The Poisoned Chalice (2 page)

Ah, poison, the subtle murderer of my dreams. Well, I have now marshalled my thoughts, summoning memories from that summer over seventy years ago. Oh, Lord, it seems only yesterday when I and my master, Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to the great Cardinal Wolsey, were sent to the Chateau de Maubisson outside Paris to resolve certain mysteries. Ah, I have mentioned his name! Benjamin, with his long, dark face, kindly eyes and lawyer's stoop. When I think of him I always smile. He was one of the few really good men I have ever met. If you have read my earlier memoirs you will know how this occurred. We went to school together, I saved him from a beating and he rescued me from a hanging, twice; once in Ipswich and then again at Montfaucon, that great forest of gibbets which stands near the Porte St Denis in Paris.

Now, Benjamin's uncle, the great Wolsey, and his black familiar, the enigmatic Doctor Agrippa, used us both on countless errands in the sinister twilight world of treason, murder and lechery of the courts of Europe. Lackaday, they have all gone now! They're just shadows, ghosts who dance under the shade of the spreading yew trees which border the far end of the lawn in front of my manor house.

Ghosts they may be but they bring back memories of broken hearts, foul deeds, sinister minds, and souls stained with the blackness of hell. I'll tell you this as I sit in the centre of my maze and listen to the clear song of the thrush: the murderous soul I met at Maubisson was one of the most chilling I have ever encountered.

Chapter 1

In the spring of 1520 Benjamin Daunbey and I were the proud occupants of a large manor house on the outskirts of Ipswich. Really, it was more of a pleasaunce than a manor with its white lathed plaster, ornamental chimney pots, squat black beams, with panelled rooms with carved furniture, and a cellar well stocked with a variety of wines. On our estate were granges, barns, a mill, carp ponds, lush fields and fertile meadows. We were the grateful beneficiaries of the largesse of Benjamin's uncle, the great Wolsey, who lavished rewards on us for resolving, only a few months earlier, the sinister White Rose murders.

Now success had not changed Benjamin. He still dressed drably. Indeed, I well remember him as he was then, long and lanky, his sombre, solemn face framed by jet black hair. At the time I was of the same colouring (there's a portrait of me hanging at Burpham). I was dark, my black hair cropped close, a slight cast in one eye, and a cheeky expression which many said would send me to the gallows. In a way they were right but, thankfully, I was never hanged though I was close to it on many occasions. What amuses me is that many of those who claimed I would hang, died violent deaths themselves in some pot-holed alleyway, bleak battlefield or gory execution yard. I was a bigger rogue then than I am now but Benjamin was as different as chalk from cheese. He had that irritating manner of believing all was well and trusting everyone completely.

In theory Benjamin was Lord of the Manor and I, a true man of the world, his steward, his trusted servant and bosom friend. I was wise beyond my nineteen years and kept a sharp weather eye on all the human kites and ravens attracted by Benjamin's generosity. You know the sort: wandering musicians, ballad mongers, sharp-eyed priests. (I see my chaplain's shoulders twitch with annoyance.)

This unsavoury pack of rogues streamed across the meadows to our Manor House like rats towards an unguarded hen coop. Old Shallot did what he could. I bought the biggest mastiffs I could find and sent the beggars screaming for the trees, at least for a while. At the time I had little knowledge of dogs. One day I took the beasts hunting and they raised a big fat buck. I never saw the buck again, nor the mastiffs. God knows what happened to them. They scampered off, barking like the devil. Those four-footed mercenaries must have met someone else who took better care of them because they never returned.

Nevertheless my problems with my master's open-handed generosity persisted. At last I had a serious discussion with Benjamin in our great oak-panelled hall, the walls above the panelling painted a light green and decorated with cunningly devised shields bearing the arms of Wolsey, Daunbey and, finally, Shallot. Of course, I made the latter up though I am still very proud of them; a mailed fist, middle finger extended, and underneath the Latin motto
'In dubito curre'
which, roughly translated, means 'In doubt, run'. I bear the same arms now but the middle finger of the mailed fist is no longer extended since the Queen's herald, Rouge-Croix, discovered that in certain parts of France such a gesture could be taken as offensive or obscene. Nevertheless, at the time I was proud of my skill. I had developed a deft hand at writing bills and counterfeiting other people's signatures, my master's included. No, I wasn't a thief! I just had to look after our property. And that provoked the confrontation with Benjamin.

