The poisoned chalice

offered me, and a ring I had last seen on the finger of His Most Christian Majesty, Francis I of France. I went and stood by the window watching the breakers turn to a boiling, frothing white. Now I understood why Vauban had staged that mummery in the forest outside Calais.
    Of course, both my master and Doctor Agrippa were delighted. When we met the king in his palace at Greenwich, the Great Killer threw his arm around me, calling me his brother, pinching my cheek and declaring that I was the boldest knave in all his kingdom. I was praised, feasted and rewarded, hugged and kissed, lavished with gifts of many kinds, but old Shallot was beginning to learn that the pleasure and favour of princes is indeed a fickle thing. I saw the king burn the book my master had discovered in Abbe Gerard's church and watched the parchment turn to ashes. Abbe Gerard was your friend, I thought, and he was killed because of this book. Clinton was your friend and you drove him into his homicidal madness. Catherine, your wife, a Spanish princess, is your friend, your lover and wife. Now you plan to set her aside like some public whore or common courtesan. Wolsey in his purple silks laughed when the king did and looked favourably upon both myself and his 'beloved nephew', but I had had enough of princes.
    (Oh, by the way, no one told the bastard about Lady Francesca's infection. We concluded there were certain things our bluff Hal should find out for himself. We simply told him Clinton had been seduced by French gold and left it at that.) Benjamin and I travelled on to London. I visited the graves of the Ralembergs under a cypress tree just inside Greyfriars graveyard. I left a red rose on Agnes's tomb, said a prayer, shed some tears and rejoined my master in a nearby tavern. We drank our fill and took the road north to Ipswich.

Epilogue
    Well, I have told my story. My old friend Will Shakespeare recently staged one of his plays here in the great hall, The Winter's Tale I think it was called. A subtle conceit of jealousy and intrigue. The king in the play reminded me of the Great Killer whilst another character, Autolycus, was definitely me: 'A teller of tales, a snapper up of mere trifles'. My chaplain giggles and thinks that another of Will Shakespeare's quotes is more apt for me, being 'full of sound and fury, signifying nothing'. Ah, hell, but what does he know? Wolsey's gone, the Great Killer's gone, they are all shadows, yesterday's dust. But in their time they controlled the stage and dominated the play. Wolsey turned the tables on the French whilst the royal beast began to surround his wife Catherine with a web of lies. Nevertheless, the Lady Francesca had done her damage: the syphilis lay dormant in Henry's fat carcase for years before raging forth like the fires of hell, blackening the open ulcer on his leg and tipping the royal beast's mind deeper into madness.
    Yes, they have all gone, even Benjamin. And what am I? An old man who sits in the centre of his maze, telling his tale and drinking himself stupid on sack. Nonetheless, if I half-close my eyes and grasp in one hand the dark, faded petals of a rose, and in the other a young girl's small, blood red stone… well, then I can dream. If I forget my crumbling body and just sit listening to the wood pigeon sing its heart out, and half-open my eyes, the rose in my hand is in full bloom and across the grass Benjamin walks, shouting cheerily at me to join him. If I catch the smell of roses, I am young again, standing in the springtime of my life in a London garden, the scent of flowers heavy on the air and young Agnes standing demurely before me. But when I open my eyes the dreams fade and I know that even the flames of the hottest fire will end in nothing but smoke.
    My chaplain says I am a rogue and a villain, that I am to enjoy the things of earth for I will find no heaven in the next world. But what the sod does he know? I put my trust in Christ and his holy Mother for I hope they judge us not for what we are but for what we wanted to be. Oh, yes, I am a rogue. I call for fat Margot and bury my face in a deep-bowled cup of sack. Perhaps that's the way I want it, for when you are gulping sack and crying for a wench no one can see the tears in your eyes. Oh, and the good Lord knows, I could murder a cup of sack.

Author's Note
    Shallot is more than 'a snapper-up of mere trifles', he is a rogue, born and bred, who may be telling the truth. We do know that the French secret