The Poisoned Chalice

by Michael Clynes

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.

  Author's Note

  Shallot is more than 'a snapper-up of mere trifles', he is a rogue, born and bred, who may be telling the truth. We do know that the French secret service was very active in England in the 1520s and there are rumours that they had a spy amongst the high-ranking councillors of Henry VIII. The Great Killer himself was as Shallot describes him: vain, lecherous, treacherous, a man who hated to be beaten. Henry VIII's rivalry with Francis I was legendary and there is evidence to suggest that each king tried to assassinate the other. Henry's love of masques, mummery and other foolishness is well documented, as is the clash of humanism and barbarism which occurred at the court of Francis I. Shallot cannot be accused of exaggerating any of this.

  The use of drugs, especially in France, whether poisonous or hallucinogenic, is also well attested. Some historians now claim that many of the visions experienced by monks and recluses were the result of the unwitting absorption of toxins such as the mould which grew on rye bread. Indeed, some of the subtle poisons used at this time are now lost to modern science. Catherine de Medici was well known for her expertise in the field, and the employment of expert poisoners at the French court climaxed in one of the greatest scandals in French royal history within seventy years of Shallot's second journal being written.

  Of course venereal disease was common in medieval Europe but, during the French invasions of Italy in the early 1500s, syphilis, a virulent and deadly form of VD, made its presence felt amongst French troops outside Naples to such devastating effect that Francis I had to withdraw his troops across the Alps. It is not impossible that Henry VIII was deliberately infected with the disease as described by Shallot. Such a ruse was definitely used by outraged husbands in the seventeenth century at the courts of Louis XIV and Charles II. When Francis I himself caught the infection, his body became so rotten and putrid that, as Shallot describes, many of his courtiers refused to attend the funeral. Shallot maintains that Francis caught it after seducing La Belle Fertoniere, and that this seduction was permitted by her outraged husband who wished to avenge himself on the French king. Shallot may be telling the truth, even though his journals are full of mysterious murders, subtle assassinations, dark intrigue. I have looked at the third journal and really do wonder if it should be launched upon an unsuspecting public, so dreadful are its revelations.