The poisoned chalice srs-2

by Paul Doherty

  'What's this all about?' Peckle moaned. 'I have work to do. Waldegrave's possessions must be accounted and assessed.'

  Millet yawned and slouched against the table. Throgmorton glared angrily at Benjamin as if he recognised a rival. Venner grinned amiably around whilst Clinton, as cool as ever, drummed his fingers soundlessly on the table top. At last Dacourt stormed in.

  'You're right!' he bellowed at Benjamin. 'You're damned well right!'

  'What's he so right about?' Peckle observed testily.

  'One of the servants found a young piglet, throat slashed from ear to ear, on a heap of refuse at the back of the kitchen. The cook didn't order it to be killed and no one will take responsibility for it.'

  'How long has it been dead?' Benjamin asked.

  ‘I don't bloody well know!' Dacourt coughed, slumping down in his chair in the centre of the table. 'Sometime yesterday, perhaps. The rats had been at it, the body is already half-gnawed.'

  'What is this?' Millet yawned languidly. 'Surely, Sir John, we are not here to discuss the mysterious death of a piglet?'

  He smiled appreciatively at the murmur of laughter he'd provoked. Benjamin rapped the top of the table.

  'No, we are not here to discuss the death of a pig but the murder of a priest, Richard Waldegrave!'

  'Murder!' Throgmorton was the first to react. 'Murder!' he repeated. 'The drunken idiot wandered into Vulcan's stable and got what he deserved. Everyone knows Vulcan is a horse trained for war.'

  'But why should he come down in the dead of night?' Millet jibed. 'After all, this is not some lady's chamber, is it, Master Throgmorton?'

  'Oh, shut up!' the physician snapped. 'It's obvious this sottish priest tried his luck once too often.'

  'I agree,' my master replied. 'But, Sir John, has Vulcan ever attacked anyone else?'

  Dacourt watched Benjamin attentively, his eyes now not so bulbous but cunning and shrewd. Sir John, I thought, was one of those men who like to play the role of the bluff, hale soldier. He was not Henry VIII's ambassador to France for nothing.

  'No,' he replied carefully. 'Old Vulcan is fiery, he can rear, bite and lash out, but pound a man to death? No. Continue, Master Benjamin.'

  Benjamin rose. 'Let's play out the little drama again,' he said and, without waiting for a reply, led the group out of the hall into the sunlit courtyard. Benjamin went across to the stable door.

  'Look,' he said. 'There are bolts on the outside, top and bottom. Waldegrave opens the top.' Benjamin slid the bolt back. 'And then the bottom.' Again he repeated the action. 'Waldegrave, a short man, goes into the stable. What did he do next?'

  'Apparently,' Millet answered, 'closed the bottom half of the door after him.'

  'Like this.' Benjamin leaned over the door and pushed the bolt home. 'Now.' He spoke over the door to us. 'Waldegrave was drunk, he stank of wine fumes. He was also a man of short stature; he would have to climb on the beam at the front of the door to push the bolt home. Yes?'

  A chorus of assent greeted his question.

  'So,' Benjamin continued, 'I am stone sober, taller than Waldegrave, and I find it difficult. It must have been hard for a short, drunken man to do at the dead of night.'

  'But he did!' Throgmorton taunted. 'The stable door was found bolted.'

  Benjamin smiled, opened the stable door and joined us in the yard.

  'My good doctor, I agree. But let us say you are correct and Waldegrave is standing in the stable. Vulcan rears, he is out of control. What should Waldegrave have done then?'

  'Try to get out?'

  'But he didn't. Strange,' Benjamin mused, 'this drunk who can so cleverly bolt the door after him, now finds it impossible to repeat the action to escape from an angry war horse.'

  'Perhaps he tried to,' Clinton remarked, scratching the side of his face with a heavy, beringed hand, 'but was struck down by Vulcan.'

  'I would like to believe that, Sir Robert. But examine the corpse. All of Waldegrave's injuries are to his face and the front of his body.'

  Now the group were attentive. Benjamin spread his hands.

  'You see, I don't think Waldegrave would have locked the door behind him. He was drunk. He was of short stature. Gentlemen, we have all drunk too much at times and seen others in their cups. They are careless, they knock over tables and chairs, they leave doors open. But Waldegrave was so precise. He could get into a stable but was unable to get out.'

