The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  Murmuring thanks to Master Jacopo, Chaucer returned to the ante-chamber, closing the bedroom door softly behind him. “Nothing there to tell us who wrought the duke’s death. Tell me, Master Froissart, you said that he felt ill at first on the morning after he arrived. If he was poisoned, most likely it was at the feast the night before.”

  “True, yet . . .” Froissart shook his head thoughtfully. “The wine was poured from ewers to all the guests equally. And each of the dukes’ dishes was tasted before they ate. A murderer could not have poisoned Duke Lionel without poisoning half the court as well.”

  “Who sat next to the duke at table?”

  Froissart’s gaze grew unfocused as he made himself remember. “Duke Galeazzo on one side,” he said at last. “And the Marquis of Montferrat on the other.” He snorted. “The Marquis would poison his own grandmother for a jest.”

  “Would he now . . .” Chaucer’s gaze sharpened, and Froissart guessed he was remembering the dark young man in the garden, his derisive look and the rose smouldering in his hand. “Then I must find occasion to speak with Messire Ottone.”

  Before supper that night the whole court was summoned into the chapel to attend a Mass for the repose of Duke Lionel’s soul. Duke Lionel lay there in state, on a bier covered with a silken pall that bore his coat of arms.

  Chaucer made sure he and Froissart arrived early, and stood unobtrusively near the doors to observe the greater folk as they came in.

  Duke Galeazzo was one of the first, leading his wife, the Duchess Blanche, and their daughter, the widowed Violante. She had recovered self-control since Froissart had seen her fleeing from Duke Lionel’s bedchamber, and followed a pace behind her mother, her face pale, her huge dark eyes fixed modestly on the ground. She was gowned all in black, with no jewels, no ornament at all except for a darkly crimson rose fastened in her bosom.

  Her uncle Bernabo strode in after her and halted, glaring round as if he expected to confront an enemy. Seeing none, he stalked forward and planted himself in front of the altar with a commanding expression as if he was about to issue an order to God.

  More knights and ladies followed, some unknown to Froissart, and a few of Duke Lionel’s own people, their worried looks showing that the rumour of poison had already reached them. Last of all, when the candles were lit and the priest appeared to begin the Mass, came Gian and Ottone, their heads together, a murmuring conversation between them that only ceased when Duke Galeazzo turned and fixed a severe look on his son.

  Throughout the familiar ritual of the Mass, Froissart saw Chaucer narrowly observing Lord Ottone, and wondered if his friend was coming to any conclusion. The Marquis was making no attempt to disguise his boredom, fidgeting and yawning elaborately, and leaning across now and then to whisper something to Gian, who kept his gaze fixed dutifully on the altar.

  When the service was at an end and the priest had dismissed the congregation, Chaucer stepped into the Marquis’s path as he made to leave the chapel. “With your leave, Messire, a word with you.”

  Lord Ottone’s look darkened; he spat out something that sounded like a curse. To Froissart’s relief, Gian appeared beside him.

  “My lord,” Chaucer said hastily, “it is vital that I speak to my lord Ottone in this matter of Duke Lionel’s death.”

  Gian nodded. “They are right,” he said persuasively to his friend. “This dishonour will taint all of us if we cannot come to the truth. Do you wish men to say that murder was committed under your roof?”

  The Marquis still frowned, but he allowed Gian to lead him out of the chapel as far as an alcove in the passage beyond, where a window of tiny panes of leaded glass blurred and distorted the image of the darkening garden. Froissart followed them, everything in him alive with suspicion.

  “My lord Ottone, why did you invite Duke Lionel and his followers to Alba?” Chaucer began.

  Ottone’s brows went up. “It was for hospitality, to do honour to the English duke. Why else?”

  Froissart considered that. The gesture was no more than might have been expected of a friend of the Viscontis, yet he could not help reflecting that the invitation would have drained Lord Ottone’s coffers, and wondering what he hoped to gain in return for his generosity.

  “You were seated beside Duke Lionel at the welcome feast?” Chaucer went on.

  Lord Ottone’s look was bland as he answered. “Of course. He had the place of honour.”

  “You saw no one place poison in Duke Lionel’s food or wine?”

  “Of course not.” Now the Marquis sounded bored. “Would I have kept silence if I had?”

