The Poisoned Chalice (10 page)

BOOK: The Poisoned Chalice

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Lord, I was pleased to be free of the place, following the white beaten track first west around London, then south across the downs to Dover. Outriders went first then Sir Robert, Master Benjamin and Lady Clinton. The first two soon became boon companions: they shared a common love of alchemy and an all-absorbing interest in plants and their natural remedies. Often our cavalcade would stop so they could both dismount and study foxgloves, fungi on tree bark, or the different types of mushrooms. Though interested in nature, I was still frightened by the demands of the Great Beast and hung back, watching jealously how the coquettish Lady Francesca seemed to take great interest in Benjamin but remained impervious to my own presence. Clinton's chief henchman, Venner, was an amiable enough fellow but his conversation revolved around bear and cock fighting and the virtues of one breed of horse over another. There was not a pretty face in sight so I sulked all the way to Dover. We paused now and again at some hostelry and, on one occasion, a Benedictine monastery, I forget its name. Well, what does it matter? It's only a pile of rubble now the Great Killer has finished with it.

No, on second thoughts, I wasn't sulking. I thought a lot about Agnes, her violent death and those of her family. I was satisfied that the Luciferi had killed her and I was determined, in my own cowardly way, to exact revenge once I was in France. Something else nagged at my mind and gnawed at my soul. An idea whose substance eluded me. Once I was aboard the
Mary of Westminster
and facing the terrors of the Narrow Seas, I put the matter aside.

Our cog was a sturdy merchantman escorted by a small man-of-war. We raised anchor, turned, dipping our sails three times in honour of the Trinity, and made our way to the open sea. Two days later, after a peaceful voyage, we disembarked at Calais - a dreadful place, England's last foothold in France, nothing more than a glorified fortress packed with men-at-arms and archers, who staggered the streets in their boiled leather jerkins, drinking in the many ale houses and generally looking for trouble.

The town was packed with carts and horses for the Great Killer always kept Calais well fortified. All a waste of time for his daughter, poor Bloody Mary, lost it to the French and died of a broken heart. (Oh, by the way, I was there when she died. I held her hand as the death rattle grew in her scrawny throat. 'Roger,' she whispered. 'My dear, dear Roger. When I die, pluck out my heart and you'll find Calais engraved upon it.' I bowed my head. She thought I was weeping. Nothing of the sort! I was terrified she might see the guilty look in my eyes for I am the man who lost the English Calais. Oh, yes! I was the silly, drunken bastard who left the gate open and let the French in, but that's another story.) We were soon free of Calais and heading south for Paris. The Normandy countryside baked under a warm summer sun. A peaceful journey. Even the scaffold and gibbets at the crossroads were empty; indeed, I even saw two festooned with garlands.

'Strange,' I muttered to Benjamin as we stayed at a tavern on our first night out of Calais. 'What is, Roger?'

'Well,' I answered, glad to have his attention, 'those two messengers who were killed by the Maillotins. It was on the same road we are following now.'

'So?'

'Well, the highway seems clear of thieves and rogues and very well guarded. I have seen at least three troops of cavalry.' I paused and Benjamin just stared blankly back. 'Look, master,' I hurried on, 'I know the Maillotins. They attack in the alleys and runnels of Paris, not plan an ambush in the open countryside.'

Benjamin played with the cup he was drinking from. 'You think it was not the Maillotins who attacked the messengers?'

'Yes.'

'So who did the French hang?'

'God knows!' I snarled, and turned away.

Benjamin patted me on the shoulder. 'Roger, you're out of sorts.'

'Oh, no, not me,' I replied quickly. 'You like Sir Robert?' 'I prefer his wife.'

Benjamin laughed. 'A strange pair,' he mused. 'She's a flirt but he dotes on her. Sir Robert met her when she was a ward of the French court.'

'She seems to like you.'

Benjamin shrugged. 'There's no accounting for taste, Roger.' He smiled, finished his wine, and deftly turned the conversation to other matters.

