The poisoned chalice

enemies. He stopped and looked at us. 'I have a good voice, Messieurs?' 'God only knows,' I added sarcastically. Vauban's eyes narrowed. 'You know this song? You will join me?'
    Well, I don't know who was the more insane, he for singing or Benjamin and myself for joining in. Where possible I changed the words, using every filthy, French word I knew. (And believe me there are quite a few!) But Vauban didn't mind. We rode along like three troubadours from some romantic tale. We finished just before we arrived at the main gate of the chateau.
    'I enjoyed that,' Vauban said, leaning forward on his horse. 'Perhaps we can do it again? Our voices modulate well.'
    'I would love to,' I replied. 'Perhaps one day you can be our guest again in London.' (In the Tower dungeons, I thought, stretched out on the cruellest rack I can find!)
    Vauban positively beamed with pleasure, waved us goodbye like an affectionate friend, then he and his horsemen disappeared in a haze of dust.
    Once we were arrived in the inner bailey Benjamin gave full vent to his feelings. He tossed his horse's reins to a groom and went storming off looking for Dacourt. I trailed behind, still shaking from a mixture of fear and anger. Benjamin found the ambassador in a small writing office near the great hall. 'We must meet, Sir John. All of us, now!' 'Why? Why?' Dacourt was flustered. 'Because I want the truth!' Benjamin roared back.
    The ambassador dithered so Benjamin stormed out, grasped a frightened servant and made him take us to where Clinton was sitting with the Lady Francesca in a small bower built against the chateau wall. Lady Francesca smiled and simpered but, when she glimpsed me, her face became as hard as stone. She rose and flounced off in a swish of skirts and a whiff of fragrant perfume. I stood and listened to those sharp, high-heeled shoes clipping along the flagstones. I shook my head and lowered my eyes. I was sure she had been holding a small phial with the letters 'SUL' written on it. I glanced at my master but he was too angry to notice, standing tapping the toe of his boot, waiting for Sir Robert to finish reading a letter. At last Clinton carefully folded the document. 'Master Daunbey, what is the matter?'
    My master leaned forward and in curt, clear tones told him exactly what was the matter. 'What do you want to do?' Sir Robert asked.
    'I wish to hold a meeting,' Benjamin rasped. 'Of all the ambassador's staff. I need to get certain matters clear and precise. The French are just laughing at us as we stumble around in a fog.'
    Clinton agreed and we all met in the great hall just before dusk. The servants setting the tables ready for supper were summarily dismissed. We all gathered on chairs in a semicircle round the hearth. Dacourt, angry that Benjamin had gone to Sir Robert, slurped noisily from a wine cup, then threw the dregs to hiss in the flames of the fire.
    'Master Daunbey,' he grated, 'we are busy men and you have convened this meeting. Why?'
    'I am here,' Benjamin answered, 'as the official envoy of Cardinal Wolsey as well as His Majesty the King. We have certain secret tasks to perform.' I saw Dacourt fidget nervously at his words.
    'But our main task is to discover the identity of the traitor Raphael and bring to justice the murderers of Falconer and Waldegrave. I suspect,' Benjamin added, 'they are one and the same person.' He extended a hand. 'Let us summarise. How long has this traitor been in existence?'
    'About eighteen months,' Clinton replied. 'But we only learnt he was called Raphael about eight weeks ago, during my visit here before Lent.' He leaned forward in his chair. 'You may remember, Benjamin, I worked with Falconer and obtained that name? Even though it cost us the life of a very good agent.'
    'Yes, yes,' Benjamin said. 'Now, I believe Falconer was murdered on Easter Monday?' A chorus of assent greeted his words.
    'He drank some wine from the same bottle you did, Sir John, but he was not in his cups?' Again there was agreement.
    'He was seen going to the top of the tower. The Mary Tower, I believe? And was found dead at the base of it the next morning?'
    'Yes,' Peckle stammered. 'We all know this, Master Daunbey.'
    'We also know,' Benjamin continued, breathing deeply to contain his anger, 'that on the Wednesday after Falconer was killed, Abbe Gerard from the nearby village also died in mysterious circumstances. Tell me,' he continued, 'did anyone from Maubisson send Abbe Gerard gifts for Easter?' The group