The Poisoned Chalice

Chapter 5

We rose late the next morning. Benjamin appeared to be in better humour and chattered about the history of the chateau as we broke our fast in the great hall. Afterwards, one of the servants led us down to a vaulted cellar.

'We must examine Falconer's possessions,' Benjamin explained. 'Perhaps the first key to this puzzle will be there.'

Venner was already in the cellar, standing over some coffers and trunks. He grinned in welcome.

'These are Falconer's goods,' he explained. 'But there's nothing much. We have been through them. You have just missed Sir Robert.'

'What will happen to them now?' I asked, my eyes on a cheap silver bracelet.

'Well, Falconer had no heirs so they go to the king.'

I decided to leave the silver bracelet where it was; Fat Harry would skin you alive for taking a crumb of bread from his plate. Venner wandered off and we went through the pathetic pile of possessions: a counter-pane, three dirty bolsters, hose, jerkins, battered boots, more cheap jewellery, a collection of quills and a bar of Castilian soap. As far as I was concerned, the Great Killer was welcome to them. What attracted our attention was the box of pewter cups, each of the three remaining in their small, red-baized compartment. We examined these carefully, especially the deep bowls ornately carved with the appropriate scene: a large dove for Pentecost, the Virgin Mary on the Advent cup, and a child in a manger for Christmas. (You know the sort, they were quite common in England before the Great Killer smashed the monasteries. You drank from each goblet according to the season.) Benjamin sniffed each cup, then the box. 'Nothing,' he exclaimed. 'There's nothing here.'

We went out to take the air in the inner bailey and stood fascinated as four ostlers struggled with the ropes tied to the bridle of a splendid, black war horse. They were trying to back it into a stable but the magnificent beast was all set to charge. The horse stood sixteen hands high, its jet black coat gleaming in the sunlight. Its ears were back in anger, its eyes rolled, and the horse curled its lips, revealing the foam on sharp, yellow teeth. Every so often the animal would rear, lashing out with his sharpened hooves, as the men struggled with a stream of oaths to back it into the stable. Eventually they succeeded, quickly securing both the bottom door and the top flap and, even then, we could hear the horse pounding the thick oaken panels. The ostlers, covered in sweat, walked away, still muttering curses.

'That must be Vulcan, Sir John Dacourt's destrier,' Benjamin remarked. 'Waldegrave must be mad if he thinks he can control such a beast.' He stared across at the wing built to the right of the chateau. 'I wonder if we should visit the priest? Perhaps he can explain Falconer's macabre joke about graves?' Benjamin grasped me by the arm. 'On second thoughts, let us finish the business in hand.'

We went back, past the hall down a long, stone passageway to Peckle's chamber. The chief clerk was working there, surrounded by a veritable sea of paper; memoranda, notes, bills, letters and indentures. He sat with his back to the door, crouched over his desk. The room smelt stale and musty with the pungent odour of the fat tallow candles placed on the desk. All the windows were shuttered as if we were in the depths of winter. Peckle hardly moved but continued to peer at a document covered in strange cipher markings.

'Good morning, Walter,' Benjamin said, a little too loudly.

The clerk looked round testily. 'Can I help?'

'Well, yes. Do you have Falconer's documents?'

The fellow, sighing dramatically, rose wearily from his chair like an exasperated parent dealing with two naughty children. He dug amongst some papers in the corner and tossed us a canvas bag tied at the top. Benjamin turned and made to leave.

'No! No!' Peckle announced pompously. 'You cannot take them away. You must study them here.'

Benjamin stuck his tongue out at Peckle's back, cleared a space on the floor and squatted there for at least half an hour sifting through the contents of the sack. There wasn't much; a few drawings of birds, quite well done but not of the calibre of the great da Vinci's notebook. (I met the great sculptor once, you know, when I was hiding from the Doge of Venice's assassins. But that's another story.) One strange discovery we did make -scraps of paper bearing the word Raphael. Falconer had apparently been playing with the letters of the name, breaking them up, distancing each from the other. Benjamin studied these carefully, shook his head and tossed them back. We thanked Peckle but he never stirred a hair.

