The poisoned chalice

chamberlain told us to assemble in the great hall below for the rare privilege of an audience with His Most Christian Majesty.
    Dacourt and the Clintons were waiting for us, Sir Robert dressed in cream silken hose, darted below the knees, and padded doublet and breeches of dark sea blue; Lady Francesca was clothed all in white, a small, lace veil over her lovely hair, pearls clasped round her neck. I gasped at her beauty and, like the rest, threw envious glances at her most fortunate husband. Dacourt, however, was dressed as if he didn't give a damn, in sloppy jerkin and breeches which would have shamed an intelligent plough boy. Millet giggled and, whispering to the old soldier that his points were undone, asked did he wish to astonish the French with his apparent prowess? Dacourt laughed gruffly and turned surreptitiously away to adjust his dress.
    The snotty-nosed chamberlain tapped his wand on the floor and we were led along marble corridors, through chambers being prepared for the great banquet, past nobles draped in velvet and cloth of gold, retainers in blue, violet and scarlet liveries, all chatting merrily in French. They stood aside and let us pass, though we heard the sniggers and laughter caused by their little jokes. We stopped before a great, gold-embossed door and the chamberlain turned.
    'You are,' he announced in English, 'to be ushered into the presence of His Most Christian Majesty.'
    (Most Christian Majesty… that was the biggest lie, especially when Francis was allied to the Ottoman Turks, who were devils incarnate. You wait till you read my later journals. I still wake trembling at the horrors I suffered at Suleiman's silk-draped, terror-filled court.) Anyway, at Fontainebleau the doors were thrown open so we could feast our eyes on this Most Christian of Kings. We all trooped in, two by two, as if we were the animals going into Noah's bloody ark. The room shimmered with light, a treasure house of precious cloths and beautiful jewels. At the far end I glimpsed a small crowd who stopped talking and drew apart at our approach. I glimpsed a cloth of state under which two figures sat on thrones and then the devil Vauban appeared.
    He looked gorgeous, dressed in a pink silk gown with a gold-tasselled cord round his waist. He wore blue leggings and his feet were pushed into soft leather buskins. His chest gleamed like a mirror as the thick, cheap jewellery draped across it caught the sunlight. Down each arm, from shoulder to sleeve, gleamed those bloody little bells which tinkled every time he moved. He smiled effusively, gave a mock bow, and went to stand beside one of the thrones.
    'May I present,' he announced, 'Sir Robert Clinton and his wife, the Lady Francesca, Sir John Dacourt and the other English envoys.'
    By now I had forgotten Vauban and was surreptitiously staring at the two seated figures. Francis and his Queen Claude perched like waxen images under a cloth of state of red silk, the oriflamme. The thrones they sat on were fluted and heavily decorated with clusters of mother-of-pearl along the back and arms.
    We all bowed, then Dacourt began the usual boring, diplomatic speech bearing messages from Francis's 'brother' the King of England. I noticed a flicker of a smile cross the French king's face at the usual flowery hypocrisies; Francis hated Henry and the English king responded in kind. In a way I preferred Francis. He was a big-nosed bastard with heavy-lidded eyes, high forehead and a weak mouth which he hid beneath a moustache and beard. He was dressed in cloth of gold from head to toe, a simple crown on his head, and I could see he was as bored as I by Dacourt's vapid pleasantries.
    You see, Francis was the Salamander King, that wondrous creature of magic which was surrounded by fire but never burnt. Someone had called him this more as an insult than a compliment but Francis took a liking to it and you will find salamanders carved all over his palaces. You know, he shouldn't have been king. He was fortunate enough to marry Louis XII's only daughter and so became the appointed successor. And what a change! Old Louis, feeble and doddering, choking on his own spit. Henry VIII saw him off or, more truthfully, his sister Mary did. You see she was as hot for the joys of the bed as her brother, the Great Killer. She was married for three months to poor old Louis before he collapsed and died of exhaustion and Mary went home to marry the love of her life, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. If