the steps.
'The Lady Francesca seemed upset,' he remarked casually.
I spat into the dust at his feet. 'By the time I'm finished, master, her agitation will be deeper and my hurt will be gone.'
Benjamin rose and, slipping his arm through mine, led me back to the garden, teasing me into a good mood as he explained how he had found Waldegrave drunk as a lord and insensible as a rock in a corner of his opulent chapel. We spent the rest of the day enjoying the strong sunshine. Benjamin seemed fascinated by the edge of the forest, saying he was sure he had glimpsed figures slipping in and out of the trees.
'The chateau is being watched,' he remarked. 'Perhaps, Roger, we are about to meet our friends, the Luciferi.'
That damn' word brought me back to the harsh reality of my situation: not just the discovery of a traitor or bringing a murderer to book but vengeance for Agnes and, of course, the Herculean task which the Great Killer had assigned me!
We kept to ourselves for the rest of the day, taking food from the buttery and retiring early for we were both still exhausted after our journey from England. As darkness fell, the weather changed. Thick, black rain clouds massed in the sky and, as I fell asleep, rattling 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, bloodstained tunic.
'Most interesting,' he murmured. 'Yes, very interesting.' He smiled at the servants. 'You may take him away. Come, Roger! The night is not over and we need our sleep.'
Clinton, Throgmorton and the rest tried to draw Benjamin into conversation as we went up the main steps of the chateau.
'The man was as mad as a Maypole!' Dacourt bellowed. 'A senseless, stupid, drunken act!'
'Waldegrave was undoubtedly drunk,' Benjamin replied. 'He may have been a fool, but I don't think that was an accident.'
'What do you mean?' Peckle jibed.
'I will explain in the morning,' Benjamin answered. 'Sir John, Sir Robert, I bid you good night.'
We returned to our chamber. My queasy stomach had settled and I was agog with curiosity. (I see the chaplain smirking again, probably because I vomited. I'd like to remind him that's nothing to the idiot he made of himself on All Fools Day last when he found the dead stoat I'd placed in the pulpit. Retched like a waterfall he did!) However, Master Benjamin was not in a talkative mood.
'Tomorrow, Roger,' he promised. 'But now I need some sleep.'
I lay for a while waiting for the chateau to fall silent again before drifting into a demon-filled sleep of black war horses rearing above me, men flying through the night air, and those dreadful corpses laid out so tidily, so neatly, in that beautiful London garden.
We woke early the next morning. Benjamin's stomach seemed to have caught up with his memories for he now looked white-faced and confessed he felt queasy.
'The stupid bastard,' I murmured.
Benjamin shook his head and finished dressing. 'Don't speak ill of the dead, Roger. Waldegrave was murdered. Come, I must see the corpse once more.'
We went down to the white-washed infirmary where I made Benjamin stop at the kitchen for rags soaked in vinegar and herbs. We certainly needed them. The dead priest's body still sprawled beneath his sheet in that small white room. The stomach had begun to swell and the chamber stank with the evil gases which emanated from it. I could take no more but stood by the door whilst once more Benjamin peered at the blood-stained clothing.
'Yes, yes,' he muttered to himself. 'Yes, of course, that's how it was done!'
We left the infirmary, standing for a few minutes outside, drinking in the sweet morning air. Benjamin called a young boy over.
'Listen, lad,' he ordered. 'My compliments to Sir John but tell him Master Daunbey would appreciate his
