The Poisoned Chalice

by Michael Clynes

  The rest of the household at Maubisson now became involved in frenetic preparations for the French king's visit: rooms were swept, hangings cleaned, fresh rushes laid, whilst servants were sent out to buy supplies of flour, meat, sugar, salt, fresh casks of wine, and the chateau kitchens were thronged with sweating scullions gutting, preparing and roasting what the huntsmen brought in. Of course, Broussac arrived at Maubisson. I could have laughed like a jester: he turned up clean, well shaven, and dressed in the sober garb of a clerk - filched, I suppose, from some poor bastard who made the mistake of drinking in the same tavern as he. His companion was hooded and cloaked. She revealed herself only after Benjamin and I had hurried them up to our chamber. Now, I tell you this, if Broussac was a beast (and he was a veritable hog), his companion was Beauty in warm flesh. She was small, petite, like a miniature Venus. Her hair was silver, or was it gold? I forget now. But I know it shone, glittered in the candlelight of our room. Her figure was perfectly formed and her eyes were violet, or were they green? Good Lord, my memory's slipping, but her mouth was made for kissing. She had skin like alabaster with a touch of rose in her cheeks and, when she smiled, she had all the merriment of the devil incarnate.

  'Messieurs,' Broussac grandly announced, 'may I introduce Mademoiselle . . .'he stuttered '. . . Beatrice. Yes, Beatrice de Cordeliere.'

  'Is that her real name?' I asked.

  'No, it isn't,' the girl replied in perfect English. Those beautiful eyes caught mine. In one glance I knew that I was looking at a kindred spirit, a Shallot in petticoats.

  'My name is my own concern,' she continued evenly. 'And, if you wish to question me, ask me directly. I am here at Monsieur Broussac's request, and because I will be well paid. But if I don't like what I see or hear, then I'll be gone within the hour.'

  Benjamin took the girl's hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it softly. 'Mademoiselle,' he apologised, 'we have been so long without such beautiful company that we forget our manners.' The subtle flatterer threw a sharp glance at me. 'So,' he continued, 'I shall tell you why we invited you here. But first, Monsieur Broussac,' a bag of silver suddenly appeared in my master's hand and disappeared just as quickly up Broussac's sleeve, 'we have no further need to delay you. You are a busy man and Roger will see you safely to the chateau gates.'

  Broussac took the hint, grinned wickedly at the girl and, with me trailing behind, we left the beauty with Benjamin as I hurriedly escorted the beast back to the chateau gates.

  'Where did you find such a woman?' I whispered.

  Broussac tapped the side of his fleshy nose. 'Ask no questions, Master Shallot, and you'll get no lies.'

  And, without a shake of his hand or a backward glance, the old rogue trotted off across the drawbridge. I ran like a greyhound back to our chamber, only pausing outside to regain my breath and resume my usual serene demeanour. Inside, Benjamin and Beatrice were seated on the edge of his bed, quietly conversing in Latin as if they had known each other for years.

  'Ah, Roger.'

  'Ah, Benjamin,' I answered, and sat down on the edge of my bed, determined not to move.

  'I have told Beatrice why we need her and she has agreed, on three conditions. First, she is allowed to keep any gowns or jewellery we give her. Secondly, she is paid half before she meets the king and half after.'

  'And thirdly?' I rasped, gazing at the little minx's face.

  She had the face of an angel but the eyes of a tax-collector.

  'Thirdly,' Benjamin continued evenly, trying to stifle his laughter, 'Mistress Beatrice has declared that we are both personable young men with whom she is prepared to spend the next few days, but the nights she keeps to herself!'

  I gazed speechlessly at this girl with the face of a sixteen year old and the shrewd mind of a merchant.

  'She need have no worries about that,' I mumbled. 'And if she comes anywhere near my chamber,' I added discourteously, 'I'll take my strap to her.'

  Beatrice leaned forward, her eyes clear pools of innocence.

  'Oh, yes please,' she murmured. 'Such masterfulness!'

  Then she sat back and burst into peals of laughter.

  Benjamin joined in and, to be honest, I soon saw the funny part. She was not being insulting. She was here to carry out a task and nothing else. In a way, I respected her honesty and in doing so broke Shallot's second golden rule: Never judge a book by its cover.

  (I see my little chaplain flinching on his stool, his little bum waggling with pleasure. 'You mean to say you never seduced her?' he cries lustily. If he's not careful I'll take my strap to his arse. Believe me, by the time I've finished this story he'll be a damn' sight more careful and reflect a little further before yielding to the lusts of the flesh with young Mabel in the hay loft.)

