The Poisoned Chalice (15 page)

Clinton agreed and we all met in the great hall just before dusk. The servants setting the tables ready for supper were summarily dismissed. We all gathered on chairs in a semicircle round the hearth. Dacourt, angry that Benjamin had gone to Sir Robert, slurped noisily from a wine cup, then threw the dregs to hiss in the flames of the fire.

'Master Daunbey,' he grated, 'we are busy men and you have convened this meeting. Why?'

'I am here,' Benjamin answered, 'as the official envoy of Cardinal Wolsey as well as His Majesty the King. We have certain secret tasks to perform.'

I saw Dacourt fidget nervously at his words.

'But our main task is to discover the identity of the traitor Raphael and bring to justice the murderers of Falconer and Waldegrave. I suspect,' Benjamin added, 'they are one and the same person.' He extended a hand. 'Let us summarise. How long has this traitor been in existence?'

'About eighteen months,' Clinton replied. 'But we only learnt he was called Raphael about eight weeks ago, during my visit here before Lent.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'You may remember, Benjamin, I worked with Falconer and obtained that name? Even though it cost us the life of a very good agent.'

'Yes, yes,' Benjamin said. 'Now, I believe Falconer was murdered on Easter Monday?'

A chorus of assent greeted his words.

'He drank some wine from the same bottle you did, Sir John, but he was not in his cups?'

Again there was agreement.

'He was seen going to the top of the tower. The Mary Tower, I believe? And was found dead at the base of it the next morning?'

'Yes,' Peckle stammered. 'We all know this, Master Daunbey.'

'We also know,' Benjamin continued, breathing deeply to contain his anger, 'that on the Wednesday after Falconer was killed, Abbe Gerard from the nearby village also died in mysterious circumstances. Tell me,' he continued, 'did anyone from Maubisson send Abbe Gerard gifts for Easter?'

The group sat silent.

'Well,' Benjamin asked. 'Did anyone?'

Dacourt shuffled his feet. ‘I did. I sent him some wine, the best of last year's grapes from Bordeaux, a silver dish of sweet comfits and some marchpane.'

'When was this?'

'On the Saturday before Easter.'

'And what happened to these gifts?'

'Good Lord!' Dacourt bellowed. 'I don't know. The Abbe Gerard was a compassionate, charitable man but one who liked his claret. I suspect he gave the comfits and marchpane to children in the village, sold the silver dish for alms and drank the wine himself. It was only a small, stoppered jar.' Dacourt's voice trailed off. 'Are you saying the wine . . . ? But Throgmorton went down to examine the priest's corpse.'

'Oh, we didn't know that,' I interrupted.

'Well, no,' the physician replied. 'Why should you? I went down to examine the poor priest. There was no sign of poison. The man probably swooned, fell in the water and drowned.'

'Master Benjamin,' Peckle rose to his feet, 'Sir John, we are busy men. Do you have further questions?'

'No,' Benjamin replied crossly.

My master was still very angry and I was intrigued for he was the most gentle of men and very rarely testy or sharp, even with fools. (I have just given my chaplain a good rap across the knuckles; that will teach him to make remarks like, 'And Master Daunbey had good knowledge of fools, having you as a servant.') Anyway, the meeting broke up, though Clinton and his manservant Venner remained seated until the rest had left the hall.

'Tell me,' Clinton asked softly, 'this Vauban - did he know why you were in France?'

'He said we were spies but even a child could deduce that. He also knew we were interested in the Abbe Gerard but, again, that would not require deep perception. Why do you ask, Sir Robert?'

'He never mentioned Raphael?'

'No, he didn't.'

Clinton said, 'So, the Luciferi have still not learnt the true purpose of your mission. You see,' he leaned back in his chair, 'here in the chateau, Dacourt and the rest of his staff know you wish to catch a spy but, so far, little information has been passed to the Luciferi. Which means . . .'

'Which means exactly what?' I interrupted tartly.

'That the spy here must have special means of conveying such information to his master and has so far failed to use it. If you could discover that, then perhaps we can find out who Raphael is.'

'Nevertheless,' Benjamin answered, 'Vauban did know we were here. I think he was watching the chateau for days and followed us down to the village.'

'Which brings us to my real point,' Clinton answered. 'Master Venner?'