  I just stood admiring my master's sharp wit. Of course, I had reached the same conclusions but he was always better at presenting the facts. He had a way with words, my master. He should have met Shakespeare and Burbage. They would have cast him in many a role in one of their plays. Perhaps Lear, Brutus or Mark Antony. Benjamin was a great orator. In that courtyard of the dreadful castle of Maubisson, he had the rapt attention of those arrogant men.

  'Now,' my master continued briskly, 'even if Waldegrave had bolted the door behind him and, let us say, he fell in a dead faint or drunken stupor, Sir John, can you explain why Vulcan would pound his body so mercilessly?'

  The ambassador stroked his chin. 'No, I cannot,' he replied. 'Vulcan is trained only to lash out at someone who threatens him.'

  'Not a fat, drunken cleric?'

  'Come, come!' Peckle snarled. 'Master Benjamin, tell us your conclusion.'

  'Sir John, would the smell of blood drive Vulcan to a fury?'

  'Of course. It would remind him of battle, of danger.'

  Benjamin pointed towards the infirmary. 'Last night I examined Waldegrave's clothing. It was covered in blood and gore which was fresh. However, his tunic was also stained with dried blood.' He paused. 'So, Master Peckle, I will tell you my conclusions. Last night, Waldegrave drank himself into a stupor. Someone had earlier gutted a young pig, and drained off the blood. They went to Waldegrave's chamber and smeared it all over the tunic of our comatose priest. Our murderer then dragged the body silently across the yard, opened the door to Vulcan's stable, placed the sleeping priest on the straw, locked the stable door behind him and slipped quietly away. Vulcan, agitated by dark shapes in the night and inflamed by the stench of blood, was driven to fury. He pounded this strange, blood-stained visitor to his stable, now lying on his back in the straw beneath him. The fury of the attack, at least for a few seconds, drew Waldegrave from his drunken stupor. He screamed, perhaps struggled, but Vulcan lashed out once more with a sharpened hoof, shattering poor Waldegrave's head.' Benjamin folded his arms. 'Sir John, Sir Robert, Waldegrave was barbarously murdered.'

  A babble of protest broke out but no one could deny the logic of my master's conclusions. He stilled the clamour with a wave of his hands.

  'I should demand that everyone should account for their movements but,' he smiled thinly, 'in the main we all sleep alone and I have no authority to ask.' He clapped me on the shoulder. 'Even my good friend Shallot could not swear that I did not slip out of my chamber to commit this dreadful act.'

  The rest of the group just stared wordlessly back. Benjamin shrugged.

  'Sir John, I would be grateful for the loan of a groom who will show us the way to Abbe Gerard's Church of St Pierre in Maubisson village.'

  Dacourt, lost in his own reverie, nodded and within the hour our horses were saddled and we followed the groom out of the chateau. Benjamin stopped for a while, staring across at the forest edge.

  'We are being watched,' he repeated. 'All the time, we are being watched.'

  'The Luciferi, master?'

  Benjamin pulled a wry mouth. 'Perhaps, but the danger we face from them is nothing compared to what we face in the chateau. There is a murderer loose. Waldegrave was killed because of what he knew, something about that pathetic joke.' My master patted his horse absent-mindedly. 'Or was it that?' he continued as if speaking to himself. 'Or because I was the first to show any interest? We shall see. We shall see, eh, Roger?'

  Chapter 6

  I smiled to hide my own fears. I'll be honest, they weren't caused just by the Luciferi and some maniac loose
in the chateau but by the Great Killer at Hampton Court and his desire to get that bloody ring back. I wanted to broach the matter with my master but he was lost in his own thoughts so I kept my fears hidden as we rode along the lee of the hill.

  We wound our way past open fields into shady woods until we entered the neck of a small valley. Nestling at the bottom, on the banks of a sluggish stream, stood Maubisson village: a collection of wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs, two or three of stone and slate, each with its own fenced garden. On the far side of the village was a small water mill, probably used for grinding corn. In the centre of the village green stood a black-spired church, nothing more than a tower and nave hastily thrown together, the type you can see in any village in England or France. It was ringed by its own walls, a cemetery to one side, the priest's house to the other. Even from where we looked you could glimpse the glint of the huge carp pond where Abbe Gerard had drowned.

