The poisoned chalice

Pasha of North Africa.' The king waved the mameluke to a small stool next to Queen Claude who continued to sit there as if carved from stone.
    It was then that I noticed something suspicious. Never once had the French king offered a seat to Lady Francesca, who stood gazing at the monarch, an awed, frightened expression on her beautiful face. What really intrigued me was that Francis always honoured women but on this occasion he studiously ignored the Lady Francesca. Indeed, the only persons the French king seemed interested in were Vauban and that stupid, smiling mameluke. 'Asseyez,' Francis said. 'Sit down! Sit down!'
    The mameluke obeyed, still grinning vacuously, though his eyes were hard as marble and I caught a gleam of the great scimitar which swung from his side. He sat down, those bloody cats on either side of him, stretching and yawning, their lips drawn back revealing sharp, white teeth. Of course, the mameluke had been deliberately late. Francis had planned that either to impress or terrify us, I don't know which. At last Dacourt finished his tedious speech and stopped boring everyone. Vauban tucked his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his gown and stepped forward. He looked like a benevolent father confessor about to impart some doleful news.
    'Monsieur Dacourt,' he began, 'you speak as eloquently as an archangel.' He paused and smiled broadly.
    I heard Clinton hiss with anger at this baiting about a French spy at the English court.
    'A speech even the Archangel Raphael would have envied,' Vauban continued. 'St Paul said he might have the tongue of an angel, Monsieur Dacourt, you certainly have that. Nevertheless,' his smile disappeared, 'we are concerned by the contrast between the words of your royal master in England and his secret preparations for war.' 'That's a lie!' Clinton interrupted.
    Vauban spread his hands. 'Monsieur, why should I lie? We have information that the English king intends to erect a huge mirror on the south coast so that he can see which ships sail from French ports.' 'Nonsense!' Benjamin muttered. 'No, Monsieur, not nonsense. Your uncle, His Eminence the Cardinal, is ordering large quantities of wheat, malt and hops, organising cohorts of bakers, brewers and under-brewers to work on them; vast amounts of fodder for horses and dried meat for soldiers; whilst iron, lead, copper and saltpetre, not to mention six thousand horseshoes, three hundred thousand horse-shoe nails, six thousand pounds of rope and twenty thousand suits of armour, are all pouring into Calais.' Vauban stood, one leg slightly forward, ticking the points off on his fingers like some housewife checking the stores.
    I glanced sideways at Dacourt. His face had gone deathly pale and was covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
    'But,' Vauban clapped his hands, 'perhaps Henry of England intends to help us against our enemies? However, to assure us of his good intentions,' he sighed deeply, 'it would take an archangel to come from Heaven.' He glanced sideways at his royal master, who allowed a flicker of a smile across his face. 'Monsieur Dacourt, Monsieur Clinton,' Vauban continued, 'this meeting is over but His Most Christian Majesty requires your attendance at the banquet tonight as well as the festivities tomorrow.'
    Well, Dacourt literally swept from the room. Even his ears seemed to bristle in anger. Clinton seemed subdued whilst the rest of the entourage, with the exception of Benjamin, looked positively frightened. Once we were all away from the audience chamber, Clinton summarily dismissed the Lady Francesca who swept off in a flurry of flowing, perfumed lace.
    'Let us go into the garden,' he murmured. 'It is the only damned place no spies can lurk!'
    It was late in the day and we all sat near one of the small fountains, taking advantage of the shade against the hot afternoon sun. A servant brought us glasses of cool, white wine and we sipped them, taking stock of our recent interview with the king.
    'That bastard was baiting us!' Dacourt blurted out. 'The references to angels, archangels and Raphael! Vauban was reminding us that he has someone close to the heart of the English council.' 'Yes, and they proved that,' Millet piped up. 'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked carefully.
    'For goodness' sake, Daunbey!' Throgmorton sourly replied. 'Didn't you notice those two bloody cats, the jewelled collars round their necks? They were part of Henry's gift to the same Pasha of North Africa. Only the French heard about the