The poisoned chalice srs-2

by Paul Doherty

  Benjamin unhooked his cloak and threw it to the ground.

  'Leave it!' he gasped. 'It will delay the cat.'

  We hurried on, the blood pounding in our ears, our hearts hammering, breath coming in short coughs, until we were forced to stop, gasping and retching.

  'Let's think,' Benjamin whispered. 'We are armed.' He slid one sweat-soaked hand down into his boots and pulled out the long, thin, Italian stiletto he kept there.

  'Anything else?' I asked.

  Benjamin shook his head. 'That's all, Roger, and our wits.' He looked up at the top of the hedge. 'Come on, up you go!'

  'Master, the leopards will follow.'

  'No, they won't. The hedge will take our weight, the branches are intertwined. Spread yourself as if you were on a frozen lake.'

  Benjamin cupped his hand for my boot and, gasping and panting, I swung up on to the hedge, lying face down. The sharp branches, freshly shorn, bit into my stomach, crotch, legs and chest. I had to protect my face with my hands as I inched my way to the edge. I lowered my hand and, God knows how, pulled Benjamin up to lie just behind me. For a few seconds we lay there, catching our breath. I was too terrified to move but Benjamin, half-raising himself, stared out over the maze.

  'We are fortunate, Roger. This hedge is slightly higher than the rest. If we go forward as the crow flies, keeping the sun as our guide, we could reach the edge of the maze near the palace wall.' He looked round and chuckled. 'What is more pleasing,' he gasped, falling back on to his stomach, 'is that the mameluke is well behind us, though God knows where the leopards are!'

  Chapter 12

  We learnt soon enough. The beasts were puzzled by the lack of scent but, by chance, one of them caught sight of us edging our way along the top of the hedge and, snarling with fury, threw itself at us. However, the boxwood was too high and the pathways of the maze so narrow the cat had no room for a spring. All it could do was dash itself against the sharp-branched hedge. It gave that up but stalked alongside us, ears flat in fury, snarling and giving that strange blood-chilling bark. Benjamin, grasping his knife, urged me on.

  'Take off your doublet, Roger,' he gasped.

  Gasping and struggling, cut by the branches of the maze, I tossed the doublet down and the leopard stayed long enough to tear and rend it to pieces. We must have spent an hour crawling towards that wall. Now and again one of the leopards would catch up with us and either Benjamin or I tossed down some article of clothing. It may have saved us from the leopards but left us more vulnerable to the sharp-edged boxwood branches. My hands, chest and stomach were now scored with pinpricks and gashes whilst Benjamin had an ugly cut just under his right eye.

  'Thank God!' he murmured.

  'What for?' I snarled.

  "Thank God the mameluke unleashed the leopards and didn't hunt with them.'

  At last we reached the edge of the maze and collapsed on to the ground, little more than two sweat-soaked, bloody heaps.

  'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin whispered. 'The wall!'

  We had hardly begun our run when the mameluke slipped, like the shadow of death, from one of the pathways of the maze, his great, two-handled scimitar held back over his shoulder. He came tip-toeing like a dancer towards us. Benjamin pushed me on, slipped to one knee and, bringing the stiletto back, threw it with all his force. I turned, half-slipping, and saw the dagger take the mameluke just under his throat, sinking deep into his left shoulder. Not a killing blow but the creature dropped to his knees, eyes staring, mouth open, the great scimitar slipping out of his hands. Benjamin raced forward and picked this up and before the mameluke, caught in his own circle of pain, could react, sliced the man's head clean from his shoulders.

  I heard the dull thud as the head hit the ground like a ball and turned away at the dark red arc of blood which spouted yards into the air. Then Benjamin was beside me, cursing at me for not running on. We reached the wall. The brickwork was loose and gouged my hands and knees as we clambered to the top. Surprisingly, there were no guards about. Vauban must have been fully confident in his mameluke and his leopards. I looked back towards that dreadful maze and, just before I jumped to the ground, I glimpsed the first leopard leave the maze and pad like a ghost towards the ghastly, decapitated corpse.

  (Ah, I am sorry, my chaplain has interrupted. He cannot believe we crawled across the top of boxwood hedges. If I was young enough I would prove it now, and if he doesn't keep a civil tongue in his head I'll get him to demonstrate to all and sundry that it is possible. Is that why you sit at the centre of a maze? he asks. Well, yes, I suppose it is. I learnt something that dreadful summer's day. If you want protection, to be really safe, sit at the centre of a maze. Even if your enemy gets in, he may never get out alive. All the great villains of history sat at the centre of a maze, be it in a garden or a palace. Catherine de Medici, Madame Serpent, had her palace at Chambord turned into a labyrinth of false passageways, secret tunnels and corridors of moving floors containing oubliettes through which her hapless victims would disappear.)

