Paul Doherty - The poisoned chalice

'Monsieur Shallot!' he called out. 'You were supposed to watch the show, not become part of it!'

This remark was translated back into French and evoked bellows of laughter. I just crouched. I daren't stand. I was in a state of terror, fearful lest I wet myself or collapse in a gibbering heap.

'Monsieur,' I called, 'I thank you for your concern.'

Vauban shrugged. 'Everyone, Monsieur Shallot,' he retorted, 'has a guardian angel to watch over him. Perhaps Master Daunbey is yours!'

The door in the courtyard opened and Benjamin strode out. He pulled me up by the arm as if I was a child and gently led me away from well-wishers, Dacourt's party and the rest, into a little chamber along the corridor. He made me sit and left for a few minutes, bringing back a huge, deep-bowled wine cup filled to the brim.

'Drink that!' he ordered. 'But drink it slowly!'

'Vauban and his bloody angels,' I moaned. 'I was pushed! Deliberately pushed! For God's sake, master, who was it?'

'I don't know. We were all at the edge of the balcony leaning over the parapet. There were servants going backwards and forwards. I was further down on your left. You just seemed to slide over the parapet. I thought you were gone.'

'Some bastard pushed me,' I repeated. 'But why?'

Benjamin just looked out of the window and shook his head. 'Apparently you know something, Roger. The question is, what?'

We were interrupted by a knock on the door and Clinton and Dacourt came in.

'Shallot, you've recovered?' Clinton asked.

'Oh, yes, as fine as a flower in spring,' I snarled. 'I'll be even better when my bowels stop churning and my legs have some strength.'

Sir Robert grinned. 'You were pushed,' he remarked quietly.

'Nonsense!' Dacourt interrupted.

'No, no, he was pushed,' Clinton repeated. 'By whom or why I don't know but it's time we left here. I have paid my compliments to His Most Christian Majesty!' The words were spat out. 'And I think it's time we were on the road.' Clinton stopped at the door and looked back. 'Do you know who pushed you, Roger?'

'No, but if I did, the bastard would be lying on top of that damn' boar!'

Clinton made a face. Dacourt glared over at me and followed him out.

'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin murmured. 'I have a feeling more horrors are about to occur.'

We left Fontainebleau just as the great, ornate clock was striking the first half-hour after mid-day. The excitement of my accident had died down. Venner was most solicitous and, whilst Benjamin kept to himself, Clinton's manservant rode along beside me, generously offering a wineskin he had filched from the kitchen. Dacourt and the Clintons went ahead whilst a few of Vauban's horsemen, red-bearded rascals in armour, guarded our front and rear. We wound down the white dusty lanes. The sun was hot, and in the heat of the day even the birds kept quiet and cooled themselves in the green darkness of the surrounding forest. After two hours' riding we stopped. Clinton said his horse was rather lame and asked Throgmorton to check it out. Venner laid out cloths beneath some trees and spread pastries and freshly baked bread, wrapped in linen cloths, which his master had commandeered from the royal kitchens. Small, horn-glazed goblets were distributed and Clinton produced a sealed flagon of wine.

'A present from Monsieur Vauban,' he remarked quietly. 'The best of the claret from the first year of His Majesty's reign.'

He tore open the seal and half-filled his goblet. The sun danced on the many rings on his fingers. We were seated in a semicircle. Lady Francesca was wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a lace veil protecting her skin against the heat and dust.

'Be careful, Sir Robert!' Benjamin suddenly called out.

Clinton stopped, the goblet halfway to his lips, whilst everyone stared at my master.

'What happened to Roger this morning,' he continued, 'was no accident. Falconer died after drinking wine, as did the Abbe Gerard. How do we know that His Most Christian Majesty's gift is not poisoned?'

I stared back. Vauban's horsemen had also stopped. Most of them had dismounted and were lying in the shade of the trees, talking softly in their strange, sing-song accents. A prickle of fear ran along my spine. Despite the wine I had gulped at Fontainebleau, I still felt threatened, pursued by some silent, vindictive fury. Clinton narrowed his eyes and sniffed at the wine.

'The seal was unbroken,' he observed. 'I do not think His Most Christian Majesty would like to explain to his brother of England why his envoys died after drinking some wine, especially provided by the French king.' Sir Robert smiled, sipped the wine and smacked his lips. 'If that's poisoned,' he announced, 'then I'll drink it every day.'

The tension abated, the wine was served, Clinton pouring it, Venner passing it along. Throgmorton rejoined us, announcing that there was nothing wrong with Clinton's horse. The food was served and duly tasted but Clinton's remark had abated our suspicions and we gossiped about what we had seen at the French court. Lady Francesca, however, remained silent, sipping at her wine but refusing to touch any of the food. We continued our journey and must have ridden for another hour when Throgmorton reined in, holding his stomach, his mouth gaping and his face deathly pale, hair matted with sweat.

'These pains,' he croaked. 'Oh, my lord!'

We gathered round him. Throgmorton suddenly vomited, his face turning a blueish tinge.

'I have been poisoned,' he whispered. 'This is poison!'

He stretched out a hand towards Benjamin and, before we could help, slid out of the saddle and crashed to the earth, his horse sheering away in fright. We dismounted and stood round him. For a few seconds Throgmorton lashed out like a landed fish, in short sharp convulsions, vomiting and retching, gasping for air. He scrambled on all fours like a dog, his back arched, then he collapsed, eyes and mouth open.

Lady Francesca turned away, her gloved hand pushing part of her lace veil to her mouth as if she, too, wanted to be sick. Peckle, Millet and Venner just stood like frightened children, Dacourt loudly cursed whilst Clinton helped my master try to find some pulse in the now prostrate doctor.

'He's dead,' Benjamin observed. 'Sir John, I would be grateful if you could keep Vauban's riders away. Tell them the good doctor has suffered a heart seizure.'

'Has he?' Clinton asked.

Benjamin turned the body over and sniffed at the dead man's gaping mouth. 'No seizure, Sir Robert. Look at the livid skin and blue lips. Throgmorton was poisoned, probably with white or red arsenic. If he had vomited earlier, perhaps he might have lived.'

'Would arsenic act so quickly?' Clinton queried and I remembered his keen interest in such matters. 'Surely not, Master Daunbey, the dose would have to be powerful. I suspect it was mixed with something else, something which struck at Throgmorton's heart.'

My master chewed his lip and gently touched the dead man's damp cheek. 'Perhaps you are right, Sir Robert.'

'I know I am; arsenic and perhaps digitalis or deadly nightshade. But when? We all drank the same wine and who could know which piece of food Throgmorton would choose?'

Clinton had the baskets containing the food and wine unpacked. The rest of what was left was carefully examined, including the wine flask and the cups though these had been washed clean in a nearby brook: no trace of poison was found. Clinton stared at the sky, blood red in the sunset.

'We must continue,' he ordered. 'We should be off the roads before nightfall. Maubisson is only another hour.'

Poor Throgmorton's body was tossed across his horse and our sombre journey continued like something from a macabre dream. We rode along the country track, winding between dark woods, lush green fields, past hamlets betrayed only by faint spirals of smoke. Vauban's colourful riders clustered around us: Lady Clinton masked; Sir Robert Clinton and my master deep in conversation; the rest riding silently; and, at the back, led by poor Venner, Throgmorton's dreadful cadaver strapped to his horse as if Death himself was trailing us to Maubisson.