The Poisoned Chalice

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 sprang 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.'

'Nonsense!' Clinton, his face now white as a sheet, sprang to his feet and stared round. 'What nonsense is this? Even if I did that, how would I know Falconer would fall to his death?'

'Oh, that was an unexpected gain,' Benjamin replied. 'If he had not and had stayed in his room, the dream effect would have worn off. He would have fallen into a coma and died in his sleep without any visible sign of poison. His death could have been dismissed as due to natural causes. After all, the wine was untainted and who would think of examining the cup?' Benjamin stared at the top of the table for a while. 'Yes, you were very clever, Sir Robert. Oh, please do sit down, I haven't finished yet.'

Clinton slumped back in his chair. I kept my eyes on Lady Francesca. She now sat next to her husband, head bowed, clasping and unclasping her hands.

'Very clever,' Benjamin murmured, 'to poison someone by playing on their fantasies. And most subtle of you to arrange it from scores of miles away.'

'And the Abbe Gerard?' Dacourt barked, now recovering some of his bluster.

Benjamin held up a hand. ‘I can say no more than that the abbe's death was easy to arrange. Once again it was Lent; the abbe, too, was fasting. He received gifts, one of them a flask of wine from Sir Robert sent just before he and Lady Clinton returned to London. Now the good abbe opened the wine after Easter Sunday, once Lent was over. It was only a small jar, perhaps two or three cups at the very most. Under the influence of the poison in the wine, the same poison Falconer drank, the good abbe turned to his constant absorption with the miracles of Christ, particularly the miracle of Jesus walking on water.' Benjamin stared at Clinton. 'As the abbe's friend you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Sir Robert?' Benjamin didn't wait for an answer. 'The good abbe, while hallucinating, went out to the carp pond and tried to walk on water. He was an old man and the shock of the cold water, not to mention the effects of the poison he had drunk, would have killed him in minutes. He struggled but was weak and so quietly drowned. Murder was not suspected, the body removed for burial. The cup he drank from fell into the water with him and was cleansed, whilst the wine jar was thrown out like any piece of rubbish. Once the abbe was dead, Vauban and the Luciferi began to search for the book.' Benjamin paused and smiled to himself. 'But the old priest was astute. He really valued that book, so he hid it.' Benjamin looked straight at Clinton. 'Oh, yes, Sir Robert, I have the book in safe keeping.'

Do you know, I have confronted many murderers, men and women, who have dabbled in the blood of others. They have the arrogance of Cain, who could challenge God and proudly declare that he didn't know where his brother was. Nevertheless, there's a point when such arrogance will suddenly crumble as the murderers realise they have lost control of the game. So it was with Clinton. He stared at Benjamin, mouth half-open, like some weak, senile man devoid of wit and reason.

'I found the book,' Benjamin repeated. 'And I have seen what is written in it. Your first wife's surname was Harpale and, if you play with the letters of her name, as Falconer tried to, you can form the word Raphael.' Benjamin smiled coldly. 'I'm sure,' he continued, 'a scrutiny of papers and letters addressed to your wife would establish that you used such an anagram as a term of endearment towards her.' He coughed and drank some wine. 'Isn't that so, Roger?'

'Yes, yes,' I confirmed, though I still watched Clinton, especially his hands. 'Once Falconer had established that the spy used the term Raphael, you decided to silence the Abbe Gerard. You knew about his book. I suspect he had shown it to you with the name Harpale written in the back. Who knows? He may even have remembered that you called your first wife Raphael.'

Lady Francesca now began to cry quietly, her whole body shaking with sobs.

'Of course,' I continued remorselessly, 'others had to be silenced. Drunken Waldegrave, who might have learnt more from Falconer than you thought. His was an easy death to arrange. You went across to see him one night when he was in a drunken stupor and smeared his robes with pig's blood. The sottish priest did not resist. Perhaps he was incapacitated by something more powerful, like a sleeping potion. Once his robes were stained with blood, you took him across to Vulcan's stable, opened the door, threw him in and bolted the stable shut. The war horse, fiery by nature and trained to kill, was alarmed by this sudden intrusion and the smell of blood, and pounded poor Waldegrave to death.'

