by Paul Doherty
Clinton suddenly stirred, shaking himself. 'Yes, you are right,' he murmured. He glanced at Benjamin. 'Master Daunbey, you are brilliant. Vauban said that. He wanted you and your minion – ' Clinton stared at me – 'he wanted you killed immediately.' He patted his wife gently on the hand but this time she flinched as though in pain. 'She's innocent, twisted but innocent. I used her. I loved Clare but the king abused me and now he will exist in the living hell I have created!'
Agrippa got up slowly. 'Sir Robert Clinton,' he intoned, 'you are a self-confessed spy, traitor and murderer of the king's good friends and liege subjects. You are,' he continued, 'guilty of the following deaths: the agent slain in the alleys of Paris, Giles Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and the two messengers killed on the road to Paris. Richard Waldegrave, priest, Thomas Throgmorton, physician, and Ambrose Venner, your own manservant. You have betrayed your king, placing both his body and his realm in great danger. You have been responsible for other deaths and misfortunes.'
'Stop!' I shouted.
Agrippa looked round in surprise. 'Master Shallot, you do not agree with this?'
I went round the table and leaned over to stare into Sir Robert Clinton's soulless eyes. It was a moment I relished and one I had been waiting for.
'Sir Robert, you are guilty of other deaths; for instance, that of Bertrand de Macon, captain of the ship which was intercepted by French privateers. But, above all,' I gripped his shoulder until he flinched, 'you are guilty of the deaths of Monsieur and Madame Ralemberg, their manservant and my beloved, Agnes Ralemberg!' I glanced up at Agrippa. 'Oh, yes, my good doctor.' I turned my back so that Clinton wouldn't see my tears. 'I was always puzzled,' I said, over my shoulder, 'as to how the assassins from the Luciferi entered Monsieur Ralemberg's house. He was a canny man and would have barred the doors against all strangers, but someone must have knocked, someone with authority, someone who could be trusted. And who better than one of the king's own ministers?' I turned and pointed my finger at Clinton. 'You let the assassin in, you bastard! Oh, you can sit there and your pretty wife can sob her eyes out but I'll see both of you bastards dance at Tyburn! Both cut down half-alive and your bodies hacked into steaming chunks!'
(Actually I wouldn't have done, I can't stand executions, but on that night at Maubisson I felt so enraged I could have done the dreadful act myself.)
'There will be no executions,' Agrippa replied, speaking above Lady Francesca's sobs.
'My wife is innocent,' Clinton repeated flatly.
'Sir Robert, you have a choice.' Agrippa got down from the dais and faced him squarely. 'We might not get you to Calais alive, Vauban may interfere, though there's a good chance we could. In which case, you would return to England, be tried as a traitor in Westminster Hall and suffer the most dreadful death. Or, we can arrange the same at Maubisson, at dawn tomorrow morning. Or…' Agrippa paused and stared at my master.
'Or,' Benjamin continued, 'we can leave matters to you yourself.'
'My wife,' Clinton repeated, 'is innocent of everything but her own anger and hurt.'
'The Lady Francesca may return to her convent,' Agrippa stated. 'But if she ever sets foot on English soil, she will be arrested, tried and executed!' Agrippa stared at the guttering candle flame. 'You are a poisoner, Sir Robert. I suspect you carry the weapons of your trade upon you. We will leave you for a while.' He pushed the jug of wine nearer. 'You may need further refreshment.'
Chapter 13
Agrippa snapped his fingers and we all, the Lady Francesca included, walked out of the hall. Agrippa ordered the weeping woman to be taken immediately to her chamber. She did not demur or resist or ask to spend one minute longer with her erstwhile husband but, helped by a sleepy-eyed maid and escorted by two soldiers, was led off to her own chamber. Dacourt and the rest, who had been standing outside, hurried to greet us. It was rather ludicrous to see how they had regained their usual composure. Dacourt, the bluff soldier, damning the French and Clinton as their spy; Peckle once more the industrious clerk; and Millet recovered enough to have cleaned the dirt from his foppish face.
'What will happen now?' Dacourt barked.
Agrippa smiled. 'Patience, Sir John, patience!'
