The poisoned chalice

Paris? You must come to my home near the Rue des Moines behind the cathedral of Notre Dame. It stands in its own grounds. I call it La Pleasaunce.' 'You live there alone?' my master asked. 'Oh, no, Monsieur. I have a family.' I caught the note of pride in Vauban's voice. 'Little angels,' he murmured.
    Now, I had had enough of this baiting so I threw him an angry glance. 'Monsieur Shallot, you are surprised I have a family?' 'No, Vauban, I am not. Even Nero had one. What would surprise me is that you had parents!' His smile dropped, as did his hand to his dagger hilt. 'One day, Monsieur, you will pay for that remark.' 'As you will,' I snarled back. I watched him walk away whilst Benjamin calmed me by refilling my wine goblet. 'Master, I hate that man!'
    'So do I, Roger, and for the same reason.' Benjamin's eyes softened. 'I know about Agnes,' he said gently. 'Vauban was behind her death. But he's a dangerous man, Roger. You have insulted him and he will exact a price.' 'I don't give a damn!' I replied. 'I only wish I could place him. I have seen his face before.' 'Well, naturally, in London.'
    'No, no, all I saw were his paid thugs. I may have heard his voice but I never clapped eyes on him that I can remember until that day outside Abbe Gerard's church. What is more immediately interesting,' I continued, 'is Master Millet's disappearance. I wonder where, and I wonder why?'
    We sat and waited. It must have been over an hour before Millet returned. He was followed by a young, French courtier who immediately went up to Vauban, now beside the king, and whispered heatedly into his ear. Vauban grinned, and not for the first time I began to wonder if our Master Millet was Raphael.

Chapter 8
    The feasting and masquerades must have lasted for many hours but we retired early to our beds and in the morning joined our companions in the gardens for a light collation of watered wine and freshly baked bread. Most of our conversation was about the feast the night before. Throgmorton and Peckle had drunk too much, Clinton was describing his dispute with the French physician to a bored Dacourt, Master Millet looked worried, white-faced and red-eyed. Lady Francesca joined us, looking as cold and beautiful as a spring morning. Benjamin complimented her on the perfume she was wearing which drew a snort of laughter from Throgmorton. 'All perfumes smell the same,' he jibed. 'They could be sulphur and mercury for all I care.'
    Lady Francesca threw him a dagger-glance and was on the point of replying when a royal herald entered the gardens to summon us to the great courtyard to see the king's justice being done. Sir Robert turned to his wife.
    'You, my dear, are excused.' His face became severe. 'I insist. It's best if you return to your chamber and see that all is well.'
    I was surprised. I had never seen Sir Robert look so angry or, indeed, Lady Francesca so submissive as she trotted off. Sir Robert whispered something to Venner then stared round at us all.
    'What we are going to see,' he announced, 'is not a pleasant sight, but we are in France.' He made a face. 'Convention must be followed. If royal justice is to be done, then all males above the age of eighteen who are attendant upon the king must be present.'
    I hadn't any idea what he was talking about, more bemused by Lady Francesca's sudden departure; the others, however, looked strained and nervous and I caught Master Benjamin gulping anxiously. We re-entered the palace, passed down sun-dappled corridors and came out above a great courtyard. We found ourselves on a balcony which stood over a porticoed colonnade, beneath us a great black-and-white stone courtyard. The king, flanked by leading notables, was seated on a throne like a Roman Emperor about to watch some gladiatorial display. The rest of the court whispered nervously, with catches of high laughter and forced bonhomie, clearly apprehensive of what was to happen.
    I'll tell you this, it was a nightmare. A herald blew a sharp, shrill blast on his trumpet, a door in the courtyard opened and a small procession filed out, led by the master executioner dressed in black from head to toe. Behind him walked a royal serjeant-at-arms and other assistants. Again a short, sharp burst of the trumpet and a line of chained, condemned men were led out. They looked like prisoners the world over; dirty, dishevelled, haggard, bare-foot, and heavily manacled both at wrist and ankle.
    The serjeant-at-arms read out a list of crimes.
    I couldn't