'And Throgmorton?' Dacourt suddenly spoke up.

'In a while,' I continued. I stared where Millet was still crouching on the floor like some toper unable to move. 'I think, Sir John, you should remove Sir Robert's dagger and help Master Millet to his feet. Perhaps some wine might ease his discomfort?'

Dacourt obeyed with alacrity. Clinton gave up his dagger unresistingly. He just stared down the hall, lost in his own thoughts, as the old soldier helped a still-weeping Millet to an empty chair.

'Throgmorton,' I declared, 'was a busybody. A good doctor but he liked to spy on young girls and any woman who caught his fancy, including the Lady Francesca.'

Clinton's wife looked up sharply. Her face was ravaged by fear and tears; her skin had turned white and puffy like dough, her eyes red-rimmed. I glanced at Benjamin, for we had agreed not to reveal certain matters to all the company. 'At Fontainebleau,' I continued, 'Throgmorton saw something strange in Lady Francesca's chamber and, like the busybody he was, intended to declare it to all and sundry. On our journey back to Maubisson, Sir Robert asked Throgmorton to look at his horse's leg whilst Venner and he served the wine and food.'

'But we all drank that wine!' Peckle exclaimed.

'Of course we did,' Benjamin replied. 'Don't you remember, Sir Robert courteously filled each goblet and handed it out? Now,' Benjamin picked up his own goblet by the rim, 'Sir Robert handled each cup like this. If you look at his right hand, you will notice the heavy rings there. I suspect one of these has a miniature clasp which can be pulled back by the thumb, revealing a cavity where poison can be secreted. That is how he poisoned Throgmorton's cup. A few grains of some deadly poison and Throgmorton is dead within hours.'

Benjamin rose and went down the table. He pulled out his dagger and gently pricked the back of Sir Robert's neck.

'Sir Robert, your right hand, please?'

Helped by Dacourt, Benjamin grasped Clinton's unresisting hand, forcing it down on the table, palm up. The silver rings on the three fingers glinted in the candlelight. Benjamin touched the ring on the middle finger, telling Dacourt to push the candle closer.

'You see, Sir John, a small clasp! If you pull it back -there!'

Clinton struggled to drag his hand away but Dacourt held his wrist tightly and pulled the ring off. He passed it around for examination. It was a subtle design of hollow metal which, when the clasp was pulled back by the thumb of the same hand, would release a small sprinkle of deadly powder. Clinton would have released the poison just before he passed the cup down to Throgmorton.

'Of course!' Dacourt exclaimed. 'That's why he asked Throgmorton to see to the horse. Clinton wanted to make sure we all had our wine before the doctor was served!'

Clinton, ashen-faced, stared around.

'This is nonsense!' he mumbled. 'Complete nonsense!'

But his voice faltered and he sat slumped like a beaten man. Lady Francesca sobbed, then Clinton's demeanour suddenly changed. He glanced sideways and grinned as if he had remembered some secret joke.

'What about Venner?' Millet croaked. He flung his hand out towards Clinton. 'That bastard accused me of his death!'

'Oh, that was the clumsiest of Sir Robert's murders,' I remarked. 'You see, before we left for the Tour de Nesle, I came down to this hall and declared that I knew the names of both Sir John Dacourt's wife and Millet's dead sister. Clinton began to suspect that we had also found out about his first wife's surname, perhaps even about Raphael himself, so he launched a two-pronged attack: a secret message was sent to Vauban so that bastard could invite us to our deaths at the Tower, whilst Clinton carefully arranged for Millet to emerge as the guilty party. That wasn't difficult. Millet's nocturnal journeys to Paris, his pursuit of young dandies at the French court, the coincidence that both he and his sister had names of archangels…' I made a face. 'The rest was easy. Certain items were placed in Millet's coffer; Venner was given a poisoned drink; and Sir Robert's and Lady Francesca's wine was poisoned. But Venner would not drink from that. He had been poisoned earlier and his corpse left in Clinton's chamber.'