  We rode slowly down the beaten track. Women in thick, serge dresses and wooden clogs gathered at the doors of their houses and watched us pass whilst half-naked children ran behind us, screaming in their patois for a sou or something to eat. A few old men dozed on benches. Around them scrawny-necked chickens pecked at the dust, jostling with thin-flanked pigs for something to eat. We reached the church and rode through the lych gate. Benjamin thanked the groom and told him to return to the chateau. We tied our horses to a small rail and knocked on the priest's house door.

  A young, thin-faced man with brown hair, a sharp needle nose and watery eyes answered. His skin was rather yellow as if he had bile problems or a stone in his kidneys. He was friendly enough, thankfully a Norman born, so Benjamin could converse easily with him whilst I could follow the general gist of their conversation.

  'I am the Cure Ricard,' he murmured. 'You are…?'

  (I was sure he was going to say 'Goddamn'.)

  'English, from the Chateau of Maubisson.'

  'Come in. Come in.'

  The cure ushered us in. He lived as poorly as his peasant parishioners. The room was simple. There were a few sticks of furniture and the floor was beaten earth, rather cold despite the summer. A fire burnt in the hearth. Next to it squatted a young girl about fifteen or sixteen years old. Her hair was thick and coarse, her face raw and peeling from work in the sun. She hardly looked up as we entered but continued to stir the huge, black pot which hung above the flames, now and again throwing in a scattering of herbs and the occasional piece of raw, fatty meat.

  'My housekeeper,' Ricard shamefully announced. (Aye, I thought, and I wager she does more than just work in the kitchen, but who am I to judge the poor man's morals? Look at my chaplain! From what I gather he spends more time in the hay loft with young Mabel from the village than he does in his church. Ah, see, he squirms! He thinks I am old and senile. I tell you this, not even the bloody sparrows land on my lawns without my permission.) Anyway, back to the poor priest. At least he did an honest day's work. He told us to sit down and served us vinegar-tasting wine. When he wasn't looking I poured mine on to the floor.

  'Monsieur le Cure,' Benjamin began, 'you came here after the Abbe Gerard died?'

  'No, Monsieur, I served with him. But the bishop has yet to make up his mind about a successor.'

  'So you were here the night he died?'

  'Yes and no. On that Wednesday after Easter I was absent from the church. The abbe had allowed me to visit friends. He stayed and cooked his own dinner.' The cure spread his hands. 'Some scraps of beef, he opened a small jar of wine. The abbe liked his claret and he had been fasting during Lent.'

  He must have seen the look in my eyes.

  'No more than two cups, certainly not enough to make him drunk. Just before dusk one of the villagers, walking through the church grounds, saw the abbe in the garden looking down at the carp pond. I returned after dark.' He looked sideways at the girl stirring the pot. 'Simone and I returned. Abbe Gerard was not to be seen. I went down to the garden. It was a beautiful evening. I thought he might still have been there.' The cure's eyes filled with tears. 'He was floating face down in the carp pond!'

  'And there was no mark or sign of violence?'

  'No, Monsieur.'

  'And the cup and jar of wine?'

  'They were found with him in the pond.'

  'Ask him where the wine came from,' I demanded.

  Benjamin translated my question. The cure shrugged.

  'God knows. The abbe may have bought it. But don't forget, Monsieur, it was Easter. Our parishioners, even the people of Maubisson, send us gifts. Fruit, flowers, wine and sweetmeats.'

  'Why would the abbe stare at the carp pond?'

  The cure laughed abruptly. 'Monsieur, everyone stands by the edge of the water and stares at the fish, that's why we have such ponds. It's a bit like asking why someone looks at the sky or watches the sunset.'

  Benjamin smiled. 'A fair point, Monsieur. Can we see this carp pond?'

  Ricard led us out into the garden. Really, it was a small orchard, with some apple and pear trees and untended grass. Here and there was the occasional flower bed; the lilies and other wild flowers struggling to thrive amongst the brambles and weeds. In the middle of the garden was a large, deep carp pond. It must have been about two yards deep and three yards across. It was man-made, I glimpsed the grey bricks around the edge, and probably fed by underground streams.

  'Tell us again,' Benjamin asked. 'What happened?'

  'Well, the abbe was in the water, floating face down.' Ricard wiped his constantly dripping nose. ‘I and Simone pulled him out. He must have been dead for hours.'

  'Do you think he drowned?'

