The poisoned chalice srs-2

by Paul Doherty

  I was near St Anthony's Hospital, between Bishopsgate and Bread Street, intent on lifting a purse, when my arm was suddenly seized: it was the goldsmith, Waller, demanding his money. Now, I was dirty and unshaven but he recognised me. Once again I landed back in prison, the debtor's hold in the Fleet; a dirty, ramshackle place with narrow corridors, windows as thin as a miser's lips, stinking with the refuse of the city. I was still there the morning my master came and rescued me.

  The first I knew about it was a massive gaoler dragging me from the Common side up to the turnkey's lodge. Master Benjamin was waiting, sitting on a stool. He took one look at me, smiled and slipped some coins to the turnkey for food and wine. I sat there for an hour stuffing my stomach and telling him exactly what had happened. Benjamin listened – and that's what I liked about my master, he never judged, he never condemned.

  'I received your letter,' he said. 'I came up to visit Johanna in Syon and made enquiries. All our gold?'

  'Gone, master.'

  Benjamin smiled. 'Never mind. I have horses ready. Uncle wishes to see us at Hampton Court.'

  Then I did get frightened. Whenever 'Uncle', the great Lord Wolsey, intervened in our affairs, it always meant trouble. I wasn't frightened of Wolsey. He was just a butcher's son from Ipswich who had risen to be Lord Chancellor and leading churchman of England. Indeed, I always had a sneaking admiration for him and I think he liked me for, as you know, it takes one rogue to recognise another. In time I became Wolsey's friend, the only man to stand by him when he fell from power and lay in bed gasping out his life and cursing the king who had turned against him. Nor was I frightened of Wolsey's familiar, Doctor Agrippa, the black magician with his cherubic face and that strange perfumed smell which always accompanied him.

  No, what really frightened old Shallot and turned my innards to water was the thought of the beast Wolsey served, Henry VIII by the grace of God, King of England, Ireland and France. A fat, bombastic, pig-eyed, treacherous son of a turd who destroyed the best of men because he wanted to get between Anne Boleyn's legs and, when he did, couldn't do much about it. The Great Slayer really frightened me. Some men kill because they have to but Henry genuinely thought he was God, with the power of life and death.

  Let me give you an example. When he destroyed the monasteries and the north of the country rose in rebellion under Robert Aske (I'll tell you about that later, a real killing time!), the rebel leader sent envoys to Henry to treat over their grievances. Henry despatched his royal herald, Rouge Croix, in return. This poor bastard made the error of bowing before the rebel leader so, when he returned to London, Henry had him drawn, quartered, disembowelled and his balls cut off. Just because the poor sod made a mistake! Now you can see why old Shallot was frightened. No, I lie, not frightened – just terrified witless.

  Chapter 3

  My master and I left London. I changed and bathed at the tavern where my master was staying in Great Mary Axe Street near Bishopsgate. (Oh, by the way, I didn't forget Waller. I'd bought a special bottle of wine. I half-emptied it, filled the rest with horse piss and re-sealed it. Then I sent it to him. I hope the bastard enjoyed every drop!) Two days later we reached Kingston and, leaving our horses at the Robin Hood tavern, went by barge to Hampton Court.

  The poet Cavendish described the new palace as a paradise on earth and so I thought when we first glimpsed its towers and golden cupolas above the trees. Wolsey had bought the manor of Hampton from the Knights Hospitallers, levelled it to the ground and, bringing in craftsmen from every part of Europe, built a palace breath-taking in its opulent beauty.

  We were given lodgings in the gatehouse and were virtually kept prisoner as the king and the court, as well as the great cardinal, moved into residence. This palace swarmed with retainers either wearing the golden '‘I. C of Thomas Cardinalis or the scarlet of Henricus Rex. Carts full of precious belongings were being unloaded in the courtyards; ostlers, grooms and farriers shouted and yelled. Chamberlains with white wands of office rapped out orders and, until the king and the lord cardinal were settled in their respective rooms, the common people were banished from the corridors and the galleries.

  Wolsey never liked the common man. The Earl of Shrewsbury once told me that when he walked in the park, Wolsey would suffer no one to come within bowshot of him. Benjamin, his favourite nephew, was an exception and on the evening following our arrival Wolsey summoned us to his private apartments. We were led down black-and-white-tiled corridors, through a series of presence chambers, all huge and hung with tapestries which Wolsey had brought from abroad. Not just little square hangings. Some of these were five or six yards long and eight yards high, depicting scenes from the Bible or themes from Petrarch's love poetry.

  We were ushered into a small chamber ostentatiously furnished. I noticed with amusement that the tapestries hanging there illustrated the seven deadly sins. Of course, I was fascinated by Lust, a young girl with long, golden hair, breasts like ripe melons, and long, white, slender legs. (I wager Wolsey kept an eye on that, too, being most interested in the sins of the flesh. He had a mistress, you know, a fat, dumpy, little thing, though Wolsey adored both her and the illegitimate children he had by her.) He was awaiting us, a small skull cap pushed to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince, his face dark and swarthy like an Italian's, thick, sensuous lips, a beaked nose and lustrous dark eyes. He was dressed in purple silk and satin trimmed with gold. On his feet were purple woollen buskins. Beside him, on a table, the flat tasselled hat of a cardinal.

