threateningly at us. Agrippa pushed his horse forward and stared angrily around. My terror only increased when I noticed his agitation.
'What is this?' he yelled, standing high in the stirrups. 'We are the personal envoys of His Majesty, King Henry of England, you have no right to block our passage!'
The ring of horsemen parted and Vauban walked quietly toward us. He had dropped the pretence of being the courtly fop or dandy. His hair was pulled back and tied with a gold ribbon. His face was grave and stern and the dark eyes watched us broodingly for a while. He was dressed for battle in a light mailed shirt and cradled a steel conical helmet in his gauntleted hands.
'If you are envoys,' he declared, 'let me see your warrants!'
Agrippa handed them over. Vauban spent a few minutes carefully reading them. Never once did he look up at me.
'You are correct, Doctor Agrippa. You are the English king's envoy but one of you is a thief!'
'What nonsense is this?' Benjamin snarled. He leaned over his horse and glared down at Vauban. 'I should have killed you!'
Vauban grinned and shrugged. 'I am not here, Monsieur Daunbey, about that. One of you is a thief. A horse pistol was stolen from my house!'
I gasped in terror and my hand went to cover the great leather holster which now swung from my saddle horn. Vauban saw the movement and his smile widened. He came over, tapped the holster gently and held out his hand.
'You are the thief, Monsieur. I want my property back.' He tapped the saddle-bags behind me. 'And a look at these, as well.'
Despite Agrippa's and Benjamin's protests three of the guards, smirking from ear to ear, grabbed my leather holster and emptied the contents of both my saddle-bags on to the dirty country track. Vauban knelt and sifted amongst them.
'Nothing else,' he murmured. He picked up the saddlebag and grinned at me. 'You may have your property back.'
'You emptied them!' Agrippa shouted.
Vauban shrugged, reached up, and with surprising strength plucked me from the saddle. I crashed to the ground in an untidy heap, my discomfiture increased by the soldiers' obvious enjoyment of an English envoy's humiliation. Benjamin's hand went to his dagger, one of the crossbows clicked and a bolt whirred through the air, just missing my master's head by inches.
'Leave it, master!' I shouted. 'I shall do what he says.'
Vauban mimicked me so cleverly the laughter grew. I hastily re-packed the saddle-bags and remounted my horse. Vauban came to stand in front of me, shaking his head and clicking his tongue.
'Such dishonesty,' he murmured. He waved his hand airily. 'Let the thief proceed!'
His men pulled back into the trees and we rode forward with Vauban's laughter ringing in our ears. An hour later, just outside Calais, we were met by lancers wearing the royal livery, who escorted us into the fortress town. Benjamin was still muttering furiously about Vauban's conduct, whilst Agrippa swore that on our return to England every French envoy would suffer the same humiliation. I couldn't have cared a whit. All I wanted was to be out of the damned country. Yes, I was frightened, humiliated and, if the truth be known, secretly hurt by Vauban's ingratitude.
We had a wretched journey across to Dover, drenched to the skin and made as miserable as lepers by one of those sudden summer storms which sweep the Narrow Seas. We stumbled ashore, grateful to be on dry land. We decided not to continue our journey to London but to stay a day in Dover, in a small tavern overlooking the sea, where we could dry out and calm our queasy stomachs with what Agrippa called good English food.
I remember stumbling up the stairs to the garret we had rented. I stripped myself of every article of clothing and emptied the contents of my soaked saddle-bag on to the pallet bed in search of something not drenched with salt water. I saw a small, brown leather pouch lying at the bottom of one of the bags. I pulled it out, undid the cord around the neck and emptied the contents into my hand. Two objects: the small, blood red, polished stone Vauban's daughter had offered me, and a ring I had last seen on the finger of His Most Christian Majesty, Francis I of France. I went and stood by the window watching the breakers turn to a boiling, frothing white. Now I understood why Vauban had staged that mummery in the forest outside Calais.
Of course, both my master and Doctor Agrippa were delighted. When we met the king in his palace at Greenwich, the Great Killer threw his arm around me, calling me his brother, pinching my cheek and declaring that I was the boldest knave in all his kingdom. I was praised, feasted and rewarded, hugged and kissed, lavished with gifts of many kinds, but old Shallot was beginning to learn that the pleasure and favour of princes is indeed a fickle thing. I saw the king burn the book my master had discovered in Abbe Gerard's church and watched the parchment turn to ashes. Abbe Gerard was your friend, I thought, and he was killed because of this book. Clinton was your friend and you drove him into his homicidal madness. Catherine, your wife, a Spanish princess, is your friend, your lover and wife. Now you plan to set her aside like some public whore or common courtesan. Wolsey in his purple silks laughed when the king did and looked favourably upon both myself and his 'beloved nephew', but I had had enough of princes.
(Oh, by the way, no one told the bastard about Lady Francesca's infection. We concluded there were certain things our bluff Hal should find out for himself. We simply told him Clinton had been seduced by French gold and left it at that.) Benjamin and I travelled on to London. I visited the graves of the Ralembergs under a cypress tree just inside Greyfriars graveyard. I left a red rose on Agnes's tomb, said a prayer, shed some tears and rejoined my master in a nearby tavern. We drank our fill and took the road north to Ipswich.
Epilogue
Well, I have told my story. My old friend Will Shakespeare recently staged one of his plays here in the great hall, The Winter's Tale I think it was called. A subtle conceit of jealousy and intrigue. The king in the play reminded me of the Great Killer whilst another character, Autolycus, was definitely me: 'A teller of tales, a snapper up of mere trifles'. My chaplain giggles and thinks that another of Will Shakespeare's quotes is more apt for me, being 'full of sound and fury, signifying nothing'. Ah, hell, but what does he know? Wolsey's gone, the Great Killer's gone, they are all shadows, yesterday's dust. But in their time they controlled the stage and dominated the play. Wolsey turned the tables on the French whilst the royal beast began to surround his wife Catherine with a web of lies. Nevertheless, the Lady Francesca had done her damage: the syphilis lay dormant in Henry's fat carcase for years before raging forth like the fires of hell, blackening the open ulcer on his leg and tipping the royal beast's mind deeper into madness.
Yes, they have all gone, even Benjamin. And what am I? An old man who sits in the centre of his maze, telling his tale and drinking himself stupid on sack. Nonetheless, if I half-close my eyes and grasp in one hand the dark, faded petals of a rose, and in the other a young girl's small, blood red stone… well, then I can dream. If I forget my crumbling body and just sit listening to the wood pigeon sing its heart out, and half-open my eyes, the rose in my hand is in full bloom and across the grass Benjamin walks, shouting cheerily at me to join him. If I catch the smell of roses, I am young again, standing in the springtime of my life in a London garden, the scent of flowers heavy on the air and young Agnes standing demurely before me. But when I open my eyes the dreams fade and I know that even the flames of the hottest fire will end in nothing but smoke.
My chaplain says I am a rogue and a villain, that I am to enjoy the things of earth for I will find no heaven in the next world. But what the sod does he know? I put my trust in Christ and his holy Mother for I hope they judge us not for what we are but for what we wanted to be. Oh, yes, I am a rogue. I call for fat Margot and bury my face in a deep-bowled cup of sack. Perhaps that's the way I want it, for when you are gulping sack and crying for a wench no one can see the tears in your eyes. Oh, and the good Lord knows, I could murder a cup of sack.