We stood in a silent circle outside the door of the great hall, undisturbed by any sound except the calls of the sentries on the parapet wall and the yapping of a dog. We must have stayed a quarter of an hour before Agrippa, followed by the rest of us, re-entered the darkened hall. Clinton still sat in his chair behind the great table on the dais. At first I thought nothing had changed but, as we drew nearer, I saw his staring eyes were glassy and empty.
The lips were parted, the white face twisted in the rictus of death, and the cup which had contained some deadly draught still rolled eerily on the table top.
'A tragic end to a tragic life,' Benjamin observed.
'So may all traitors die,' Dacourt intoned firmly.
Agrippa pronounced, 'Amen,' issuing instructions for Clinton's corpse, chamber and possessions to be rigorously searched and for the Lady Francesca to be returned to her convent as soon as day broke. Agrippa then came between Benjamin and myself, linking his arms through ours.
'Master Benjamin, Master Shallot, you have my thanks and you will receive those of His Eminence the Cardinal and His Majesty the King.' He stopped and smiled at each of us. 'Hand me over the good Abbe Gerard's book and this matter will be finished.'
Benjamin gave Doctor Agrippa what he wanted but Wolsey's enigmatic clerk had scarcely closed the door behind him when my master announced: 'We aren't finished, Roger.'
'You mean the ring?'
He made a face. 'No, our noble king must accept that he wagered and lost. He will never get the ring back. I mean Vauban.'
'What about him, master?'
Benjamin caught my fearful look and tapped me on the shoulder. 'Clinton may have led the assassin to Agnes, but Vauban's the assassin. I am going to kill the bastard!'
I stared at my master's closed face. I have never seen such a change in someone so gentle. Despite the uncovering of Clinton's treason, the fury still seethed within him.
'Why, Benjamin?' I asked.
'Because he killed Agnes.' 'But she was my betrothed.'
'Yes, exactly, and you are my friend.' Benjamin turned away to hide his face. 'I have been through the same hell as you, Roger, only in my case Johanna's mind died, not her body. I killed the man responsible and I shall do the same on your behalf!'
'No, I'll do it, master,' I lied glibly, hoping he wouldn't hear my bowels churn in fright.
Benjamin turned round and, though he blinked, I saw the tears in his eyes. 'Roger, Roger, don't be silly. Vauban's a swordsman. He would kill you in a minute.'
'Oh, thank you,' I replied sarcastically. 'And how are you going to do it? Like Clinton would, poison in a cup or a dagger in the dark?'
Benjamin sat down on the edge of his bed. 'No,' he replied evenly. 'Today is Wednesday, tomorrow the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul. As in England, all our court officials will observe the holy day. No business will be transacted at the French court. Vauban will be with his family in the Rue des Moines.' Benjamin smiled bleakly. 'After all, Roger, he did invite us to call on him!'
My master would not be dissuaded. Next morning he drew a new sword belt, hanger, wrist guard and dagger from the chateau's stores and at my request obtained the same for me.
'You need not come, Roger,' he remarked.
‘I would follow you to the ends of the earth, master,' I lied, and trusted the meagre breakfast I had eaten would stay in my stomach.
We left Maubisson at first light. The chateau was now strangely silent as if the servants knew about the terrible drama played out in the great hall the night before. In the courtyard grooms were preparing horses so we must have left before the Lady Francesca. All I can say is I never saw or heard of her again.
We reached Paris: being a holy day the city was strangely quiet, the great processions would not be held until the afternoon. We made ou
r way by quiet side streets and narrow alleyways to the wealthy quarter on the right bank of the Seine and the Rue des Moines. The city was just about to stir: water-carriers and milk-sellers walked the streets crying for custom. The Provost's men were leading night-walkers and other malefactors towards the Chatelet prison. At last we found the sheltered, narrow street. On either side the great houses were protected from the general populace by high brick walls and iron-bound gates.
A sleepy-eyed fruit-seller showed us Vauban's house. We could see little except trees peeping over the walls, and the top casement windows which leaned out under a red-tiled roof. Apparently the household was not yet stirring so we went back and hid in the shadows of a small auberge, sipping watered wine and listening to the gathering noise from the street outside. Benjamin stayed quiet. Every time I tried to reason with him he just shook his head.
'We must kill Vauban,' he repeated. 'If we do not, he will be the cause of both our deaths. He needs to die. Justice demands it!'