  Naturally, my master bowed and I had to follow suit, reminding myself with a secret smile that Wolsey was only a commoner and no better than me. The floor was of polished cedar wood and I glanced round enviously at the stools covered with red satin and silver tassels: '‘I. C, Wolsey's personal monogram, was everywhere, sometimes a foot high in carved gold. The air smelt faintly of incense and, of course, that strange smell of faded flowers which emanated from the figure dressed in black who squatted beside Wolsey: Doctor Agrippa, supreme practitioner of the black arts though he looked like a mummer's version of Friar Tuck in some masque about Robin Hood.

  Agrippa's face was round, cherubic, his features small and neat like those of a child, except for the hooded eyes and the look of sardonic amusement with which he watched everything about him. A strange man, I thought. Some people said Wolsey hired him as a defence against other wizards and warlocks. No one knew where he came from. I was wary of him though he was always pleasant to me. He once told me not to be afraid as my death was many years off and would come in a way I least expected.

  (I see my chaplain sniggering at me so I'll voice my fear. I know that secret agents and societies still hunt me. I have given strict orders to my henchmen that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to hang my chaplain immediately. Ah, good, that's wiped the smile off the bugger's smug face!)

  Anyway, back to Wolsey. He was eating sweetmeats from a silver dish and, whilst Benjamin and I knelt before him, he kept popping them into his mouth, watching us impassively. I glanced up under my eyebrows and caught Agrippa's eye. He grinned and winked, then studied the ring on his right hand, a stone of indeterminate colour.

  Agrippa claimed he used it to make sure wine was free of poison, though I don't think it was possible for Agrippa to die. I believe he was the Wandering Jew, doomed to live forever.

  Wolsey finished the plate of sweetmeats and told us to sit. Strangely enough, he first addressed me.

  'Well, Shallot, you've met the Luciferi? You'd call them bastards, yes?'

  'You could have protected me!' I replied bitterly.

  'Oh, but we did. Don't you remember, in the alleyway?'

  'What about my trial?'

  'You would not have been hanged. A reprieve would have come through. That tavern wench was a stroke of good fortune – but then you go and get yourself lost!'

  'It was all arranged, wasn't it?' I accused. 'You gave Ralemberg licence to trade. You put the handbill in my room.
The Luciferi kept away other sponsors, and so did you-till I arrived.'

  Wolsey smiled and pulled out a gold-edged handkerchief to wipe his nose. He was in good fettle, otherwise he would never have traded words with me.

  'You could have saved the Ralembergs,' I added.

  His face hardened. 'We tried to. Ralemberg was very useful. But the Luciferi sent their decoys.'

  'And de Macon's ship?' I asked.

  Wolsey shrugged. 'The fortunes of war, Master Shallot. If Ralemberg had been more open, such misfortunes would never have happened.' He saw my angry glance at Benjamin. 'My nephew had nothing to do with it, I assure you.'

  'But now that road's closed,' Agrippa intervened. 'What road?' I queried.

  'Oh, come, Roger. To the Luciferi, Vauban, the five archangels, Raphael!'

  He must have seen from my face that I knew what he was talking about. Wolsey played with the gold pendant around his neck and smirked patronisingly at Agrippa as if he was a favourite son. A black cat, wearing a jewelled studded collar, crept from beneath a curtain, padded towards Agrippa and, lithe as a dancer, sprang into his lap. Agrippa stroked it carefully. (You know, he always wore black leather gloves. I saw his left hand ungloved once. The palm bore the inverted cross and the Eye of Osiris and on the back a blood red pentangle. Those of you who know about black magic will know what all that means, Agrippa was one of the high-ranking Dark Lords.) Anyway, enough of that. On that sunny evening at Hampton Court, Agrippa sat and chattered like some benevolent uncle.

  'Let us come to the point,' he said briskly.

  'Yes,' Benjamin agreed. He had been sitting quietly. 'Uncle, if you have a task for us, then let us begin it. Master Shallot and I have sworn to be your men in peace and war.' Benjamin quoted the last phrase from the agreement he had signed with Wolsey. 'Uncle, you must trust us more!'

  Wolsey's hard eyes softened as he gazed back at Benjamin. For a few seconds that stony-visaged politician looked kindly and I realised that, apart from his mistress, Benjamin was one of the few people Wolsey really loved. The cardinal turned and stroked Agrippa's cat.

  'My nephew is right,' he said softly. 'Let us describe the task.'

  Agrippa rose, putting the cat gently down on the floor.

  He stood beside the cardinal's chair, leaning against it with one hand on its gilded back.

