The poisoned chalice srs-2 Read online

  'And that is all?'

  'Sometimes a small purse of silver from the coffers of her husband.'

  Benjamin nodded and stared where an ostler was trying to calm an excited horse.

  'And your two companions, the ones in France? Do they stop there?'

  'Again, sometimes. It's an ideal place.'

  'But you don't stop there every time?'

  'No,' Hollis replied. 'I would say one in every three times.' He smirked. 'We do not wish to lose a good, soft bed because of our greed.'

  'And the pouch you carry?' I asked. 'With the letters and documents?'

  Twynham's face became grave with self-importance. 'When we sleep, one of us has it chained to our wrist. No one can touch that bag.'

  'But two of your companions were killed?' Benjamin added softly.

  Hollis turned and spat a stream of yellow phlegm. 'Yes, I know, but the French protect and afford us every comfort. Those messengers were killed by outlaws. It sometimes happens.' Benjamin nodded and quietly turned the conversation back to horseflesh. As we walked away I looked at him sideways. He had that distant look which showed he was absorbed in solving some problem.

  'Master,' I touched him on the shoulder, 'it is strange that these messengers stop at the same convent where the Lady Francesca was educated. Do you think she could be the spy?'

  Benjamin ruffled his long, black hair with his hands.

  'I doubt it,' he said quietly. 'First Lady Francesca may be beautiful, she may have a sharp wit, but not the power to collect and convey secret information to some spy-master in Paris. Secondly, she would not be privy to any information contained in those letters. Oh, her husband may chatter but I doubt if he gives her a blow by blow account of English activities in France. Thirdly, you have heard the messengers. They only stop at St Felice one out of every three times and, when they do, the bag is chained to their wrists.' He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. 'And even if the good nuns did seduce them, they would have to break the seal on the pouch as well as my lord cardinal's special seal on each letter, decode the cipher and re-seal them again.' He shook his head. 'No, no, that's impossible.'

  Later in the day we received instructions that Sir Robert and his party would be leaving the following morning. The lord cardinal wished us to attend one more of his interminable banquets – and this is where I made a bad situation worse. The banquet began with the usual mumbo-jumbo, except the cardinal dined alone at the high table under a rich cloth of state, his fat body almost hidden by platters of heaped delicacies, whilst all around him stood serving men to refill his goblet, replenish napkins or offer a fresh knife. There was no sign of the king nor, regrettably, Lady Clinton. Suddenly we were disturbed by the roar of many small cannons being fired all at once outside the palace. The gunfire sounded like a burst of thunder. Everyone sprang to their feet but the cardinal's heralds called for silence and he sent his revels master, Henry Guildford, to see what was going on. (Oh, by the way, I never saw Agrippa at these banquets. Indeed, I never saw him eat. Strange, isn't it?) Well, the revels master returned, saying that some masked noble figures had arrived at the water stairs. Wolsey sent the fellow down to escort these strange guests up and we just sat watching the door. Guildford returned leading a large company of masked figures who marched into the hall to the raucous clamour of tambour and fife.

  Now these visitors were dressed in simple shepherds' tunics though they were fashioned in stripes of crimson satin and cloth of gold. Visors and artificial beards hid their faces whilst false hair of fine gold wire and black silk covered the rest of their heads. These masquers filed solemnly, two-by-two, down to the high table. Their leader had quiet words with the cardinal, who smiled, clapped his hands, and a green baize-covered table and two chairs were brought in and set down in the middle of the hall. The leading masquer then stood on the dais, whilst a herald challenged anyone in the hall to play this strange man at dice.

  Of course, it was a load of mummery, Fat Henry playing at masques and mystery. Oh, we all knew it was him with his stout legs and big arse, but everyone became involved in the pantomime. In theory, no one was supposed to challenge the mysterious figure and, if they did, they were supposed to lose. On that particular occasion matters went wrong. To cut a long story short, drunk as a bishop, I sprang to my feet.

  'I accept the challenge!' I yelled, ignoring Benjamin's frantic tugging at my cloak.

