by Paul Doherty
'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 been built into the cemetery wall where the more wealthy had their remains interred in the pious hope that their bones would not become the meal of some scavenging dog. Above these arches was a huge open loft or garret. Every so often the cemetery would be cleared of all its remains to make way for fresh corpses. The bones collected would be tossed into this garret and, when I saw it, the pile was at least two yards deep. In fact, the French had a joke: for a Christian, Paradise was heaven, but for a dog Paradise was a charnel house at Holy Innocents!
Millet sauntered round this macabre place. I watched him carefully. So far he had met no one. I was confident he had not seen me but, at the same time, I was uneasy.
I felt sure I was being watched but, when I turned sharply or hid behind corners, I noticed nothing untoward. At last Millet went into Holy Innocents Church. I followed and stood admiring the Dance of Death carved in the stone work. (Believe me, if you are full of the joys of spring, that carving will soon remind you that in the midst of life we are in death. The sculptor must have had a genius all of his own, for Death and his squadron of devils danced in a drunken stone frenzy along the frieze, collecting kings, emperors, popes, bishops, and I suppose, when the time is right, even old Shallot.) A bell sounded, its hollow boom sounding out above the graveyard, and I glimpsed Millet coming out of the church, so I hid in the shadows and let him go by. I noticed others in the cemetery had begun to stir and wondered if the bell was the curfew when the graveyard must be locked.
Millet, however, followed by other fops and dandies, left the cemetery by a small postern door and made his way up an alleyway to a dingy-looking tavern with the sign of a golden sickle above it. Inside, the taproom was large, spacious, clean and well swept. Each table was hidden in a shadowy alcove and the wine was served by young boys dressed in tight hose and short jerkins who had the looks, hair style and walk of saucy young wenches. Their lips were carmine-painted and the one who served me wore more face powder than any self-respecting whore in London would have used. I ordered wine and carefully watched the other side of the room where Millet was sitting.
Now, in my youth I may have been inexperienced but I had no illusions about the Golden Sickle or Millet's presence there. It was a molly-shop, or so the denizens of Southwark would have termed it: a drinking house where young men, or old, who liked other men could meet kindred spirits in a warm, intimate and secure spot. Believe me, they had to be careful! The laws against sodomy and buggery were as cruel in Paris as they were in London. If caught, the culprit could face hanging, disembow
elling and castration – though I suppose, by the time you reach the last, you'd really be past caring. Now I do not sit in judgement. I just report things as they are, not as they should be. Indeed, to be perfectly honest, I always felt sorry for the likes of Millet: their lives were an eternal nightmare, waiting for the traitor or paid informer to turn them in.
I wanted to see who Millet was meeting. Certain men did approach his table but he summarily dismissed them. (There goes my chaplain again. 'Did any approach you?' he sneers. Well, I've never claimed to be an Adonis. Yes, one did approach me, and no, contrary to my chaplain's opinion, he wasn't blind, just as drunk as a bishop's donkey!) An hour passed. I had to be careful I didn't become tipsy for the drink was heavy and rich.
At last a young man came in, covered from head to toe in a long, black cloak, the hood pulled well forward. He sauntered up to Millet. Our young Horatio smiled at him and the stranger sat down. He pulled back his hood and I gasped. You see, I have an excellent memory for faces and I was sure I had glimpsed the man amongst Vauban's entourage at Fontainebleau. Millet and he talked for a while then rose and left the tavern. I followed a few minutes later but, when I reached the darkened alleyway beyond, they had disappeared and, despite my curses and hurrying to and fro, I had lost them. I stumbled round the church of Holy Innocents for a while but my search was fruitless so I decided to fulfil the second part of my master's instructions.
