The poisoned chalice srs-2

by Paul Doherty

  'Le Garde Ecossais!’ Benjamin voiced my thoughts.

  I took a step back. These soldiers were the most cruel and professional in the French army, Scottish exiles who served the French crown because of their hatred for England.

  (Did you know that whenever the English went to war with France, our soldiers immediately hanged any of these Scottish mercenaries they captured? Indeed, Henry V used to burn them alive. And if any of them captured an Englishman, God help him! I have heard stories of such men taking days to die. These mercenaries were particularly concerned about the skill and accuracy of English archers. The first thing they'd do if they captured one would be to hack off the two forefingers of each hand, the very ones our archers used to pull a long bow. Consequently, our lads, whenever they wished to express their contempt for the French, would show them two fingers. I thought you might find this little aside interesting. My chaplain does. It's a gesture I often use with him when I'm too drunk to argue.)

  On that sun-drenched day at Maubisson I kept my fingers well hidden, smiled politely and quietly prayed that these wolves in human flesh were seeking other quarry apart from us. Suddenly the groups divided and a most extraordinary sight sauntered down the path. He was their leader, a soldier, but dressed like a popinjay in multi-coloured hose, a billowing tabard of blue and silver jagged at the edge, a lace-ruffed collar, lambskin gloves and high-heeled Spanish riding boots festooned with bells which tinkled at every step he took. He wore a sort of bonnet on his jet black hair, apparently dyed, and four great eagle feathers were clasped to this. A jewelled necklace round his throat glittered in the sun as did the pearl earrings which hung from fleshy lobes on chains of pure silver. His face was equally extraordinary, pale and soft, smooth like a young girl's, with pursed, prim lips and above them a slightly crooked nose. The eyes were deep-set and shadowed. Is this a woman? I thought, catching a strong whiff of perfume. You see, the fellow didn't walk, he had this strange mincing walk, hips slightly swaying. He was unarmed except for a dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle pushed through an ornately embroidered belt. I stared at that face and something stirred in my memory. Had I seen him before? Yet, surely I would remember such an apparition?

  The fellow stopped, one leg pushed slightly forward in a pose which, in other circumstances, I would have found laughable. He peeled one glove off and beckoned like a woman. Ricard stumbled forward.

  'Not you!' The voice was soft, well modulated, the command of English perfect.

  I had heard that voice before in an alleyway in London. The apparition waved soft, white fingers.

  'Go away, you dirty little priest, and close the door behind you!'

  Ricard vanished and I wished I could follow him. The apparition smiled lazily at us and beckoned once again.

  'Stay where you are!' Benjamin hissed, grabbing my arm.

  He didn't have to tell me a second time. I was rooted in terror to the spot. I don't like soldiers and I particularly hate those who dress like women and smile a lot.

  Again the apparition smiled. 'Preparez-vous!’

  The command was tossed languidly over his shoulder and immediately loaded crossbows were brought up and aimed at our chests.

  'On second thoughts,' I murmured to Benjamin, 'let's do what he asks.'

  Benjamin grasped my wrist again. 'I will take one step,' my master called out, 'if you take one.'

  The apparition shrugged. 'D'accord,' he murmured, making a languorous movement with his hand. The crossbows were lowered, he moved forward, so did we. The apparition tapped Benjamin on the chest. 'You are Benjamin Daunbey.' His eyes did not leave Benjamin's. 'And your companion is the creature Shallot.' His eyes flicked coldly over me. 'Creature, we meet again.'

  His words confirmed my worst fears. This fellow was one of the Luciferi who had threatened me in London, carried out the dreadful murders of the Ralembergs and put the blame on me. (Now the chaplain thinks I should have sprung at him. If I had loved Agnes so much, surely my passionate nature would have broken all bounds? He does not know old Shallot. Do unto your enemy before he does it unto you, but always make sure his back's turned!)

  'My name is 'Sieur Raoul Vauban. I am a clerk in the service of His Most Christian Majesty, King Francis I. We were passing through the village and we heard that the cure had visitors.'

  Bloody liar, I thought.

  'What are you doing here?' He stared at Benjamin.