  “Perhaps not.” Chaucer took the deep breath of a man who prepares to dive into icy water. His hand shot out and gripped Lord Ottone by the wrist. Froissart could not restrain a gasp of shock. What was Chaucer about? A lowly esquire did not lay hands on the Marquis of Montferrat and hope to escape with those hands intact.

  “And this?” Chaucer said evenly.

  Before the Marquis, with a hiss of outrage, could pull away, Chaucer flicked at the great ruby he wore. Froissart felt almost limp with relief to see the stone hinged back to reveal a cavity between it and the setting. A few specks of white powder still clung there.

  “A poison ring!” he breathed.

  Lord Ottone freed himself, covering the ring defensively with his other hand. His face contorted with fury, he spat out a long stream of words in his own tongue, then stopped himself with a snarled curse and continued again in French.

  “The ring is a curiosity – I wear it for a jest. I do not use it. I did not use it that night.”

  Chaucer was looking sceptical; Froissart shared his doubts. He was certain that Lord Ottone would find many uses for his poison ring in the convoluted courts of the Milanese. Had he really used it to murder Duke Lionel?

  “Why should I kill your English duke?” the Marquis added contemptuously. “What was he to me? Why should I wish to break the alliance with England? It advantages me nothing.”

  “True, you care nothing for the alliance.” Apprehension flickered over Chaucer’s face and Froissart tensed as he wondered what his friend would say next. “But you care a great deal for Duke Lionel’s wife.”

  Fury flared again in Lord Ottone’s eyes. “Scellerato!” he hissed, and flung away down the passage.

  Gian watched him go. His face was white and his voice trembling. “My sister was to have wed Ottone, until my father made this marriage with the English duke. Do you truly think . . . ?”

  “What do you think, my lord?” Chaucer countered.

  Gian could find no answer. He cast one more desperate look at Chaucer and then fled down the passage in pursuit of his friend.

  “Are you mad?” Froissart demanded. “Accusing the Marquis of murder in his own castle! You’re lucky not to be strung up by the thumbs in his dungeon – and me with you,” he added.

  “It was you who first spoke of poison, my friend,” Chaucer reminded him tranquilly.

  “And how did you know – that Lord Ottone had cast his eyes on Violante?”

  Chaucer smiled; he looked almost smug, Froissart thought, trying to hide his annoyance.

  “I saw the rose she wore,” Chaucer explained. “Surely the same rose that the Marquis plucked from the trellis. Winter draws near, and there are so few flowers left. That he gave it to her, and she wore it, even in her grief . . . it’s not hard to understand.”

  “If she truly grieves,” Froissart said, a cloud of suspicion swirling in his mind.

  It was Chaucer who gave voice to it. “Indeed. She would have spent the night with Duke Lionel. Perhaps he was not poisoned at the feast at all.”

  “But she’s a child!” In the end, Froissart could not bring himself to believe it. “Scarce fourteen . . . surely she would not? It must have been Lord Ottone!”

  Chaucer sighed and let himself slip down onto the bench in the window alcove, running his hands through his hair. He looked exhausted; Froissart remembered that he had already travelled far
before he arrived at the court.

  “If Duke Lionel was poisoned at the feast,” he began slowly, “only Lord Ottone had the chance to do it. Or Duke Galeazzo, but he had the best reason of all for keeping our duke alive. So perhaps we must consider whether the poison was given to him in some other way. Violante had the best chance to do that.”

  “I’ll never believe it!” Froissart argued. “Besides, there are many ways to kill a man. Poisoned tapers in his bedchamber . . .”

  “But that would have killed Violante too,” Chaucer reminded him. His fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the bench where he sat. “If we discover how Lionel was poisoned, then we will surely know who poisoned him. Did he eat or drink nothing except at the feast? You were close to him, you would have seen. No boxes of tainted sweetmeats?”

  Froissart shook his head. “Only the wine when he first arrived.”

  “What?” Chaucer sprang to his feet again, fatigue wiped from his face. “What wine?”

  “We dismounted in the courtyard.” Froissart closed his eyes in an effort to picture exactly what happened among so many milling men and horses. “Lord Ottone came out to welcome us.”

  “And gave wine to the duke?” Chaucer asked eagerly.

  “Yes . . . no! It was Duke Bernabo who gave him the wine.”

  Chaucer let out a long sigh. His eyes were blazing and his lips moved into a small, feral smile. Froissart felt chilled; for a moment his friend looked quite unlike the quiet, unobtrusive esquire of the king’s household.

