The poisoned chalice

raindrops pattered against the wooden shutters. That sleep proved to be the beginning of our troubles.
    We were awoken early in the night, a few hours before dawn, by sharp screams, shouted orders, and the sound of running feet. We threw blankets around us and hurried down to the inner bailey, now filling with servants and retainers who splashed amongst the puddles carrying torches. Clinton was there wrapped in a military cloak and Dacourt, looking rather ridiculous in a long night gown, stood near Vulcan's stable. Both the top and bottom doors were flung back and the great war horse had apparently galloped away pursued by grooms. Peckle, Throg-morton and others joined us, though I was surprised to see Millet, the effeminate clerk, dressed as if returning from a visit to the city. We pushed our way into the stable and glimpsed what appeared to be a blood-soaked pile of rags, the gore and slime gleaming in the flickering torch light. Throgmorton was leaning over it, his face turning a greenish-white hue. 'Bring another torch!' Benjamin ordered.
    A sleepy-eyed groom pushed one into his hand and swiftly backed away. Benjamin knelt down, bringing the torch closer, and I had to put my hand to my mouth to prevent myself retching. Waldegrave lay there, his body a bloody pulp. His skull had been kicked in and the dark blood seeped out, mingling with the grey sludge of his brains. One eye had popped out from its socket, his chest was a bloody black hole, whilst the lower half of his face had been completely kicked away, revealing stumps of yellow teeth. 'In God's name, what happened?' Benjamin whispered.
    'The fool tried to get to the horse. He was always up to these tricks. Only this time Vulcan was too quick and powerful.'
    Benjamin stared at the physician. 'He'd tried this before?'
    'Yes. As Sir John described the other evening. The old toper still thought he was a horseman.' 'But this is the first time Vulcan attacked him?'
    'Yes.' Throgmorton rose, the hem of his cloak over his mouth and nose. 'Sometimes he would try it in the evening but never during the dead of night.'
    Benjamin, impervious to the scene, leaned closer and sniffed at what used to be Waldegrave's mouth. Even from where I stood I could smell the strong, stale wine fumes which permeated the stench of the ripped body.
    'What actually happened?' I asked Millet, noting how the young man was very much the worse for drink.
    The fop shook his head and went outside. He leaned against the stable, sucking in the cool night air like a man surfacing from a deep river.
    'Everyone in the chateau was asleep,' I observed. 'Apart from you?'
    The fellow grimaced. 'Yes, apart from me. I had business in the city. Anyway, I returned late. I stabled my own horse and was in the buttery when I heard screams, the crashing of hooves and Vulcan's neighs. I ran back here. Grooms and ostlers were already in the yard. The top half of the stable door was open but Waldegrave had apparently closed the bottom behind him. A groom opened it. The horse shot out like an arrow from a bow.' Millet nodded towards the general direction of the garden.
    'I understand he's been cornered there and his attendant is trying to calm him. I came over,' he continued, 'and saw what you have now.' He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I vomited twice,' he remarked, 'and I think I am going to do so again.'
    Hand to mouth, slightly stooping, he hurried away into the darkness. I grinned contemptuously at his retreating back, looked once more at the stable, saw an eyeball glistening on the wet straw and promptly vomited myself. I looked around; Clinton, Dacourt and others now stood near the main steps of the chateau, Throgmorton with them.
    'Master!' I hissed, closing my eyes and leaning against the lintel of the stable. 'What are you doing?'
    Benjamin came out, rubbing the side of his face. 'There's nothing we can do, Sir John,' he called across to Dacourt. 'The poor man's body should be removed.'
    The ambassador rapped out an order and four servants, their faces masked by cloths soaked in vinegar, hurried across with a linen sheet. 'Take it to the infirmary!' Dacourt ordered.
    Benjamin and I watched as Waldegrave's corpse was hoisted on to the sheet. 'One minute!' Benjamin called out.
    The servants glared angrily, eager to get the grisly business over and done with. Benjamin seized his torch, brought the flame as near as he could and examined not the wounds, but rather the dead priest's shabby,