out. They soon returned, reporting the attackers had vanished, taking their dead and wounded with them. Five of the chateau soldiers were killed and Benjamin had a small cut high on his cheek. Dacourt estimated we had killed scores of our assailants but only three corpses were dragged in, all of them casualties of the ladder which had been pushed away from the outer wall. They looked scruffy, dirty vermin though surprisingly well armed. Now, I knew the Maillotins, the peasant rebels who lurked in the alleyways and runnels of Paris. I'd lived with them for a while. They were like me, experts in the sudden ambush. Certainly not well armed, organised or brave enough to attack a chateau in the open countryside.
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 Englishme
n? 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 kno
w, 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!)
