The poisoned chalice

earlier that Philip IV's three daughters-in-law secretly met their lovers. I mean, it's rare enough for a princess to put the cuckold's horns on her husband but these three beauties successfully duped each of Philip's sons with their secret assignations with young knights of the court. But at last Philip found out and the princesses were bricked up in cells and allowed to starve to death; the young men were pulled apart by wild horses in the very courtyard we crossed.)
    I thought of the story Benjamin had whispered to me as we followed an arrogant chamberlain into the palace proper, along silk-draped corridors to a small audience chamber where, of course, Master Lucifer himself, Monsieur Vauban, was awaiting us. He was dressed in his usual ostentatious finery: lace ruffs and cuffs, high-heeled boots, a short gown which fell to just beneath his knees, and those bloody bells which tinkled every time he moved. His hair was oiled. I am sure he had some cosmetic on his face and he reeked of perfume. Mind you, the bastard could be charming. He rose from behind his desk and clasped our hands.
    'Monsieur Daunbey, Monsieur Shallot, I am so pleased. Come! Come!'
    He waved us through another door, I thought we were going to see the king. Instead, he took us into a small chamber, the walls and ceiling painted completely blue and decorated with silver crescents and stars. On the small dais at the far end a veritable banquet had been laid out for us. A collation of cold meats, breasts of chicken, slices of lamb, jellies, quince tarts, and a jug of chilled white wine. Like some devil inviting us to temptation, Vauban bowed and mockingly gestured. 'Come, Messieurs, you are our guests.'
    We heard a sound. I turned and froze in terror: seated in the far corner of the room was the great, black mameluke. He just squatted there on a stool and, crouching before him, their gold chains wrapped round one of his muscular hands, were those two damned cats, cool amber eyes studying us lazily. 'What's he doing here?' I whispered. 'I didn't see him,' Benjamin murmured back.
    'Oh, he always sits there,' Vauban replied. 'Always in a corner just inside the door. People often walk in and scream in terror when they catch sight of him. But he's harmless enough. Where I go, Akim goes!' Vauban pointed to our sword belts. 'Messieurs, if you please, you must take those off. In the presence of the king, no one is allowed to wear arms.'
    'Where is His Most Christian Majesty?' Benjamin tartly asked.
    Vauban shrugged. 'In a little while, Monsieur Daunbey. Your sword belts, please.'
    We had no choice but to unbuckle them. Vauban received them as carefully as a trained servant and laid them gently on a chest. Do you know, looking back, I don't think I've ever attended such a strange banquet. We sat eating and drinking only what Vauban ate and drank; that archangel of the Luciferi served us with a mocking deference; and all the time the cruel-faced mameluke and his predatory cats watched us unblinkingly. Vauban was courtesy itself. 'Will Monsieur try this dish? Master Roger, some wine?' And all the time, on one banal subject or another.
    Benjamin remained cool despite the beads of sweat on his brow and the flicker of fear in his eyes. I was terrified. Here we were in the midst of our enemies, naked to their malice, being entertained by a man who hid his ruthlessness beneath a polished veneer of courtly manners. The afternoon passed without a sign of the king though once, and I thought it may have been due to fear, I looked at the portrait hanging on the far wall and was sure I saw the eyes move. When I looked again, all I glimpsed was the glassy look of some long dead courtier framed for ever in a dusty oil painting. 'Monsieur Vauban,' Benjamin interrupted the archangel's meaningless chatter, 'we were invited here to discuss the matter of the ring. The day is passing.'
    'Ah, yes, the ring.' Vauban smiled. 'You have heard the story about it?'
    And, without waiting for an answer, he launched into a long, detailed story of the friendly rivalry which had existed between the two kings and how His Most Christian Majesty wished it to be returned. At last even he tired of wasting time. 'Come,' he invited. 'Let us walk in the garden.'
    He led us off down a darkened passageway and I realised it was almost dusk. Behind us, padding like three figures of death, came the mameluke and the two great leopards swaying on their chains.
    The gardens behind the Tour de Nesle were