‘What am I implying? Why, one of you is a spy! Oh, not for the Regent here but for the court, the government back in Paris. A man who keeps an eye on his fellows, searches out mutiny, grumblings, any hint of treachery. After all, it’s not unknown for ships, be they French or English, to enter into secret collusion with the enemy.’
‘That’s nonsense!’ Vamier snarled.
‘Is it?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You go to sea and you live in each other’s pockets. You sleep, eat, do everything with your companions. However, when your ship returns to harbour, where do you go? To the taverns and the brothels or home to your loved ones? One of you also goes to Paris: to the Louvre Palace, or the Hotel de Ville, to deliver a report to his masters; scraps of information, morsels of news.’ Athelstan glimpsed the uncertainty in Gresnay’s eyes. ‘Now your masters in France have a spy, an assassin called Mercurius.’
Neither man flinched.
‘High ranking, very well paid. His task is to collect information and remove the enemies of France by fair means or foul.’
‘Are you saying it’s one of us?’ Vamier asked. ‘Even if you speak the truth, Brother, it could be one of those who have already died.’
‘Oh, it’s one of you,’ Athelstan said. ‘Your masters in Paris were furious to lose two warships, their cargoes and skilled crews all in one day. They reached the obvious conclusion that there must be treachery, as did you. You were brought from Dover and delivered into the hands of Sir Walter Limbright at Hawkmere Manor.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘An Englishman who has good cause to hate the French. He would keep you in straitened circumstances, deepen your bitterness. Make you drink the chalice of sorrow till the very last drop. One of you, however, secretly received information that the traitor who had betrayed the St Sulpice and the St Denis must be among the prisoners at Hawkmere. I suppose that man needed very little encouragement to carry out what he considered legal execution.’ Athelstan picked up two of the peas.
‘Messieurs, let me introduce the rosary pea, sometimes called a paternoster pea, an Abrin pea or, to those who are skilled in herbs, the Abrus precatorius. It’s harmless enough. Monsieur Gresnay, there’s two for you. Monsieur Vamier, the same for you. I will take two as well to show you that they possess no noxious qualities.’
‘No,’ Gresnay said. ‘I am not taking them.’
The Frenchman walked down the hall towards the door.
‘You killed my friends. You will not kill me!’
He started to run. Sir Maurice caught him, crashing into him and sending him flying across the hall. Gresnay stumbled but regained his stance and turned. Sir John seized him, grasping his arms and, assisted by Maltravers, brought the protesting Frenchman back to the table.
‘I will not take it!’ Gresnay’s tongue came out, licking the blood at the corner of his mouth. ‘Vamier, for God’s sake!’
Athelstan turned. ‘Why, Monsieur Vamier, you seem more composed?’
Vamier had the two peas in the palm of his hand.
‘Go on!’ Athelstan urged. ‘Why not take them?’
‘If you say so.’ Vamier popped the peas into his mouth.
Gresnay’s body went slack. Sir John pushed him back on to the bench.
‘Please, for God’s sake, what are you doing?’
Athelstan stretched his hand out. ‘Monsieur Vamier, spit the peas back into my hand.’
Vamier did so.
‘Now, sirs,’ Athelstan said. ‘Let me see the rosary beads you were given when you first arrived at Hawkmere.’
‘They are in my wallet,’ Gresnay replied. He took out his rosary beads and threw them on the table.
‘And you, Monsieur Vamier, where are yours?’
He shrugged. ‘They are in my chamber.’
‘It can be searched.’
Vamier refused to meet Athelstan’s gaze.
‘I lost them,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the use of prayer in a place like this? I threw them away.’
‘You threw away rosary beads?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Come, come, Monsieur Vamier, where are they? Down a privy? In the garden perhaps?’
The Frenchman folded his arms.