  Anyway, enough of that. Benjamin and I were sore, bloodied, our nerves stretched like the strings of a lyre, but we had one advantage, best summed up in that Irish prayer: 'Oh, Lord, make my enemies arrogant.' Vauban was arrogant; he thought we would die in the maze and, come morning, our bloody, tattered corpses would be sewn in bags filled with stones and thrown into the Seine. That's why there were no guards, no witnesses who could be bought with English silver. I can just imagine how Vauban would have tripped gaily down to Maubisson to express the deep condolences of His Most Christian Majesty at the abrupt and mysterious disappearance of two English envoys.

  As matters turned out we returned to Maubisson only by the skin of our teeth. We had lost our weapons and our horses, whilst one of Benjamin's boots and both of mine were now in the proud possession of Vauban's bloody cats. We posed as beggars, and that wasn't hard, slipping through the Porte St Denis just before curfew, begging a ride with a carter and reaching Maubisson late the following morning. An alert sentry sent for Dacourt. He came down, huffing and puffing, but Benjamin was strangely silent, refusing to talk to him about our unkempt appearance. Dacourt muttered something about Venner but Benjamin brusquely interrupted.

  'Sir John,' he rasped, 'I wish to see Doctor Agrippa – now!'

  Something in my master's tone made" the old soldier obey with alacrity and we had barely reached our chamber when Agrippa joined us. He was dressed in black the same as ever, but his jovial smile was belied by his hard, enigmatic eyes. Benjamin cut his florid salutations short.

  'Doctor Agrippa, you bear warrants from the king and my uncle. Don't lie,' Benjamin warned. 'I know my uncle and I know you. You bear blank warrants which give you the power of life and death, as well as authority over all the king's subjects. So, I want the chateau sealed, every gate and door locked, archers placed on the parapets. No one is to come in or leave without your permission. Have the messengers returned?'

  Agrippa nodded, his eyes narrowed.

  'They must stay here, but send some trusted man to Calais with secret messages. Tell the commander of the garrison there to have troops of horsemen ready and mustered near the Pale.'

  'And I have something to tell you,' Agrippa replied.

  'Not now, Doctor, please, I beg you. If you do what I ask, we shall trap Raphael.'

  Agrippa shrugged and waddled off.

  Benjamin waited till the sound of his footsteps faded. 'Come on, Roger, we need to see those messengers. Go and find them. Tell them to come here and bring whatever reply or package they were given at the convent.'

  I found both men sunning themselves in a small paddock near the stables. They seemed unwilling to break their rest but, when I clinked my purse, they promptly rose, disappeared and returned carrying a small canvas bag sealed at the top. I took the pair of them back to my master, who locked the chamber door behind them and almost snatched the bag from the surprised messenger's hand.

  'What's the hurry, master?' the man grumbled
. Benjamin nodded at me. I produced two pieces of silver and handed them over. 'You were given this at the convent?' 'Yes, for the Lady Clinton.'

  'But,' Benjamin interrupted brusquely, 'on the king's orders you did not tell anyone about it?'

  'No, master, we kept it hidden. No one knows where we went or what we brought back.'

  Benjamin smiled. 'Good! Then let's keep it like that. Do you understand? Good. You may go.'

  As soon as they were gone, Benjamin opened the bag and took out a small package. He ripped open the thick yellow parchment and we both stared in disbelief at the small red and gold quilted cushion which lay there. My master picked it up, weighing it carefully in his hands.

  'Your knife, Roger.'

  He took it, slashed the cushion open, crowing with delight at the small phial he found hidden there.

  'What is it, master?'

  Benjamin held it up against the light. 'Oh, I think I know,' he murmured. 'But for the time being, Roger, let's leave it.' He hid the phial under his mattress. 'First things first, Roger. Let's cleanse ourselves of the stink of Vauban's leopards and that bloody maze.'

  Servants were summoned with buckets of hot water and we carefully washed ourselves, Benjamin pouring coarse wine over the cuts and abrasions on my hands, arms and legs until I felt as if I had been stuck all over with little pins. We then ate and slept for maybe an hour. I was deep in a beautiful dream about the Lady Francesca when my master shook me awake. Doctor Agrippa, smiling benevolently, sat at the foot of the bed. Benjamin had apparently told him what had happened at the Tour de Nesle. The good doctor congratulated us on our escape before divulging the news he'd tried to give us earlier.