'What do you think, master?' I asked as soon as we were out of the chamber. 'Falconer was murdered.'

'But how? He was alone on the tower and he wasn't drunk.'

Benjamin chewed his lip. 'Falconer was a man who liked birds,' he replied slowly. 'So he goes to the top of the tower to study them.'

'Do you think he discovered who Raphael was?'

'I don't think so but he did believe the word Raphael contained the name of the traitor.'

Benjamin wandered off, saying he wished to speak to Waldegrave, so I decided to take the air in the garden behind the chateau. I was even more eager when I glimpsed Lady Francesca, magnificent in her dark green velvet dress, with a small hat of the same texture and colour, ornamented with trailing peacock feathers set rakishly on her head. I strolled amongst the boxwood as if I was the keenest of gardeners, taking special interest in the herb banks, the ever-green boxwood, and the multi-coloured flowers where hungry bees searched for honey. The lady was humming a madrigal. She turned quickly at the sound of my footsteps on the gravel.

'Monsieur!' she exclaimed in mock surprise. 'You follow me!'

'To the ends of the earth, Madame,' I replied, fascinated by the sudden rise and fall of her ample bosom. She stepped closer, raising the hem of her dress to reveal thick, white petticoats above black, polished boots. She peered closer.

'You are Shallot, Master Benjamin's manservant?'

'His secretarius, Madame,' I replied more smugly than I intended.

'La, la, secretarius, and an ugly one at that!'

Well, I blushed and stammered.

'Well, well, Master Secretarius,' she continued, 'how can I help you?'

'You are pleased to be back in France, Madame?'

'After two years married to an Englishman, I am more than happy.'

'But you returned only a few weeks ago, during Holy Week?'

Lady Francesca stared at the flowers as if already bored by the conversation. Suddenly she jerked, clutching her stomach as if in pain.

'Madame,' I seized her wrist, 'you are ill?'

Francesca lifted her pale face, no mockery or laughter in those staring dark eyes now.

'Take your hands off me!' she rasped. 'Never, do you understand, never touch me!'

She swept by me, leaving old Shallot with the fragrance of her perfume and a deeper knowledge of my true status. I wandered back to the main entrance of the chateau and found Benjamin, equally disconsolate, sitting on the steps.

'The Lady Francesca seemed upset,' he remarked casually.

I spat into the dust at his feet. 'By the time I'm finished, master, her agitation will be deeper and my hurt will be gone.'

Benjamin rose and, slipping his arm through mine, led me back to the garden, teasing me into a good mood as he explained how he had found Waldegrave drunk as a lord and insensible as a rock in a corner of his opulent chapel. We spent the rest of the day enjoying the strong sunshine. Benjamin seemed fascinated by the edge of the forest, saying he was sure he had glimpsed figures slipping in and out of the trees.

'The chateau is being watched,' he remarked. 'Perhaps, Roger, we are about to meet our friends, the Luciferi.'

That damn' word brought me back to the harsh reality of my situation: not just the discovery of a traitor or bringing a murderer to book but vengeance for Agnes and, of course, the Herculean task which the Great Killer had assigned me!

We kept to ourselves for the rest of the day, taking food from the buttery and retiring early for we were both still exhausted after our journey from England. As darkness fell, the weather changed. Thick, black rain clouds massed in the sky and, as I fell asleep, rattling raindrops pattered against the wooden shutters. That sleep proved to be the beginning of our troubles.

We were awoken early in the night, a few hours before dawn, by sharp screams, shouted orders, and the sound of running feet. We threw blankets around us and hurried down to the inner bailey, now filling with servants and retainers who splashed amongst the puddles carrying torches. Clinton was there wrapped in a military cloak and Dacourt, looking rather ridiculous in a long night gown, stood near Vulcan's stable. Both the top and bottom doors were flung back and the great war horse had apparently galloped away pursued by grooms. Peckle, Throg-morton and others joined us, though I was surprised to see Millet, the effeminate clerk, dressed as if returning from a visit to the city. We pushed our way into the stable and glimpsed what appeared to be a blood-soaked pile of rags, the gore and slime gleaming in the flickering torch light. Throgmorton was leaning over it, his face turning a greenish-white hue.