Now, if you have read the earlier instalment of my memoirs, you will recall that the previous year I'd spent some time in Paris as the enforced guest of the Maillotins, or 'Club-Men' as they called themselves. They were the bottom layer of Parisian society who constantly plotted and conspired to bring about a bloody revolution and create God's kingdom here, where justice and prosperity would reign and the meek would surely inherit the earth. Of course, they were idiots or dreamers. As far as I can see, the only earth the meek inherit is a shallow hole in the likes of Holy Innocents graveyard, and even then the dogs make sure they don't have that for long. Now, I had become friendly with the Maillotins, especially two of their leaders, Capote and Broussac. Capote had died, choking his life out on the gallows of Montfaucon. I hoped Broussac had not yet received his just reward as I slipped like a cat along the dark, foul, smelly alleyways of Paris to the tavern where he and his court of whores always assembled.
I was not disappointed. Broussac was in the same corner, drinking himself stupid, surrounded by some of the most loud-mouthed harridans of the city. At first he didn't recognise me, but isn't silver wonderful? I produced two coins and Broussac's red, beery, dark-whiskered face broke into a gap-toothed grin and those wicked eyes danced with merriment.
'Of course,' he bellowed, throwing one smelly arm round my neck and planting wine-drenched kisses on my cheeks. 'Ladies,' he shouted, 'may I present Master Roger Shallot, the only good Goddamn – the only man who was hanged at Montfaucon and survived to tell the tale!'
I told the noisy bastard to shut his mouth as I did not want to be arrested by the Provosts as a spy. Another piece of silver was produced. Broussac became as sober as a priest, ordered a fresh jug of wine, two of the establishment's cleaner cups, and a table far enough away from any would-be eavesdropper.
'Listen, Broussac,' I began. 'Forget old times. Here's a coin. Answer one question: the attack on Maubisson, did the Maillotins organise it?'
Broussac grabbed the coin.
'No,' he replied. 'We did not. We never leave the streets of Paris. But, for another coin, I can tell you who did.'
I flicked a further piece of silver across the table. Broussac clutched it and it disappeared in a twinkling of an eye. I don't know how he did it, whether he had purses in his sleeves: one minute he had it in his hairy paw, the next it was gone.
'Well, come on,' I demanded. 'Who the hell did?'
'Look around you, Monsieur.'
'That's no answer.'
He saw my hand go to my knife.
'Now, now,' he purred like some benevolent cat. 'Come on, old friend, what are you going to do? Draw on poor Broussac? If you do, you'll never leave this tavern alive. As it is, you still might not!'
I looked around. In the poor light of the smelly, tallow candles, every customer resembled a rat on two legs. Their thin, pallid or yellowing faces, greedy looks and sharp glances proved Broussac right and I cursed myself. I was in the devil's own kitchen and these were his scullions: dice-coggers, coin-flickers, pickpockets, pimps, conjurors (most of them failed), footpads and nightwalkers. Indeed, in any other circumstances, I would have felt very much at home but I'd been so eager to see Broussac I had blundered in and now began to wonder how I would get out. He leaned over and seized my wrist.
'Don't worry,' he whispered as if reading my thoughts. 'You're Broussac's friend. I have given you the kiss of friendship.'
'Aye, and so did Judas!'
Broussac threw back his head and bellowed with laughter until his devil's eyes disappeared in rolls of flesh.
'Listen, Broussac,' I continued, 'I have no wish to quarrel but I asked you a question and paid you good silver!'
'And I gave you fair answer. These villains took part in the attack on Maubisson. They were hired by bully-boys and organised by some great lord, I don't know who.'
I knew I would get no further. 'There's something else,' I hastily added. 'I need a whore.' 'Don't we all, my friend?'
'No, I want a high-ranking courtesan brought to the Chateau Maubisson within three days. She is to assume a new name and tell no one her true identity. If you do this you will be richly rewarded.'
Broussac's smile widened as if he could almost hear the chink of coins falling in his purse. He rose and beckoned me to follow.
'Come, we cannot talk here.'
We went upstairs to a small, dust-laden chamber where Broussac ordered some stools and fresh wine, shouting for the best, not the vinegared water I had been sipping down in the tap room. A slattern, having lit 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?'
&
nbsp; 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.'