Just before we entered Paris we left the main road, and, following winding country tracks, approached the Convent of St Felice, its white stone buildings basking in the sunshine amongst soft green fields and small dark copses. A beautiful place, one of those convents which reeked of wealth, security, and its own strange kind of serenity. Everything was clean, precise and in its place. Even the convent yard, just within the great arched gateway, was neatly strewn with white stone pebbles, whilst around the walls small strips of garden full of flowers gave off their own fragrant perfume.

We were left in the guesthouse, drinking chilled white wine, whilst the sisters welcomed Lady Francesca and Sir Robert Clinton in a flurry of joy at seeing their old pupil and protege. Lady Francesca was treated as a favoured daughter but Sir Robert was idolised, treated with a deference which I found quite surprising. You'd have thought he was some fat cardinal from Rome. The nuns fussed around the Clintons like a group of mother hens. I found it difficult to follow their chatter (you know old

Shallot, nosy as hell and always looking for mischief), but they seemed most concerned about Lady Francesca's health. Anyway, they left us alone.

Lady Clinton went to see old friends whilst Mother Superior, a formidable old bird in her gold-edged habit, took Sir Robert away, her arm linked through his, for quiet chatter in her own private apartment. We stayed for about an hour, then with the sisters' greetings ringing in our ears rejoined our escort outside the walls and continued our journey.

We entered Paris by the Porte St Denis. It was strange to be back there and my memories were not pleasant: starving in the depths of winter, being beaten up, arrested for some misunderstanding and half-hanged at Montfaucon. The scaffold there was the first thing I clapped my eyes on when we entered the stinking streets of Paris. The city fathers had decided to improve the site since I last encountered it. A few corpses swayed in the breeze at the end of a rope but they had built a wall so when the bodies decayed and fell, their sight, if not their stink, was hidden from passersby. We followed the narrow, crooked streets, most of them unpaved and packed with a motley crew of citizens, monks, scholars and a legion of beggars. Stagnant pools of filth made us cover our mouths and noses whilst we kept bobbing our heads to avoid the painted signs which hung outside every house. All the time we were assailed by the noise of a hundred bells and the screams of hawkers and traders who sold everything from a piece of iron to hot chestnuts. We crossed one of the five big bridges built over the Seine and passed under the brooding mass of Notre Dame.

Near the Place des Greves, or rather the square close to it, a great crowd had gathered to witness an execution. One of the most horrible sights I had ever seen. A huge vat full of oil was bubbling over a monstrous bonfire and, bound hand and foot inside, stood a criminal being boiled to death. The screams, the smoke and the stench were, perhaps, a prophecy of the horrors which awaited us. Lady Clinton turned pale and would have fainted in the saddle if Benjamin had not caught her, whilst Sir Robert shouted abuse at the outriders, telling them to move on. We left Paris by the Porte D'Orleans and found ourselves back amongst the tilled meadows and windmills which ring the city. The suburbs dwindled and, after an hour's travelling, we turned a bend in the road and there, on the brow of a hill, outlined against a forest, stood the Chateau de Maubisson, a pleasant sight. It was ringed by a curtain wall protected by a moat spanned by a wooden drawbridge.

We clattered over this into the outer bailey where chickens pecked and pigs rooted for food. The place was busy and alive with noise from the stables, forges and outhouses built against the wall. We rode under another arch, guarded by serjeants-at-arms wearing the royal arms of England; great iron gates were flung open and we passed through these into the inner bailey, stopping before the great four-towered keep which soared up to the skies. Someone had quite recently built a wing on either side of this huge donjon but at each corner of the central building was a tower. Clinton said they were named after four ladies: Yolande, Mary, Isabel and Jeanne.

'From which did Falconer fall?' Benjamin asked. Clinton pointed to the one on the right nearside. We all stared up at the great tower which soared six storeys above us.

'So, the castle belongs to the English embassy?' Benjamin asked.

'Yes,' Clinton replied. 'Beyond this tower there is a garden laid out in the French style - some herb banks, a small rabbit warren, and a few hundred bushes of boxwood.' He waved his hand airily. 'Beyond the walls are some vineyards but the weather blights them. Some marshland, then of course the forest.'

