We went out to take the air in the inner bailey and stood fascinated as four ostlers struggled with the ropes tied to the bridle of a splendid, black war horse. They were trying to back it into a stable but the magnificent beast was all set to charge. The horse stood sixteen hands high, its jet black coat gleaming in the sunlight. Its ears were back in anger, its eyes rolled, and the horse curled its lips, revealing the foam on sharp, yellow teeth. Every so often the animal would rear, lashing out with his sharpened hooves, as the men struggled with a stream of oaths to back it into the stable. Eventually they succeeded, quickly securing both the bottom door and the top flap and, even then, we could hear the horse pounding the thick oaken panels. The ostlers, covered in sweat, walked away, still muttering curses.
'That must be Vulcan, Sir John Dacourt's destrier,' Benjamin remarked. 'Waldegrave must be mad if he thinks he can control such a beast.' He stared across at the wing built to the right of the chateau. 'I wonder if we should visit the priest? Perhaps he can explain Falconer's macabre joke about graves?' Benjamin grasped me by the arm. 'On second thoughts, let us finish the business in hand.'
We went back, past the hall down a long, stone passageway to Peckle's chamber. The chief clerk was working there, surrounded by a veritable sea of paper; memoranda, notes, bills, letters and indentures. He sat with his back to the door, crouched over his desk. The room smelt stale and musty with the pungent odour of the fat tallow candles placed on the desk. All the windows were shuttered as if we were in the depths of winter. Peckle hardly moved but continued to peer at a document covered in strange cipher markings.
'Good morning, Walter,' Benjamin said, a little too loudly.
The clerk looked round testily. 'Can I help?'
'Well, yes. Do you have Falconer's documents?'
The fellow, sighing dramatically, rose wearily from his chair like an exasperated parent dealing with two naughty children. He dug amongst some papers in the corner and tossed us a canvas bag tied at the top. Benjamin turned and made to leave.
'No! No!' Peckle announced pompously. 'You cannot take them away. You must study them here.'
Benjamin stuck his tongue out at Peckle's back, cleared a space on the floor and squatted there for at least half an hour sifting through the contents of the sack. There wasn't much; a few drawings of birds, quite well done but not of the calibre of the great da Vinci's notebook. (I met the great sculptor once, you know, when I was hiding from the Doge of Venice's assassins. But that's another story.) One strange discovery we did make -scraps of paper bearing the word Raphael. Falconer had apparently been playing with the letters of the name, breaking them up, distancing each from the other. Benjamin studied these carefully, shook his head and tossed them back. We thanked Peckle but he never stirred a hair.
'What do you think, master?' I asked as soon as we were out of the chamber. 'Falconer was murdered.'
'But how? He was alone on the tower and he wasn't drunk.'
Benjamin chewed his lip. 'Falconer was a man who liked birds,' he replied slowly. 'So he goes to the top of the tower to study them.'
'Do you think he discovered who Raphael was?'
'I don't think so but he did believe the word Raphael contained the name of the traitor.'
Benjamin wandered off, saying he wished to speak to Waldegrave, so I decided to take the air in the garden behind the chateau. I was even more eager when I glimpsed Lady Francesca, magnificent in her dark green velvet dress, with a small hat of the same texture and colour, ornamented with trailing peacock feathers set rakishly on her head. I strolled amongst the boxwood as if I was the keenest of gardeners, taking special interest in the herb banks, the ever-green boxwood, and the multi-coloured flowers where hungry bees searched for honey. The lady was humming a madrigal. She turned quickly at the sound of my footsteps on the gravel.
'Monsieur!' she exclaimed in mock surprise. 'You follow me!'
'To the ends of the earth, Madame,' I replied, fascinated by the sudden rise and fall of her ample bosom. She stepped closer, raising the hem of her dress to reveal thick, white petticoats above black, polished boots. She peered closer.
'You are Shallot, Master Benjamin's manservant?'
'His secretarius, Madame,' I replied more smugly than I intended.
'La, la, secretarius, and an ugly one at that!'
Well, I blushed and stammered.
'Well, well, Master Secretarius,' she continued, 'how can I help you?'
'You are pleased to be back in France, Madame?'
'After two years married to an Englishman, I am more than happy.'
'But you returned only a few weeks ago, during Holy Week?'
Lady Francesca stared at the flowers as if already bored by the conversation. Suddenly she jerked, clutching her stomach as if in pain.
'Madame,' I seized her wrist, 'you are ill?'
Francesca lifted her pale face, no mockery or laughter in those staring dark eyes now.
'Take your hands off me!' she rasped. 'Never, do you understand, never touch me!'
She swept by me, leaving old Shallot with the fragrance of her perfume and a deeper knowledge of my true status. I wandered back to the main entrance of the chateau and found Benjamin, equally disconsolate, sitting on 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.