The Poisoned Chalice

8

The feasting and masquerades must have lasted for many hours but we retired early to our beds and in the morning joined our companions in the gardens for a light collation of watered wine and freshly baked bread. Most of our conversation was about the feast the night before. Throgmorton and Peckle had drunk too much, Clinton was describing his dispute with the French physician to a bored Dacourt, Master Millet looked worried, white-faced and red-eyed. Lady Francesca joined us, looking as cold and beautiful as a spring morning. Benjamin complimented her on the perfume she was wearing which drew a snort of laughter from Throgmorton.

'All perfumes smell the same,' he jibed. 'They could be sulphur and mercury for all I care.'

Lady Francesca threw him a dagger-glance and was on the point of replying when a royal herald entered the gardens to summon us to the great courtyard to see the king's justice being done. Sir Robert turned to his wife.

'You, my dear, are excused.' His face became severe. 'I insist. It's best if you return to your chamber and see that all is well.'

I was surprised. I had never seen Sir Robert look so angry or, indeed, Lady Francesca so submissive as she trotted off. Sir Robert whispered something to Venner then stared round at us all.

'What we are going to see,' he announced, 'is not a pleasant sight, but we are in France.' He made a face. 'Convention must be followed. If royal justice is to be done, then all males above the age of eighteen who are attendant upon the king must be present.'

I hadn't any idea what he was talking about, more bemused by Lady Francesca's sudden departure; the others, however, looked strained and nervous and I caught Master Benjamin gulping anxiously. We re-entered the palace, passed down sun-dappled corridors and came out above a great courtyard. We found ourselves on a balcony which stood over a porticoed colonnade, beneath us a great black-and-white stone courtyard. The king, flanked by leading notables, was seated on a throne like a Roman Emperor about to watch some gladiatorial display. The rest of the court whispered nervously, with catches of high laughter and forced bonhomie, clearly apprehensive of what was to happen.

I'll tell you this, it was a nightmare. A herald blew a sharp, shrill blast on his trumpet, a door in the courtyard opened and a small procession filed out, led by the master executioner dressed in black from head to toe. Behind him walked a royal serjeant-at-arms and other assistants. Again a short, sharp burst of the trumpet and a line of chained, condemned men were led out. They looked like prisoners the world over; dirty, dishevelled, haggard, bare-foot, and heavily manacled both at wrist and ankle.

The serjeant-at-arms read out a list of crimes.

I couldn't understand everything he said but the word ‘trahaison’ treason, was repeated. Justice was then dispensed. Now, our Great Killer in England was fond of sending wives and friends to the block – poor John Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, had to watch his own scaffold being built -but Henry always kept well away from the killing ground. He was dancing when Boleyn died and hunting when poor Catherine Howard was hustled off to her death on Tower Green. But Francis wanted to see justice done. His court was like that, moving from brilliant scholarship to the stark, bleak horrors of the Dark Ages. (Oh, by the way, he got worse. Men tied in bull-skins were baited to death by dogs. The French palaces became Murder's own playground. One of Francis's sons was killed by a strange poison fused in water. The assassin was torn apart by horses. Another was murdered whilst playing snowballs when someone threw a linen cupboard out of a window above him and crushed his skull. Catherine de Medici, Francis's daughter-in-law, liked to have the bodies of her opponents brought fresh from the scaffold so she could inspect them, and specialised in putting her prisoners in wooden cages suspended from beams. I know, I spent a bloody week in one of them, but that's another story.)

On that sunny morning in Fontainebleau I certainly saw the dark side of Francis's court. Two men were quickly garrotted, their last gasps sounding like a thunder clap in that silent courtyard. Two more had their noses slit and ears cropped whilst the fifth, poor wretch, had his lips and eyes sewn together. He would then be put in a huge sack with two starving mongrels and thrown into the nearest river. Sentence was carried out in a deathly silence broken only by the shrieks and groans of the prisoners, the grunting of the executioner, and the stifled sobs of some of the courtiers. Benjamin turned his back but I stood as if rooted to the spot, fascinated by the horrors being perpetrated.

