up at the ceiling.
'Lady Francesca could be correct,' he began. 'Perhaps Throgmorton's death was a blunder.' He continued to stare at the rafters. 'So far,' he said, 'Vauban and his Luciferi control this game. All we do is jerk like puppets at the end of their strings. Perhaps it is time we took matters into our own hands?'
'And do what?' I asked. 'Storm the Louvre Palace, seize Vauban and torture him until he tells us all? Knowing that sadistic bastard,' I added, 'he'd probably like that!'
Benjamin smiled lazily. 'A worthy suggestion, Roger. But we should ignore Vauban, he only receives the information. We hunt the man or woman who supplies him with it, and should follow our suspicions.'
'Such as?'
'Well, Master Millet for a start. He creeps out of here at night. He goes missing during the French king's ostentatious banquet.' Benjamin swung his long legs off the bed and peered up at me. 'And by the way, that banquet gave me an idea. Anyway, Millet's our quarry. I doubt if he will leave Maubisson tonight but tomorrow, Roger, you will slip through Vauban's men, wait in the forest and follow him into Paris.'
'Oh, thank you,' I replied. 'Just what old Shallot needs! Wandering around the smelly streets of Paris with Vauban and his bloody Luciferi following me!'
'You know Paris.'
'Yes, I know bloody Paris!' I wailed. 'Because I stayed there for months, starving and freezing, before being half-hanged at Montfaucon!'
'Look,' Benjamin rose and placed a hand on my shoulder, 'I want you to go to Paris. We have to see where Millet goes and whom he meets. You know the old haunts of the Maillotins. You knew one of their leaders, Broussac. First, try and see if he or his comrades were involved in the attack here. Secondly,' his long face broke into a smile, 'I want you to hire the most expensive courtesan in Paris, someone fresh, someone unknown, someone who will catch the eye of the king.'
Now I was perplexed.
'What do we do, master? Send her into King Francis's bedchamber to ask for the ring?'
'No, no! In a week's time we celebrate the Feast of St John the Baptist, patron saint of England. I am going to persuade Dacourt and Clinton to open the coffers and arrange a lavish banquet at which King Francis will be the guest of honour. Our girl will be there.' He shrugged. 'We leave the rest to chance.'
'And if it doesn't work?'
'If it does not work, my dear Roger, we'll try something else. But Francis will come, and with him Vauban. We'll have an opportunity to watch the French and see if anything happens. For the rest…'He became brisk, undid a small coffer and pulled out a fresh roll of parchment, ink horn and quill, and sat down at the small table, pen poised. 'Let us list again,' he said, 'what we know. For eighteen months a spy at the English court has been selling secrets to the French. He or she uses the name Raphael. Two months ago, just before Lent, Clinton and the Lady Francesca came here, and Sir Robert, together with Falconer, tried to find out who Raphael is. Falconer lost one of his best spies in Paris but not before the name Raphael was handed over. Clinton, with his wife, then left for England.
'The messengers travelling to and from the English court regularly stop off at the convent where the Lady Francesca was educated. There's nothing suspicious about that. Lady Francesca was apparently devoted to them; they send her gifts and she reciprocates.' Benjamin paused, his quill scratching across the parchment as he listed his conclusions. 'Now,' he looked up at me, 'these couriers are also of interest to us. Two of them were butchered outside the convent on the road to Paris though the diplomatic bags they carried were not tampered with but handed over intact to the English embassy. All became quiet until, just after Easter, Falconer shared some wine with Dacourt. He was then seen happily walking up to the top of the tower but later found dead at the bottom. The wine was not poisoned, Falconer was not drunk, and he was alone on the tower. So how did he die?'
Benjamin stared at me but I just shook my head.
'About the same time,' my master continued, 'a respected priest, Abbe Gerard, was found floating face down in his own carp pond. Abbe Gerard was once confessor to our king and Henry gave him a copy of St Augustine's work On Chastity. That book has now disappeared but Vauban and his Luciferi would love to find it.