The servant looked towards the door to make sure there was no one standing there.

'Last night,' Venner asked, 'when Waldegrave's corpse was found, did you notice Millet? He was fully dressed as if he had been out of the chateau.'

'It could have been a lovers' tryst,' I observed.

'Perhaps,' Venner sneered. 'But Millet's tastes are obvious. He dresses like a woman, the type of tryst he keeps is best hidden under the cloak of darkness.'

'I have raised this matter with Dacourt,' Clinton interrupted. 'He did not even know Millet was absent. I have asked him to keep the matter secret. Perhaps Millet needs to be followed.'

Benjamin rubbed his face with his hands. 'Yes,' he observed drily. 'Millet's conduct and dress last night were suspicious. He could be the spy or his messenger.' He smiled at Clinton. 'And what you say makes sense, Sir Robert. Vauban still does not know the true nature of our mission here.' My master slapped the side of the chair. 'Of course,' he breathed, 'we have been here only a few days. We think Millet was returning. Maybe we were wrong. Perhaps he was on the point of leaving but the fracas caused by Waldegrave's death prevented him.'

Clinton rose to his feet. 'We leave that to you, Master Daunbey. If you wish, Venner could follow him.'

'No, no,' Benjamin replied. 'Leave Master Millet to us.'

I watched Clinton and his manservant leave and once again the business of Agnes's death nagged at my memory. (Do you know, years ago I asked a wise man who lived in a cave outside Alexandria why this happens? Why something should trouble you, yet you are unable to place it or resolve the matter until months later? He answered that we never know what a certain piece of puzzle is until we see the rest and put the piece in place.)

Benjamin and I stayed in the hall whilst the servants returned and finished laying the tables for supper. My master just sat staring into the flames of the fire.

'What is the matter?' I asked. 'Why did Vauban make you so angry?'

'I am puzzled, Roger,' he replied. 'Why were Falconer, the Abbe Gerard and Waldegrave murdered? What is the connection between them? Is their killer Raphael or someone else? How does Raphael convey his secrets to the Luciferi?'

'There is one common theme,' I replied.

'Which is?'

I ticked the points off on my fingers. 'First, the secrets of the King's Council are not revealed until they have reached Maubisson. Now we know the letters are opened by Dacourt and deciphered by Peckle, but Millet is Dacourt's secretary and will be privy to such information. The same could be true of Throgmorton. After all, physicians can wander where they wish and prise secrets from others. Secondly, Falconer was murdered here at Maubisson after broaching a flagon of wine with Dacourt. Thirdly, the Abbe Gerard apparently drowned after drinking claret which was undoubtedly sent to him by Dacourt, though taken down to the village probably by his secretary, Master Millet. Fourthly, Waldegrave was killed by Dacourt's horse, Vulcan.'

'And finally,' Benjamin interrupted, 'Master Millet has a tendency to slip out of the chateau at night to meet God knows whom.' My master sat rocking himself gently in the chair. 'The common denominators in all these factors, as a mathematician would say, are Dacourt and

Millet but, first, we don't know for certain if the wine sent to the Abbe Gerard was in fact the same he was drinking the night he died. Secondly, we don't know if Millet took it. Thirdly, the night Falconer died, Dacourt tasted the same wine he drank.'

'We have only his word for that.'

'Yes, but Throgmorton examined the wine later. He said it was free of any infusion. He also said neither Falconer nor the Abbe Gerard showed any signs of being poisoned.'

I watched my theories slowly crumble.

'And, of course,' I added wearily, 'though Dacourt's horse killed Waldegrave, anyone could have dragged the drunken priest into the stable.'

Benjamin grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. 'I did not say your reasoning was wrong, Roger, only that it was faulty.'

We stayed in the hall and dined with the rest of the company. The conversation was desultory, passing from one banal matter to another. Benjamin did establish that all memoranda, letters and documents sent from Westminster were handled by Dacourt, Peckle and Millet, whilst our mysterious young secretary did take the ambassador's presents down to the Abbe Gerard.

We retired to bed a little more hopeful that some glimmer of light had been shown but, just before I fell asleep, I realised Benjamin hadn't answered my question about disliking Vauban, so I asked him again.

