The poisoned chalice

finds out, we will say Mistress Beatrice has gone: we are the envoys of Henry of England and cannot guarantee the honesty of Francis's subjects.'
    Such a brilliant plan! My master used all his ingenuity and subtlety to prepare it and everything augured well for its success. The vanguard of the French king's party arrived early on the morning of the Feast of St John the Baptist. Outriders, trumpeters and heralds came first, bearing the blue, silver and gold banners of Valois clustered around the sacred oriflamme, the King's own personal banner. Behind these, the multi-coloured pennants of other nobles in his retinue snapped and fluttered in the early morning breeze. They cluttered across the drawbridge followed by chamberlains, stewards of the household, officers of the royal buttery, kitchen and scullery. These inspected the apartments prepared for Francis and made a thorough search of the kitchens, cellar and corridors to ensure all was safe. They unpacked their caskets and chests, supplying us with fresh cloths to hang on the walls and insisting that in France their king walked on carpets not rushes. We left these minions alone, unable to make any sense of their constant demands, though Dacourt was sharp enough to place armed guards on his chancery, muniment, library and other writing rooms.
    'We don't,' he snorted with laughter, 'want any spies digging up any juicy morsel!'
    'There's no need to,' a dry-voiced Peckle answered, pushing back his soiled hair with ink-grimed fingers. 'The French seem to know our secrets before we do.'
    His words stilled the clamour of conversation. So intent had we all been on the French king's arrival we had forgotten Throgmorton's and Waldegrave's recent deaths. I scrutinised Peckle carefully. He was the one man who kept well away from the rest, spending every waking hour in his writing office, only joining us for meals or a short walk in the garden. Was he the spy? I wondered. The industrious clerk who kept secrets to himself. I glanced at Millet. His languid, white face betrayed no emotion. Benjamin and I had kept our suspicions about him to ourselves; my master concluding that, for the time being, there was little to be gained by confronting him. But what about Millet's master? I wondered. The bluff, hearty soldier? Or even Clinton, with his courtly ways and mysterious French wife? Or the ubiquitous and ever cheerful servant, Venner, who ate like a horse but drank so sparingly, always insisting on watering his wine?
    Further speculation about the identity of the murderer ceased at the faint blare of trumpets and a retainer burst in, shouting down the sun-dappled hall that the French royal party had been sighted. We went to watch King Francis (or old Long Nose) arrive, preceded by halberdiers, archers and members of the Garde Ecossais in plumed helmets and light brigandines. I stayed well out of view. I glimpsed the king's long face under a scarlet bonnet and, beside him in a surprisingly sober grey gown, the heavy-lidded eyes and secret face of Monsieur Vauban. I remembered that strange voice in the forest calling out to us and, in spite of the sunshine, I shivered.
    The usual boring speeches were made: the French party, Vauban included, swept off to the apartments set aside for them in one of the wings of the chateau whilst I, following my master's instructions, kept a careful eye on the embassy household, trying to glimpse anything untoward. My vigil proved fruitless. Dacourt and the Clintons joined the French king; Peckle, grumbling to himself, went back to his chancery; whilst Millet and Venner, after dancing attendance on their respective masters, played a noisy game of bowls and quoits in one of the corridors. That in itself was worthy of any comic drama because the chateau was now packed with Frenchmen who, if they had no noble blood in their veins, were left to their own devices to find quarters. Time and again Venner and Millet would set up the quoits, only to be disturbed by troops of grumbling Frenchmen. At last both men gave up hope and, followed by me, trailed off to the relative peace of the garden.
    Just before sunset a strange silence fell over the chateau as everyone prepared for the great banquet. Now Dacourt had done us proud. The old hall had been swept, cleaned, polished, and hung with new drapes. White cloths shimmered over the old trestle tables and the long room was lit by thousands of small, white, wax candles. When I glimpsed these I grinned for they were