The poisoned chalice

understand everything he said but the word ‘trahaison’ treason, was repeated. Justice was then dispensed. Now, our Great Killer in England was fond of sending wives and friends to the block – poor John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, had to watch his own scaffold being built -but Henry always kept well away from the killing ground. He was dancing when Boleyn died and hunting when poor Catherine Howard was hustled off to her death on Tower Green. But Francis wanted to see justice done. His court was like that, moving from brilliant scholarship to the stark, bleak horrors of the Dark Ages. (Oh, by the way, he got worse. Men tied in bull-skins were baited to death by dogs. The French palaces became Murder's own playground. One of Francis's sons was killed by a strange poison fused in water. The assassin was torn apart by horses. Another was murdered whilst playing snowballs when someone threw a linen cupboard out of a window above him and crushed his skull. Catherine de Medici, Francis's daughter-in-law, liked to have the bodies of her opponents brought fresh from the scaffold so she could inspect them, and specialised in putting her prisoners in wooden cages suspended from beams. I know, I spent a bloody week in one of them, but that's another story.)
    On that sunny morning in Fontainebleau I certainly saw the dark side of Francis's court. Two men were quickly garrotted, their last gasps sounding like a thunder clap in that silent courtyard. Two more had their noses slit and ears cropped whilst the fifth, poor wretch, had his lips and eyes sewn together. He would then be put in a huge sack with two starving mongrels and thrown into the nearest river. Sentence was carried out in a deathly silence broken only by the shrieks and groans of the prisoners, the grunting of the executioner, and the stifled sobs of some of the courtiers. Benjamin turned his back but I stood as if rooted to the spot, fascinated by the horrors being perpetrated.
    I could see why Sir Robert Clinton had told Lady Francesca to withdraw, or at least I thought I did. Eventually the macabre show was over: the trumpet shrilled, the executioner's assistant cleared the courtyard, whilst others began to wash the blood and gore away until it seemed as if the strangulations and mutilations were all part of a bad dream. A herald shouted we were to return to the square to see a show of a different kind. The French king rose, clapped his hands. The courtiers, most of them like me pallid and a little green about the gills, went back to their different pursuits. Very few expressed a desire for anything to eat or drink. Benjamin tugged me by the sleeve and we left Dacourt and the rest murmuring about French severity compared to the clemency of the English king. I found that really amusing!
    Benjamin led me back to the gardens. 'What do you think, Roger?' he asked. 'Barbaric,' I replied.
    Benjamin stared up at the blue sky. 'No man should be dealt with like those poor captives.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Our French king must have read Machiavelli. Those executions were meant as a warning: no matter how beautiful the palace is, how generous the prince, how gorgeous the garden, the king will not be brooked.' 'Do you think he was warning us, master?'
    'Perhaps. He may know we wish to seize that ring. Of course, it could be a general threat. I wonder who our spy is?' he murmured, changing the subject. 'Millet went missing last night.'
    'Yes, and I noticed he slipped away during the executions. He whispered to Dacourt that he felt sick but our good friend Vauban was also missing and I find that strange. Vauban strikes me as a man who would like to watch others die.' 'We know one thing, master.' 'Which is?'
    'The spy and the murderer are one and the same person.'
    'Yes, I can see that. It must have been someone in the chateau the night Falconer died and someone who could take a poisoned flask of wine down to Abbe Gerard.' Benjamin chewed his lip. 'It would also seem that our good Monsieur Vauban and his Luciferi only reveal their knowledge of English secrets when letters reach France.'
    'So that rules out Robert Clinton, his wife and his servant?' 'Why?'
    'Well, they were in England when Gerard and Falconer died.'
    'True, true,' Benjamin murmured. 'But I wonder about the Lady Francesca. Why do royal messengers take presents to that convent?'
    'And why does the spy use the name Raphael?' I asked. 'Oh, I know, master, it's the name of an archangel, but Falconer seemed