  'He could have had a seizure. Yet the abbe enjoyed good health. He had no fits nor did he suffer from the falling sickness.'

  Benjamin sat down on a small bench near the pool and watched the silver, darting carp who swam in dashes of light amongst the water grass and luxuriant lily pads. He half-closed his eyes and listened to plopping sounds in the water for the place swarmed with frogs, and the buzz of the bees as they hunted for honey amongst the flowers.

  'Did Abbe Gerard have any enemies?' I asked abruptly.

  Ricard shook his head. 'Monsieur, I don't understand.'

  'My companion asked,' Benjamin repeated, 'did the Abbe Gerard have any enemies?'

  'No, he was a compassionate man, even to me with all my failings.'

  'Did he ever talk about his friendship with King Henry of England? You know our king, when he visited Maubisson, often called on Abbe Gerard and used him as a confessor?'

  'Others at the chateau do,' Ricard observed.

  I winked at Benjamin. Abbe Gerard, I thought, would be the natural recipient of all sorts of secrets. In an enclosed community such as Maubisson who would want to confess to a drunken idiot like Waldegrave? Apart from Falconer, I thought, and he died.

  'The Abbe Gerard,' Benjamin remarked, speaking my thoughts aloud, 'must have known the secrets of many hearts.' He stared up at Ricard. 'But we were talking about our noble King Henry.'

  'The abbe often boasted,' Ricard answered, 'about his friendship with King Henry of England. He often described him as a truly Christian Prince.'

  (It just goes to show you that Henry could fool anyone, and invariably did. At least two of his wives and three of his principal ministers paid the price, not to mention a legion of others whose only reward for speaking their minds was a short journey to the executioner's block on Tower Hill.)

  'And King Henry's gift to him?' Benjamin pointedly asked.

  'Oh, the abbe was very proud of the gift. A copy of St Augustine's On Chastity, I believe. He showed it to me once. I am not a scholar but I saw it was personally annotated by your king. Abbe Gerard usually kept it well hidden.'

  'And you never saw it?'

  'As I have said, only once.'

  'Where is it now?'

  'I don't know. You see the abbe had very few possessions. I searched for that but never found it.'

  Benjamin stared at the carp pond
.

  'Monsieur le Cure, since the abbe's death, has anything strange happened here?'

  'No. Of course, there was mourning and grief at the abbe's sudden death and his funeral caused disruption in the normal tedium of our lives.' The cure's voice quickened. 'Ah, yes, one incident. The day after the funeral I was out visiting all day. Simone had gone back to her family. On my return I found the doors had been forced. Someone had carefully searched the house from top to bottom but nothing was missing. I did wonder if they were searching for the book. In itself it is valuable, being recently translated from the original Greek and annotated by a king.'

  'Did the abbe ever say what would happen to the book after his death?'

  'Yes, he joked and said he would take it to heaven with him. How it deserved to go to Paradise.'

  'Ask him where the abbe is buried,' I said, an idea half-forming in my mind.

  'In our cemetery,' Ricard replied. 'Under the old yew tree. The parishioners bought him a head stone. You can see it there. It's marked simply with his name and the cross of Lorraine.'

  'May we see inside the church?' Benjamin asked.

  Ricard agreed and was searching for the key on the ring of his belt when we heard the sound of horses and men shouting. We followed the cure back to the kitchen. Simone was standing by the front door which she held ajar, her hand to her mouth. Ricard pushed her aside, stared out then stepped back, his face pale. Benjamin eased by him and I reluctantly followed. The path down to the lych gate was packed with armed men, soldiers in conical steel helmets and tough, leather jerkins. Some wore breastplates, greaves and other pieces of armour, all carried swords and daggers, with shields slung round their necks. They also carried arbalests, huge wicked-looking cross bows, the type used by Genoese; at our appearance they fanned out into a semicircle. Beyond the lych gate I could see their horses milling about, raising small clouds of yellow dust.

  'What is the matter?' Benjamin demanded.

  'A Goddamn!' one of them replied in a thick, Scottish accent. I peered closer and my stomach curdled. These did not look French and, despite the royal livery of France some of them sported, they were not regular troops. Most were red-haired with thick beards and moustaches. They had the cruel faces of born killers. I stared around. Some carried standards, chevrons, gules and badges. I glimpsed one displaying the Red Lion rampart of Scotland as well as the fleur de lys of France.