The Poisoned Chalice

Prologue

September 1194

The chamber was almost in darkness. The only light came through the slightly open door, from three tallow tapers burning in a candlestick in the next room. From the large bed came muffled whisperings and the sounds of increasing intimacy. A woman’s gasps of half-reluctant delight alternated with the deeper murmurings of a man intent on extracting every ounce of pleasure for himself. He remained steadfastly in control, while she became progressively more abandoned, throwing her arms wildly above the fleeces that covered them, arching her back as she sobbed, and biting back cries of desperate delight.

The carved bedstead, itself a novelty in Exeter where most folk slept either on rushes or a mattress on the floor, began to creak rhythmically, then with increased vigour and pace. Suddenly there was a duet of strangled gasps, the sheepskins heaved in a final spasm and the creaking subsided.

After a moment or two of silence, a gentle sobbing could be heard. ‘This is so wrong,’ she whispered. ‘I must never come here again … never!’

The answering voice was deep and strong, with confidence verging on arrogance. ‘You say that every time, Adele. But still you come. You need a man, a proper man.’

She sniffed back her tears. ‘If we should ever be found out – oh God, what would we do?’

He grinned in the darkness. ‘Well, I’ll not tell anyone, if you won’t!’

Then they were silent, each with their own thoughts in the guttering candlelight.