by Paul Doherty
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.)
'Anyway,' Benjamin continued, 'Henry now believes that the deaths of his sons are God's judgement on him for marrying his brother's widow in contradiction of Leviticus Chapter 20, Verse 21: "Thou shalt not marry thy brother's widow".'
(The Great Beast loved quoting this verse. For those who are interested in such matters there's another verse in the same book which says that you should marry your brother's widow. It just goes to prove the old saying that even the devil can quote scripture. I hope my chaplain takes note of that. He is fond of garnishing his sermons with verses from the Bible.)
'Yes, but was Catherine a virgin when she married Henry?'
'Of course she was,' Benjamin replied. 'Arthur was a sickly boy, constantly suffering from a flux in the bowels and bringing up yellow sputum. On the morning after his wedding night he shouted for a glass of wine, saying it was hot work being in Spain all night, but that was just boasting. He was incapable of the sexual act. Catherine always maintained she was a virgin, and her second husband,' Benjamin waved the book in front of my nose, 'has corroborated this. So now…'
'Now,' I continued, 'our royal liar has changed his mind. He is going to obtain a divorce and, naturally, he wants that book back.'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Exactly. This is the only proof that Henry knew his wife was a virgin. Destroy this and he can push his case at Rome for an annulment.'
'And what about Spain?'
'Catherine's parents are dead and Henry wants to desert the Spanish alliance.'
'And the good cardinal?' I asked.
Benjamin looked at the floor. 'He opposes the divorce.'
I stared at my master carefully. 'Why?' I asked. 'Wolsey couldn't give a damn about anyone.'
Benjamin cleared his throat. 'My uncle has always believed that he will lose power and control over the king due to a woman. He quotes the ancient prophecy: "When the cow rideth the bull, then priest beware thy skull", but he has to acquiesce.'
'Is there anyone else?'
'What do you mean?'
'Has our royal bull met his cow?'
'No, not yet.'
Benjamin was speaking the truth. Henry had a string of mistresses: Bessie Blount, Mary Boleyn, and the occasional court wench who caught his eye. However, by the time they lowered Fat Henry's rotting corpse into a special, lead-lined coffin (you see, his body had burst and they had almost to pour it in), he had murdered three of his six wives and was intent on killing the last when death claimed him. In that musty chamber at Maubisson, so many years ago, the first few scenes of that dreadful play were about to begin.
Benjamin took the book and hid it under the wooden lavarium.
'Now we know why the king wanted that book back. And the French, of course, would love to hold it. They suspect our king's intentions: can you imagine Henry protesting the invalidity of his marriage when his opponents could produce such irrefutable proof written in Henry's own hand that Catherine was "virgo intacta"
We both started at a loud rap on the door.
'Come in! Come in!' I snapped.
I expected a servant or Dacourt but the benevolent Doctor Agrippa waddled into the room, swathed in his usual black cloak, his fat face smiling like some friendly friar.
'Good morrow, gentlemen. I come from Calais to find the chateau like the Valley of the Dead.'
He unclasped his cloak and sat down beside me, relishing our dumbstruck looks. He stretched out his short, fat legs. His leather riding boots were covered in a fine dust.
'Well,' he announced, 'aren't you pleased to see me?'
Of course we weren't but we didn't say that.
'For heaven's sake!' he shouted good-naturedly. 'Don't I get a cup of wine?'
I hastened to obey whilst Benjamin, regaining his wits, leaned over and clasped the doctor's hand.
'Why are you here?' Benjamin asked.
‘I was sent by the cardinal.' Agrippa took the brimming cup and smiled his acceptance. 'So, what progress has been made?'
'None.'
'Do you know who Raphael is?' 'No.'
'And the murderer of Falconer and others?' Benjamin smiled wearily. 'Yes and no.' 'Which means?'
'The good news is that we are sure the murderer is Raphael.'
'And the bad news.' Agrippa finished, the smile fading from his face, 'is that you do not know who Raphael is.' He sipped from the wine goblet. "And the ring?'
'I am afraid not.'
'And the king's book? His gift to the Abbe Gerard?* 'No,' Benjamin lied, with a warning glance at me. Agrippa stirred restlessly; his eyes changed to the colour of small, black pebbles and his fragrant perfume of musk and ambergris was masked by that hot. molten smell you sometimes catch in a kitchen when an empty pan is left over the flames too long. The good doctor's body tensed with fury.
'This is not pleasing,' he grated. 'His Eminence the Cardinal is most perturbed, and someone,' he glanced sideways at me, 'will feel the royal wrath.' He smiled as if trying to shake off his irritation. 'The cardinal is most anxious,' he continued wearily. 'The king cannot fart without the French knowing about it. God knows what might happen!'
'Such as?' Benjamin asked.
Agrippa shrugged. 'Let us speak candidly. We all know our royal master. He will not be brooked in any matter. If he thinks the spy is here he will send troops from Calais. Everyone will be arrested, accused of treason, and face summary execution.'
"But we could all be innocent!' I yelled.