  'Our noble king,' he began, 'now wishes to contain the power of France. He can do that by alliance with the Emperor Charles V and the Hapsburgs who control the Low Countries and Spain. We intend to ring France and contain it like an army encircles a castle. Unfortunately, the French know in advance every move we make. We have spies in Paris, and the French Luciferi are in London. The difference is, the Luciferi have someone close to our hearts who betrays our every step and turn. Matters have now come to a head. The English embassy in France has a mansion in the Rue des Medeans, but in early spring they moved to a small castle outside Paris, the Chateau de Maubisson.

  'At the chateau are a number of officials: Sir John Dacourt, our ambassador; his chief clerk, Walter Peckle; Doctor Thomas Throgmorton, physician; Michael Millet, personal assistant and clerk to Sir John Dacourt; and the man responsible for our agents… or rather, who was, Giles Falconer. We already knew there was a spy either in England or France selling secrets to the French. It was Falconer who discovered the spy's code-name: Raphael.'

  'How?' Benjamin asked quietly.

  'One of Falconer's agents was discovered in the Rue des Billets. He had been stabbed a number of times but, before he died, he used his own blood to etch on a piece of parchment the name Raphael. Now on Easter Monday last [almost six weeks ago I thought], Falconer retired to his chamber. Late that night both Millet and Throgmorton heard him going upstairs to the top of one of the towers of the chateau. Millet peeped out of his chamber, Falconer had a goblet in his hand, he was smiling but not drunk. Throgmorton heard him singing. On Tuesday morning, Falconer was found at the base of the tower, his neck broke, his head shattered.'

  'He could have slipped,' Benjamin said.

  'Impossible. The tower does have a crenellated wall but the gaps have iron bars across to prevent anyone falling. Moreover, the tower roof is sprinkled with fine sand to prevent anyone slipping. Throgmorton, who surveyed the area after Falconer's body had been discovered, found no trace of any such slip or, indeed, of anyone else being with Falconer on the top of the tower.'

  'Could it have been suicide?' I asked.

  'I doubt it. The rest of the embassy met Falconer at dinner that Monday. He was as happy as ever. Falconer was a bachelor but a man in love with life. He enjoyed his work and was one of the best agents we had.' Agrippa's eyes hardened. 'Indeed, he was a personal friend of mine.'

  Another black magician? I wondered.

  'No,' he snapped, 'Falconer was murdered.'

  'The wine,' I asked. 'Was it poisoned?'

  Agrippa smiled sweetly. 'We considered that but Sir John Dacourt, an honest old soldier, was with Falconer in his room when he broached the bottle. Dacourt had a cup of the same wine and suffered no ill effects.'

  'Who could be the murderer?' I asked.

  'Any of those four. Oh,' he added, 'we missed out one person: Richard Waldegrave, the chaplain.'

  'You wish us to go to Paris?' Benjamin interrupted.

  'Yes, we do, so perhaps it's time you met your companions.'

  Wolsey picked up a silver bell but Agrippa raised his hand.

  'Lord Cardinal, I believe your nephew has further questions?'

  Benjamin gazed at the cardinal, then at his familiar.

  'Doctor Agrippa,' he asked, 'when matters are decided regarding France, how are such conclusions reached and despatched abroad?'

  'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.'

  'Then what happens?'

  'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.'

  'Why is that?'

  'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'

  I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction.

  'What happens then?' my master asked.

  'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.'

  'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'

  'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.'

  'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'

  Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves "Maillotins" or "Club-Wielders".'

  (Oh, I knew about these. Last time I had been to Paris they had rescued me from the freezing streets and hungry wolf packs.)

  'These Maillotins attacked the messengers and killed them but a party of royal guards, who by chance were in the vicinity, hunted the outlaws down. The bags were returned in accordance with diplomatic protocol, and were found to be unopened and untampered with.'

  'Could the spy be in England?'

  'We suspect he is in France at our embassy.'
r />   'Why?'

  'The French do not betray what they have learnt until the despatches reach our embassy.' 'What happens then?'

  'The chief cipher clerk, Walter Peckle, decodes them and hands them to the ambassador.'

  Benjamin tapped the toe of his boot on the soft carpet. 'These messengers?' he queried.

  'They are professional couriers. There are two in England and two in France. They often cross each other in their travels.' 'And two of them were killed?'

  'Yes, but they have been replaced,' Agrippa answered. 'They are trustworthy men?'

  'They cannot be faulted. You may question the two in England before you go. Now,' Agrippa picked up the bell, 'perhaps you should meet your travelling companions?'

  The silver bell tinkled. A servant wearing the cardinal's livery slipped like a shadow into the room.

  'Ah, yes.' Wolsey got up. 'Sir Robert Clinton?'

  'He is in the presence chamber, Your Grace.'

  'Bring him in!'

  Clinton entered, a small man with silver hair brushed back from his forehead, a neatly clipped moustache and beard. He looked what he was, a veteran soldier, with suntanned face, clear eyes, dark doublet and hose, the only concession to fashion being the ornate, thick silver rings on each hand and a gold cross round his neck. Beside him stood his clerk, Ambrose Venner, a young man with thinning hair and the fat, cheerful face of an over-fed scholar. Agrippa introduced them, ushering them to seats, clicking his fingers for the servant to serve them wine and sweetmeats.