He opened his sleep-laden eyes and stretched out a hand.
'Show me.'
Benjamin opened the purse, took one look inside and fell back with a loud groan. 'The stupid woman,' he moaned. 'All she has done is return the replica I gave her!'
'It can't be! She's left. You haven't paid her the second half of the sum!'
Benjamin sat up, shaking his head. 'Yes, I did. She demanded it last night before the banquet, saying otherwise she would refuse to proceed any further.' He shrugged. 'So I gave her the money.'
'Now the little trollop's disappeared!' I wailed. 'And we are left like two coneys in the hay!'
We both washed and dressed and went down to the courtyard where the French king, looking a little more tired than he had the previous evening, was preparing to leave, his household minions swirling around him. Vauban, dressed in a monkish cowl, sauntered across.
'Good day, Messieurs.'
The bastard seemed as fresh as a spring morning.
'On behalf of my master, I thank you for the comfort and solace provided by Mistress Beatrice.' He looked slyly over his shoulder at King Francis. 'I understand she was most accomplished in her arts.' He leaned closer and shook his head, a solemn look on his face. Once again I tried to remember where I had seen him before.
'But you should be careful,' he continued in a mocking half-whisper. 'She is not what she claims to be. One of my men recognised her as a member of the dreaded Luciferi who often works alongside another rogue named Broussac. Do you know him, Shallot?'
I could have driven my fist into his impish face as the enormity of his trap became apparent. The rogue turned away, muttering, 'Lackaday, lackaday, whom can we trust?'
He sauntered back to join his master who, raising his ungloved hand, allowed that damned ring to dazzle in the sunlight. We stood like two fools and watched them depart. Dacourt, Clinton and Peckle swaggered over to congratulate Benjamin on the success of the occasion. My master just glowered at them, grabbed me by the arm and walked away.
'Enough of this tomfoolery!' he snarled.
We followed the French cavalcade across the drawbridge and stood watching them disappear in a cloud of dust.
'We were tricked!' Benjamin announced sourly. 'Vauban was manoeuvring us all the time. Broussac must be a member of the Luciferi. He's probably their spy amongst the Maillotins and would have been the organising spirit behind the recent attack on the chateau. The same applies to Mistress Beatrice.'
'So, Master, we are back at the beginning?'
Benjamin turned and winked. 'Not quite, Roger. Last night's wine loosened my memory.' He stood staring into the distance. 'Let's go back to the Abbe Gerard.'
'Must we?' I groaned. 'Why?'
'The abbe was a man who liked the new learning. A friend of King Henry VIII of England who had given him a book. The abbe said he would take the book with him to Paradise. Now, he died unexpectedly so he could not have burnt it but he had hidden it away where no one else could find it. We did think it might have been buried along with him but,' he grinned sheepishly at me, 'we found nothing at all. Now, last night I remembered the choir loft, for two reasons.' He ticked off the points on his fingers. 'First, the slang word for a gallery can be a 'Paradise'. Secondly, did you notice the carving on the choir screen?'
'No, it was too bloody dark!' I grumbled.
'It was Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.'
'In other words, Paradise!' I exclaimed.
Benjamin turned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'So, my learned friend, we shall return to the church. Vauban and his royal master will be laughing their heads off all the way back to Paris, thinking we are still too half- drugged with wine to do anything.'
I needed no second bidding and two hours later we confronted the Cure Ricard in his stone-flagged kitchen.
Benjamin showed him two gold coins drawn from our dwindling supply of money supplied by the cardinal. The priest's eyes bulged in excitement.
'These are yours,' Benjamin began, 'on a number of conditions. You allow us to go into the church, do what we have to, and after we leave, repair any damage we cause. I assure you it won't be much. Finally, if you value your life, tell no one what has happened.'
Of course, the fellow agreed: he would have sold us the church and the house for the money we offered. Benjamin grasped the keys and we half-ran to open the door, locked it behind us and hastily mounted the wooden spiral staircase. Now the choir screen was really a balustrade with oaken panelling on either side. Benjamin had brought both dagger and crowbar and, within the hour, he had carefully prised loose one side of the screen and there, behind the carving of Adam and Eve in their Paradise, wedged between the two slats, was a small, leather- bound book. Benjamin seized it, stuffed it down his doublet and replaced the screen as best he could. We collected our horses and galloped back to Maubisson as if the devil himself was pursuing us.
We found everyone at the chateau still recovering from the rigours of the previous evening. Only after we had unlocked the door of our own chamber did Benjamin bring the book out and carefully examine it. At last he closed it and cradled it in his lap.
'I did promise you, Roger, that when we found this book I would explain why it is so important and what secret instructions my uncle gave me at Hampton Court. This,' Benjamin paused and drew a deep breath, 'is St Augustine's work On Chastity. Inside it are annotations by our king; one of these is most significant.' Benjamin opened the book and pointed to where the royal hand had scrawled in the margin: 'Quando Katerina devenit uxor mea, virgo intacta est.'
'When Queen Catherine became my wife,' I translated, 'she was a virgin.' I shrugged. 'So?'
Benjamin looked down at the book. 'My uncle has advised me that our royal master wishes to divorce his wife, Catherine of Aragon.'
I just stared dumbstruck as I recalled the sad, dark face of Henry's Spanish wife.
'On what grounds?' I stuttered.
Benjamin made a face. 'You may recall, Roger, that Catherine was formally betrothed and married to Henry's elder brother Arthur in December 1501. Five months later he died at the Palace of Ludlow. Arthur was always a sickly boy and our royal master became heir-apparent. Now the old King Henry VII did not wish to give up either the alliance with Spain or Catherine's very generous dowry.'
(By the way, I knew my master wasn't lying. The old king was a proper, tight-fisted, pinch-pursed man who counted every penny and never paid a bill. I have seen his household books in the Tower muniment room. He used to check and sign every page. He could tell to the last farthing how much the royal exchequer held and how much it was owed. I can confidently assure you that it was the only time in the history of our kingdom that the royal exchequer had more going in than going out. The great Elizabeth, when she visits me, tells me in hushed tones how she still finds caches of gold hidden away by her miserly grandfather in secret compartments in palaces all over the country.
Anyway, in that dusty chamber at Maubisson the seeds of such greed began to germinate. The opening of a wound which sent hundreds to a bloody death, provoked the northern shires to rebellion and led to the suppression of every convent, monastery and abbey in England. It snatched old Thomas More from his Chelsea home, his walks by the river with his tame fox, ferret and weasel, and sent him to the headsman's block. I had a premonition of all this and shivered as I remembered Doctor Agrippa's famous prophecy of how Henry would become the Mouldwarp, or Dark One, who would plunge his realm into a sea of blood.)
'How could he divorce Catherine?' I spluttered. 'She has borne him children!'
'Yes, but only the girl Mary has survived,' Benjamin replied. 'Our king wants a male heir and every one of Catherine's boys has died within a week of birth.'
(Oh, by the way, that's correct. On one occasion when Venetian assassins were pursuing me through the streets of London I hid in the crypt of Westminster Abbey. I crawled through some fallen masonry and entered a dark, mysterious tomb where little coffins lay on slabs like ghastly presents in some grisly shop. I later discovered these were the still-born children of Catherine of Aragon, God give them rest. I must have counted at least six.)