'King Henry will leave that to God to decide.'
I stared through the sunlit window and shivered. Agrippa was right. Henry had the malice to do that. (I always remember his instructions to old Thomas Cromwell about the abbot of a large monastery who resisted royal oppression. 'Give him a fair trial!' Henry had snapped. Then hang him high over his own main gate!')
'Does that include you, good doctor?' Benjamin asked.
Agrippa grinned. 'Let me put it this way, Master Daunbey. I am certainly not going to go home to report such failure. If the worst comes to the worst, I'll saddle my horse, slip out of some postern gate and go.' He raised his head and screwed up his eyes. 'Yes, I could follow the sun south to Italy and take ship to Byzantium.'
'Byzantium's gone.' I remarked. 'The Turks took it seventy years ago.'
Agrippa stared at me. his eyes now liquid clear. 'I know," he replied. 'I was there.' I gazed back in disbelief.
'I was there,' he said, 'when the Turks found a gate open and stormed into the city. I stood beside Michael Palaeologus, the last Roman Emperor. He died drenched in his own blood and that of his attackers.'
(By the way, I half-believed Agrippa. Only two years ago when I was in London I saw him waving at me from an upstairs window; he hadn't aged a day but, when I looked again, he had gone.)
'Lackaday!' Ag
rippa murmured. 'We have little time left. The king has sent letters under secret seal to his captain at Calais. We have a month to clear this business up.'
'But Dacourt and Clinton are his friends,' Benjamin stammered. 'Surely the king wouldn't hurt them? Dacourt fought with him at the battle of Spurs, and Clinton and his first wife were often Henry's hosts at their manor in Hampstead.'
'King Henry VIII has only one friend,' Agrippa answered, 'and his name is Henry VIII. Never forget that. Master Daunbey.' He rose. 'If you do, like others you will pay for it with your life. I leave you to your plotting, gentlemen. If there is anything I can do to help?' He let his words hang in the air, gathered his cloak and slipped out of the room.
'Is Clinton one of the king's friends?' I asked.
'Of course. My uncle told you that.'
'And his first wife?'
'Sir Robert loved her to distraction. She died of a tumour, a malignant abscess, some years ago. Our problem,' Benjamin continued evenly, 'is what do we do next?'
'We could challenge Millet?'
'And prove nothing.' Benjamin licked his lips. 'There is one loose strand,' he said. ‘Which is?'
'The Lady Francesca. When we visited the convent on our way to Paris we noticed how the sisters there adored Sir Robert and were very fond of their former pupil.'
'What's suspicious about that?'
'Nothing, except they gave her a gift just before we left. I have talked to the messengers. They not only take presents from Lady Francesca to the nuns, but carry their gifts to her.'
'You think there's something wrong in that?'
Benjamin shuffled his feet. 'I don't know. I would like to know more about her.'
(My heart sank to my boots. I had a suspicion what would come next.)
'Would you go, Roger?'
'Go where?'
'To the Lady Francesca's home town, St Germain-en-Laye. It's only a few miles south of Paris.' 'And do what?'
'Ask a few questions about her.' Benjamin shrugged. 'Who knows? Perhaps the woman we know is not the same Lady Francesca who lived there.'
'That's impossible,' I snapped.
'Stranger things have happened.' Benjamin leaned forward. 'You must go. At the moment it's all we have, that and the book.'
'And what about the bloody ring?' I asked.
Benjamin just gazed blankly back and my despair deepened.
Chapter 11
After an uneventful journey I arrived in St Germain late in the afternoon of the following day. The village was a rambling, sprawling place, a high-steepled church at the centre with cottages and the houses of the more prosperous peasants around it. Each stood in its own plot of ground guarded by rickety fences. The streets were dusty, full of screaming children, some of them almost naked, and the women dressed so alike in their grey gowns that they looked like members of some religious order. Most of the men were working in the fields but the auberge, or tavern, a two-storeyed building with a bush pushed under in its straw eaves, was doing a brisk trade.
I entered its smelly darkness; there were only two windows and the place stank of cow dung. The beaten earthen floor was covered with scraps of rubbish which three scavenging pigs were obligingly eating. I have always found that garrulous old men are the best source of gossip so I pretended to be a student, the offspring of a French mother and an English father, off to the university of the Sorbonne in Paris to continue my studies in law. Like any stranger I was greeted with obvious hostility but silver creates universal friendship. Drinks were ordered, jokes and funny stories shared about the Goddamns, and then I changed the conversation to the great house I had passed by on my way into the village.
Now, my master told me that Francesca's maiden name was Sauvigne and, as sure as God made little fishes, the old men described the beautiful daughter who once lived there.
'A grand family,' one toothless oldster ponderously stated.
'Are they still there?' 'Well, the old ones are gone.' 'And Francesca?'
'Oh, she was sent off to a convent outside Paris.' 'And who is the seigneur now?'
'Well, in the absence of a male heir, the title went to a distant cousin.' 'Not Francesca?'