  'Venner is dead.'

  'Venner!' my master exclaimed. 'When?'

  'Yesterday evening.'

  'How?'

  'By poison. Apparently Sir Robert and the Lady Francesca always partake of a glass of white wine before retiring. Venner poured it; the jug had been left in their chamber and someone had infused enough white arsenic to slay the entire chateau. Venner must have tasted the wine. He did not come down for the evening meal. Servants found him dead as a nail.' Agrippa made a face. 'Millet's been arrested for the crime.'

  'Why Millet?' I asked.

  'A phial of white arsenic has been found in his room.' 'It could have been placed there.'

  'I thought that but other items were discovered in the secret compartment of one of his coffers; a ciphered message to the French court, a small, white, wax candle, the symbol of the Luciferi, and more gold than Millet would earn in ten lifetimes.'

  'Where is he now?' my master asked.

  'In the dungeons.'

  'And what did the ciphered message say?'

  'That he did not trust you, me or Sir Robert Clinton, and that we were on the verge of discovering his true identity.'

  'And I suppose that's why,' I cried, 'he poisoned Clinton's wine?'

  'Apparently, but Millet did not reckon on Venner taking a sip.'

  We were interrupted by a loud knocking on the door and Sir John Dacourt waddled in.

  'Everything is as you ordered it!' he bellowed angrily, glaring at Agrippa, this nondescript courtier who had usurped his powers.

  Benjamin smiled falsely at him. 'Sir John, I thank you. But keep a close watch on Millet. Tonight I will produce the evidence to prove he is both traitor and assassin. He may try to take his own life. See that he is offered nothing but water and bread, and that's to be tasted before given to him.' He paused. 'Give Sir Robert Clinton and Lady Francesca our deep regrets on Master Venner's death but tell them to be most careful. Keep a close eye on the others for I will prove that Millet has an accomplice.'

  Dacourt's face went as white as chalk. He mumbled a few words and left more quietly than he had entered. Agrippa looked curiously at Benjamin.

  'So, the mask of Raphael covers two faces?'

  'Yes, it does. But, Doctor, if you could leave us now?'

  Agrippa smiled, winked at me and left the room.

  My master spent the rest of the day poring over papers on his desk, muttering to himself, asking me abrupt questions about this or that, like a lawyer drawing up a bill of indictment, marshalling his arguments, ready to quote chapter and verse. In the late afternoon we slept for a while until a servant knocked, saying the evening meal was ready. We found the rest of the embassy staff tense with excitement and expectation, and, at Benjamin's and the Doctor's insistence, Raphael or Millet were not discussed.

  The meal soon ended, Benjamin asked for the table to be cleared and the hall doors guarded. A crestfallen Dacourt agreed and we sat like the court of Star Chamber in that dark, candle-lit hall, seated round the table like a panel of judges. Benjamin, who had eaten and drunk sparingly during the meal, took Dacourt's chair in the centre of the table and brought out a small roll of parchment. He took a deep breath.

  'We are here,' he began, 'to determine the identity of the blood-stained traitor Raphael, who has been responsible for the deaths of Giles Falconer, the Abbe Gerard, Richard Waldegrave, Thomas Throgmorton and Ambrose Venner.'

  Benjamin paused and I stared round at the assembled company. Lady Francesca was wearing a dark blue dress of samite tied high at the neck, her thick, white veil of gauze, falling down to her shoulders, kept in place by a fine gold chain around her hair. She was haggard and pallid with dark shadows under her eyes. Beside her Sir Robert was dressed like a parson in a black jacket with only a trace of a white lace collar peeping above it. I remembered his face as it was then, cold, impassive and inscrutable. Sir John Dacourt looked a beaten man, humiliated by the knowledge that his secretarius was a probable traitor. Peckle was tired and very nervous, his bony fingers moving continually, covered in blue-green ink stains. Agrippa sat silently watching us like some dark shadow, beside him my master, his long face as hard and white as marble – one of the few times I had seen him seethe in anger. He looked as cruel and as cold as any hanging judge at Westminster.

  'We have the murderer, Master Daunbey,' Lady Francesca suddenly spoke up. 'I thought you agreed? Master Millet tried to kill us, as he did those other unfortunates you mentioned.'

