Paul Doherty - The poisoned chalice

I entered its smelly darkness; there were only two windows and the place stank of cow dung. The beaten earthen floor was covered with scraps of rubbish which three scavenging pigs were obligingly eating. I have always found that garrulous old men are the best source of gossip so I pretended to be a student, the offspring of a French mother and an English father, off to the university of the Sorbonne in Paris to continue my studies in law. Like any stranger I was greeted with obvious hostility but silver creates universal friendship. Drinks were ordered, jokes and funny stories shared about the Goddamns, and then I changed the conversation to the great house I had passed by on my way into the village.

Now, my master told me that Francesca's maiden name was Sauvigne and, as sure as God made little fishes, the old men described the beautiful daughter who once lived there.

'A grand family,' one toothless oldster ponderously stated.

'Are they still there?' 'Well, the old ones are gone.' 'And Francesca?'

'Oh, she was sent off to a convent outside Paris.' 'And who is the seigneur now?'

'Well, in the absence of a male heir, the title went to a distant cousin.' 'Not Francesca?'

The old man shook his head. 'She would never have inherited the title.' He turned and spat. 'You know the customs amongst the great ones. Their sons go to war or court and the women either marry or go to convents. Mind you, she was a very pretty girl.'

'How do you mean?'

The old man gave me a detailed description of the Lady Francesca and I felt a twinge of disappointment at one of my master's theories being so brutally shattered: the woman the old man described could be no other person than Sir Robert Clinton's wife.

'It's strange she wasn't married off earlier?' I queried. 'I mean, such a beautiful woman?'

'Oh, but she was!'

'No, she was not!' another interrupted. "She was betrothed to a young soldier, the Seigneur de Gahers.'

'And what happened?'

'Well, de Gahers went to Italy in the king's army and distinguished himself most bravely in the march on Naples.'

'And he was killed there?'

'Oh, no, he came back laden with honours, but within a year he died of some wasting illness. The Lady Francesca was heartbroken. She refused any further offers of marriage. She must have been about sixteen summers then, so her parents despatched her to the convent.'

The old man turned and spat a stream of yellow phlegm straight between the ears of one of the pigs. The beast snorted in anger and turned away. (And the French have the cheek to call us English dirty!) Well, there was nothing more to be gained. I had spent enough silver and the old men were becoming suspicious, so I slept in a small copse outside the village and then made my way back to Maubisson.

The chateau had recovered from the French king's visit. Peckle was sitting in the courtyard, sheaves of paper in his hand. Millet and Dacourt, the former as bland as ever, were closeted together in the great hall, whilst Clinton and Doctor Agrippa were deep in conversation. I did wonder if the good doctor was warning everyone else about the king's impending wrath. My master was poring over strips of parchment in our chamber, each bearing a name as he tried to make some sense out of what had happened.

'Your journey was successful. Roger?'

I told him what I had learnt. He gave a sigh of exasperation, threw his pen on to the table and went and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

'Did you notice anything untoward?' he asked. 'As you came back into the chateau?'

'No, why?'

Benjamin propped himself up on his elbow and began to curl his hair around his fingers, one of his favourite mannerisms when he was deep in thought.

'Vauban has withdrawn his men,' he replied. 'A sure sign that the bastard is cocksure we will learn nothing new.' Benjamin threw himself back on the bed and just lay there, staring, as I unpacked my saddle-bags and rested after my journey.

'You said Lady Francesca was betrothed to Seigneur de Gahers?' 'Yes.'

Benjamin got to his feet. 'Stay there, Roger. I need to speak with our two messengers. I wonder if they want to earn some extra silver?'

I thought he'd return but he didn't so I looked about for something to read. I studied what Benjamin had been writing but he had been using some secret cipher known only to himself. I remembered Abbe Gerard's book so retrieved it from its hiding place, bolted the door, and went lazily through its pages, more interested in the king's annotations than anything else. I chuckled to myself. If Fat Henry thought of getting a divorce from Catherine of Aragon then this book would certainly prove him a liar. I had no illusions as to what would happen once the fat bastard got hold of it. The book would be burnt and Henry left free to tell whatever lies he wished. I turned to the loose leaves at the back which, as was the custom. Abbe Gerard had used for his own personal notes. I noticed that the dead priest had written there, 'Chantry Masses to be sung for the souls of the lately departed.' As would be expected these included names of relatives of those at the English embassy. Some I did not recognise, others were quite fresh: a sister of Millet's, John Dacourt's wife, Catherine Stout, as well as that of Sir Robert Clinton's first wife, Clare Harpale. I was disturbed by Benjamin's return. When I unbolted the door he took the book off me.

'What have you been doing, master?' 'Oh, this and that.'

He lay on the bed sifting through the pages of the book, leaving me to my own thoughts.

The next few days dragged by. Benjamin claimed he was waiting for news and went back to his secret writing but I could see from his frayed temper he was making very little progress. Doctor Agrippa's presence only deepened his gloom, and everyone else's. Dacourt became openly nervous, Peckle buried himself in his work and Millet was one of those stupid young men who think music is the solution to every problem. Even Sir Robert Clinton looked agitated as if he realised his friendship with the king would not save him from the royal wrath. Old Dacourt, to lighten the mood, hired a troupe of acrobats, the usual mummers and clowns who entertained great lords and ladies in their halls and bowers. If anything, these idiots only deepened our gloom, their laughter and merriment ringing hollow in the dour atmosphere of the hall.

But isn't it strange how little things can cause the most devastating changes? I am reminded of that childhood rhyme:

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,

For want of a shoe, the horse was lost.

For want of a horse, the rider was lost.

For want of a rider, the battle was lost.

In this case it was a mongrel dog, an intelligent little beast who, under instructions, could draw painted letters from a small bucket and spell simple words like 'bone' or 'meat'. Sometimes he got them mixed up and this caused unwarranted merriment but it reminded me of poor Falconer's absorption with the name Raphael. A notion occurred to me but I dismissed it until I was alone with my master. I told him and he sat down as if poleaxed.

'I can't believe it! No,' he stuttered eventually. 'It's not possible!'

He rose and paced up and down the room.

'What is it, master?'

'Shut up, Roger, and let me think.'

The pacing continued. He sat down at his desk and began scribbling madly on any available piece of parchment. He was still writing when I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next morning a red-eyed Benjamin shook me awake.

'Look, Roger,' he said, almost dragging me from the bed. 'You are to dress, go down and join the rest and break fast with them in the hall. You are to draw them into conversation and ask John Dacourt whether his late wife's name was Catherine Stout, but watch Millet and ask him a question: did he have a sister called Gabriel who has recently died?'