  'We are the accredited envoys of His Majesty the King of England, and of His Eminence, Cardinal Thomas Wolsey. We are staying at the Chateau de Maubisson and have brought to the village our royal master's deep condolences on the sudden and tragic death of the Abbe Gerard.'

  'No!' Vauban rasped. 'You are spies!'

  'Then, Monsieur, we have a lot in common.' Benjamin held open his cloak so the Frenchman could see his sword. 'What is more,' he continued conversationally, 'you must be a member of the Luciferi. Perhaps their principal archangel. Where do you carry that damned candle you always leave at your crimes?'

  Well, that shut the bastard up, and, for a few seconds, that infuriating smile disappeared. My master just stood, cool as you like, his arms folded. I could see he had taken an intense dislike to Monsieur Vauban.

  'You are not passing through the village,' Benjamin continued. 'You followed us here. You have also been watching the chateau. Like me, you know the Abbe Gerard was murdered, and you are looking for that book, a gift from our royal master which, by rights, should now be returned to its proper owner.'

  Vauban, offended by Benjamin's bluntness, stepped back, his hand falling to his dagger. Once again those bloody crossbows came up and I heard the click of bolts being placed. I edged behind my master, ready to give him support and wondering if Ricard had locked the door behind him. Then, suddenly, Vauban threw back his head and laughed like a girl.

  'Monsieur Benjamin! Monsieur Benjamin!' He went up and clapped my master on the shoulder. 'Why do we quarrel? We are both agents of our royal masters. We have better things to do than kill each other.' He grinned impishly at me. 'We get others to do that for us.'

  Well, I could have killed the bastard on the spot but I wasn't armed. He was, and had sixty stout friends to support him. So I smiled pleasantly. Vauban stepped back, hands extended, his expression mock-apologetic.

  'Look, we mean no offence. We will escort you back to the chateau.'

  'We don't want that.'

  'No, we don't,' I added.

  'I insist,' Vauban purred. 'There are rebels, the Maillotins, about.'

  Benjamin shook his head. The crossbows came up again.

  'Of course, we agree,' I laughed. 'Good,' Vauban replied. 'Let's go.' We walked down the side of the church and collected our horses.

  'I don't like the perverted bastard!' Benjamin hissed.

  'Neither do I, master, but keep smiling just in case he changes his mind.'

  We mounted and rode back through the lazy summer sunshine, the Scottish troopers massing behind whilst Vauban pushed forward between us. God knows, I thought of Agnes and could have killed him. The bastard chattered pleasantly for a while before suddenly producing a small viol from a bag hanging on his saddle horn. I couldn't believe it. He strummed for a few seconds then broke into a sweet-sounding madrigal known to both my master and myself. (We often sang in St Mary's, Ipswich, my bass a good foil to Benjamin's tenor. Even today there's nothing I like better than to sit in church on Sunday morning and lustily bawl out the hymns.) But on that dusty track outside Maubisson I found the singing macabre. This killer dressed like a popinjay, sweetly singing a madrigal to men he knew were his sworn enemies. He stopped and looked at us.

  'I have a good voice, Messieurs?'

  'God only knows,' I added sarcastically.

  Vauban's eyes narrowed.

  'You know this song? You will join me?'

  Well, I don't know who was the more insane, he for singing or Benjamin and myself for joining in. Where possible I changed the words, using every filthy, French word I knew. (And b
elieve me there are quite a few!) But Vauban didn't mind. We rode along like three troubadours from some romantic tale. We finished just before we arrived at the main gate of the chateau.

  'I enjoyed that,' Vauban said, leaning forward on his horse. 'Perhaps we can do it again? Our voices modulate well.'

  'I would love to,' I replied. 'Perhaps one day you can be our guest again in London.' (In the Tower dungeons, I thought, stretched out on the cruellest rack I can find!)

  Vauban positively beamed with pleasure, waved us goodbye like an affectionate friend, then he and his horsemen disappeared in a haze of dust.

  Once we were arrived in the inner bailey Benjamin gave full vent to his feelings. He tossed his horse's reins to a groom and went storming off looking for Dacourt. I trailed behind, still shaking from a mixture of fear and anger. Benjamin found the ambassador in a small writing office near the great hall.

  'We must meet, Sir John. All of us, now!'

