stopped me.
'We must not,' he whispered, 'harm such insects. They are the cardinal's spiders.'
He then explained in a hushed voice how these bloody insects roamed all over the place. God knows why but the cardinal had taken a liking to them and decreed that no one should harm them. They were known (and still are) as the cardinal's spiders. I always wondered if they were his demons or familiars which could scuttle along the walls to listen for treason and search out conspiracy. (A strange place, Hampton Court! You know it's haunted? First, by the nurse of the young Edward VI. She is said to be bricked up in her room, spinning her hand loom for all eternity.
She was a treacherous bitch who tried to kill the young king, but that's another story. The other ghost is Catherine Howard. After she had been arrested for playing the two-backed beast with Culpepper – and me, though I wasn't caught, but there again that's another tale – the king's guards came to take her whilst she was staying at Hampton Court. Catherine heard that Henry was praying in the royal chapel so ran screaming down the corridor. It didn't save her. She went to the block bravely, announcing to the world that she preferred to die the wife of Culpepper than Queen of England. That really infuriated Henry! Good Lord, he was hopping mad!
'Roger,' he whined, the tears falling down his fat, pasty face, 'how could she? How could she?'
Very well, I thought. She was marvellous but I didn't tell the fat bastard that. Anyway, as I have said, that's a tale for another time. But I have seen Catherine's ghost. A white form screaming down moonlit galleries.)
Ah, well, back to that banquet in Hampton Court where I got royally drunk. Henry was there, beginning to get a little fat but still magnificent in his jewel-encrusted cloth of gold and drenched in the perfume of his own making; he had to hide the smell of his ulcerated leg. All right, I'll tell you what happened. I was fascinated by the woman sitting opposite me: Francesca Clinton, Sir Robert's wife. She was a real beauty, or so I thought at the time. She wore her thick, black hair loose and long. It cascaded unbound below her waist. Her skin complemented her hair; she had an olive complexion which shone like burnished gold. Her lips were red, half-open as if waiting to be kissed, displaying teeth as white as ivory, though I noticed one tooth slightly out of line with the others. But like Agnes's, it was her eyes which fascinated me – large, dark, and almond-shaped. Whenever she turned, whenever she spoke, they exuded an excitement which had my young loins stirring. She hardly noticed me but I was fascinated by her. I listened to her voice, rather deep but very sensuous, and turned to Benjamin.
'Is she French?'
'Who?'
'Lady Francesca,' I whispered.
Benjamin stared across the table to where Sir Robert sat, captivated by his wife.
'Of course she is,' he whispered back. 'She is Sir Robert's second wife. They have been married for two years.'
I suddenly remembered that elegant pair of legs wrapped round the royal torso.
'What does the king think of her?' I asked.
'He does not like her,' Benjamin whispered back. 'He does not like the French.'
I nodded and gazed adoringly across the table at those dark, passionate eyes. Of course, I thought, she has olive skin. The legs I saw were white. Suddenly Francesca seemed to notice me. She smiled dazzlingly.
'Master Shallot,' she called in her beautiful French voice, 'my husband says you are to join us in France.'
I just stared back. I would have joined her in Tartary! Lord, when I first met her she was exquisite. I could have sat and stared all evening but Benjamin suddenly realised the drift of my eyes as well as my lechery and, at the appropriate time, seized me by the arm and hustled me from the hall. I went unresistingly. I was drunk as a pig and insisted on stamping on every bloody spider I found on my way back to our chamber.
Chapter 4
The next morning Benjamin shook me awake. I got up, thick-headed, with a cloying mouth. But a cold wash and a cup of malmsey soon put me right. After we had broken fast in the small buttery which adjoined the kitchen, Benjamin dragged me outside to the gardens.
'Where are we off to, master?'
'To see Crispin Hollis and Francis Twynham.'
'Who the hell are they?'
'They are the two messengers, the ones who carry documents to Paris.'
We found them in the stables, tending to the horses; country lads whose constant talk was of saddles, bridles, reins and spurs; what was good horseflesh and what wasn't; what horses should be fed and when they could drink. Benjamin, with his usual charm and tact, drew them into conversation, listening to their voluble descriptions of the horses they had ridden.
'So,' he interrupted, seizing the right moment, 'you carry messages from Westminster to the English embassy in Paris?'
Hollis, a fresh-faced yokel, grinned as he cleaned the gaps between his teeth with a piece of sharp straw.
'From Westminster,' he replied, 'Greenwich, Sheen… wherever the court is.' 'And what route do you take?'
‘Dover to Calais, across Normandy to the Porte St Denis, and either to the Rue des Medeans or across Paris through the Porte D'Orleans to the Chateau de Maubisson.'
'And you stop where?'
'At certain taverns.'
'Nowhere else?'
'Sometimes at the Convent of St Felice.' 'Why there?'
The fellow shrugged. 'You have met Sir Robert Clinton?' 'We have.'
'And his beautiful wife, Lady Francesca?' 'Of course.'
'Well,' Twynham interrupted with a grin, 'Lady Francesca was schooled there by the nuns. It's a sumptuous place. Now and again the Lady Francesca asks us to take the good nuns gifts of embroidery.'
'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