'Go to sleep, Roger,' Benjamin drowsily replied. 'I'll tell you in God's good time, as I will about the secret instructions dear Uncle gave me at Hampton Court.'

Chapter 7

They say lightning never strikes twice but it does when old Shallot's around. I could hardly believe it. We were aroused late that night by the most terrible screams and a pounding on the door. I leapt from my bed and threw open the door. (In my youth I was rash. Now, I'd let someone else do it, whilst I checked to see what window I could jump out of!) Peckle stood there, eyes rounded in fear.

'The castle is under attack!' he screamed. 'Maillotins! They are forcing the main gate!'

Benjamin and I seized our arms and rushed out. This time I made sure my master went first and, whilst he ran down the stairs, I scampered like a rabbit to the top of the tower, forcing back the trap door, standing in the same place that poor Falconer had. I looked up. Stars dusted the sky but it was an attacker's moon which slipped treacherously in and out of the clouds. I peered over the battlements. The wind whipped at my hair whilst my stomach lurched in horror at the dreadful sight below. The dark fields in front of the castle were covered in what seemed to be pinpricks of light until I realised they were men carrying torches, streaming towards the main gate. Indeed, most of the fighting was taking place there. I heard the hiss of arrows and the crashing of some makeshift battering ram buckling the beams of the iron-studded gates. The chateau was ill prepared. I glimpsed half-dressed soldiers seizing crossbows and other armaments and heard Dacourt's voice on the breeze screaming out orders. Most of our archers were massing in the gatehouse, shooting at those trying to force an entry.

I sobbed with fright, even as I addressed the one and only question which confronted me in such a dangerous situation. Was I safe? I huddled down beneath the parapet. What happened if the gate was forced? I could be trapped here at the top of the tower and be either forced to jump or killed like a rat trapped in a barn. I pushed my head over the parapet. Some of the chateau guards were on the curtain walls, forcing back the scaling ladders placed there. Time, I thought, for me to leave. I looked over to the side wall where the postern gate stood and went cold with terror. More pinpricks of light were moving down there. The attack on the main gate was merely a feint.

'It's time old Shallot moved,' I murmured. 'Perhaps search out Benjamin? Get out of the chateau, steal a horse and ride straight to Calais?'

I hurried down the tower steps, across the yard and into the outer bailey. The noise was terrible. Our assailants were now shooting fire arrows and these were already causing havoc amongst the defenders. One soldier lay on the ground like a blazing torch. Others had horrible black wounds to their faces and chests. Dacourt stood grasping his sword like some hero from ancient Troy.

'To the walls!' he screamed. 'To the walls! Don't let the banners fall!'

I am sure the silly old bastard had suffered a blow to the head and believed he was playing out a role from some heroic romance. He saw me and yelled: 'Shallot, where have you been? Now is not the time for a faint heart!'

'Piss off!' I shouted, losing my temper. 'The real attack is not here. They are massing against the side wall!'

I waved my sword like a madman, screamed at some men-at-arms to follow me, and raced like a whippet to the postern gate. We arrived to see the tops of the first ladder against the wall. A burly serjeant-at-arms pushed me aside and bravely told 'his lads' to follow him up. I stayed where I was, shouting out orders and near enough to the postern gate if things should go wrong. Our archers caught the bastards just as they began to climb the scaling ladders, whilst men-at-arms, using the long forked poles lying on the parapet walk, shoved them out of the way. I heard screams of anguish, then the attack faded away as suddenly as it came.

Dacourt, Clinton and the rest congregated in the main hall whilst servants lit torches and others brought ale or wine for the conquering heroes. Horses were saddled and scouts sent out. They soon returned, reporting the attackers had vanished, taking their dead and wounded with them. Five of the chateau soldiers were killed and Benjamin had a small cut high on his cheek. Dacourt estimated we had killed scores of our assailants but only three corpses were dragged in, all of them casualties of the ladder which had been pushed away from the outer wall. They looked scruffy, dirty vermin though surprisingly well armed. Now, I knew the Maillotins, the peasant rebels who lurked in the alleyways and runnels of Paris. I'd lived with them for a while. They were like me, experts in the sudden ambush. Certainly not well armed, organised or brave enough to attack a chateau in the open countryside.