'How do you know?' Dacourt abruptly asked. 'That

Venner didn't drink the wine?'

'Because the poor fellow only ever drank watered wine. But Sir Robert didn't care about that. He hoped we would be torn to death at the Tour de Nesle, and Millet would get the blame, whilst he would continue to pose as the noble English envoy who had narrowly escaped death.'

Agrippa, who had hardly moved throughout the entire scene, suddenly leaned forward and tapped the pommel of his short dagger on the table.

'Now,' he said to the hushed group, 'we come to the question of why.' He rose to his feet. 'However, gentlemen, that is not for every ear. Sir John, Master Peckle, Master Millet, you must withdraw.'

'I will not!' Dacourt bristled back.

'Sir John, if you do not,' Agrippa replied quietly, 'you will never leave this chateau alive. I do not ask you to go. I beg you to, for your own safety!'

The old soldier sighed deeply, shrugged, and walked quietly down the hall, Peckle and Millet following. Agrippa made sure the door was closed behind them.

'Now, Sir Robert,' he announced, 'we shall tell you why you are a spy, a traitor and a murderer, as well as what made you smile a few minutes ago. Master Daunbey?'

Benjamin moved to sit beside Clinton like some priest ready to hear confession.

'I shall tell you a story, Sir Robert,' he began. 'About a young courtier, a soldier and a scholar, a friend of the king. Now this courtier loved his royal master and faithfully served him. He was sent on this errand and that and, when he returned, he and his beautiful wife were often together at the court of the king. What this diplomat did not know was that his royal master had an eye for a pretty face, no real feeling of friendship, and a raging lust which had to be slaked. The king seduced his friend's wife, treated her like a trollop, some courtesan from the city, and the courtier found out. All the loyalty, all the friendship, curdled and died. In the rottenness which was left, a black hatred and a deep desire for revenge were born.'

Clinton suddenly put his face in his hands. When he took them away, I felt a twinge of pity at the dreadful look in his eyes. There was no hatred, nothing except a silent, eerie deadness as if his very soul had shrivelled up inside him.

'This diplomat,' Benjamin continued, 'plotted a terrible revenge. He removed his wife to their family home, treated her most solicitously, yet all the time he was secretly poisoning her, so that she died a painful, lingering death, not from some abscess or tumour but due to the grains of poison he sprinkled in this dish or that cup. Once she was dead, or perhaps just before she died, this diplomat went to the French enemies of his king and offered to betray every secret he could. He would call himself Raphael, a mocking use of his wife's maiden name as well as the term he had once used about her, for Raphael is an angel of great beauty.' Benjamin looked down the hall, following Sir Robert's gaze, as if the murderer could see the ghosts of his victims moving through the shadowy darkness towards him.

'Now, Sir Robert, most men would have felt their revenge complete but this diplomat was a scholar with some knowledge of medicine and the ravages of disease. Whilst in the service of his French masters, this man met a young noblewoman at a convent. Ostensibly, she had been put there to complete her education but she, too, harboured a dreadful secret. The only daughter of aged parents, she had the misfortune to fall in love with a young French nobleman who fought in Italy. Like others he came back not knowing he carried the traces of a ravaging venereal disease, syphilis. So virulent an infection that hundreds died of it on their return, but not before they had transmitted it to their wives and loved ones. The young French nobleman died a lingering death and his betrothed too showed traces of this disease, so she was sent to the nunnery, not only for education but for the nuns' tender care and expertise with the sick.' Benjamin paused. 'Sir Robert?'

Clinton turned and stared like the man marked for death he was.

'Sir Robert, you are that diplomat, Henry of England is the king, and the Lady Francesca the young girl from the convent.'

