depicting scenes from the Bible or themes from Petrarch's love poetry.
We were ushered into a small chamber ostentatiously furnished. I noticed with amusement that the tapestries hanging there illustrated the seven deadly sins. Of course, I was fascinated by Lust, a young girl with long, golden hair, breasts like ripe melons, and long, white, slender legs. (I wager Wolsey kept an eye on that, too, being most interested in the sins of the flesh. He had a mistress, you know, a fat, dumpy, little thing, though Wolsey adored both her and the illegitimate children he had by her.) He was awaiting us, a small skull cap pushed to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince, his face dark and swarthy like an Italian's, thick, sensuous lips, a beaked nose and lustrous dark eyes. He was dressed in purple silk and satin trimmed with gold. On his feet were purple woollen buskins. Beside him, on a table, the flat tasselled hat of a cardinal.
Naturally, my master bowed and I had to follow suit, reminding myself with a secret smile that Wolsey was only a commoner and no better than me. The floor was of polished cedar wood and I glanced round enviously at the stools covered with red satin and silver tassels: '‘I. C, Wolsey's personal monogram, was everywhere, sometimes a foot high in carved gold. The air smelt faintly of incense and, of course, that strange smell of faded flowers which emanated from the figure dressed in black who squatted beside Wolsey: Doctor Agrippa, supreme practitioner of the black arts though he looked like a mummer's version of Friar Tuck in some masque about Robin Hood.
Agrippa's face was round, cherubic, his features small and neat like those of a child, except for the hooded eyes and the look of sardonic amusement with which he watched everything about him. A strange man, I thought. Some people said Wolsey hired him as a defence against other wizards and warlocks. No one knew where he came from. I was wary of him though he was always pleasant to me. He once told me not to be afraid as my death was many years off and would come in a way I least expected.
(I see my chaplain sniggering at me so I'll voice my fear. I know that secret agents and societies still hunt me. I have given strict orders to my henchmen that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to hang my chaplain immediately. Ah, good, that's wiped the smile off the bugger's smug face!)
Anyway, back to Wolsey. He was eating sweetmeats from a silver dish and, whilst Benjamin and I knelt before him, he kept popping them into his mouth, watching us impassively. I glanced up under my eyebrows and caught Agrippa's eye. He grinned and winked, then studied the ring on his right hand, a stone of indeterminate colour.
Agrippa claimed he used it to make sure wine was free of poison, though I don't think it was possible for Agrippa to die. I believe he was the Wandering Jew, doomed to live forever.
Wolsey finished the plate of sweetmeats and told us to sit. Strangely enough, he first addressed me.
'Well, Shallot, you've met the Luciferi? You'd call them bastards, yes?'
'You could have protected me!' I replied bitterly.
'Oh, but we did. Don't you remember, in the alleyway?'
'What about my trial?'
'You would not have been hanged. A reprieve would have come through. That tavern wench was a stroke of good fortune – but then you go and get yourself lost!'
'It was all arranged, wasn't it?' I accused. 'You gave Ralemberg licence to trade. You put the handbill in my room. The Luciferi kept away other sponsors, and so did you-till I arrived.'
Wolsey smiled and pulled out a gold-edged handkerchief to wipe his nose. He was in good fettle, otherwise he would never have traded words with me.
'You could have saved the Ralembergs,' I added.
His face hardened. 'We tried to. Ralemberg was very useful. But the Luciferi sent their decoys.'
'And de Macon's ship?' I asked.
Wolsey shrugged. 'The fortunes of war, Master Shallot. If Ralemberg had been more open, such misfortunes would never have happened.' He saw my angry glance at Benjamin. 'My nephew had nothing to do with it, I assure you.'
'But now that road's closed,' Agrippa intervened. 'What road?' I queried.
'Oh, come, Roger. To the Luciferi, Vauban, the five archangels, Raphael!'
