The poisoned chalice

behind him. He was drunk. He was of short stature. Gentlemen, we have all drunk too much at times and seen others in their cups. They are careless, they knock over tables and chairs, they leave doors open. But Waldegrave was so precise. He could get into a stable but was unable to get out.'
    I just stood admiring my master's sharp wit. Of course, I had reached the same conclusions but he was always better at presenting the facts. He had a way with words, my master. He should have met Shakespeare and Burbage. They would have cast him in many a role in one of their plays. Perhaps Lear, Brutus or Mark Antony. Benjamin was a great orator. In that courtyard of the dreadful castle of Maubisson, he had the rapt attention of those arrogant men.
    'Now,' my master continued briskly, 'even if Waldegrave had bolted the door behind him and, let us say, he fell in a dead faint or drunken stupor, Sir John, can you explain why Vulcan would pound his body so mercilessly?'
    The ambassador stroked his chin. 'No, I cannot,' he replied. 'Vulcan is trained only to lash out at someone who threatens him.' 'Not a fat, drunken cleric?'
    'Come, come!' Peckle snarled. 'Master Benjamin, tell us your conclusion.'
    'Sir John, would the smell of blood drive Vulcan to a fury?' 'Of course. It would remind him of battle, of danger.'
    Benjamin pointed towards the infirmary. 'Last night I examined Waldegrave's clothing. It was covered in blood and gore which was fresh. However, his tunic was also stained with dried blood.' He paused. 'So, Master Peckle, I will tell you my conclusions. Last night, Waldegrave drank himself into a stupor. Someone had earlier gutted a young pig, and drained off the blood. They went to Waldegrave's chamber and smeared it all over the tunic of our comatose priest. Our murderer then dragged the body silently across the yard, opened the door to Vulcan's stable, placed the sleeping priest on the straw, locked the stable door behind him and slipped quietly away. Vulcan, agitated by dark shapes in the night and inflamed by the stench of blood, was driven to fury. He pounded this strange, blood-stained visitor to his stable, now lying on his back in the straw beneath him. The fury of the attack, at least for a few seconds, drew Waldegrave from his drunken stupor. He screamed, perhaps struggled, but Vulcan lashed out once more with a sharpened hoof, shattering poor Waldegrave's head.' Benjamin folded his arms. 'Sir John, Sir Robert, Waldegrave was barbarously murdered.'
    A babble of protest broke out but no one could deny the logic of my master's conclusions. He stilled the clamour with a wave of his hands.
    'I should demand that everyone should account for their movements but,' he smiled thinly, 'in the main we all sleep alone and I have no authority to ask.' He clapped me on the shoulder. 'Even my good friend Shallot could not swear that I did not slip out of my chamber to commit this dreadful act.'
    The rest of the group just stared wordlessly back. Benjamin shrugged.
    'Sir John, I would be grateful for the loan of a groom who will show us the way to Abbe Gerard's Church of St Pierre in Maubisson village.'
    Dacourt, lost in his own reverie, nodded and within the hour our horses were saddled and we followed the groom out of the chateau. Benjamin stopped for a while, staring across at the forest edge.
    'We are being watched,' he repeated. 'All the time, we are being watched.' 'The Luciferi, master?'
    Benjamin pulled a wry mouth. 'Perhaps, but the danger we face from them is nothing compared to what we face in the chateau. There is a murderer loose. Waldegrave was killed because of what he knew, something about that pathetic joke.' My master patted his horse absent-mindedly. 'Or was it that?' he continued as if speaking to himself. 'Or because I was the first to show any interest? We shall see. We shall see, eh, Roger?'

Chapter 6
    I smiled to hide my own fears. I'll be honest, they weren't caused just by the Luciferi and some maniac loose in the chateau but by the Great Killer at Hampton Court and his desire to get that bloody ring back. I wanted to broach the matter with my master but he was lost in his own thoughts so I kept my fears hidden as we rode along the lee of the hill.
    We wound our way past open fields into shady woods until we entered the neck of a small valley. Nestling at the bottom, on the banks of a sluggish stream, stood Maubisson village: a collection of wattle and daub huts with thatched roofs, two or three of