  The din in the hall stilled. The masked figure stepped ponderously off the dais, sat down at the baize-covered table and indicated with a gloved hand that I should join him. I staggered across. I don't know why. Perhaps it was pure mischief in me. Or was it something else? Perhaps the thought of dice had stirred memories of that terrible evening in the Golden Turk when the Luciferi had trapped me. Anyway, the very devil was in me. The masked figure clapped his hands, a cup of dice was produced. My opponent (of course it was the Great Killer) emptied his purse on the table, so did I, and the game began. I played as if my very life depended upon it. The rest of the hall left their places and gathered around us. I saw Benjamin's anxious eyes but ignored his warning look. I played to win and I did. I won the first purse of gold, then a second, then a third. The joy and gaiety seeped from that hall as the masked player's irritation became obvious. A courtier leaned over and whispered in my ear. 'For God's sake, man, lose!'

  But not old Shallot! I threw the dice and almost my every throw beat his until Wolsey, standing behind the king's chair, gave a sign for the trumpeters to blow and the game ended. My opponent drew off his mask and I gazed into the red, sweaty face of the king. Now old Henry was a born actor. Indeed, I wonder if we ever saw the true Henry. (Do you know, I was in the council chamber with Thomas Cromwell when, years later, the northern rebels sent their demands and asked for his removal. Old Henry took his hat off and publicly beat Cromwell, telling him he was a caitiff and a knave and would be sent to the Tower. Of course, Henry was playing games. He wanted more time and the rebels gave him it. Time enough to collect troops and send them north to hang, burn and pillage. By the time they were finished there were ten men hanging from every scaffold north of the Trent.)

  So it was that night at Hampton Court. Henry smiled, playing the chivalrous loser. He clapped me on the shoulder, proclaiming I was a great fellow, before sweeping away to join the dancers. I just took my napkin, filled it with all the coins I had won and tied the corners into a knot. Of course, Benjamin hustled me away to a corner by ourselves and that wasn't hard, everyone now distanced themselves from us. The mischief in my veins cooled as I saw the fear in his eyes.

  'Roger,' he hissed, 'for the love of God! If you play against the king you always lose!'

  'I won,' I quipped. 'By fair means not foul!'

  Benjamin pushed his white, anxious face closer. 'No, Roger, the game is not yet over. You will still lose.'

  Now, my natural caution exerted itself as I stared round the banqueting hall. Oh, there was dancing, masques and reels, gaily clad courtiers talking in groups, but I caught the fear-filled glances and realised what might happen. The Great Killer hated to be beaten. No one ever challenged Henry and won. The fat bastard's motto was: 'When I play, either I win or you lose!' The napkin now weighed heavy as death in my hands. My mind raced on how the game might proceed. I knew that royal turd. It could be anything from a charge of treason to a nasty accident. Wolsey swept across the room, his purple silk robes billowing round him.

  'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. The king wishes to see you now!'

  I caught the stench of fear from the cardinal. A fine sheen of sweat glazed his heavy, quivering jowls. The dark eyes were as hard as slate. He glared at me. I knew why he was fearful. I was a member of his party, one of his retinue, and when the great Henry lashed out it was dangerous even to be in the same room as the king's enemy. We followed the cardinal across the floor. Benjamin nudged me furiously.

  'For God's sake, Roger,' he hissed, 'stop this foolishness!'

  I had already decided to do that as soon
as I entered the darkened chamber where the royal beast sat slouched on a chair. (You had to watch the Great Killer's eyes.

  They always reminded me of an angry boar's, small, red-rimmed and vicious – and that's when he was in a good mood! When he lost his temper, and that was often, his cheeks puffed up and his eyes shrank to two small, bottomless black pits. They had that same expression when we entered the room.) Wolsey scuttled to sit down behind him. Benjamin and I needed no second bidding. We fell to our knees, the gold coins clinking ominously in the napkin I clutched.

  'Master Shallot, you played well.' The voice was sugar sweet.

  'Yes, Your Majesty,' I mumbled, hoping I would not lose control of my bowels or vomit in sheer terror. (I always wore brown breeches.)

  'You played against your king and won!'

  My mind raced as nimble as a flea in air. 'Of course, Your Majesty,' I stuttered. 'As the wild woman prophesied.'

  'What's that?'