He must have seen from my face that I knew what he was talking about. Wolsey played with the gold pendant around his neck and smirked patronisingly at Agrippa as if he was a favourite son. A black cat, wearing a jewelled studded collar, crept from beneath a curtain, padded towards Agrippa and, lithe as a dancer, sprang into his lap. Agrippa stroked it carefully. (You know, he always wore black leather gloves. I saw his left hand ungloved once. The palm bore the inverted cross and the Eye of Osiris and on the back a blood red pentangle. Those of you who know about black magic will know what all that means, Agrippa was one of the high-ranking Dark Lords.) Anyway, enough of that. On that sunny evening at Hampton Court, Agrippa sat and chattered like some benevolent uncle.
'Let us come to the point,' he said briskly.
'Yes,' Benjamin agreed. He had been sitting quietly. 'Uncle, if you have a task for us, then let us begin it. Master Shallot and I have sworn to be your men in peace and war.' Benjamin quoted the last phrase from the agreement he had signed with Wolsey. 'Uncle, you must trust us more!'
Wolsey's hard eyes softened as he gazed back at Benjamin. For a few seconds that stony-visaged politician looked kindly and I realised that, apart from his mistress, Benjamin was one of the few people Wolsey really loved. The cardinal turned and stroked Agrippa's cat.
'My nephew is right,' he said softly. 'Let us describe the task.'
Agrippa rose, putting the cat gently down on the floor.
He stood beside the cardinal's chair, leaning against it with one hand on its gilded back.
'Our noble king,' he began, 'now wishes to contain the power of France. He can do that by alliance with the Emperor Charles V and the Hapsburgs who control the Low Countries and Spain. We intend to ring France and contain it like an army encircles a castle. Unfortunately, the French know in advance every move we make. We have spies in Paris, and the French Luciferi are in London. The difference is, the Luciferi have someone close to our hearts who betrays our every step and turn. Matters have now come to a head. The English embassy in France has a mansion in the Rue des Medeans, but in early spring they moved to a small castle outside Paris, the Chateau de Maubisson.
'At the chateau are a number of officials: Sir John Dacourt, our ambassador; his chief clerk, Walter Peckle; Doctor Thomas Throgmorton, physician; Michael Millet, personal assistant and clerk to Sir John Dacourt; and the man responsible for our agents… or rather, who was, Giles Falconer. We already knew there was a spy either in England or France selling secrets to the French. It was Falconer who discovered the spy's code-name: Raphael.'
'How?' Benjamin asked quietly.
'One of Falconer's agents was discovered in the Rue des Billets. He had been stabbed a number of times but, before he died, he used his own blood to etch on a piece of parchment the name Raphael. Now on Easter Monday last [almost six weeks ago I thought], Falconer retired to his chamber. Late that night both Millet and Throgmorton heard him going upstairs to the top of one of the towers of the chateau. Millet peeped out of his chamber, Falconer had a goblet in his hand, he was smiling but not drunk. Throgmorton heard him singing. On Tuesday morning, Falconer was found at the base of the tower, his neck broke, his head shattered.'
'He could have slipped,' Benjamin said.
'Impossible. The tower does have a crenellated wall but the gaps have iron bars across to prevent anyone falling. Moreover, the tower roof is sprinkled with fine sand to prevent anyone slipping. Throgmorton, who surveyed the area after Falconer's body had been discovered, found no trace of any such slip or, indeed, of anyone else being with Falconer on the top of the tower.'
'Could it have been suicide?' I asked.
'I doubt it. The rest of the embassy met Falconer at dinner that Monday. He was as happy as ever. Falconer was a bachelor but a man in love with life. He enjoyed his work and was one of the best agents we had.' Agrippa's eyes hardened. 'Indeed, he was a personal friend of mine.'
Another black magician? I wondered.
'No,' he snapped, 'Falconer was murdered.'
'The wine,' I asked. 'Was it poisoned?'
Agrippa smiled sweetly. 'We considered that but Sir John Dacourt, an honest old soldier, was with Falconer in his room when he broached the bottle. Dacourt had a cup of the same wine and suffered no ill effects.'