'Bring another torch!' Benjamin ordered.

A sleepy-eyed groom pushed one into his hand and swiftly backed away. Benjamin knelt down, bringing the torch closer, and I had to put my hand to my mouth to prevent myself retching. Waldegrave lay there, his body a bloody pulp. His skull had been kicked in and the dark blood seeped out, mingling with the grey sludge of his brains. One eye had popped out from its socket, his chest was a bloody black hole, whilst the lower half of his face had been completely kicked away, revealing stumps of yellow teeth.

'In God's name, what happened?' Benjamin whispered.

'The fool tried to get to the horse. He was always up to these tricks. Only this time Vulcan was too quick and powerful.'

Benjamin stared at the physician. 'He'd tried this before?'

'Yes. As Sir John described the other evening. The old toper still thought he was a horseman.'

'But this is the first time Vulcan attacked him?'

'Yes.' Throgmorton rose, the hem of his cloak over his mouth and nose. 'Sometimes he would try it in the evening but never during the dead of night.'

Benjamin, impervious to the scene, leaned closer and sniffed at what used to be Waldegrave's mouth. Even from where I stood I could smell the strong, stale wine fumes which permeated the stench of the ripped body.

'What actually happened?' I asked Millet, noting how the young man was very much the worse for drink.

The fop shook his head and went outside. He leaned against the stable, sucking in the cool night air like a man surfacing from a deep river.

'Everyone in the chateau was asleep,' I observed. 'Apart from you?'

The fellow grimaced. 'Yes, apart from me. I had business in the city. Anyway, I returned late. I stabled my own horse and was in the buttery when I heard screams, the crashing of hooves and Vulcan's neighs. I ran back here. Grooms and ostlers were already in the yard. The top half of the stable door was open but Waldegrave had apparently closed the bottom behind him. A groom opened it. The horse shot out like an arrow from a bow.' Millet nodded towards the general direction of the garden.

'I understand he's been cornered there and his attendant is trying to calm him. I came over,' he continued, 'and saw what you have now.' He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I vomited twice,' he remarked, 'and I think I am going to do so again.'

Hand to mouth, slightly stooping, he hurried away into the darkness. I grinned contemptuously at his retreating back, looked once more at the stable, saw an eyeball glistening on the wet straw and promptly vomited myself. I looked around; Clinton, Dacourt and others now stood near the main steps of the chateau, Throgmorton with them.

'Master!' I hissed, closing my eyes and leaning against the lintel of the stable. 'What are you doing?'

Benjamin came out, rubbing the side of his face. 'There's nothing we can do, Sir John,' he called across to Dacourt. 'The poor man's body should be removed.'

The ambassador rapped out an order and four servants, their faces masked by cloths soaked in vinegar, hurried across with a linen sheet.

'Take it to the infirmary!' Dacourt ordered.

Benjamin and I watched as Waldegrave's corpse was hoisted on to the sheet.

'One minute!' Benjamin called out.

The servants glared angrily, eager to get the grisly business over and done with. Benjamin seized his torch, brought the flame as near as he could and examined not the wounds, but rather the dead priest's shabby, bloodstained tunic.

'Most interesting,' he murmured. 'Yes, very interesting.' He smiled at the servants. 'You may take him away. Come, Roger! The night is not over and we need our sleep.'

Clinton, Throgmorton and the rest tried to draw Benjamin into conversation as we went up the main steps of the chateau.

'The man was as mad as a Maypole!' Dacourt bellowed. 'A senseless, stupid, drunken act!'

'Waldegrave was undoubtedly drunk,' Benjamin replied. 'He may have been a fool, but I don't think that was an accident.'

'What do you mean?' Peckle jibed.

'I will explain in the morning,' Benjamin answered. 'Sir John, Sir Robert, I bid you good night.'