  I gazed up under my eyebrows. The king was now leaning forward. Wolsey just quivered in terror, shaking like one of the jellies his chefs had so recently served us. Benjamin knelt as if carved from stone.

  'What do you mean?' the king repeated ominously.

  'Your Majesty,' I stammered, 'when I was young at school in Ipswich, I helped an old lady cross a bridge.' I looked sideways at Benjamin. 'Master, you were with me, you will remember it?'

  Benjamin nodded, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  'The old woman was a seer,' I continued recklessly. 'She thanked me for my courtesy and prophesied that one day I would play against Europe's greatest prince in a game of hazard, and win. That, she said, would be my moment of glory, to tell my grandchildren,' I added hopefully.

  (Oh, what a glorious lie! Shallot at his best, the born story-teller! The only old woman I helped in Ipswich was Bridget the Ancient. I did assist her to cross the river. I pushed the bloody bitch into it after she had cursed me for not handing over every penny in my pockets! But, on reflection, it was a good tale. I liked the bit about grandchildren, a pious hope that the Shallot line did not end there and then!) Well, you could have felt the atmosphere in the room relax as if someone had opened a window, letting in the cool summer breeze. Wolsey's mouth twitched, he once more became the most important person after God. Benjamin's shoulders shook as he controlled the bubble of laughter, but Henry sat back, clapping his hands and grinning from ear to ear like some bloody cat.

  'You must tell that to the court!' he roared.

  And, without further ado, I was marched back into the hall, placed on the dais, the heralds braying on their trumpets. I repeated my declaration to an admiring court, listening to the plaudits of praise. All the time the Great Killer stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder. When I had finished I turned and, sinking to one knee, dramatically handed the napkin full of gold back to the king. I would have loved to have swung the sodding bag and hit him straight in the balls but the old tight-fist snatched it off me and threw the gold on to the hall floor so he could watch his courtiers scramble. I thought the cunning bastard was finished with me but his hand remained vicelike on my shoulder. For a while he watched his courtiers make fools of themselves, then hissed: 'A word in thy ear, Master Shallot!'

  I was force-marched back to the retiring chamber, Benjamin and the cardinal trooping behind us. I wondered what was coming next. Henry sat on the corner of a table, one fat leg swinging.

  'I like your wit, Master Shallot,' he said, grinning mischievously at Wolsey. 'I understand you are off to France with Sir Robert Clinton? You are to search out the traitor Raphael and, when you find him, kill him or bring him back for me.'

  'Yes, Your Majesty.'

  'Look at me, Master Shallot.'

  I raised my eyes and stared at that mad, bad face, the fleshy nose, the neatly trimmed gold beard and moustache.

  'I hold you responsible, Master Shallot, you and Master Daunbey, for the return of my book from Abbe Gerard. And, one more task…'

  'Your Majesty?'

  The air in the room became positively icy. Henry leaned forward and tweaked my ear playfully. In actual fact the royal bastard's heavy hand sent an arrow of pain down the side of my face.

  'Three years ago, Master Shallot, I was in France. I wore a beautiful ring, a love token made of sheer gold. It carried a silver Cupid, the eyes of which were fashioned out of pure diamonds.' The king licked his lips. 'My brother King Francis and I had a wager on a shy damsel at his court. He wagered a necklace of great value so I proffered the ring on who would win her favours first.' Those dry, prim lips pursed in spiteful annoyance. 'My brother Francis won the wager and I handed the ring over. He wears it always, never taking it off, but he said that if I could steal it back without him knowing, then I could keep it. Master Shallot,' he hissed, 'I want that ring back! You, with your skill at hazard, will bring it back to me. You understand?'

  'Of course, Your Majesty!'

  (Of course I bloody well did! The fat bastard had neatly trapped me. Not only had I to get his damn' book back but regain his ring. If I failed and the French caught me I would hang. If I won and the French caught me I would hang. And, if I failed and returned to England I would hang. I see my chaplain sniggering! The little turd! Mind you, he's right in what he says. When I look back at my golden youth all I can remember is people trying to hang poor old Shallot. For what? For nothing more than being true to himself.),

  Henry smiled and dismissed us with a flick of his fingers. I'll be honest, Benjamin and I scuttled out as quickly as two of the cardinal's bloody spiders. We did not speak until we were back in our garret above the gatehouse.