I could see why Sir Robert Clinton had told Lady Francesca to withdraw, or at least I thought I did. Eventually the macabre show was over: the trumpet shrilled, the executioner's assistant cleared the courtyard, whilst others began to wash the blood and gore away until it seemed as if the strangulations and mutilations were all part of a bad dream. A herald shouted we were to return to the square to see a show of a different kind. The French king rose, clapped his hands. The courtiers, most of them like me pallid and a little green about the gills, went back to their different pursuits. Very few expressed a desire for anything to eat or drink. Benjamin tugged me by the sleeve and we left Dacourt and the rest murmuring about French severity compared to the clemency of the English king. I found that really amusing!

Benjamin led me back to the gardens. 'What do you think, Roger?' he asked.

'Barbaric,' I replied.

Benjamin stared up at the blue sky. 'No man should be dealt with like those poor captives.' He narrowed his eyes. 'Our French king must have read Machiavelli. Those executions were meant as a warning: no matter how beautiful the palace is, how generous the prince, how gorgeous the garden, the king will not be brooked.'

'Do you think he was warning us, master?'

'Perhaps. He may know we wish to seize that ring. Of course, it could be a general threat. I wonder who our spy is?' he murmured, changing the subject.

'Millet went missing last night.'

'Yes, and I noticed he slipped away during the executions. He whispered to Dacourt that he felt sick but our good friend Vauban was also missing and I find that strange. Vauban strikes me as a man who would like to watch others die.'

'We know one thing, master.'

'Which is?'

'The spy and the murderer are one and the same person.'

'Yes, I can see that. It must have been someone in the chateau the night Falconer died and someone who could take a poisoned flask of wine down to Abbe Gerard.' Benjamin chewed his lip. 'It would also seem that our good Monsieur Vauban and his Luciferi only reveal their knowledge of English secrets when letters reach France.'

'So that rules out Robert Clinton, his wife and his servant?'

'Why?'

'Well, they were in England when Gerard and Falconer died.'

'True, true,' Benjamin murmured. 'But I wonder about the Lady Francesca. Why do royal messengers take presents to that convent?'

'And why does the spy use the name Raphael?' I asked. 'Oh, I know, master, it's the name of an archangel, but Falconer seemed fascinated by it and I wonder if the actual name contains any clue to this mystery?'

We talked for a while, sitting in a quiet garden bower, sifting through names and wondering about the identity of this traitor and assassin until Venner arrived.

'Sir Robert Clinton requires your presence!' he shouted good-naturedly, catching sight of us. 'The French king has another masque. Don't worry,' he grinned, 'I don't think it's a repetition of this morning's horrors.'

We followed Venner back as he chattered gaily about the boar he'd glimpsed in a cage in another part of the palace grounds.

'A magnificent beast,' he murmured. 'The French king captured it himself. He's as obsessed with the hunt as he is with the ladies. Did you know that when his favourite greyhound died he had the dog's corpse skinned and a pair of gloves specially fashioned for him which he wore for months to remind him of the animal?'

'I hope he doesn't have us skinned!' I retorted. 'What's he going to do, make us fight the boar?'

(All I can say is that many a true word is spoken in jest!)

We found the rest of the courtiers reassembled on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Millet had rejoined our group. He still looked pallid and the front of his doublet was stained with vomit. The rest, however, were chatting happily, drinking and eating from the different dishes being carried round by young girls dressed in cloth of gold. Lady Francesca was also there, teasing Dacourt about his moustache, whilst Sir Robert was loudly lecturing Throgmorton on the veracity of the science of alchemy. He turned and waved at us to join him, drawing Benjamin into the debate, whilst I stood and stared around.