'It's true!' she burst out. 'It's true! My betrothed returned from Italy ardent for me.' She looked up, tears brimming in her eyes though her lips curled in anger. 'He died but I'd already caught the disease. Sir Robert was kind. He chose to ignore it, married me, but said we would not live like man and wife.' She crumpled the dark fabric of her dress between her fingers. 'At first, my marriage to Sir Robert soothed my anger at the injustice of it all, but only for a while.' She wiped her eyes. 'You are quite right, Master Daunbey, about Sir Robert's final revenge. He took me to court and introduced me to the king who dallied with me. I was flattered.' She drew back her lips. 'We made love,' she snarled. 'And why not?

Gaston would not have died if it hadn't been for the ambition and greed of kings.' She caught her breath. 'I suspected Sir Robert was not what he claimed to be for he connived at his royal master's dalliance with me.' She fell back in her chair, laughing hysterically. 'Now Henry of England has what I have. May it rot his corpulent carcase!'

I stared in utter disbelief at the change in this beautiful young woman, her face white and haggard, her eyes filled with hatred and anger. I also realised what dreadful things we do to each other. I am a rogue, a villain born and bred, but I think Satan himself must weep at the cruelties we inflict on each other. Of course, it was Lady Francesca whom I had seen Henry cavorting with on the bed at Hampton Court. The woman's legs had appeared white whereas the Lady Francesca was golden-skinned. I smiled at my own innocence. She had been wearing her flesh-coloured stockings and our royal killer was no gentleman. (Anne Boleyn once told me he scarcely gave her time to undress!)

'How did you know?' Lady Francesca asked. She gestured maliciously at her husband. 'Did he tell you?'

Sir Robert just ignored her, lost in his own thoughts, his lips moving wordlessly.

'No,' Benjamin replied, turning to glance at Agrippa who had suddenly brought a roll of parchment from beneath the table. 'No, we gleaned it from scraps of information, little pieces of a puzzle which eventually fitted into place. First, the good nuns at the convent were so solicitous of your health and so appreciative of Sir Robert. Secondly, the attitude of King Francis. I thought he just disliked you but he knows of your disease. In his eyes, you simply don't exist. Thirdly, Shallot here saw you carrying a bottle marked with the letters sul. This contained sulphur which, used with mercury, is one of the ways of halting that disease. I am sure this is what Throgmorton saw when he was snooping in your chamber. He baited you with it just as we left Fontainebleau. You told your husband and Throgmorton had to die.'

Lady Francesca glared at me and I shuddered at the darkness in her eyes.

'Dear Roger,' she murmured. 'I did consider seducing you, but you are too sharp. You even escaped the Luciferi plot to kill you in the boar-pit at Fontainebleau. One day, Master Shallot, you'll cut yourself.' She glanced back at Benjamin. 'I liked you, Master Daunbey. You are kind and sensitive. I told Sir Robert that you suspected I was ill.'

Benjamin looked away, embarrassed.

'I went back to your village,' I spoke up. 'They gave me further information about your betrothal to Gaston, and your sudden departure to the convent. My master became intrigued by the way messengers to the English envoys here in Paris always regularly stopped at the convent. Now, we knew you sent them gifts and wondered if Raphael could have used these gifts to send messages. Of course, we were wrong. It wasn't what the messengers took to the convent but what they brought back from it. Medicines for you.'

'That's why those two other messengers were killed,' Benjamin interrupted. 'I don't know how or why, Lady Francesca, but I suspect they stumbled upon your secret. I am sure the good nuns always kept the medicines well hidden in whatever gifts they sent. Those messengers, however, pried too much, questions may have been asked before they left the convent. The nuns, under strict orders from Monsieur Vauban, passed this information on and the messengers had to die.' Benjamin gripped the table top with his hand. 'To test my hypothesis, I sent two messengers to the convent, pretending they took a gift from you. I instructed one of them to be talkative and say that you were not feeling well. The good nuns fell into a trap. They sent a present back: a quilted cushion. When I cut it open, I found a phial containing a mixture of mercury and sulphur.'