  Anyway, Beatrice, Benjamin and myself soon became sworn companions and friends. Of course, her arrival at the chateau created innumerable questions and consternation. The men goggled and Lady Francesca glowered at the presence of a possible rival to her own beauty. I rather enjoyed that and spent most of my time making the most elaborate courtesies to our Lady Beatrice. Benjamin, however, pressed ahead with his plans. The day before the French king was to arrive, he whisked young Beatrice off to Les Halles in Paris to buy gowns, petticoats, shifts, a lace veil, perfume and jewellery (which he assured me was imitation). I reluctantly stayed at the chateau, being dragooned by Dacourt and Clinton into helping with the preparations for the king's arrival. Benjamin and Beatrice returned later that evening but the young minx kept to herself in a chamber specially provided by Dacourt. I was tempted to pursue and show her the true ardour of my feelings but Benjamin had strictly cautioned me.

  'Roger,' he insisted, 'Beatrice is here for one task and one task only. She is to be the companion of King Francis and be seduced as Mademoiselle Beatrice de Cordeliere, the daughter of a local bourgeois merchant. She is to be the king's companion, ensnare his affections and, in doing so, seize the ring.'

  'How will she do that?' I jibed. 'Just ask old Long Nose to hand it over?'

  'No, I will give her an imitation one, an exact replica of what Francis wears. Or at least what I think it looks like. Anyway, it will be exact enough to cause sufficient confusion and allow the girl to steal it.' Benjamin shrugged. 'And, if the French king finds out, we will say Mistress Beatrice has gone: we are the envoys of Henry of England and cannot guarantee the honesty of Francis's subjects.'

  Such a brilliant plan! My master used all his ingenuity and subtlety to prepare it and everything augured well for its success. The vanguard of the French king's party arrived early on the morning of the Feast of St John the Baptist. Outriders, trumpeters and heralds came first, bearing the blue, silver and gold banners of Valois clustered around the sacred oriflamme, the King's own personal banner. Behind these, the multi-coloured pennants of other nobles in his retinue snapped and fluttered in the early morning breeze. They cluttered across the drawbridge followed by chamberlains, stewards of the household, officers of the royal buttery, kitchen and scullery. These inspected the apartments prepared for Francis and made a thorough search of the kitchens, cellar and corridors to ensure all was safe. They unpacked their caskets and chests, supplying us with fresh cloths to hang on the walls and insisting that in France their king walked on carpets not rushes. We left these minions alone, unable to make any sense of their constant demands, though Dacourt was sharp enough to place armed guards on his chancery, muniment, library and other writing rooms.

  'We don't,' he snorted with laughter, 'want any spies digging up any juicy morsel!'

  'There's no need to,' a dry-voiced Peckle answered, pushing back his soiled hair with ink-grimed fingers. 'The French seem to know our secrets before we do.'

  His words stilled the clamour of conversation. So intent had we all been on the French king's arrival we had forgotten Throgmorton's and Waldegrave's recent deaths. I scrutinised Peckle carefully. He was the one man who kept well away from the rest, spending every waking hour in his writing office, only jo
ining us for meals or a short walk in the garden. Was he the spy? I wondered. The industrious clerk who kept secrets to himself. I glanced at Millet. His languid, white face betrayed no emotion. Benjamin and I had kept our suspicions about him to ourselves; my master concluding that, for the time being, there was little to be gained by confronting him. But what about Millet's master? I wondered. The bluff, hearty soldier? Or even Clinton, with his courtly ways and mysterious French wife? Or the ubiquitous and ever cheerful servant, Venner, who ate like a horse but drank so sparingly, always insisting on watering his wine?

  Further speculation about the identity of the murderer ceased at the faint blare of trumpets and a retainer burst in, shouting down the sun-dappled hall that the French royal party had been sighted. We went to watch King Francis (or old Long Nose) arrive, preceded by halberdiers, archers and members of the Garde Ecossais in plumed helmets and light brigandines. I stayed well out of view. I glimpsed the king's long face under a scarlet bonnet and, beside him in a surprisingly sober grey gown, the heavy-lidded eyes and secret face of Monsieur Vauban. I remembered that strange voice in the forest calling out to us and, in spite of the sunshine, I shivered.

  The usual boring speeches were made: the French party, Vauban included, swept off to the apartments set aside for them in one of the wings of the chateau whilst I, following my master's instructions, kept a careful eye on the embassy household, trying to glimpse anything untoward. My vigil proved fruitless. Dacourt and the Clintons joined the French king; Peckle, grumbling to himself, went back to his chancery; whilst Millet and Venner, after dancing attendance on their respective masters, played a noisy game of bowls and quoits in one of the corridors. That in itself was worthy of any comic drama because the chateau was now packed with Frenchmen who, if they had no noble blood in their veins, were left to their own devices to find quarters. Time and again Venner and Millet would set up the quoits, only to be disturbed by troops of grumbling Frenchmen. At last both men gave up hope and, followed by me, trailed off to the relative peace of the garden.