The French king lounged on his throne, his fat queen beside him, whilst on his other side stood Vauban, whispering softly in his master's ear. He looked up, caught sight of me, grinned and waved as if we were old friends. I looked away. The courtyard below had been cleaned and life-sized mannequins placed there. Now, let me describe what happened and be precise about the details. I was standing overlooking the courtyard, a drop of about twelve feet but protected by a thick, oaken palisade which rose about waist high. Behind me the rest of our group talked and chattered whilst servants bustled about. A trumpet sounded, the door below was once again thrown open and the most gigantic boar I have ever seen bounded into the courtyard. He looked as if he had swept in from hell itself; massive shoulders where the muscles hunched, a high ridge of hair bristling down the line of his spine, powerful, black hindquarters and a face as ugly as my chaplain's. Most notable were a huge, wet snout and white, cruel tusks which curved up like scimitars. Even from where I stood I could see the rage blazing in those eyes and throbbing in every muscle of that brutish body.

The beast stood pawing the ground, his breath coming in short gasps, and I caught a whiff of the foul stench. A deathly hush fell as everyone pushed towards the palisade, necks strained, all eyes on this terrible beast. For a few seconds he stood, head swaying slightly from side to side then he caught a glimpse of the gaily caparisoned mannequins and charged wildly at them. He moved his massive bulk with the speed and grace of a greyhound, smashing the statues over, then turning to rip them to pieces with those cruel tusks. The crowd 'Oohed' and 'Ahed', following with a ripple of applause. The beast stopped, his head came up and he glared in fury at his tormentors.

I was fascinated. I was leaning forward like the rest when someone gave me a vicious shove in the middle of my back and I tilted head first over the parapet. Oh, I was supposed to fall to the courtyard below but fear always sharpens old Shallot's wits. Even as I fell, I gripped a rib of stone which ran just beneath the parapet. I could hear the shouting and screaming. Benjamin called my name. I scrabbled for a better grip even as I heard the boar charge and stop just below me, craning its neck, head swaying from side to side, those wicked tusks narrowly missing the heels of my boots.

'Roger, my hand!' Benjamin was leaning over the parapet, arm extended.

Bruised and shaken, I eased my grip to grasp his hand – and slipped. It was only a few feet yet I seemed to be dropping for miles. The boar, startled, galloped away, turned, and stared at me. It lowered its head, its hooves stirred, and suddenly it threw itself into a furious charge. There was nowhere to run. I just stared in terror at this huge, black beast bearing down on me. Suddenly a crossbow bolt whirred and the boar stopped as if stunned. I saw the snout go down for another charge, then the boar collapsed on to its side. Only then did I glimpse the bolt embedded deeply just above the beast's eyes. I heard the applause, shouts of 'Well done!', and looked up. Benjamin stood holding a crossbow, probably snatched from one of the guards. Beside him, Vauban stood grinning down at me.

'Monsieur Shallot!' he called out. 'You were supposed to watch the show, not become part of it!'

This remark was translated back into French and evoked bellows of laughter. I just crouched. I daren't stand. I was in a state of terror, fearful lest I wet myself or collapse in a gibbering heap.

'Monsieur,' I called, 'I thank you for your concern.'

Vauban shrugged. 'Everyone, Monsieur Shallot,' he retorted, 'has a guardian angel to watch over him. Perhaps Master Daunbey is yours!'

The door in the courtyard opened and Benjamin strode out. He pulled me up by the arm as if I was a child and gently led me away from well-wishers, Dacourt's party and the rest, into a little chamber along the corridor. He made me sit and left for a few minutes, bringing back a huge, deep-bowled wine cup filled to the brim.

'Drink that!' he ordered. 'But drink it slowly!'

'Vauban and his bloody angels,' I moaned. 'I was pushed! Deliberately pushed! For God's sake, master, who was it?'

'I don't know. We were all at the edge of the balcony leaning over the parapet. There were servants going backwards and forwards. I was further down on your left. You just seemed to slide over the parapet. I thought you were gone.'

'Some bastard pushed me,' I repeated. 'But why?'

Benjamin just looked out of the window and shook his head. 'Apparently you know something, Roger. The question is, what?'

We were interrupted by a knock on the door and Clinton and Dacourt came in.

'Shallot, you've recovered?' Clinton asked.

'Oh, yes, as fine as a flower in spring,' I snarled. 'I'll be even better when my bowels stop churning and my legs have some strength.'

