The poisoned chalice

morning we left Hampton Court. Benjamin was subdued. He made his farewells to Wolsey and Doctor Agrippa and we joined Clinton's party as they assembled in the great courtyard. The cries of ostlers, grooms, outriders, Serjeants and clerks rang out. Horses were saddled, sumpter ponies laden, the marshals of the household imposing order with their white wands of office. I glimpsed Lady Francesca, resplendent in a sea-green dress and cloak and small hat of the same colour, but for the moment, my lust had subsided. All I wanted was to be away from Hampton Court before I further incurred Henry's wrath.
    Lord, I was pleased to be free of the place, following the white beaten track first west around London, then south across the downs to Dover. Outriders went first then Sir Robert, Master Benjamin and Lady Clinton. The first two soon became boon companions: they shared a common love of alchemy and an all-absorbing interest in plants and their natural remedies. Often our cavalcade would stop so they could both dismount and study foxgloves, fungi on tree bark, or the different types of mushrooms. Though interested in nature, I was still frightened by the demands of the Great Beast and hung back, watching jealously how the coquettish Lady Francesca seemed to take great interest in Benjamin but remained impervious to my own presence. Clinton's chief henchman, Venner, was an amiable enough fellow but his conversation revolved around bear and cock fighting and the virtues of one breed of horse over another. There was not a pretty face in sight so I sulked all the way to Dover. We paused now and again at some hostelry and, on one occasion, a Benedictine monastery, I forget its name. Well, what does it matter? It's only a pile of rubble now the Great Killer has finished with it.
    No, on second thoughts, I wasn't sulking. I thought a lot about Agnes, her violent death and those of her family. I was satisfied that the Luciferi had killed her and I was determined, in my own cowardly way, to exact revenge once I was in France. Something else nagged at my mind and gnawed at my soul. An idea whose substance eluded me. Once I was aboard the Mary of Westminster and facing the terrors of the Narrow Seas, I put the matter aside.
    Our cog was a sturdy merchantman escorted by a small man-of-war. We raised anchor, turned, dipping our sails three times in honour of the Trinity, and made our way to the open sea. Two days later, after a peaceful voyage, we disembarked at Calais – a dreadful place, England's last foothold in France, nothing more than a glorified fortress packed with men-at-arms and archers, who staggered the streets in their boiled leather jerkins, drinking in the many ale houses and generally looking for trouble.
    The town was packed with carts and horses for the Great Killer always kept Calais well fortified. All a waste of time for his daughter, poor Bloody Mary, lost it to the French and died of a broken heart. (Oh, by the way, I was there when she died. I held her hand as the death rattle grew in her scrawny throat. 'Roger,' she whispered. 'My dear, dear Roger. When I die, pluck out my heart and you'll find Calais engraved upon it.' I bowed my head. She thought I was weeping. Nothing of the sort! I was terrified she might see the guilty look in my eyes for I am the man who lost the English Calais. Oh, yes! I was the silly, drunken bastard who left the gate open and let the French in, but that's another story.) We were soon free of Calais and heading south for Paris. The Normandy countryside baked under a warm summer sun. A peaceful journey. Even the scaffold and gibbets at the crossroads were empty; indeed, I even saw two festooned with garlands. 'Strange,' I muttered to Benjamin as we stayed at a tavern on our first night out of Calais. 'What is, Roger?'
    'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.' 'So?'
    'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'
    Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?' 'Yes.' 'So who did the French hang?' 'God knows!' I snarled, and turned