After an hour we left the inn and returned to the Rue des Moines. We pulled our hoods well over our heads and walked down the street. The great gateway to the Vauban house was now open and Benjamin softly cursed when he saw a member of the Garde Ecossais lounging just inside the gate.
'How many more do you think there are?' I asked.
We crossed the street, as if pretending to look for our way, and passed the open gateway. Benjamin stared into the yard beyond.
'I think he's the only one,' he murmured. 'You walk on, Roger, only return when I signal.'
I protested but he pushed me gently away and entered the gateway. I stopped and waited. I heard the tinkle of coins falling on to the pebbles, the sound of a blow, and a few minutes later Benjamin reappeared and beckoned me forward.
'The oldest of tricks,' he whispered. 'It always works.' He pointed to the deep undergrowth just inside the gardens where the unconscious guard now lay bound and gagged.
'Oh, don't tell me,' I murmured. 'You dropped a few coins and he bent to pick them up?'
'Even worse.' Benjamin grinned. 'I used his own club to knock him unconscious!'
We continued up the pebbled pathway. There was a garden in front of the house. Benjamin stopped and we listened for the sound of voices.
'What about the servants?' I whispered.
'There will be few around.' Benjamin replied. 'Remember, it's a holy day.'
We walked around the house; a yellow-haired dog came running out barking but cringed away when I lashed out with my boot. At the back of the house was a small pleasaunce; green lawns, a few bushes, small pear trees in one corner and, in the other, a garden house. On the lawn a man in a white, open chemise and brown leggings pushed into soft leather boots was sitting playing with two small girls. He roared and they would run away, screaming with laughter. A woman sat on the stone bench watching this, clapping her hands and encouraging the game on. We just stood and watched, stupefied. Despite the lack of finery, we recognised Vauban but could hardly believe he was the centre of this pleasant family scene: a man, his wife and two children playing on the grass, enjoying the summer sun. Was this the chief archangel of the Luciferi? The French king's spy master, the spider who worked at the centre of a web? I glanced at Benjamin and saw pity replace the anger in his face.
'What shall we do, master?' I whispered.
Benjamin took a deep breath. 'We do what we came for.'
We walked soundlessly across the dew fresh grass and were almost on top of them before Vauban realised the danger. He was crouched on all fours, still pretending to be a dragon, when he heard the woman scream, saw our boots and looked up. His tawny skin was devoid of any make-up, his hair fell loose, and he had a look of such innocence. Once again I searched my memories for where I had seen his face before.
'I wondered,' he murmured. 'You escaped the maze but I thought you would flee.' He shrugged. 'Everyone makes mistakes.'
'Your last!' Benjamin replied.
'Louise!' Vauban shouted across to his wife. 'Louise, the children!'
His warning was unnecessary. The young girls, dressed in brown smocks and looking like two peas in a pod, ran quickly to their mother, clutching her skirt and hiding behind her as if they knew that we had come to end their game forever. Vauban rose slowly to his feet, ever the dandy, brushing the grass stalks from his leggings.
'What do you want?' the woman whispered in French.
She was dark, petite, pleasant-faced, with a homely figure. I remembered the court beauties amongst whom Vauban worked and realised, with a pang of envy, that he at least had someone to love.
'What do you want?' she repeated.
'Louise!' Vauban ordered. 'Go into the house!'
Benjamin drew his sword, flinching as the little girls screamed even as their mother tried to hush them.
'Madame.' Benjamin bowed. 'My name is Benjamin Daunbey, my companion is my good friend, Roger Shallot. You will not go into the house.' He waved to the small garden bower. 'You may stay there. And your servants?'
'They have already left,' Vauban snapped, his face pale, no mockery in his eyes or lips now.
'All of them?' Benjamin asked.
'Just the old cook and her husband remain.'
'Call them out!'
Vauban obeyed and an aged, white-haired couple came doddering out; only when they reached us did they recognise the danger their master faced. They stood shaking with fear, their terror increasing at the sight of my master's grim face and naked sword.
'Monsieur,' Vauban's wife drew nearer, a protective arm round each of her children, 'what do you want?'
'Madame,' he replied, 'as I have said, I am Master Benjamin Daunbey, a gentleman of Ipswich in England. Your husband is my enemy. I am going to kill him!'