Sir Robert grinned. 'You were pushed,' he remarked quietly.

'Nonsense!' Dacourt interrupted.

'No, no, he was pushed,' Clinton repeated. 'By whom or why I don't know but it's time we left here. I have paid my compliments to His Most Christian Majesty!' The words were spat out. 'And I think it's time we were on the road.' Clinton stopped at the door and looked back. 'Do you know who pushed you, Roger?'

'No, but if I did, the bastard would be lying on top of that damn' boar!'

Clinton made a face. Dacourt glared over at me and followed him out.

'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin murmured. 'I have a feeling more horrors are about to occur.'

We left Fontainebleau just as the great, ornate clock was striking the first half-hour after mid-day. The excitement of my accident had died down. Venner was most solicitous and, whilst Benjamin kept to himself, Clinton's manservant rode along beside me, generously offering a wineskin he had filched from the kitchen. Dacourt and the Clintons went ahead whilst a few of Vauban's horsemen, red-bearded rascals in armour, guarded our front and rear. We wound down the white dusty lanes. The sun was hot, and in the heat of the day even the birds kept quiet and cooled themselves in the green darkness of the surrounding forest. After two hours' riding we stopped. Clinton said his horse was rather lame and asked Throgmorton to check it out. Venner laid out cloths beneath some trees and spread pastries and freshly baked bread, wrapped in linen cloths, which his master had commandeered from the royal kitchens. Small, horn-glazed goblets were distributed and Clinton produced a sealed flagon of wine.

'A present from Monsieur Vauban,' he remarked quietly. 'The best of the claret from the first year of His Majesty's reign.'

He tore open the seal and half-filled his goblet. The sun danced on the many rings on his fingers. We were seated in a semicircle. Lady Francesca was wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a lace veil protecting her skin against the heat and dust.

'Be careful, Sir Robert!' Benjamin suddenly called out.

Clinton stopped, the goblet halfway to his lips, whilst everyone stared at my master.

'What happened to Roger this morning,' he continued, 'was no accident. Falconer died after drinking wine, as did the Abbe Gerard. How do we know that His Most Christian Majesty's gift is not poisoned?'

I stared back. Vauban's horsemen had also stopped. Most of them had dismounted and were lying in the shade of the trees, talking softly in their strange, sing-song accents. A prickle of fear ran along my spine. Despite the wine I had gulped at Fontainebleau, I still felt threatened, pursued by some silent, vindictive fury. Clinton narrowed his eyes and sniffed at the wine.

'The seal was unbroken,' he observed. 'I do not think His Most Christian Majesty would like to explain to his brother of England why his envoys died after drinking some wine, especially provided by the French king.' Sir Robert smiled, sipped the wine and smacked his lips. 'If that's poisoned,' he announced, 'then I'll drink it every day.'

The tension abated, the wine was served, Clinton pouring it, Venner passing it along. Throgmorton rejoined us, announcing that there was nothing wrong with Clinton's horse. The food was served and duly tasted but Clinton's remark had abated our suspicions and we gossiped about what we had seen at the French court. Lady Francesca, however, remained silent, sipping at her wine but refusing to touch any of the food. We continued our journey and must have ridden for another hour when Throgmorton reined in, holding his stomach, his mouth gaping and his face deathly pale, hair matted with sweat.

'These pains,' he croaked. 'Oh, my lord!'

We gathered round him. Throgmorton suddenly vomited, his face turning a blueish tinge.

'I have been poisoned,' he whispered. 'This is poison!'

He stretched out a hand towards Benjamin and, before we could help, slid out of the saddle and crashed to the earth, his horse sheering away in fright. We dismounted and stood round him. For a few seconds Throgmorton lashed out like a landed fish, in short sharp convulsions, vomiting and retching, gasping for air. He scrambled on all fours like a dog, his back arched, then he collapsed, eyes and mouth open.

Lady Francesca turned away, her gloved hand pushing part of her lace veil to her mouth as if she, too, wanted to be sick. Peckle, Millet and Venner just stood like frightened children, Dacourt loudly cursed whilst Clinton helped my master try to find some pulse in the now prostrate doctor.

