'Come on, Roger, we have to break our fast. Mandeville's waiting for us in the hall below, talking about God's vengeance come to judgement.'
I rubbed my eyes. 'You still say it was murder?' I asked. 'Why?'
The door was locked from the inside,' Benjamin replied. 'Cosmas remained wrapped in the bedding and was burnt alive. He had only one candle which was not powerful enough to start such a blaze so quickly whilst the fire was whitened ash.'
'What about gunpowder?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, a trail of gunpowder from the bed under the doorway, then someone could have struck a tinder?
Benjamin shook his head doubtfully. 'We didn't see any such marks on the floor.'
(Now I see my little clerk shaking his noddle and giggling to himself. Oh, this master of the secret arts thinks my idea stupid. Well, let me tell you a short story. Many years later I was sent as emissary to Mary, Queen of Scots, when she was playing the two-backed beast with Bothwell. Mind you, I can't blame Mary: her husband Darnley was so pitted with the pox he had to drape a white veil over his face. Anyway, I told Mary about Cosmas's death then forgot all about it. That is, until a few months later when Darnley and his page boy, whilst staying at Kirk o' Fields Palace, were killed in an explosion. I often wondered whether Mary got the idea from me. Ah, well, that's another tale.)
Benjamin was truly perplexed by Cosmas's death: he did admit there were rare cases of human beings bursting into flames. (At the time I thought the idea was ridiculous until many years later when I attended a church in Holborn where the vicar, giving a fearsome sermon, abruptly burst into flames. I have never seen a church empty so quickly.) Anyway, on that snow-laden morning as Benjamin and I went deeper into the Valley of Death, Cosmas's murder remained a mystery. Only one thing stood out: Benjamin said there was a scorch mark on the outside of Cosmas's door but claimed it could be old. No other evidence of anything untoward could be detected. He waved his hands despondently.
'Who knows?' he sighed. 'Perhaps it was an act of God.'
I got up, washed, dressed, and Benjamin and I went down the great sweeping wooden staircase. We heard raised voices from the main hall but Benjamin insisted that we first walk out on to the porchway and take the morning air. We stood on the top step, an icy wind driving any sleep from our eyes and faces, staring out over the snow-carpeted grounds. Rooks cawed in the dark trees which ringed the house and I imagined demons nestling in the branches, mocking us. Southgate came through the door behind us.
'Sir Edmund Mandeville awaits you.'
'Oh dear,' I mocked. 'God can wait, but Sir Edmund ...!'
And, with a mocking haste, I rushed back into the house, Benjamin following more slowly. Southgate caught up with me as I entered the main hall and saw Santerre and others sitting round the high table.
'One day,' Southgate hissed in my ear, 'your wit, Master Shallot, will take you to the scaffold. Or on to the point of someone's sword!'
'One day, one day!' I jibed back. 'Isn't it strange, Master Southgate, you are not the first to say that. And, even stranger, those who do say it meet violent deaths themselves.' I turned and looked him full in the face. 'Don't threaten me,' I whispered in false bravado, 'I am a fighting man!'
(Lord, the lies I told!)
'Your looks are as crooked as your eyes,' Southgate sneered.
(Oh, yes, I was a handsome rogue, tall with jet-black hair, olive-skinned but with a cast in one eye, I always thought it gave me a devil-may-care look.)
I noticed Southgate's hand had fallen to the hilt of his rapier. I gulped and peered over my shoulder to make sure Benjamin was behind me.
'When this business is over,' I scoffed, 'draw your hangar. But as you keep saying, our Lord God, Sir Edmund Mandeville, awaits us!'
Chapter 8
The group at the high table - Sir John, Lady Beatrice, Rachel, Mandeville and the white-faced Damien - had already broken their fast. Sir John clicked his fingers and servants placed a trencher before me with strips of dry bacon, small white loaves and a pot of thick creamy butter; blackjacks of ale were also served.
I gazed around and noticed how white and drawn everyone was. I smiled cheerfully, wished everyone a good morning and began to stuff the food into my mouth. Benjamin, of course, was more courteous. (A proper courtier, my master. He would have shamed an angel with his table manners.) He sipped from a tankard and stared at Mandeville.
'Sir, my condolences on the death of your secretary.' Mandeville nodded slightly. 'Death, Master Daunbey. Death?'
Benjamin coughed. 'No, sir, you are Correct. The word is murder.'
'But how?' Sir John stuttered. 'How in God's name, in my house? The man's chamber was locked. There are no secret entrances or passageways.' He looked away. 'At least not in that room.'