  Benjamin made a face. 'Ah, yes, Master Millet. Sir John, have your guards bring him up.'

  Again we sat in silence. Dacourt went to the door and whispered instructions to the captain of the guard. A few minutes later the young secretarius was dragged in. He was no longer the fop. His hair was dirty and straggling, his face unshaven and there were large bruises under his dark eyes. His fine shirt was now grimy with dust and his breeches looked as if he hadn't changed them for weeks. His hands were tied securely before him and, when the guards let go of his arms, he sank in a moaning heap on the floor. Benjamin just sat watching this pathetic young man plead his innocence. Suddenly he rose, drew his dagger and, going down on his knees, slashed the prisoner's bonds with one stroke of his knife.

  'What are you doing?' Dacourt demanded.

  The young man crouched on the floor and stared tearfully up. Benjamin patted Millet on the back and returned to his chair.

  'I am freeing Michael Millet,' he explained quietly, 'because he is guilty of nothing more than preferring young men to young ladies, as well as having the misfortune of being befriended by one of Monsieur Vauban's innumerable legions of spies.' Benjamin sipped from his cup. I tensed, for the drama was about to begin. 'Michael Millet is not the assassin,' Benjamin continued. 'He is not Raphael, is he, Sir John?'

  Dacourt just shook his head.

  'How do you know that, Sir John?'

  'I don't!'

  Benjamin looked down at Peckle. 'Do you, Walter? Do you believe Millet is an assassin and a spy?' 'I don't know!' was the snarled reply. 'Lady Francesca?' She just stared blankly back.

  'And what do you think, Sir Robert? You know Millet is not Raphael, don't you?' 'Why should I?'

  'Because, Sir Robert, you are Raphael!'

  The accusation, so quietly uttered, caused immediate outrage and consternation. Clinton sp
rang to his feet, his hand going to his dagger, but Agrippa banged on the table with his hand.

  'You will sit, Sir Robert, as will you all. Anyone who leaves this chamber without my permission, whether he be the cardinal's nephew or the king's friend, will be killed immediately.'

  'How can you say that?' Sir Robert's eyes blazed with fury. 'I wasn't even in France when Abbe Gerard and Falconer died.' He blinked. 'Even if I was the spy, why should I kill Falconer and the Abbe Gerard? They were my friends!'

  'So was the king!' Benjamin retorted.

  'Let us examine things carefully,' Agrippa interrupted. 'Master Daunbey, please?'

  My master leaned forward. 'Let us describe how things happened,' he began. 'And only later explain why. For eighteen months,' he continued, 'there has been a spy called Raphael at the heart of the English council. Master Falconer, through one of his most trustworthy agents, learned his name was Raphael. This was in Holy Week when, Sir Robert, you were here at Maubisson.' He waved a hand. 'Please don't give me your protestations that you were working with Falconer. Of course he told you about the spy. After all, you are the king's friend and head of the chancery which deals with French affairs. You passed this information back to your masters at the Louvre Palace and Monsieur Vauban arranged the death of Falconer's agent.

  'Now Falconer became immediately suspicious about this and concentrated on the name Raphael. Before you left for England you probably noticed his change of attitude towards you and decided on a very clever way of removing this dangerous clerk. Remember, it was Holy Week when you left: Falconer, like everyone else, was observing the Church fast, abstaining from meat and wine. But once Lent was over, he would celebrate. He would use his liturgical cup, the Easter goblet, and you smeared that with a very special poison.'

  Benjamin looked down at his own cup and swilled the lees of wine round the bottom. 'It must have been a unique kind of poison, though quite an easy feat for you with your interest in chemicals and alchemy. I suspect the juice of Ergot or what the herbalists call "Claviceps Purpurea". You see, even Ergot or Mandrake will eventually kill, but rather slowly. Their primary effect is to cause the victim to hallucinate. They feel incredibly happy and believe they can do anything they wish.' Benjamin stared across at Dacourt. 'The wine you shared with Falconer, Sir John, was untainted, but Falconer's cup was not. After you left Falconer fell under the influence of the strong concoction smeared on his cup. He loved birds, loved to study them in flight. It was a warm, spring evening so he went to the top of the tower.' Benjamin shrugged. 'Did he slip or maybe even try to fly? Whatever, with the cup clenched in his hands, he fell to his death.' My master smiled. 'It's not too fanciful. Any man who has drunk too much wine knows how the mind plays tricks.'