'Master,' I wailed, 'we cannot keep feeding every rogue in the neighbourhood. I am tired of naughty nuns, fornicating friars, mouldy monks, ruthless rogues and virile villains!'

He leaned back in his chair in front of the hearth and laughed till the tears ran down his face.

'You have a way with words, Roger.' He straightened his face and sat up. 'But I still insist that we help those less fortunate. So, what do you propose?'

'Children,' I answered without thinking. (That's another of my faults, I am too kind-hearted and often speak without thinking.) 'Start a school,' I stammered. 'For the children of the village. Help those who need such learning.'

'Marvellous!' Benjamin replied. 'But how can I assist you, Roger?'

I looked away, embarrassed. 'You have helped me enough, master.'

'You're bored aren't you, Roger? You miss London?'

Good Lord, it was wonderful how my master could read my mind! Now, we very rarely went up to the great city and, when we did, Benjamin kept a close eye and a tight rein on me. You see, he knew me to be like a dog on a leash, straining to break free and head hell for leather into the nearest mischief. Of course, we had been to London to visit Benjamin's former betrothed, Johanna, a sweet girl whom he adored. Johanna had fallen for Cavendish, one of the great lords of the land, who'd broken her heart and destroyed her wits. Now the girl lived in the care of the nuns at Syon on the Thames, a mere shadow of her former self. (Oh, by the way, Benjamin killed the nobleman concerned in a duel with swords in Leicester Fields. Mind you, it wasn't the last time he fell in love. Oh, no! But that's another story.)

'You should go, Roger,' Benjamin continued. 'But stay here at least until Easter. I'll need your help to clear one of the chambers and set up a school room. You will help?'

I needed no second bidding and, in the last two weeks of Lent, when Benjamin fasted on water and salted fish and abstained from wine (I did the same during the day but, at night, I always crept out to one of the nearby taverns; I have great difficulty fasting for I get this terrible thirst!), I worked like a Trojan, clearing, cleaning, painting and refurbishing, until the old solar on the ground floor of our manor house gleamed as fresh and as opulent as one of the great Halls of Cambridge. (Oh, yes, Benjamin and I had also been to university but, due to minor misunderstandings, had both been asked to leave before we received our degrees. Well, who cares?)

On Easter Sunday, just after morning Mass, Benjamin, as Lord of the Manor, announced the opening of his school to his incredulous parishioners. My master expected little response. Sometimes he could be the most idealistic of fools! The villagers, however, took him at his word, only too willing to dump their scruffy-arsed offspring on him between the hours of ten and five. Benjamin didn't mind.

He took to schoolmastering like a duck to water. Horn books, quills, pens, ink horns, an abacus and rolls of parchment were bought. The hall was invaded by legions of snotty-nosed, tousle-haired, black-faced imps. I feared the little bastards would destroy the place but Benjamin was always good with children. He had a way of listening to them as if their every word was a pearl of wisdom. Sometimes I joined him in the school room.

You see, usually I worked on the accounts and managed the estate. We raised sheep, corn and crops for the local market and sold hunting rights to our neighbours. The work proved no real challenge for me. Benjamin always thought the smooth running of our affairs was due to his just treatment of others. Don't you believe it! The best gamekeepers are former poachers and no one took old Shallot for a ride.

Anyway, I'd go down to the schoolroom. The place seemed awash with dirty, little ankle-biters; some sat on benches, others squatted on the floor listening like round-eyed owls as Benjamin revealed the secrets of Mathematics, the divine truths of the Gospels and, for the most able, the courtly hand, as well as the basics of Greek, Latin, Geometry and Geography. Do you know, I envied him? Take Shallot's word for it, most people couldn't give a rat's arse about anyone else but Benjamin was different.

However, I soon tired of his attempts to help our neighbours. On the Monday after Low Sunday, I saddled my horse, loaded a sumpter pony, tied a money belt round my waist, grasped sword and dagger and made my farewells.

Hell's teeth, I remember it well! A beautiful spring morning. The sun made the mullioned glass of the manor house windows shimmer like pools of light. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of fresh-cut grass and the wild flowers which Benjamin had allowed to flourish in front of the hall. My master, his eyes heavy with sleep, came out to bid me farewell. He stood holding the bridle of my horse and stared innocently up at me like one of the children from his own school room.