‘Are you a prayerful man?’ Athelstan asked. ‘And, if not, surely like all sailors you are superstitious? Would you throw away Ave beads brought to you by the French envoy? Who now waits outside, to see what’s happening. Ah well, I think I’ve seen enough! Sir John, Monsieur de Fontanel should join us. I would also ask for two of my lord Regent’s guards to stand near the door, their swords drawn.’
A short while later de Fontanel swept in, cloak billowing about him, his high-heeled boots rapping on the wooden floor.
‘My Lord of Gaunt.’ De Fontanel slapped his feathered hat against his thigh. ‘Why am I summoned here? To receive your apologies, your assurances?’
‘Shut up!’ Gaunt barked. ‘And sit down!’
Gervase waved him to the stool beside him. De Fontanel obeyed. He sat opposite Gaunt, face impassive; now and again he glanced down the table at Vamier.
‘You arrived at a most interesting time, Monsieur,’ Athelstan began. ‘I want to make certain things very clear. First, the English had no spy on the St Sulpice and St Denis: their capture and destruction were due to the fortunes of war.’
De Fontanel scraped the stool back.
‘I swear,’ Athelstan held his hand up, ‘by the Mass I celebrated this morning that I speak the truth.’
The consternation on de Fontanel’s face was apparent.
‘Secondly, Monsieur de Fontanel, you are no more a Frenchman than I am. Your name is Richard Stillingbourne, formerly an English clerk. You fled to France where you are known as Mercurius, an assassin and a spy.’
‘This is nonsense!’ De Fontanel made to rise but Gervase grasped his wrist.
He snatched the envoy’s gold chain from round his neck and threw it to the floor. The Keeper of the House of Secrets’ delight was apparent. If Gaunt hadn’t stretched out a restraining hand, de Fontanel would have been struck as well as disgraced. The Frenchman placed his hands on the table, breathing heavily, eyes darting about.
‘You are a traitor.’ Gaunt picked up the small fruit knife, balancing it between his fingers. ‘And you are in my jurisdiction, Monsieur de Fontanel.’
‘Where’s the proof?’
‘I’ll come to that,’ Athelstan said. ‘So, let’s go at it hand in hand. Let’s charge the truth, Monsieur de Fontanel, and grasp it with both our hands.’ He picked up the Abrin peas and threw one down on the table. ‘You know what these are?’
De Fontanel caught the hard pea.
‘You do know what they are, don’t you?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘After all, you have been to Italy and visited Venice.’
‘I know nothing about gardens or herbs,’ de Fontanel sneered, but his sallow face had paled. He kept glancing at Vamier.
‘In which case,’ Athelstan said, ‘swallow it. Chew it carefully and swallow it. I assure you there’s nothing wrong.’
De Fontanel threw the pea down on the table and let it bounce on to the floor.
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ Athelstan sighed. ‘And I apologise for my lie. The Abrin seed is deadly. If a full-grown man took two, death would occur within the hour. From the little I know it has similar properties to hemlock. The Council of Ten in Venice use it to determine the truth. The accused is given two of these. If the prosecutor wishes him to die, he is made to chew. However, if the prosecutor, for his own secret reasons, wishes the man to be deemed innocent, he simply tells him to swallow them. The casing of the paternoster pea is very hard, rather like the pip of an apple. It goes into the gut and is discharged into the privy with no ill effects. Now.’ Athelstan opened his wallet and took out his own rosary beads. ‘Mercurius, Monsieur de Fontanel, whatever you wish to call yourself.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘You were sent from Paris to kill the supposed spy among these prisoners. You knew one of them was innocent, your own agent Pierre Vamier. Before you entered, I offered Vamier the seeds: he was quite prepared to swallow them because he knew their secrets. You came here and gave each prisoner a set of Ave beads.’ Athelstan wrapped his own rosary beads round his fingers. ‘Apart from Vamier! He can’t find his now because, instead of ordinary beads, he was given a string of Abrin seeds, the wherewithal to kill the prisoners.’