The poisoned chalice

at St Felice one out of every three times and, when they do, the bag is chained to their wrists.' He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. 'And even if the good nuns did seduce them, they would have to break the seal on the pouch as well as my lord cardinal's special seal on each letter, decode the cipher and re-seal them again.' He shook his head. 'No, no, that's impossible.'
    Later in the day we received instructions that Sir Robert and his party would be leaving the following morning. The lord cardinal wished us to attend one more of his interminable banquets – and this is where I made a bad situation worse. The banquet began with the usual mumbo-jumbo, except the cardinal dined alone at the high table under a rich cloth of state, his fat body almost hidden by platters of heaped delicacies, whilst all around him stood serving men to refill his goblet, replenish napkins or offer a fresh knife. There was no sign of the king nor, regrettably, Lady Clinton. Suddenly we were disturbed by the roar of many small cannons being fired all at once outside the palace. The gunfire sounded like a burst of thunder. Everyone sprang to their feet but the cardinal's heralds called for silence and he sent his revels master, Henry Guildford, to see what was going on. (Oh, by the way, I never saw Agrippa at these banquets. Indeed, I never saw him eat. Strange, isn't it?) Well, the revels master returned, saying that some masked noble figures had arrived at the water stairs. Wolsey sent the fellow down to escort these strange guests up and we just sat watching the door. Guildford returned leading a large company of masked figures who marched into the hall to the raucous clamour of tambour and fife.
    Now these visitors were dressed in simple shepherds' tunics though they were fashioned in stripes of crimson satin and cloth of gold. Visors and artificial beards hid their faces whilst false hair of fine gold wire and black silk covered the rest of their heads. These masquers filed solemnly, two-by-two, down to the high table. Their leader had quiet words with the cardinal, who smiled, clapped his hands, and a green baize-covered table and two chairs were brought in and set down in the middle of the hall. The leading masquer then stood on the dais, whilst a herald challenged anyone in the hall to play this strange man at dice.
    Of course, it was a load of mummery, Fat Henry playing at masques and mystery. Oh, we all knew it was him with his stout legs and big arse, but everyone became involved in the pantomime. In theory, no one was supposed to challenge the mysterious figure and, if they did, they were supposed to lose. On that particular occasion matters went wrong. To cut a long story short, drunk as a bishop, I sprang to my feet.
    'I accept the challenge!' I yelled, ignoring Benjamin's frantic tugging at my cloak.
    The din in the hall stilled. The masked figure stepped ponderously off the dais, sat down at the baize-covered table and indicated with a gloved hand that I should join him. I staggered across. I don't know why. Perhaps it was pure mischief in me. Or was it something else? Perhaps the thought of dice had stirred memories of that terrible evening in the Golden Turk when the Luciferi had trapped me. Anyway, the very devil was in me. The masked figure clapped his hands, a cup of dice was produced. My opponent (of course it was the Great Killer) emptied his purse on the table, so did I, and the game began. I played as if my very life depended upon it. The rest of the hall left their places and gathered around us. I saw Benjamin's anxious eyes but ignored his warning look. I played to win and I did. I won the first purse of gold, then a second, then a third. The joy and gaiety seeped from that hall as the masked player's irritation became obvious. A courtier leaned over and whispered in my ear. 'For God's sake, man, lose!'
    But not old Shallot! I threw the dice and almost my every throw beat his until Wolsey, standing behind the king's chair, gave a sign for the trumpeters to blow and the game ended. My opponent drew off his mask and I gazed into the red, sweaty face of the king. Now old Henry was a born actor. Indeed, I wonder if we ever saw the true Henry. (Do you know, I was in the council chamber with Thomas Cromwell when, years later, the northern rebels sent their demands and asked for his removal. Old Henry took his hat off and publicly beat Cromwell, telling him he was a caitiff and a knave and would be sent to the