The poisoned chalice

'In sweet God's name!' I murmured, almost frightened to raise my voice and break the stillness. 'Have you lost your wits, master?'

Benjamin stretched and gazed around.

'I found this spot when you were in Paris,' he remarked. 'It's secluded, near the road, and there's water to drink.'

'So?'

'So, Roger, we stay here until darkness. Then we go back to Abbe Gerard's grave. The coffin won't be buried deep. We'll disinter it and see what secrets the grave reveals.'

'Master, you're insane!' I yelped. 'This is France. Vauban's men are everywhere and the sentence for grave robbing is, I presume, the same as in England. Death by hanging!'

'Tush, Roger, we won't be seen.'

'And what are we supposed to use?' I shouted. 'Our hands and teeth?'

Benjamin kicked one of the sacks.

'There are small spades and mattocks here. They'll suffice.'

Now my master was like that; once he'd decided on the course of action, and that long face became resolute and those soft eyes hard, there was no turning him. We would stay in that damned forest and dig up poor, bloody Abbe Gerard whatever the outcome. He'd brought some food, bread and fruit, and we drank from the brook as we waited for the sun to set. The hours seemed to drag by. Benjamin gave me a lecture on the different types of trees and plants around us until I nodded off to sleep.

When I awoke, the sun was setting and Benjamin was staring at the bubbling waters of the brook and muttering something about men who walk on water. We both fell silent as the sun finally set and the forest became a different place; the silence became more oppressive, broken only by the rustling of animals in the undergrowth, the hoot of hunting owls and the blood-tingling screams of the bats which flitted amongst the trees. A hunter's moon rose, slipping in between the white wisps of clouds, bathing everything in a ghostly light. I sat and softly cursed those princes and prelates who had brought me to this haunted woodland to lurk like some animal whilst preparing to rob a grave.

'It's wrong,' I piously announced.

'No, it's not,' Benjamin replied. 'All sin, my dear Roger, lies in the will. I have nothing but the greatest respect and reverence for the Abbe Gerard but the king requires that book.'

'Why?' I snapped. 'Why the bloody hell does the fat bastard want it?'

'If I find it, I'll tell you,' Benjamin promised. 'Come, it's time we moved.'

We tethered and hobbled our horses, removed the spades and mattocks from the sacks and crept back on to the track. Every step we took only increased my fear as the twigs cracked like thunder under our booted feet and the night birds screeched horribly at our unwarranted intrusion. We found the path back to the church, crept over the wall, and froze as we heard the howl of a dog. We checked the priest's house. No lights burned so we returned to the graveyard, following the line of the church, jumping and starting when birds nestling in the eaves stirred and rustled their wings. We crept across the cemetery and stopped as a heavy-feathered owl swooped low to seize its shrieking victim in the long grass. At last, we reached the abbe's headstone and I began to dig like some demented mole.

'The sooner we finish our ghastly task,' I reasoned, 'the sooner I get back to my warm bed!'

Now and again Benjamin struck a tinder to ensure all was going well. At last my shovel scraped the coffin lid. I pressed again and heard the welcoming thud of metal on wood.

'We don't want it out,' Benjamin whispered.

So we continued digging around, clearing the earth on either side of the long, oblong coffin. Then both Benjamin and I, one of us working each side, bent down and began releasing the wooden pegs which screeched like ghosts protesting at their eternal dream being disturbed. I quietly cursed. The sound seemed so strident I was sure they could hear it in Maubisson. The pegs were removed more quickly than I had expected.

'Let's see,' Benjamin said. 'Let's see. I wonder…?'

'What's the matter?' I asked.

'Nothing,' he murmured. 'Lift the lid.'

It came away easily and Benjamin's suspicions were confirmed. We were not the first ones to open this coffin. Despite the summer heat the soil had been loose, the coffin pegs easily removed. Inside, the decaying, garish skeleton was lying haphazardly; the head and neck, to which pieces of dried flesh still hung, were skewed to one side whilst the rotting, white gauze which had once covered the corpse had been pulled back and bundled at the bottom of the coffin.

'Vauban,' Benjamin whispered. 'The bastard has been here before us.' He poked around in the coffin, softly exclaiming as his fingers touched rotting pieces of flesh. He tapped the bottom and sides. 'Nothing,' he concluded. 'But let us at least pay the abbe some last courtesy.'

Despite my protests, Benjamin insisted that we rearrange the skeleton in a more reverent position and that we say the Requiem.

Lord, I could have cursed! Here we were at the dead of night in a lonely cemetery in France, disturbing the remains of a dead priest, only to make sure his skeleton was comfortable and say a prayer for his soul. Yet my master was like that. I'll be honest: given half a chance I'd have left the grave as it was, jumped over the wall and run like a whippet back to Maubisson. Nonetheless, I helped. We re-sealed the coffin, ploughed the earth back in, flattening it carefully though anyone with half a brain could see it had been disturbed. We then left to collect our horses in the forest.

Oh Lord, I was relieved to see them. We put our spades back in the sack, mounted, and were about to leave the forest when a twig cracked behind us. I froze like a statue.

'Monsieur Daunbey! Monsieur Shallot!' the voice purred from the darkness around us. 'What a waste of time. You'll never find that book!'

Chapter 10

I just kicked my horse into a gallop, leaving Benjamin no choice but to follow. I tell you this, if that had been a race against the speediest horses in King Henry's stable, I would have won by a length and a half! I didn't rein in until my horse clattered over the wooden drawbridge of the chateau and I yelled at the guards to let us through. Of course, our dramatic arrival caused a little fuss but Benjamin smoothed things over with Dacourt and the captain of the guard. Then he hustled me up to our chamber.

'Who was that?' I whispered hoarsely.

I was squatting on my bed, wiping the sweat from my face and neck. Benjamin pushed a brimming cup of wine into my trembling hands.

'Vauban, I suppose,' he answered. 'Though I didn't stay to find out. I suspect he has been watching us since we left here this afternoon.' He sat on a corner of the rickety table. 'I am tired, Roger,' he continued. 'I am tired of providing Monsieur Vauban with such amusement.'

'Let's question Millet,' I demanded. 'Let's get the bastard down to the dungeons and apply a few hot irons!'

Benjamin shook his head. 'What good would that do, Roger? If I was tortured I could confess to being Raphael, to murdering Falconer, Waldegrave and Throgmorton.

Indeed, I'd confess to anything just to stop the pain.' He grinned sheepishly at me. 'No, Roger, as I sometimes say, three things will solve this. Observation, deduction and proof!'

'And luck!' I intervened.

'Yes, Roger,' he replied wearily, dropping his cloak and kicking off his boots. 'Luck or fortune.' He smiled brightly. 'And, of course, our opponents may make a mistake.'

We spent the next two days considering possible culprits from every point on the compass, but could reach no conclusions. The Clintons? Why should they be traitors? Moreover, Falconer and Abbe Gerard had died whilst they were in England. Dacourt? Again, lack of motive, and the same applied to Peckle, leaving only Millet as a probability. On the whereabouts of Abbe Gerard's famous book we were like hapless gamblers who constantly drew a blank card, yet we still had confidence in our plans to steal King Francis's ring.