The old man shook his head. 'She would never have inherited the title.' He turned and spat. 'You know the customs amongst the great ones. Their sons go to war or court and the women either marry or go to convents. Mind you, she was a very pretty girl.'
'How do you mean?'
The old man gave me a detailed description of the Lady Francesca and I felt a twinge of disappointment at one of my master's theories being so brutally shattered: the woman the old man described could be no other person than Sir Robert Clinton's wife.
'It's strange she wasn't married off earlier?' I queried. 'I mean, such a beautiful woman?'
'Oh, but she was!'
'No, she was not!' another interrupted. "She was betrothed to a young soldier, the Seigneur de Gahers.'
'And what happened?'
'Well, de Gahers went to Italy in the king's army and distinguished himself most bravely in the march on Naples.'
'And he was killed there?'
'Oh, no, he came back laden with honours, but within a year he died of some wasting illness. The Lady Francesca was heartbroken. She refused any further offers of marriage. She must have been about sixteen summers then, so her parents despatched her to the convent.'
The old man turned and spat a stream of yellow phlegm straight between the ears of one of the pigs. The beast snorted in anger and turned away. (And the French have the cheek to call us English dirty!) Well, there was nothing more to be gained. I had spent enough silver and the old men were becoming suspicious, so I slept in a small copse outside the village and then made my way back to Maubisson.
The chateau had recovered from the French king's visit. Peckle was sitting in the courtyard, sheaves of paper in his hand. Millet and Dacourt, the former as bland as ever, were closeted together in the great hall, whilst Clinton and Doctor Agrippa were deep in conversation. I did wonder if the good doctor was warning everyone else about the king's impending wrath. My master was poring over strips of parchment in our chamber, each bearing a name as he tried to make some sense out of what had happened.
'Your journey was successful. Roger?'
I told him what I had learnt. He gave a sigh of exasperation, threw his pen on to the table and went and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
'Did you notice anything untoward?' he asked. 'As you came back into the chateau?'
'No, why?'
Benjamin propped himself up on his elbow and began to curl his hair around his fingers, one of his favourite mannerisms when he was deep in thought.
'Vauban has withdrawn his men,' he replied. 'A sure sign that the bastard is cocksure we will learn nothing new.' Benjamin threw himself back on the bed and just lay there, staring, as I unpacked my saddle-bags and rested after my journey.
'You said Lady Francesca was betrothed to Seigneur de Gahers?' 'Yes.'
Benjamin got to his feet. 'Stay there, Roger. I need to speak with our two messengers. I wonder if they want to earn some extra silver?'
I thought he'd return but he didn't so I looked about for something to read. I studied what Benjamin had been writing but he had been using some secret cipher known only to himself. I remembered Abbe Gerard's book so retrieved it from its hiding place, bolted the door, and went lazily through its pages, more interested in the king's annotations than anything else. I chuckled to myself. If Fat Henry thought of getting a divorce from Catherine of Aragon then this book would certainly prove him a liar. I had no illusions as to what would happen once the fat bastard got hold of it. The book would be burnt and Henry left free to tell whatever lies he wished. I turned to the loose leaves at the back which, as was the custom. Abbe Gerard had used for his own personal notes. I noticed that the dead priest had written there, 'Chantry Masses to be sung for the souls of the lately departed.' As would be expected these included names of relatives of t
hose at the English embassy. Some I did not recognise, others were quite fresh: a sister of Millet's, John Dacourt's wife, Catherine Stout, as well as that of Sir Robert Clinton's first wife, Clare Harpale. I was disturbed by Benjamin's return. When I unbolted the door he took the book off me.
'What have you been doing, master?' 'Oh, this and that.'
He lay on the bed sifting through the pages of the book, leaving me to my own thoughts.
The next few days dragged by. Benjamin claimed he was waiting for news and went back to his secret writing but I could see from his frayed temper he was making very little progress. Doctor Agrippa's presence only deepened his gloom, and everyone else's. Dacourt became openly nervous, Peckle buried himself in his work and Millet was one of those stupid young men who think music is the solution to every problem. Even Sir Robert Clinton looked agitated as if he realised his friendship with the king would not save him from the royal wrath. Old Dacourt, to lighten the mood, hired a troupe of acrobats, the usual mummers and clowns who entertained great lords and ladies in their halls and bowers. If anything, these idiots only deepened our gloom, their laughter and merriment ringing hollow in the dour atmosphere of the hall.
But isn't it strange how little things can cause the most devastating changes? I am reminded of that childhood rhyme:
For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,
For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.
For want of a horse, the rider was lost.
For want of a rider, the battle was lost.
In this case it was a mongrel dog, an intelligent little beast who, under instructions, could draw painted letters from a small bucket and spell simple words like 'bone' or 'meat'. Sometimes he got them mixed up and this caused unwarranted merriment but it reminded me of poor Falconer's absorption with the name Raphael. A notion occurred to me but I dismissed it until I was alone with my master. I told him and he sat down as if poleaxed.