  Just before sunset a strange silence fell over the chateau as everyone prepared for the great banquet. Now Dacourt had done us proud. The old hall had been swept, cleaned, polished, and hung with new drapes. White cloths shimmered over the old trestle tables and the long room was lit by thousands of small, white, wax candles. When I glimpsed these I grinned for they were exact replicas of the candles used by the Luciferi, but then I remembered Agnes and all my merriment faded. Benjamin and I stood at the entrance of the hall waiting for Beatrice to join us. At last, just before the French king swept in, she came tripping along, looking absolutely ravishing in a demure dress of rose damask trimmed with lace at neck and cuff, whilst a pure white gauze veil hid her lustrous hair. Rings sparkled on her fingers and what was supposed to be an amethyst pendant dazzled the eye and drew attention to her soft, ripe breasts.

  Oh, she was a minx, coyly glancing at us beneath lowered eyelashes, acting the innocent, speaking as sweetly and softly as a young novice. Her long eyelashes fluttered. I even saw a faint blush on those ivory cheeks. The trumpets sounded and we stepped aside as Francis and his court swept into the hall. The king was dressed in doublet and hose of beaten cloth of gold. His courtiers were no less exotic, garbed in German-style jackets of crimson and purple satin, or red velvet doublets open and laced with silver chains. Others had fur-lined cloaks slung over their shoulders, and hats trimmed with pheasant feathers perched jauntily on their heads. There were no ladies with them. (I later learnt King Francis kept his harem at home and on his travels just took whatever female caught his eye.)

  This group marched up to the high table where Clinton and Dacourt were waiting to receive them. Vauban was with them. His hair oiled and perfumed, he was dressed in black velvet lined with sables, whilst the studs and buttons on his doublet must have been mother-of-pearl. A man well rewarded by his king, I thought, and no wonder. The Luciferi had been most successful in crushing dissent at home and ferreting out the secrets of other powers. Once the French king and his courtiers were seated at the horseshoe-shaped table on the great dais, we lesser mortals took our seats. Benjamin had arranged that Beatrice sit between us in a place most likely to catch the French king's eye. I leaned over and hissed, 'Master, do the rest know why Beatrice is here?'

  Benjamin shook his head. 'No, I told them I have taken a fancy to her,' he whispered back hoarsely. 'And you know the English, Roger. They'd rather die of curiosity than ask a question!'

  I gazed at Vauban's face and wondered if he suspected. The bastard smiled beautifully down at us, raising his hand slightly as if acknowledging old friends and trusted comrades. Once more the heralds appeared, titles were proclaimed, trumpets blared, and the lavish banquet began. Beef, plover, pheasant, quail, pike, carp, dishes of vegetables and huge hogs' heads were served on a dazzling array of platters whilst the wine flowed like water. I suppose I drank to quell my fears though Benjamin's plan worked brilliantly. Once the feast was over, the tables were cleared and there was the usual, stupid mummery about George and the Dragon and Robin of the Greenwood. After that the musicians struck up and the dancing soon became daring and merry. King Francis, of course, swooped on young Beatrice like a hawk on some plump pigeon. He seemed captivated by her and we had to sit and watch old Long Nose work his evil ways.

  Eventually I was dragged off to bed by Benjamin who appeared to have drunk as much as I had. We both sat on the floor of our chamber, sang a two-voiced madrigal and then promptly passed out. I was awoken early the next morning by a servant rapping on the door. 'Master Shallot! Master Shallot!' I tossed a cloak round me and flung open the door. 'What is it, man?'

  'The young Lady Beatrice. She has left the castle. She asked me to give you this.'

  He handed me a sealed leather purse.

  'There are no coins in it,' the insolent fellow said. 'Just a ring.'

  I gazed in utter joy, resealed the pouch and, despite the heavy wine fumes which still cloyed my brain, raced down the stairs and across the courtyard where the servant's news was confirmed by a guard.

  'By herself?' I asked. 'That's rather dangerous.'

  The fellow gave me a weary smile. 'Exactly what I said,' he replied. 'But she said others would meet her.'

  I hurried back up to my room to arouse Benjamin.

  'Master,' I hissed. 'Master, we have the ring!'

  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 apparen
t. 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?'