We returned to our chamber. My queasy stomach had settled and I was agog with curiosity. (I see the chaplain smirking again, probably because I vomited. I'd like to remind him that's nothing to the idiot he made of himself on All Fools Day last when he found the dead stoat I'd placed in the pulpit. Retched like a waterfall he did!) However, Master Benjamin was not in a talkative mood.

'Tomorrow, Roger,' he promised. 'But now I need some sleep.'

I lay for a while waiting for the chateau to fall silent again before drifting into a demon-filled sleep of black war horses rearing above me, men flying through the night air, and those dreadful corpses laid out so tidily, so neatly, in that beautiful London garden.

We woke early the next morning. Benjamin's stomach seemed to have caught up with his memories for he now looked white-faced and confessed he felt queasy.

'The stupid bastard,' I murmured.

Benjamin shook his head and finished dressing. 'Don't speak ill of the dead, Roger. Waldegrave was murdered. Come, I must see the corpse once more.'

We went down to the white-washed infirmary where I made Benjamin stop at the kitchen for rags soaked in vinegar and herbs. We certainly needed them. The dead priest's body still sprawled beneath his sheet in that small white room. The stomach had begun to swell and the chamber stank with the evil gases which emanated from it. I could take no more but stood by the door whilst once more Benjamin peered at the blood-stained clothing.

'Yes, yes,' he muttered to himself. 'Yes, of course, that's how it was done!'

We left the infirmary, standing for a few minutes outside, drinking in the sweet morning air. Benjamin called a young boy over.

'Listen, lad,' he ordered. 'My compliments to Sir John but tell him Master Daunbey would appreciate his presence here in the courtyard.'

The boy stared blankly back. Benjamin laughed.

'Of course.' He sighed and translated the request into French.

Dacourt joined us a few minutes later, his white moustache bristling with importance, his face a little more puce. I could smell the fresh wine on his breath.

'Sir John, I have a favour to ask.'

'What is it, sir?'

'Would you have the castle searched, particularly the rubbish tips outside the kitchen, for the corpse of a chicken or a pig, some animal slaughtered for no apparent reason?'

Dacourt's eyes looked bulbous.

'Please, Sir John!' Benjamin insisted. ‘I have good reason for my request.'

Dacourt shrugged and bawled orders at a servant. He followed Benjamin over to Vulcan's stable.

'The war horse is not there,' the ambassador remarked defensively. ‘I have moved it to a small paddock beyond the castle walls.' He kicked the loose cobbles of the yard. 'Some people say he should be destroyed.'

'Why?' Benjamin asked. 'The horse did no wrong.'

'But he killed Waldegrave.'

Benjamin patted the ambassador gently on the shoulder. 'No, Sir John, he did not, as I will explain in a while. Now, I wish to discover something for myself.'

He went into the stable, closing the bottom part of the door behind him. To do this he had to lean over and push the bolt firmly into place. He then closed the top part and, for a few minutes, remained hidden in the stables.

'What's the madman trying to do?' Dacourt mumbled.

Benjamin threw open the top part of the stable door and grinned maliciously. 'Sir John, you would say I was tall?'

'Yes, of greater stature than most men.' 'Whilst Waldegrave was rather small?' 'Yes.'

'And to close this door, even I, with my considerable height, face difficulties?'

'Yes, yes,' Dacourt muttered. 'I always have to stand on the bottom panel. Why do you ask?'

Benjamin drew back the bolt and came out of the stable.

'I'll tell you why, Sir John, but first I need to break my fast. I should be most grateful if you would discover the results of your search and gather the rest of our colleagues in the great hall.'

Dacourt threw him an angry glance but, slightly mollified by Benjamin's assertion that Vulcan did not bear the guilt for Waldegrave's death, nodded and stumped off.

We were sitting in the hall finishing off our meal of light ale, freshly baked bread and strips of salted pork, when the others drifted down to join us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chorus of assent greeted his question.

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

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

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

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

'Try to get out?'

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

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

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

Now the group were attentive. Benjamin spread his hands.

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

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

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

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

'Not a fat, drunken cleric?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The Luciferi, master?'

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