  'Why? Why?' Dacourt was flustered.

  'Because I want the truth!' Benjamin roared back.

  The ambassador dithered so Benjamin stormed out, grasped a frightened servant and made him take us to where Clinton was sitting with the Lady Francesca in a small bower built against the chateau wall. Lady Francesca smiled and simpered but, when she glimpsed me, her face became as hard as stone. She rose and flounced off in a swish of skirts and a whiff of fragrant perfume. I stood and listened to those sharp, high-heeled shoes clipping along the flagstones. I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I was sure she had been holding a small phial with the letters 'sul' written on it. I glanced at my master but he was too angry to notice, standing tapping the toe of his boot, waiting for Sir Robert to finish reading a letter.

  At last Clinton carefully folded the document.

  'Master Daunbey, what is the matter?'

  My master leaned forward and in curt, clear tones told him exactly what was the matter.

  'What do you want to do?' Sir Robert asked.

  'I wish to hold a meeting,' Benjamin rasped. 'Of all the ambassador's staff. I need to get certain matters clear and precise. The French are just laughing at us as we stumble around in a fog.'

  Clinton agreed and we all met in the great hall just before dusk. The servants setting the tables ready for supper were summarily dismissed. We all gathered on chairs in a semicircle round the hearth. Dacourt, angry that Benjamin had gone to Sir Robert, slurped noisily from a wine cup, then threw the dregs to hiss in the flames of the fire.

  'Master Daunbey,' he grated, 'we are busy men and you have convened this meeting. Why?'

  'I am here,' Benjamin answered, 'as the official envoy of Cardinal Wolsey as well as His Majesty the King. We have certain secret tasks to perform.'

  I saw Dacourt fidget nervously at his words.

  'But our main task is to discover the identity of the traitor Raphael and bring to justice the murderers of Falconer and Waldegrave. I suspect,' Benjamin added, 'they are one and the same person.' He extended a hand. 'Let us summarise. How long has this traitor been in existence?'

  'About eighteen months,' Clinton replied. 'But we only learnt he was called Raphael about eight weeks ago, during my visit here before Lent.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'You may remember, Benjamin, I worked with Falconer and obtained that name? Even though it cost us the life of a very good agent.'

  'Yes, yes,' Benjamin said. 'Now, I believe Falconer was murdered on Easter Monday?'

  A chorus of assent greeted his words.

  'He drank some wine from the same bottle you did, Sir John, but he was not in his cups?'

  Again there was agreement.

  'He was seen going to the top of the tower. The Mary Tower, I believe? And was found dead at the base of it the next morning?'

  'Yes,' Peckle stammered. 'We all know this, Master Daunbey.'

  'We also know,' Benjamin continued, breathing deeply to contain his anger, 'that on the Wednesday after Falconer was killed, Abbe Gerard from the nearby village also died in mysterious circumstances. Tell me,' he continued, 'did anyone from Maubisson send Abbe Gerard gifts for Easter?'

  The group sat silent.

  'Well,' Benjamin asked. 'Did anyone?'

  Dacourt shuffled his feet. ‘I did. I sent him some wine, the best of last year's grapes from Bordeaux, a silver dish of sweet comfits and some marchpane.'

  'When was this?'

  'On the Saturday before Easter.'

  'And what happened to these gifts?'

  'Good Lord!' Dacourt bellowed. 'I don't know. The Abbe Gerard was a compassionate, charitable man but one who liked his claret. I suspect he gave the comfits and marchpane to children in the village, sold the silver dish for alms and drank the wine himself. It was only a small, stoppered jar.' Dacourt's voice trailed off. 'Are you saying the wine…? But Throgmorton went down to examine the priest's corpse.'

  'Oh, we didn't know that,' I interrupted.

  'Well, no,' the physician replied. 'Why should you? I went down to examine the poor priest. There was no sign of poison. The man probably swooned, fell in the water and drowned.'

  'Master Benjamin,' Peckle rose to his feet, 'Sir John, we are busy men. Do you have further questions?'

  'No,' Benjamin replied crossly.

