The poisoned chalice

the maze near the palace wall.' He looked round and chuckled. 'What is more pleasing,' he gasped, falling back on to his stomach, 'is that the mameluke is well behind us, though God knows where the leopards are!'

Chapter 12
    We learnt soon enough. The beasts were puzzled by the lack of scent but, by chance, one of them caught sight of us edging our way along the top of the hedge and, snarling with fury, threw itself at us. However, the boxwood was too high and the pathways of the maze so narrow the cat had no room for a spring. All it could do was dash itself against the sharp-branched hedge. It gave that up but stalked alongside us, ears flat in fury, snarling and giving that strange blood-chilling bark. Benjamin, grasping his knife, urged me on. 'Take off your doublet, Roger,' he gasped.
    Gasping and struggling, cut by the branches of the maze, I tossed the doublet down and the leopard stayed long enough to tear and rend it to pieces. We must have spent an hour crawling towards that wall. Now and again one of the leopards would catch up with us and either Benjamin or I tossed down some article of clothing. It may have saved us from the leopards but left us more vulnerable to the sharp-edged boxwood branches. My hands, chest and stomach were now scored with pinpricks and gashes whilst Benjamin had an ugly cut just under his right eye. 'Thank God!' he murmured. 'What for?' I snarled.
    "Thank God the mameluke unleashed the leopards and didn't hunt with them.'
    At last we reached the edge of the maze and collapsed on to the ground, little more than two sweat-soaked, bloody heaps. 'Come on, Roger,' Benjamin whispered. 'The wall!'
    We had hardly begun our run when the mameluke slipped, like the shadow of death, from one of the pathways of the maze, his great, two-handled scimitar held back over his shoulder. He came tip-toeing like a dancer towards us. Benjamin pushed me on, slipped to one knee and, bringing the stiletto back, threw it with all his force. I turned, half-slipping, and saw the dagger take the mameluke just under his throat, sinking deep into his left shoulder. Not a killing blow but the creature dropped to his knees, eyes staring, mouth open, the great scimitar slipping out of his hands. Benjamin raced forward and picked this up and before the mameluke, caught in his own circle of pain, could react, sliced the man's head clean from his shoulders.
    I heard the dull thud as the head hit the ground like a ball and turned away at the dark red arc of blood which spouted yards into the air. Then Benjamin was beside me, cursing at me for not running on. We reached the wall. The brickwork was loose and gouged my hands and knees as we clambered to the top. Surprisingly, there were no guards about. Vauban must have been fully confident in his mameluke and his leopards. I looked back towards that dreadful maze and, just before I jumped to the ground, I glimpsed the first leopard leave the maze and pad like a ghost towards the ghastly, decapitated corpse.
    (Ah, I am sorry, my chaplain has interrupted. He cannot believe we crawled across the top of boxwood hedges. If I was young enough I would prove it now, and if he doesn't keep a civil tongue in his head I'll get him to demonstrate to all and sundry that it is possible. Is that why you sit at the centre of a maze? he asks. Well, yes, I suppose it is. I learnt something that dreadful summer's day. If you want protection, to be really safe, sit at the centre of a maze. Even if your enemy gets in, he may never get out alive. All the great villains of history sat at the centre of a maze, be it in a garden or a palace. Catherine de Medici, Madame Serpent, had her palace at Chambord turned into a labyrinth of false passageways, secret tunnels and corridors of moving floors containing oubliettes through which her hapless victims would disappear.)
    Anyway, enough of that. Benjamin and I were sore, bloodied, our nerves stretched like the strings of a lyre, but we had one advantage, best summed up in that Irish prayer: 'Oh, Lord, make my enemies arrogant.' Vauban was arrogant; he thought we would die in the maze and, come morning, our bloody, tattered corpses would be sewn in bags filled with stones and thrown into the Seine. That's why there were no guards, no witnesses who could be bought with English silver. I can just imagine how Vauban would have tripped gaily down to Maubisson to express the deep condolences of His Most Christian Majesty at the abrupt and mysterious