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?'
'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.'
'So?'
'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'
Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?'
'Yes.'
'So who did the French hang?'
'God knows!' I snarled, and turned away.
Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.'
'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'
Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.'
'She seems to like you.'