  My master was still very angry and I was intrigued for he was the most gentle of men and very rarely testy or sharp, even with fools. (I have just given my chaplain a good rap across the knuckles; that will teach him to make remarks like, 'And Master Daunbey had good knowledge of fools, having you as a servant.') Anyway, the meeting broke up, though Clinton and his manservant Venner remained seated until the rest had left the hall.

  'Tell me,' Clinton asked softly, 'this Vauban – did he know why you were in France?'

  'He said we were spies but even a child could deduce that. He also knew we were interested in the Abbe Gerard but, again, that would not require deep perception. Why do you ask, Sir Robert?'

  'He never mentioned Raphael?'

  'No, he didn't.'

  Clinton said, 'So, the Luciferi have still not learnt the true purpose of your mission. You see,' he leaned back in his chair, 'here in the chateau, Dacourt and the rest of his staff know you wish to catch a spy but, so far, little information has been passed to the Luciferi. Which means…'

  'Which means exactly what?' I interrupted tartly.

  'That the spy here must have special means of conveying such information to his master and has so far failed to use it. If you could discover that, then perhaps we can find out who Raphael is.'

  'Nevertheless,' Benjamin answered, 'Vauban did know we were here. I think he was watching the chateau for days and followed us down to the village.'

  'Which brings us to my real point,' Clinton answered. 'Master Venner?'

  The servant looked towards the door to make sure there was no one standing there.

  'Last night,' Venner asked, 'when Waldegrave's corpse was found, did you notice Millet? He was fully dressed as if he had been out of the chateau.'

  'It could have been a lovers' tryst,' I observed.

  'Perhaps,' Venner sneered. 'But Millet's tastes are obvious. He dresses like a woman, the type of tryst he keeps is best hidden under the cloak of darkness.'

  'I have raised this matter with Dacourt,' Clinton interrupted. 'He did not even know Millet was absent. I have asked him to keep the matter secret. Perhaps Millet needs to be followed.'

  Benjamin rubbed his face with his hands. 'Yes,' he observed drily. 'Millet's conduct and dress last night were suspicious. He could be the spy or his messenger.' He smiled at Clinton. 'And what you say makes sense, Sir Robert. Vauban still does not know the true nature of our mission here.' My master slapped the side of the chair. 'Of course,' he breathed, 'we have been here only a few days. We think Millet was returning. Maybe we were wrong. Perhaps he was on the point of leaving but the fracas caused by Waldegrave's death prevented him.'

  Clinton rose to his feet. 'We leave that to you, Master Daunbey. If you wish, Venner could follow hi
m.'

  'No, no,' Benjamin replied. 'Leave Master Millet to us.'

  I watched Clinton and his manservant leave and once again the business of Agnes's death nagged at my memory. (Do you know, years ago I asked a wise man who lived in a cave outside Alexandria why this happens? Why something should trouble you, yet you are unable to place it or resolve the matter until months later? He answered that we never know what a certain piece of puzzle is until we see the rest and put the piece in place.)

  Benjamin and I stayed in the hall whilst the servants returned and finished laying the tables for supper. My master just sat staring into the flames of the fire.

  'What is the matter?' I asked. 'Why did Vauban make you so angry?'

  'I am puzzled, Roger,' he replied. 'Why were Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and Waldegrave murdered? What is the connection between them? Is their killer Raphael or someone else? How does Raphael convey his secrets to the Luciferi?'

  'There is one common theme,' I replied.

  'Which is?'

  I ticked the points off on my fingers. 'First, the secrets of the King's Council are not revealed until they have reached Maubisson. Now we know the letters are opened by Dacourt and deciphered by Peckle, but Millet is Dacourt's secretary and will be privy to such information. The same could be true of Throgmorton. After all, physicians can wander where they wish and prise secrets from others. Secondly, Falconer was murdered here at Maubisson after broaching a flagon of wine with Dacourt. Thirdly, the Abbe Gerard apparently drowned after drinking claret which was undoubtedly sent to him by Dacourt, though taken down to the village probably by his secretary, Master Millet. Fourthly, Waldegrave was killed by Dacourt's horse, Vulcan.'

  'And finally,' Benjamin interrupted, 'Master Millet has a tendency to slip out of the chateau at night to meet God knows whom.' My master sat rocking himself gently in the chair. 'The common denominators in all these factors, as a mathematician would say, are Dacourt and