candles, hurried up with this. Broussac, his face as serious as a father confessor, leaned forward.
'How much?' he asked.
'For your expenses, two hundred pounds.'
'Sterling?'
'No, livres tournois or fifty pounds sterling, in freshly minted coins.'
'And for the whore?'
'Four hundred pounds, livres tournois or one hundred pounds sterling.'
'Where's the money?'
I emptied the contents of one small purse into his grimy paw. 'There's twenty-five pounds. Before you get the rest the girl must be with us, suitably clad, and bringing one fresh gown with her. She must be,' I continued, 'beautiful, wholesome and pleasing. Not one of your doxies,' I added. 'I want a courtesan, someone skilled in the social arts and graces.'
The old rogue heard me out.
'One final thing,' I added. 'I want to leave here and reach Maubisson without let or hindrance. I have seen the pack of weasels below. I don't want to be followed and quietly knocked on the head.'
Broussac smiled, rose, and pointed to the wafer-thin pallet bed in the corner. 'Tonight, rest here. Tomorrow,' he picked up the wine jug and cup, 'you will be safely back at Maubisson.'
He left, closing the door quietly behind him, and I heard the bolts being pulled across. That night I slept the sleep of the just. You see, I trusted Broussac. He'd walk to Cathay and back if he thought there was enough profit in it for him. The next morning he roused me, his manner all servile. I broke my fast on bread and wine, and Broussac, true to his word, led me through the streets of Paris to the Porte D'Orleans, not leaving me until the turrets of Maubisson showed above the trees.
My return provoked little interest. Benjamin scrutinised my face and immediately hustled me to a quiet part of the garden where he let me speak freely.
'The king will be here in four days' time. We have a suitable lady friend?' he asked.
'She will arrive in three days.'
Benjamin nodded and bit his lip in excitement. 'Good, that will give us time to prepare. And the rest?'
I described exactly what had happened to Millet. Benjamin shook his head. 'You are sure it was one of Vauban's men?' he asked.
'As certain as I am of sitting here.'
Benjamin stood and half-cocked his head, listening to the liquid song of a wood pigeon. 'Too simple,' he murmured. 'Far too simple. Oh, I believe you, Roger. Master Millet is a man who likes the best of both worlds, but you say he went to the tavern and turned others away?'
'Yes.'
'Perhaps,' Benjamin continued, 'we are only thinking what we are supposed to think.' He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. 'As for the chateau, nothing untoward has happened here.' He crouched, plucked a wild flower, raised it to his nose and sniffed the sweet fragrance. 'Mind you,' he said absent-mindedly, 'I have been thinking.'
'About what?'
'About the Abbe Gerard. Perhaps it's time we visited the church.'
'Is Millet back?' I asked. 'Oh, yes. Why do you ask?'
'Well, if that bastard can rest,' I wailed, 'why can't I?'
'Come, come, Roger, time is passing. Dacourt has received letters from His Majesty the King and Cardinal Wolsey. Both Henry and my dear uncle expect results and, so far, we can report on nothing.' Benjamin gazed up at the blue sky. 'Vauban's guards are still there,' he said, 'scattered round the castle, but they are great eaters and drinkers and Dacourt has generously supplied them with a cask of malmsey. They'll either be drunk or sleeping it off, so we'll leave now.'
'I'm hungry,' I moaned, 'thirsty and tired.'
Benjamin's smile faded. He came close and pushed his long face into mine. 'Roger, I tell you this: if we are not successful in these matters, we'll have more to worry about than meat or drink!'
Well, you know me, put like that I had little choice. I re-saddled my horse and within the hour we'd slipped through a postern gate, following the path round the lee of the hill and down to the church of Maubisson village. Cure Ricard was not pleased to see us. The poor fellow had scarcely recovered from the fright of Vauban's visits. Oh, he invited us in, but only the sound of Benjamin's clinking purse made him a more genial host. His housekeeper served us bowls of pottage, liberally garnished with peppers and peas, and watery beer he must have made himself.
'I suppose,' the yellow-skinned priest began, 'there's no crime in talking to people who patronise our church?' 'What do you mean?'
'Well, the English envoys, Sir John Dacourt and Sir Robert Clinton, often came here to watch the Abbe Gerard celebrate Mass. They gave him gifts and the old priest liked to hear the gossip of the English court.'
'Did they ever ask about His Majesty's book?'
'You mean St Augustine's work On Chastity! No, they did not.'
'But Vauban has?'
'Well, yes,' Ricard stammered. 'He has, but I tell you, masters, it can't be found. I say again the same to you as I have to them. The Abbe Gerard claimed he would take it to heaven, that it would be with him in Paradise.'
The priest looked nervously over his shoulder at the silent girl who crouched before the hearth as if carved from stone.
'The abbe was like that,' he continued in a half-whisper. 'He was always making little jokes.'
'What did the abbe do?' I asked curiously. 'I mean, he had the care of souls, the duties of this parish, but what was he interested in? After all,' I glanced slyly at the girl, 'everyone needs some respite from the tedium of life.'
Ricard sniffed and pointed to huge copies of the Bible which lay chained to a heavy lectern in the far corner.
'He studied scripture. He claims to have heard the lectures of Erasmus and Coelet. He was forever translating different passages from the Gospels.'
'Was he a Lutheran?'
'Of course not!' Ricard snorted. 'But he had his theories.'
'About what?'
'About miracles. He was fascinated by the miracles of Christ and speculated whether Jesus performed them because he was God or because he was a perfect man.'
'May I have a look?' Benjamin asked and, without waiting for an answer, rose and went over to open the great Bible.
'The New Testament,' Ricard called out. 'He was forever studying the New Testament.'
Benjamin nodded and found the place easily enough; the pages were worn by many thumb prints. For a while he stood and studied the book in silence, then he smiled and waved me closer.
'Look,' he whispered.
Benjamin was studying a chapter from St Matthew's gospel, where Christ walked on the waters during the storm on Galilee Lake. Now, my master was a biblical scholar, hence his speed and dexterity in finding the place, but he'd been helped by the Abbe Gerard who'd carefully underlined each word and scribbled his own commentary in the margin. Benjamin peered at this and translated it for me.
'Did Jesus really walk on water?' the abbe had written. 'Or did the sea of Galilee have shallows?' 'What does it mean?' I asked.
Benjamin made a face. 'There are some scholars,' he whispered, turning his back so Ricard, who was craning his neck, couldn't hear him, 'who maintain that certain of the miracles in the New Testament can be explained by natural phenomena. Now Jesus walking on the waves is one of these: they claim the Sea of Galilee is very shallow and what the apostles thought was Christ walking on the waters was really Christ walking along some sand bank.'
'Very interesting,' I answered. 'But do they explain how Jesus stilled the storm? And can you tell me, master, what this has got to do with our present problem?'