'You will take care, Roger? You'll come home if aught happens?'

I clasped his hand. 'I'll take care, master,' I lied. 'I have a letter for our banker, Master Waller in the Mercery. If I run out of silver there's more there.'

'What,' Benjamin asked, his eyes narrowing, 'are you going to do?'

'Make my fortune, master.'

He smiled. 'Then make your fortune, Roger, and if Great-uncle sends for me, I shall come for you in London. Where will you lodge?'

I chewed my lip and stared into the faint mist being burnt off by the early morning sun. The last thing I wanted was Great-uncle interfering! I was tempted to lie but, thank God, I decided to break a lifelong habit and tell the truth.

'Near St Paul's,' I replied. 'There's a printer's under the Red Sign and next to it a tavern, the Golden Turk. You know it? I will lodge there.'

I clasped my master's hand and, spurring my horse, rode bravely down the tree-lined path, the hooves of the pack pony behind me digging up flurries of white dust. I felt like a knight-errant riding out for adventure. Little did I know I was a fool slipping into danger and the black shadow of Benjamin's great-uncle would soon trap me.

My journey was uneventful enough. When I was young,

England seemed green and fresh, in the morning-time of its life. No armies marched the land, no great lords unfurled the banners of rebellion. The Great Killer saw to that. Even then no one dared cross him and he had yet to show the dark side of his soul and prove Merlin's prophecy that he was 'The Mouldwarp’ who would drown his kingdom in a sea of blood'.

The abbeys and priories I passed slumbered gently in the lee of fresh green hills, unaware of the destruction about to crawl from the hellish pit of Henry's lusts. The villages, hamlets and the red-tile-roofed manors boasted their peace and prosperity for Henry was still living on the treasure bequeathed to him by his father. He had not yet unleashed his army of tax gatherers, commissioners, purveyors and assessors. The bridges were mended, the ruts in the roads filled in, the spring corn sown, and fat-tailed sheep browsed in the fields.

Oh, there were signs of the furies to come. At crossroads the gibbets provided plump carrion for the hungry crows and ravens; landless men turned out of their fields as the great lords changed to tending sheep rather than raising crops. Some were sturdy beggars, thieves and rogues but now and again you passed the honest yeomen, the skeletal, white-faced, puny children and worried, dark-eyed wives who tramped the roads looking for work. Shallot did what he could. I have a list of vices as long as your arm but I am not mean. I scattered pennies and rode on like a young lord through Aldgate and into London.

Now, I have always loved that city, its stench, the colour, bustle and noise, the way the blood beats ever faster through your veins. I had worked there many years before as a footman in one of old Mother Nightbird's molly houses, from where she sold plump, perfumed flesh to the great lords and merchants of the city. Now things were different. At nineteen Shallot was virtuous, a prosperous man soon to be a merchant prince who would show both Master Benjamin and the great Wolsey that he could rise without their help. I rode through Cheapside, greedily drinking in the sights and sounds. I noted with envy the gold-embossed timber mansions of the merchants, the stalls in front of them piled high with goods of every kind: rich cloth of gold, rolls of murrey, silks and satins, leather bottles, Spanish riding boots, gold cord and testers, blankets of pure wool, and tapestries heavy with silver needlework and gold filigree.

The air dinned with the cries of the apprentices, the roar of the crowd, the curses of carpenters, whilst in every corner hawkers and tinkers shouted their wares. Young nobles from the court, their horses' harness shining in the sunlight, rode through with hawks, falcons and peregrines perched on their wrists, cruel faces hidden by small leather hoods, jesses tinkling like the bells of a tiny church.

I found the Golden Turk where it nestled in a small alleyway, just beneath the great mass of St Paul's. A fine, well-kept establishment, three storeys high, made all the more welcoming by horn-glazed windows, the beams smartly painted and the white plaster glowing like freshly laid snow. The landlord knew me, for Benjamin and I often lodged there when we came up to town. I did think of going down to Syon House but remembered Benjamin's instructions never to approach Johanna without him being present for she dwelt in a twilight world where every man, except Benjamin, was her seducer.