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Authors: Michael Clynes
Tags: Historical Novel
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despatched abroad?'
'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.'
'Then what happens?'
'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.'
'Why is that?'
'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'
I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction.
'What happens then?' my master asked.
'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.'
'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'
'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.'
'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'
Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves "Maillotins" or "Club-Wielders".'
(Oh, I knew about these. Last time I had been to Paris they had rescued me from the freezing streets and hungry wolf packs.)
'These Maillotins attacked the messengers and killed them but a party of royal guards, who by chance were in the vicinity, hunted the outlaws down. The bags were returned in accordance with diplomatic protocol, and were found to be unopened and untampered with.'
'Could the spy be in England?'
'We suspect he is in France at our embassy.'
'Why?'
'The French do not betray what they have learnt until the despatches reach our embassy.' 'What happens then?'
'The chief cipher clerk, Walter Peckle, decodes them and hands them to the ambassador.'
Benjamin tapped the toe of his boot on the soft carpet. 'These messengers?' he queried.
'They are professional couriers. There are two in England and two in France. They often cross each other in their travels.' 'And two of them were killed?'
'Yes, but they have been replaced,' Agrippa answered. 'They are trustworthy men?'
'They cannot be faulted. You may question the two in England before you go. Now,' Agrippa picked up the bell, 'perhaps you should meet your travelling companions?'
The silver bell tinkled. A servant wearing the cardinal's livery slipped like a shadow into the room.
'Ah, yes.' Wolsey got up. 'Sir Robert Clinton?'
'He is in the presence chamber, Your Grace.'
'Bring him in!'
Clinton entered, a small man with silver hair brushed back from his forehead, a neatly clipped moustache and beard. He looked what he was, a veteran soldier, with suntanned face, clear eyes, dark doublet and hose, the only concession to fashion being the ornate, thick silver rings on each hand and a gold cross round his neck. Beside him stood his clerk, Ambrose Venner, a young man with thinning hair and the fat, cheerful face of an over-fed scholar. Agrippa introduced them, ushering them to seats, clicking his fingers for the servant to serve them wine and sweetmeats.
'Sir Robert,' Agrippa began, 'is chief secretary to the French chancery of the Privy Council. Sir Robert, Benjamin Daunbey and his servant, Roger Shallot.'
Clinton smiled and sketched a bow to both of us. He
'The Privy Council,' Agrippa replied, 'is divided into chanceries. There is a chancery for Italy, a chancery for the Papacy, a chancery for Germany, for Spain, and one for France. My Lord Cardinal chairs each of these but is assisted by a secretary and a number of clerks. These meet His Majesty in secret session, matters are discussed and, as you put it, conclusions are reached.'
'Then what happens?'
'Letters are sent in secret cipher to the English embassy, latterly in the Rue des Medeans, now at the Chateau de Maubisson. Such letters are sealed with the cardinal's own signet ring. This signet seal cannot be forged.'
'Why is that?'
'Because, my dear nephew,' Wolsey silkily intervened, 'only I know what the seal actually looks like. No one is present when those despatches are sealed, not even Doctor Agrippa.'
I stared at the cardinal. Do you know, I saw a flicker of fear in those cunning eyes and realised why his Satanic Eminence needed us so much. He was an archbishop, the king's chief minister, but he was also a cardinal of the Roman church. If such secret missives were sealed personally by him it might be only a matter of time before Wol-sey's enemies at court and parliament began to point the accusing finger in his direction.
'What happens then?' my master asked.
'The secrets are placed in a despatch bag and sealed with the chancery seal. Two messengers take them to Paris and deliver them personally to the ambassador.'
'Have the bag or despatches ever been interfered with?'
'Never. They are chained to one of the messenger's wrists.'
'Has anything ever happened to the messengers?'
Agrippa pursed his lips. 'Only once, just outside Paris. You know that in France there are secret societies, peasants with ideas of equality? They call themselves "Maillotins" or "Club-Wielders".'
(Oh, I knew about these. Last time I had been to Paris they had rescued me from the freezing streets and hungry wolf packs.)
'These Maillotins attacked the messengers and killed them but a party of royal guards, who by chance were in the vicinity, hunted the outlaws down. The bags were returned in accordance with diplomatic protocol, and were found to be unopened and untampered with.'
'Could the spy be in England?'
'We suspect he is in France at our embassy.'
'Why?'
'The French do not betray what they have learnt until the despatches reach our embassy.' 'What happens then?'
'The chief cipher clerk, Walter Peckle, decodes them and hands them to the ambassador.'
Benjamin tapped the toe of his boot on the soft carpet. 'These messengers?' he queried.
'They are professional couriers. There are two in England and two in France. They often cross each other in their travels.' 'And two of them were killed?'
'Yes, but they have been replaced,' Agrippa answered. 'They are trustworthy men?'
'They cannot be faulted. You may question the two in England before you go. Now,' Agrippa picked up the bell, 'perhaps you should meet your travelling companions?'
The silver bell tinkled. A servant wearing the cardinal's livery slipped like a shadow into the room.
'Ah, yes.' Wolsey got up. 'Sir Robert Clinton?'
'He is in the presence chamber, Your Grace.'
'Bring him in!'
Clinton entered, a small man with silver hair brushed back from his forehead, a neatly clipped moustache and beard. He looked what he was, a veteran soldier, with suntanned face, clear eyes, dark doublet and hose, the only concession to fashion being the ornate, thick silver rings on each hand and a gold cross round his neck. Beside him stood his clerk, Ambrose Venner, a young man with thinning hair and the fat, cheerful face of an over-fed scholar. Agrippa introduced them, ushering them to seats, clicking his fingers for the servant to serve them wine and sweetmeats.
'Sir Robert,' Agrippa began, 'is chief secretary to the French chancery of the Privy Council. Sir Robert, Benjamin Daunbey and his servant, Roger Shallot.'
Clinton smiled and sketched a bow to both of us. He
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