Doctor Agrippa leaned forward out of the shadows. 'Sir Robert, do you deny these charges?'

Clinton just sat stock-still, staring down the hall.

'Sir Robert,' Benjamin repeated, 'you are Raphael, you are the master murderer. You were trading the king's secrets to the French. You did not interfere with the despatches or the letters. You just passed the information on to Vauban's agents in London with strict instructions that the French were only to act on this information once the letters had arrived at the English embassy in Paris. That's why the saddle-bags and the despatches of the dead messengers were so readily handed over. You and Vauban wished to sustain the pretence that only after secret documents reached Dacourt were they leaked to the Luciferi.'

Clinton suddenly stirred, shaking himself. 'Yes, you are right,' he murmured. He glanced at Benjamin. 'Master Daunbey, you are brilliant. Vauban said that. He wanted you and your minion – ' Clinton stared at me – 'he wanted you killed immediately.' He patted his wife gently on the hand but this time she flinched as though in pain. 'She's innocent, twisted but innocent. I used her. I loved Clare but the king abused me and now he will exist in the living hell I have created!'

Agrippa got up slowly. 'Sir Robert Clinton,' he intoned, 'you are a self-confessed spy, traitor and murderer of the king's good friends and liege subjects. You are,' he continued, 'guilty of the following deaths: the agent slain in the alleys of Paris, Giles Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and the two messengers killed on the road to Paris. Richard Waldegrave, priest, Thomas Throgmorton, physician, and Ambrose Venner, your own manservant. You have betrayed your king, placing both his body and his realm in great danger. You have been responsible for other deaths and misfortunes.'

'Stop!' I shouted.

Agrippa looked round in surprise. 'Master Shallot, you do not agree with this?'

I went round the table and leaned over to stare into Sir Robert Clinton's soulless eyes. It was a moment I relished and one I had been waiting for.

'Sir Robert, you are guilty of other deaths; for instance, that of Bertrand de Macon, captain of the ship which was intercepted by French privateers. But, above all,' I gripped his shoulder until he flinched, 'you are guilty of the deaths of Monsieur and Madame Ralemberg, their manservant and my beloved, Agnes Ralemberg!' I glanced up at Agrippa. 'Oh, yes, my good doctor.' I turned my back so that Clinton wouldn't see my tears. 'I was always puzzled,' I said, over my shoulder, 'as to how the assassins from the Luciferi entered Monsieur Ralemberg's house. He was a canny man and would have barred the doors against all strangers, but someone must have knocked, someone with authority, someone who could be trusted. And who better than one of the king's own ministers?' I turned and pointed my finger at Clinton. 'You let the assassin in, you bastard! Oh, you can sit there and your pretty wife can sob her eyes out but I'll see both of you bastards dance at Tyburn! Both cut down half-alive and your bodies hacked into steaming chunks!'

(Actually I wouldn't have done, I can't stand executions, but on that night at Maubisson I felt so enraged I could have done the dreadful act myself.)

'There will be no executions,' Agrippa replied, speaking above Lady Francesca's sobs.

'My wife is innocent,' Clinton repeated flatly.

'Sir Robert, you have a choice.' Agrippa got down from the dais and faced him squarely. 'We might not get you to Calais alive, Vauban may interfere, though there's a good chance we could. In which case, you would return to England, be tried as a traitor in Westminster Hall and suffer the most dreadful death. Or, we can arrange the same at Maubisson, at dawn tomorrow morning. Or…' Agrippa paused and stared at my master.

'Or,' Benjamin continued, 'we can leave matters to you yourself.'

'My wife,' Clinton repeated, 'is innocent of everything but her own anger and hurt.'

'The Lady Francesca may return to her convent,' Agrippa stated. 'But if she ever sets foot on English soil, she will be arrested, tried and executed!' Agrippa stared at the guttering candle flame. 'You are a poisoner, Sir Robert. I suspect you carry the weapons of your trade upon you. We will leave you for a while.' He pushed the jug of wine nearer. 'You may need further refreshment.'