'He's dead,' Benjamin observed. 'Sir John, I would be grateful if you could keep Vauban's riders away. Tell them the good doctor has suffered a heart seizure.'

'Has he?' Clinton asked.

Benjamin turned the body over and sniffed at the dead man's gaping mouth. 'No seizure, Sir Robert. Look at the livid skin and blue lips. Throgmorton was poisoned, probably with white or red arsenic. If he had vomited earlier, perhaps he might have lived.'

'Would arsenic act so quickly?' Clinton queried and I remembered his keen interest in such matters. 'Surely not, Master Daunbey, the dose would have to be powerful. I suspect it was mixed with something else, something which struck at Throgmorton's heart.'

My master chewed his lip and gently touched the dead man's damp cheek. 'Perhaps you are right, Sir Robert.'

'I know I am; arsenic and perhaps digitalis or deadly nightshade. But when? We all drank the same wine and who could know which piece of food Throgmorton would choose?'

Clinton had the baskets containing the food and wine unpacked. The rest of what was left was carefully examined, including the wine flask and the cups though these had been washed clean in a nearby brook: no trace of poison was found. Clinton stared at the sky, blood red in the sunset.

'We must continue,' he ordered. 'We should be off the roads before nightfall. Maubisson is only another hour.'

Poor Throgmorton's body was tossed across his horse and our sombre journey continued like something from a macabre dream. We rode along the country track, winding between dark woods, lush green fields, past hamlets betrayed only by faint spirals of smoke. Vauban's colourful riders clustered around us: Lady Clinton masked; Sir Robert Clinton and my master deep in conversation; the rest riding silently; and, at the back, led by poor Venner, Throgmorton's dreadful cadaver strapped to his horse as if Death himself was trailing us to Maubisson.

We found the chateau sleeping lazily under the warm evening sun. Vauban's men went back to their camp before the walls as we clattered across the drawbridge and Dacourt bellowed for servants. Throgmorton's body was sheeted and carried to lie beside that of Waldegrave in the small chapel, Dacourt issuing strict orders that they both be taken down to the cemetery in the village and given summary burial.

The ambassador then ordered us all into the hall where the food baskets were laid out on the table whilst Clinton instructed us to take the same positions as we had during Throgmorton's final, dreadful meal. A wine flagon was ordered and, in a sinister imitation of our picnic, the wine served. Yet we could clarify nothing.

'Was it the food?' Benjamin queried. 'Or the wine which was poisoned? If it was the food, then how did the murderer know which piece poor Throgmorton would take? We all drank the wine and no one knew which cup he would drink from.'

The discussion continued. Had it been an article of Throgmorton's clothing? Peckle and Venner were sent to check, but returned none the wiser.

'The French could have done it,' Clinton observed. 'Before Throgmorton left Fontainebleau.'

'No,' Benjamin countered. 'Throgmorton did not begin to sweat until he had stopped to eat and drink with us. One of us here is the poisoner.'

My master's words stilled all the clamour and debate. Lady Francesca leaned forward, her beautiful face lined and pallid.

'But why?' she asked. 'Why poor Throgmorton? How do we know,' she continued, 'that he was the intended victim? Perhaps his death was a mistake and the poison intended for someone else?'

Lady Francesca's shrewd remark hit home. We all became suspicious of each other. There were mumbled excuses and the meeting broke up. Benjamin and I returned to our chamber and my master lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling.

'Lady Francesca could be correct,' he began. 'Perhaps Throgmorton's death was a blunder.' He continued to stare at the rafters. 'So far,' he said, 'Vauban and his Luciferi control this game. All we do is jerk like puppets at the end of their strings. Perhaps it is time we took matters into our own hands?'

'And do what?' I asked. 'Storm the Louvre Palace, seize Vauban and torture him until he tells us all? Knowing that sadistic bastard,' I added, 'he'd probably like that!'

