“Beware!” the earl cried. “The tip is poison!”
“You may have saved your cardinal, but shortly your king and your queen will be dead. There is nothing you can do to save them,” the priest snarled.
The earl of Witton grasped the French priest about the neck, the tip of the poisoned dagger close, but not yet touching his throat. “I want the location and names of the other two in this nefarious plot,” he said.
“Go to the devil!” the priest replied venomously.
“Are you really ready to give up your life in this ridiculous hope that having murdered England’s monarchs in order to steal their child, France will rule England? There are still men in England whose blood makes them legitimate heirs to its throne. The duke of Buckingham for one. Only their acquiescence to the Tudors has allowed that family to rule, but if the Tudors were gone these men would rise up to claim what is their right.” He moved the dagger closer to the priest’s skin.
The priest was silent, but they could see he was considering the earl’s words very carefully. “What will become of us?” he finally asked nervously.
“Give me the names of the others, and where they stand. I will return you all to your mistress. What she does with you is her business. We do not want to destroy the amity that has existed in this month between our nations. Tell me now, or as God is my witness I will prick you with this blade, and leave you to die unshriven! Will you go to your maker, priest, with this sin on your soul?”
“Pierre and Michel, serving men of the dowager queen. They stand with her now in the chapel. Pierre is taller than any other there but your own king. Michel stands to his right,” the priest cried. “Take the blade from my neck, I beg you!”
The earl shoved the man to the ground and handed the dagger to the queen’s priest. “Watch him carefully, and do not permit him off his knees until the Swiss Guard come for him, good fathers. If he attempts to escape you, blood him with the dagger.”
Then the earl hurried back into the chapel, quickly speaking with the captain of the king’s own Yeomen. Quietly the men-at-arms moved to where the two men they sought stood among the French dowager queen’s servants. Discreetly they hustled the two from the chapel even before they might protest. Few noticed, for the courtiers were caught up in the sumptuous beauty and magnificence of the mass. Most there recognized that this was the close of a most historic event. They wanted to absorb it all so they might tell their children and their grandchildren one day. Even Louise of Savoy ignored the small to-do.
Outside, the three conspirators were now on their knees, their arms bound behind them, the yeomen watching over them. The two English priests had disappeared back into the chapel.
“Take them somewhere where they will not be seen by the kings or the courts,” the earl said to the captain of the guard. “I will speak with his grace after the mass, and he will decide what is to be done with them.”
“Aye, my lord,” came the response.
Suddenly down the field there came a shouting. “The Salamander! The Salamander!” There was the smell of gunpowder and a whine in the sky.
“What is it?” the captain of the yeomen asked.
“It would appear,” the earl said, “that one of the fireworks for the festivities later was exploded prematurely. I will go and check.” And when he did, the earl learned that he was correct in his assumption. The Salamander, which was the French king’s own personal sign, had been accidentally lit by a young boy, those in charge of the fireworks told the earl. A local lad hired to help.
“Clumsy brat!” the fireworks artisan said angrily. “Any other piece I could have tolerated, but the king’s own symbol! There will be no time to make another.”
“Where is the boy?”
“I beat him, and sent him off,” the man said.
“Do you know who he is?” the earl asked patiently.
“My sister’s worthless son,” came the answer.
“I need to speak with the lad,” the earl told the artisan.
“Piers, you miserable little turd, where are you?” the man shouted. “Get back here or when I catch you I’ll flay the very flesh from your skinny bottom!”
They waited a long moment, and then a boy crept from the shadows of the artisan’s wagon. He was dirty, and looked hungry.
“Come here, brat!” the artisan shouted. “This fine gentleman wishes to speak with you, though why I have no idea.”
“Stay,” the earl said quietly. “Come, lad.” He beckoned the boy in kindly tones.
“Yes, milord?” the boy whispered. He looked frightened.
“Now, lad, you must tell me the truth, and if you do I will reward you. But I will know if you are lying to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, milord.” The answer was subdued.
“Did someone pay you to fire the king’s Salamander when the sun reached its zenith this morning? The truth now, lad.”