'Finally, we have the business of the ring. Henry has made our task more difficult by demanding its return, but so far we meet with little success in this or anything else. Raphael is still giving our secrets to his masters. You were nearly killed at Fontainebleau whilst both Waldegrave and Throgmorton have died in mysterious circumstances.' Benjamin paused and drew a deep breath. 'What else do we know? That Millet is acting suspiciously. Anything else?'
'We do know,' I said, 'that the killer must be someone in the embassy here. The secrets appear to be revealed only when despatches arrive at Maubisson or at the embassy house in Paris. But you are right, master, the only clue we have is Millet's suspicious behaviour.'
Chapter 9
Early the next day, I strapped a money belt round my waist and armed myself with a fearsome sword and dagger. I saddled my horse and, slipping through a postern gate, managed to ride round Vauban's men, along the country tracks, towards the main road into Paris. Millet would have to follow the same route for his nocturnal journey and all I had to do was leave the road, lurk amongst the trees and watch for him to arrive. Naturally, this meant a tedious wait, broken only by the consolation of an occasional sip from a wineskin and tender thoughts of my dear, dead Agnes. I became quite maudlin, so locked in my misery I almost missed the faint clip-clop of hooves on the gravelled track. My long wait was rewarded: Millet, dressed from head to toe like a courtier, was riding into Paris without a care in the world.
I let him go and, following Benjamin's instructions, waited for a quarter of an hour before I took up a slow pursuit. As we approached the Porte D'Orleans the task became easier as the thoroughfares became clogged with wandering friars, pedlars, tradesmen, country bumpkins, wandering scholars, troubadours, and even a few Egyptians with their gaudily painted caravans and a tame bear which danced to the tune of a reedy flute. Millet was easy to keep in sight. He stabled his horse at a tavern just within the gateway. I followed suit, then tracked him through the winding streets of Paris.
The city teemed with noise and clamour. Every rogue in Christendom seemed to have gathered to join his fellows and they swarmed like fleas on a turd: musicians; students in their tight hose and protuberant cod-pieces; relic-sellers; rag-pickers with their wheelbarrows full of scraps of cloth; knights; porters; priests; hawkers and beggars; young nobles with falcons on their wrists, riding through all this din in order to train their birds not to stir or flutter at any noise. The gibbets were well hung. Near the Grand Pont the spire of a church had collapsed and was surrounded by a mass of onlookers. Carts full of produce forced their way through from the Seine, jostling with huge carriages pulled by two palfreys which could take six people sitting alongside each other on a bench. The late evening rang with the sound of bells from dozens of churches, rivalled by the shrieks of the urchins who pelted a convoy of carts full of criminals, each with a halter round his neck, as they made their way down to the city gaol.
All the time I kept one eye on Master Millet's colourful jerkin as he wound through the fetid streets, sauntering daintily around piles of refuse and ducking carefully to avoid the painted signs which hung outside the houses, at times so clustered together they blocked out the sun. We crossed the Petit Pont on to the He de la Cite. For a while my quarry sauntered under the towering mass of Notre Dame where stone gargoyles snarled above us. He stopped at a wine shop. I waited outside, realising that Master Millet was killing time. When he came out he walked straight into the nearby cemetery of Holy Innocents Church.
The graveyard was massive, like a huge paddock, surrounded by a high, brick wall. It was a favourite meeting place for Parisians; lovers lounged in the long grass whilst hucksters laid their wares out on the tops of weather- beaten tombstones. A strange place, this cemetery! The mud there was so foul some claimed it was mixed with sulphur, and it had become a favourite burial place because the corpses interred there decomposed quickly. One wag said it took only nine days. The bodies were buried just a few inches beneath the soil and I saw two dogs fighting over some deceased person's thigh bone. Most of the weather-worn tombstones had collapsed and the few wooden crosses leaned drunkenly to one side. In the centre was a huge watch light, a thick tallow candle placed on a high stone plinth, protected by a metal hood, which was lit every night to fend off evil spirits. Little arches had