Benjamin smiled lazily. 'A worthy suggestion, Roger. But we should ignore Vauban, he only receives the information. We hunt the man or woman who supplies him with it, and should follow our suspicions.'

'Such as?'

'Well, Master Millet for a start. He creeps out of here at night. He goes missing during the French king's ostentatious banquet.' Benjamin swung his long legs off the bed and peered up at me. 'And by the way, that banquet gave me an idea. Anyway, Millet's our quarry. I doubt if he will leave Maubisson tonight but tomorrow, Roger, you will slip through Vauban's men, wait in the forest and follow him into Paris.'

'Oh, thank you,' I replied. 'Just what old Shallot needs! Wandering around the smelly streets of Paris with Vauban and his bloody Luciferi following me!'

'You know Paris.'

'Yes, I know bloody Paris!' I wailed. 'Because I stayed there for months, starving and freezing, before being half-hanged at Montfaucon!'

'Look,' Benjamin rose and placed a hand on my shoulder, 'I want you to go to Paris. We have to see where Millet goes and whom he meets. You know the old haunts of the Maillotins. You knew one of their leaders, Broussac. First, try and see if he or his comrades were involved in the attack here. Secondly,' his long face broke into a smile, 'I want you to hire the most expensive courtesan in Paris, someone fresh, someone unknown, someone who will catch the eye of the king.'

Now I was perplexed.

'What do we do, master? Send her into King Francis's bedchamber to ask for the ring?'

'No, no! In a week's time we celebrate the Feast of St John the Baptist, patron saint of England. I am going to persuade Dacourt and Clinton to open the coffers and arrange a lavish banquet at which King Francis will be the guest of honour. Our girl will be there.' He shrugged. 'We leave the rest to chance.'

'And if it doesn't work?'

'If it does not work, my dear Roger, we'll try something else. But Francis will come, and with him Vauban. We'll have an opportunity to watch the French and see if anything happens. For the rest…'He became brisk, undid a small coffer and pulled out a fresh roll of parchment, ink horn and quill, and sat down at the small table, pen poised. 'Let us list again,' he said, 'what we know. For eighteen months a spy at the English court has been selling secrets to the French. He or she uses the name Raphael. Two months ago, just before Lent, Clinton and the Lady Francesca came here, and Sir Robert, together with Falconer, tried to find out who Raphael is. Falconer lost one of his best spies in Paris but not before the name Raphael was handed over. Clinton, with his wife, then left for England.

'The messengers travelling to and from the English court regularly stop off at the convent where the Lady Francesca was educated. There's nothing suspicious about that. Lady Francesca was apparently devoted to them; they send her gifts and she reciprocates.' Benjamin paused, his quill scratching across the parchment as he listed his conclusions. 'Now,' he looked up at me, 'these couriers are also of interest to us. Two of them were butchered outside the convent on the road to Paris though the diplomatic bags they carried were not tampered with but handed over intact to the English embassy. All became quiet until, just after Easter, Falconer shared some wine with Dacourt. He was then seen happily walking up to the top of the tower but later found dead at the bottom. The wine was not poisoned, Falconer was not drunk, and he was alone on the tower. So how did he die?'

Benjamin stared at me but I just shook my head.

'About the same time,' my master continued, 'a respected priest, Abbe Gerard, was found floating face down in his own carp pond. Abbe Gerard was once confessor to our king and Henry gave him a copy of St Augustine's work On Chastity. That book has now disappeared but Vauban and his Luciferi would love to find it.

'Finally, we have the business of the ring. Henry has made our task more difficult by demanding its return, but so far we meet with little success in this or anything else. Raphael is still giving our secrets to his masters. You were nearly killed at Fontainebleau whilst both Waldegrave and Throgmorton have died in mysterious circumstances.' Benjamin paused and drew a deep breath. 'What else do we know? That Millet is acting suspiciously. Anything else?'

'We do know,' I said, 'that the killer must be someone in the embassy here. The secrets appear to be revealed only when despatches arrive at Maubisson or at the embassy house in Paris. But you are right, master, the only clue we have is Millet's suspicious behaviour.'