The poisoned chalice

stared back. Vauban's horsemen had also stopped. Most of them had dismounted and were lying in the shade of the trees, talking softly in their strange, sing-song accents. A prickle of fear ran along my spine. Despite the wine I had gulped at Fontainebleau, I still felt threatened, pursued by some silent, vindictive fury. Clinton narrowed his eyes and sniffed at the wine.
    'The seal was unbroken,' he observed. 'I do not think His Most Christian Majesty would like to explain to his brother of England why his envoys died after drinking some wine, especially provided by the French king.' Sir Robert smiled, sipped the wine and smacked his lips. 'If that's poisoned,' he announced, 'then I'll drink it every day.'
    The tension abated, the wine was served, Clinton pouring it, Venner passing it along. Throgmorton rejoined us, announcing that there was nothing wrong with Clinton's horse. The food was served and duly tasted but Clinton's remark had abated our suspicions and we gossiped about what we had seen at the French court. Lady Francesca, however, remained silent, sipping at her wine but refusing to touch any of the food. We continued our journey and must have ridden for another hour when Throgmorton reined in, holding his stomach, his mouth gaping and his face deathly pale, hair matted with sweat. 'These pains,' he croaked. 'Oh, my lord!'
    We gathered round him. Throgmorton suddenly vomited, his face turning a blueish tinge. 'I have been poisoned,' he whispered. 'This is poison!'
    He stretched out a hand towards Benjamin and, before we could help, slid out of the saddle and crashed to the earth, his horse sheering away in fright. We dismounted and stood round him. For a few seconds Throgmorton lashed out like a landed fish, in short sharp convulsions, vomiting and retching, gasping for air. He scrambled on all fours like a dog, his back arched, then he collapsed, eyes and mouth open.
    Lady Francesca turned away, her gloved hand pushing part of her lace veil to her mouth as if she, too, wanted to be sick. Peckle, Millet and Venner just stood like frightened children, Dacourt loudly cursed whilst Clinton helped my master try to find some pulse in the now prostrate doctor.
    'He's dead,' Benjamin observed. 'Sir John, I would be grateful if you could keep Vauban's riders away. Tell them the good doctor has suffered a heart seizure.' 'Has he?' Clinton asked.
    Benjamin turned the body over and sniffed at the dead man's gaping mouth. 'No seizure, Sir Robert. Look at the livid skin and blue lips. Throgmorton was poisoned, probably with white or red arsenic. If he had vomited earlier, perhaps he might have lived.'
    'Would arsenic act so quickly?' Clinton queried and I remembered his keen interest in such matters. 'Surely not, Master Daunbey, the dose would have to be powerful. I suspect it was mixed with something else, something which struck at Throgmorton's heart.'
    My master chewed his lip and gently touched the dead man's damp cheek. 'Perhaps you are right, Sir Robert.'
    'I know I am; arsenic and perhaps digitalis or deadly nightshade. But when? We all drank the same wine and who could know which piece of food Throgmorton would choose?'
    Clinton had the baskets containing the food and wine unpacked. The rest of what was left was carefully examined, including the wine flask and the cups though these had been washed clean in a nearby brook: no trace of poison was found. Clinton stared at the sky, blood red in the sunset.
    'We must continue,' he ordered. 'We should be off the roads before nightfall. Maubisson is only another hour.'
    Poor Throgmorton's body was tossed across his horse and our sombre journey continued like something from a macabre dream. We rode along the country track, winding between dark woods, lush green fields, past hamlets betrayed only by faint spirals of smoke. Vauban's colourful riders clustered around us: Lady Clinton masked; Sir Robert Clinton and my master deep in conversation; the rest riding silently; and, at the back, led by poor Venner, Throgmorton's dreadful cadaver strapped to his horse as if Death himself was trailing us to Maubisson. We found the chateau sleeping lazily under the warm evening sun. Vauban's men went back to their camp before the walls as we clattered across the drawbridge and Dacourt bellowed for servants. Throgmorton's body was sheeted and carried to lie beside that of Waldegrave in the small chapel, Dacourt issuing strict orders that they both be taken down to the cemetery in