The woman bit back her screams. 'Why?' she gasped. 'Why now?'
'Louise!' Vauban snapped. 'Go to the garden house. Take the children and servants with you. If I am to be murdered, it's best if you do not see it!'
'Oh, I am not going to murder you, Vauban. I am going to challenge you to a duel.'
Hope flared in Vauban's face and those heavy-lidded eyes flickered.
'Louise,' he repeated softly, 'please go. I assure you it will not take long.'
The woman threw one tearful glance at Benjamin and, with the children huddled in her skirts and the servants doddering behind her, went into the garden house. I followed, making sure the door was closed behind them. There were windows high in the wooden wall; it was up to them if they looked or not. I returned feeling a little anxious: Vauban's sneer indicated he might be a good swordsman, perhaps even a skilful duellist. Benjamin might be sorely wounded, even killed, and Vauban would not let me walk away. The bastard watched me return.
'My dear Roger, I am sure Master Daunbey is a gentleman. You will find my sword belt hanging on a peg in the kitchen. If you would be so kind?'
I went and fetched both sword and dagger but, on a high shelf, I also glimpsed one of those huge horse pistols, a clumsy fire-arm stuffed in a holster. It was already primed so I took that for my own protection. Vauban saw it and grinned.
'Your servant seems to lack confidence,' he sneered.
'Only in you, Vauban!' I snapped. 'The duel is to be a fair one.'
He grasped the sword belt, pulling out sword and dagger, and stepped away.
'Of course,' he said. 'It will be a l’outrance. To the death!'
Benjamin doffed cloak and doublet and the two men, their white shirts gleaming in the sunlight, brought both sword and dagger up, edging away from each other, testing the ground for secure footholds and waiting for the signal to begin. They drew together, their swords high in the air. The tips clashed, both turned sideways, the hand holding the dagger going up. For a few seconds they looked like dancers waiting for the music to begin.
'Now!' Benjamin called.
The command was hardly uttered when Vauban suddenly dropped to one knee and thrust with his sword towards Benjamin's stomach. A clever move but Benjamin pa
rried it with his own weapon and, as Vauban rose to lunge with his dagger, blocked it with his own. Vauban grinned, they drew away again, and the deadly dance began in earnest. The quiet garden air was shattered by the sound of scraping steel, the soft thump of their boots on the grass, gasps and muttered oaths. Vauban was a born swordsman and his mocking smile proved he thought Benjamin the weaker quarry. He put my master on the defensive, his sword whirling an arc of sharp steel whilst now and again his dagger would seek an opening. Vauban's confidence increased. He began to push my master back. Benjamin was impassive. His long, black hair became damp with sweat but his face betrayed neither fear nor concern.
He allowed Vauban to drive him back, then stopped. I can't really describe what happened next. Vauban repeated a parry. Benjamin blocked it from the inside whilst striking out with his dagger: there was a clash of steel and Vauban's knife shot from his hand, lost in the long grass which grew around the trees. The Frenchman backed away, his mouth open in surprise. Benjamin smiled.
'Monsieur Vauban, an Italian master swordsman taught me that. A clever ploy, isn't it?'
The smile faded from Vauban's face as he realised he had done his best. Benjamin, who had been schooled by the finest duelling-master Italy could provide, lifted his sword, whilst throwing down his own dagger.
'Let us be fair, Monsieur. Sword against sword. Now, let's finish this matter. Roger,' he called over his shoulder, 'the Ralembergs. How many did the Luciferi kill?'
'Four,' I answered. 'Monsieur, Madame, their servant and, of course,' I glared at Vauban, 'Agnes.'
'And the dog,' Benjamin murmured. 'Don't you remember that, Vauban? The little dog floating amongst the reeds?'
He shook his head. 'As God is my witness,' he replied hoarsely, 'I did not order that! Ralemberg, yes, but not his wife and child.' He half-smiled and shrugged. 'You don't believe me, do you? I told my master not to play with you.' He half-lowered his sword, glancing at both myself and Benjamin. 'We are the same,' he muttered. 'We live in the shadows of the great ones and thrive in the twilight world of our respective courts. I would kill you, Master Daunbey, and Ralemberg, but not the women!'