  'Master,' I wailed, 'what can I do?'

  Benjamin sat on the side of his bed shaking his head. 'You could use your wits,' he replied sharply, 'and keep a close mouth when you are in the presence of princes. Roger, we stand on the edge of darkness. If we are not successful, we will not see England again.'

  On that cheerful note he lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket and pretended to fall asleep. I'll be truthful, I sat quivering with terror until dawn. And why not? I had been drawn into the deadly rivalry, both political and personal, which existed between Francis and Henry. They were both arrogant, both lechers, both saw themselves as the answer to all the problems on earth. They took what they wanted and would brook no defiance. The only difference was that Francis did it with more charm. But for me, in that garret at Hampton Court, I felt like a rabbit having to choose between the jaws of the fox and the talons of the eagle.

  Late the next morning we left Hampton Court. Benjamin was subdued. He made his farewells to Wolsey and Doctor Agrippa and we joined Clinton's party as they assembled in the great courtyard. The cries of ostlers, grooms, outriders, Serjeants and clerks rang out. Horses were saddled, sumpter ponies laden, the marshals of the household imposing order with their white wands of office. I glimpsed Lady Francesca, resplendent in a sea-green dress and cloak and small hat of the same colour, but for the moment, my lust had subsided. All I wanted was to be away from Hampton Court before I further incurred Henry's wrath.

  Lord, I was pleased to be free of the place, following the white beaten track first west around London, then south across the downs to Dover. Outriders went first then Sir Robert, Master Benjamin and Lady Clinton. The first two soon became boon companions: they shared a common love of alchemy and an all-absorbing interest in plants and their natural remedies. Often our cavalcade would stop so they could both dismount and study foxgloves, fungi on tree bark, or the different types of mushrooms. Though interested in nature, I was still frightened by the demands of the Great Beast and hung back, watching jealously how the coquettish Lady Francesca seemed to take great interest in Benjamin but remained impervious to my own presence. Clinton's chief henchman, Venner, was an amiable enough fellow but his conversation revolved around bear and cock fighting and the virtues of one breed of horse over another. There was not a pretty face in sight so I sulked all the way to Dover. We paused now and again at some hostelry and,
on one occasion, a Benedictine monastery, I forget its name. Well, what does it matter? It's only a pile of rubble now the Great Killer has finished with it.

  No, on second thoughts, I wasn't sulking. I thought a lot about Agnes, her violent death and those of her family. I was satisfied that the Luciferi had killed her and I was determined, in my own cowardly way, to exact revenge once I was in France. Something else nagged at my mind and gnawed at my soul. An idea whose substance eluded me. Once I was aboard the Mary of Westminster and facing the terrors of the Narrow Seas, I put the matter aside.

  Our cog was a sturdy merchantman escorted by a small man-of-war. We raised anchor, turned, dipping our sails three times in honour of the Trinity, and made our way to the open sea. Two days later, after a peaceful voyage, we disembarked at Calais – a dreadful place, England's last foothold in France, nothing more than a glorified fortress packed with men-at-arms and archers, who staggered the streets in their boiled leather jerkins, drinking in the many ale houses and generally looking for trouble.

  The town was packed with carts and horses for the Great Killer always kept Calais well fortified. All a waste of time for his daughter, poor Bloody Mary, lost it to the French and died of a broken heart. (Oh, by the way, I was there when she died. I held her hand as the death rattle grew in her scrawny throat. 'Roger,' she whispered. 'My dear, dear Roger. When I die, pluck out my heart and you'll find Calais engraved upon it.' I bowed my head. She thought I was weeping. Nothing of the sort! I was terrified she might see the guilty look in my eyes for I am the man who lost the English Calais. Oh, yes! I was the silly, drunken bastard who left the gate open and let the French in, but that's another story.) We were soon free of Calais and heading south for Paris. The Normandy countryside baked under a warm summer sun. A peaceful journey. Even the scaffold and gibbets at the crossroads were empty; indeed, I even saw two festooned with garlands.

  'Strange,' I muttered to Benjamin as we stayed at a tavern on our first night out of Calais. 'What is, Roger?'