The poisoned chalice

away.
    Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.' 'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'
    Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.' 'She seems to like you.'
    Benjamin shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste, Roger.' He smiled, finished his wine, and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.
    Just before we entered Paris we left the main road, and, following winding country tracks, approached the Convent of St Felice, its white stone buildings basking in the sunshine amongst soft green fields and small dark copses. A beautiful place, one of those convents which reeked of wealth, security, and its own strange kind of serenity. Everything was clean, precise and in its place. Even the convent yard, just within the great arched gateway, was neatly strewn with white stone pebbles, whilst around the walls small strips of garden full of flowers gave off their own fragrant perfume.
    We were left in the guesthouse, drinking chilled white wine, whilst the sisters welcomed Lady Francesca and Sir Robert Clinton in a flurry of joy at seeing their old pupil and protege. Lady Francesca was treated as a favoured daughter but Sir Robert was idolised, treated with a deference which I found quite surprising. You'd have thought he was some fat cardinal from Rome. The nuns fussed around the Clintons like a group of mother hens. I found it difficult to follow their chatter (you know old Shallot, nosy as hell and always looking for mischief), but they seemed most concerned about Lady Francesca's health. Anyway, they left us alone.
    Lady Clinton went to see old friends whilst Mother Superior, a formidable old bird in her gold-edged habit, took Sir Robert away, her arm linked through his, for quiet chatter in her own private apartment. We stayed for about an hour, then with the sisters' greetings ringing in our ears rejoined our escort outside the walls and continued our journey.
    We entered Paris by the Porte St Denis. It was strange to be back there and my memories were not pleasant: starving in the depths of winter, being beaten up, arrested for some misunderstanding and half-hanged at Montfaucon. The scaffold there was the first thing I clapped my eyes on when we entered the stinking streets of Paris. The city fathers had decided to improve the site since I last encountered it. A few corpses swayed in the breeze at the end of a rope but they had built a wall so when the bodies decayed and fell, their sight, if not their stink, was hidden from passersby. We followed the narrow, crooked streets, most of them unpaved and packed with a motley crew of citizens, monks, scholars and a legion of beggars. Stagnant pools of filth made us cover our mouths and noses whilst we kept bobbing our heads to avoid the painted signs which hung outside every house. All the time we were assailed by the noise of a hundred bells and the screams of hawkers and traders who sold everything from a piece of iron to hot chestnuts. We crossed one of the five big bridges built over the Seine and passed under the brooding mass of Notre Dame. Near the Place des Greves, or rather the square close to it, a great crowd had gathered to witness an execution. One of the most horrible sights I had ever seen. A huge vat full of oil was bubbling over a monstrous bonfire and, bound hand and foot inside, stood a criminal being boiled to death. The screams, the smoke and the stench were, perhaps, a prophecy of the horrors which awaited us. Lady Clinton turned pale and would have fainted in the saddle if Benjamin had not caught her, whilst Sir Robert shouted abuse at the outriders, telling them to move on. We left Paris by the Porte D'Orleans and found ourselves back amongst the tilled meadows and windmills which ring the city. The suburbs dwindled and, after an hour's travelling, we turned a bend in the road and there, on the brow of a hill, outlined against a forest, stood the Chateau de Maubisson, a pleasant sight. It was ringed by a curtain wall protected by a moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge.
    We clattered over this into the outer bailey where chickens pecked and pigs rooted for food. The place was busy and alive with noise from the stables, forges and outhouses built against the wall. We rode under another arch, guarded by serjeants-at-arms wearing the royal arms of England; great iron gates were flung