He was about to continue when officials of the embassy came down the steps to greet us. There was the usual confusion of grooms taking horses, porters carrying chests, and a sea of faces as haphazard introductions were made. A servant took Benjamin and me off into the main hall, past the great chamber where meals were served, and up a spiral staircase to the third floor above the solar. The chamber given to us was spacious and clean, the walls freshly painted, the wooden floors covered with thick but clean-looking carpets. Two pallet beds had been erected, fresh torch sconces placed in the walls, some stools, a chair, a table and an aumbry, a heavy cupboard for our clothes, provided. Some thick, tallow candles, and jugs and bowls completed the furnishings. The windows were shuttered but one, glazed with horn, afforded a pleasant view of the boxwood garden and a glimpse of the forest-edge.

We spent that afternoon taking our bearings. The chateau was like many of its kind, stained by war here and there when the English (or the Goddamns, as the French call us) had tried to conquer Northern France, nothing remarkable. We met the officials of the embassy at dinner that same evening.

Now, the hall of the chateau was a simple affair, a great hearthed fire in the centre with some shields and antlers on the wall for decoration. There was a small gallery at one end which musicians would use and, at the other, against a wooden panelled wall, the dais and high table. Once supper was over and the retainers had withdrawn, the wine jug was passed round and introductions were made. Sir John Dacourt, the ambassador, was squat and florid, with frizzed white hair, light blue eyes, and the most luxuriant curling moustache I have ever clapped eyes on. He was dressed simply in the old-fashioned way with a cote-hardie which fell beneath his knees. He was a soldier of the old school who believed the only good Frenchman was a dead one.

‘I don't trust the damn' Frogs!' he boomed. 'Turn your back and the bastards will have you!'

Walter Peckle, the chief clerk, was a young man grown old before his time, with a complexion sallow and unhealthy, sunken cheeks, and eyes which never stopped blinking. His fingers were stained with blue-green ink and he constantly kept scratching what was left of his wispy, greasy, grey hair. Thomas Throgmorton, the physician, was thin as a pikestaff. Of indeterminate age, he had moist grey eyes set in a pale, thin face. His close-cropped hair was hidden under a black velvet skull cap. Michael Millet, Sir John Dacourt's secretarius, was strikingly good-looking. A young man with thick, blond hair which rose in waves from his forehead, and blue liquid eyes. Many a woman would have paid a fortune to have had his eyelashes, thick, long and curling. He was a proper fop: his roses and cream complexion was clean-shaven and a silver pearl dangled from a small gold chain in his right ear lobe. He sat like a woman and talked like one, sending coy glances at all of us. Waldegrave, the chaplain, was small, fat and balding, with the coarsened features and bright red nose of an inveterate drinker. By the time the meal was finished we were all in our cups but Waldegrave had staggered to the meal as drunk as any bishop. He sat next to me and I wrinkled my nose at the sweaty odour emanating from the long, black, food-stained gown he wore.

At first our after-dinner conversation was on general matters but when Lady Francesca withdrew, throwing Benjamin a smile which cut me to the heart, Clinton soon brought matters to order.

'Falconer's death,' he announced as soon as Lady Francesca's high-heeled step faded from the hall, 'was it an accident, suicide or murder?' His words cast a pool of silence. The warmth and cheer evaporated like mist before the sun. We all became aware how dark it was, the torches flickering and the shadows dancing against the bleak, white walls. At the centre of the table, Dacourt looked around.

'If it was suicide,' he trumpeted, 'it's a damn' strange way to go. If it was an accident, then it can't be explained. Check the tower yourself, Sir Robert, you know it well. The wall is crenellated but there are iron bars between the gaps. Falconer would have had to be standing on the very rim to slip and fall to his death. Why should a man do that?'

'Which leaves murder,' my master intervened smoothly.

'Impossible!' Throgmorton, the physician, spoke up.

Benjamin leaned forward and looked down the table at him.

'How, sir! Why do you say that?'

'Oh, our physician knows everything,' Millet quipped tartly. 'He's fond of snooping, especially through the half-open doors of any woman's bedchamber.'

The remark provoked faint laughter and Throgmorton flushed with embarrassment. (Well, as I say, never trust a doctor. It's surprising how many of them love to see a pretty wench stripped down to her shift.) Benjamin, however, refused to be diverted.