  “No – no,” he protested. “Duke Bernabo himself drank from the cup before he gave it to Duke Lionel. The wine couldn’t have been poisoned.”

  Chaucer’s triumphant look gave way to frustration. “Yet Bernabo gave it to him. Why Bernabo? Duke Lionel was the Marquis’ guest.”

  Froissart shrugged. “Duke Bernabo thrusts himself forward everywhere.”

  “Yes, true.” Chaucer’s eyes lit again and he gripped Froissart by the shoulders. “True! And yet he did not demand for himself the place of honour at the feast that night. Duke Lionel sat between the Marquis and Duke Galeazzo. Where was Bernabo?”

  Once again Froissart closed his eyes and caught at memory. “Violante was beside the Marquis, and the Duchess Blanche beside Duke Galeazzo . . . Bernabo was further down the table.”

  “Such humility! Why so – unless to distance himself so that no one could suspect him of poisoning Duke Lionel at the feast?”

  “But why should he kill our duke?” Froissart protested. “Why, when he went to so much trouble to make the alliance?”

  “A good question.” Chaucer released his clasp on Froissart’s shoulders, paced a little way down the passage and turned back. “But the wrong question, for all that. Duke Galeazzo made the alliance, wedding his daughter to the son of the King of England. You said yourself that though the dukes are supposed to rule equally in Milan, Bernabo was eager to thrust Galeazzo out into the lesser court at Pavia. But with Violante married to Lionel, the balance of power shifted. Perhaps Bernabo would have found himself thrust out, when his brother had so powerful an ally as England.”

  “But he shared the wine with Lionel!”

  Chaucer let out a puff of strained laughter. “Of course . . . once again to prove his innocence.” Frowning, he thought briefly and then asked, “Where did the cup come from?”

  “I’m not sure.” Froissart remembered the chaos in the courtyard, with the retinues of all three dukes, men and horses, getting under each other’s feet. “I saw Bernabo standing beside Duke Lionel’s horse, with the cup in his hand. He took a mouthful of the wine, then handed the cup up to Lionel. It was one of these massive things with two handles, gold, covered in jewels. Lionel drained the cup and made to give it back, but Bernabo said it was a gift.”

  Chaucer’s eyes narrowed. “And where is the cup now?”

  “In Duke Lionel’s bedchamber. You must have seen it there yourself.”

  Froissart started as Chaucer gripped his arm and towed him down the passage, back to Duke Lionel’s apartments. The bedchamber was empty now, the priest and physician long gone, the body removed to lie in the chapel, but Lionel’s possessions lay where they had been scattered. The jewelled cup stood on the table beside the gilded helmet, the rubies glittering in the light of the taper Chaucer held.

  Froissart reached out for it, but Chaucer held him back. “Have a care, my friend. Here, hold this close so we can see.”

  Handing Froissart the taper, he picked up a heavy hawking glove that lay on the floor at his feet and put it on. Only then did he dare to touch the cup, turning it towards the light.

  Froissart drew in a harsh breath, hardly sure of what he was looking for in the uncertain, dancing flame. Then as Chaucer gripped the handle a thin needle shot out of the elaborate gold ornamentation, missing his forefinger by a hairsbreadth. It flicked back again, like the tongue of a snake, but not before Froissart had seen the discolouration on the tip. In his mind he could recall a bright picture of Duke Bernabo in the castle courtyard, holding the cup by the base and reaching up to the mounted Duke Lionel, who bent to take it by the handles.

  “Not the wine,” Chaucer said, with a drawn-out sigh of satisfaction. “The cup.”

  Servants thronged the passageways as the hour of supper drew near. Froissart waited anxiously as Chaucer intercepted a man with a golden ewer just outside the door to Duke Galeazzo’s apartments. “Tell Duke Galeazzo that I need to speak to him in private.”

  The servant gave him a contemptuous look. “Insolenza! Duke Galeazzo has better things to do. Wait with the other petitioners when he holds court tomorrow.”

  He tried to push past, but Chaucer stood his ground. “Tell your duke,” he said levelly, “that he had better speak with me unless he wants war with England.”

  The servant’s superior expression abruptly vanished. He hurried into the apartment and reappeared a few moments later to beckon Chaucer and Froissart inside. Duke Galeazzo received them in a small side chamber, heavily tapestried, with few furnishings except the chair where he sat. The door closed behind them, cutting off the sound of chattering and laughter from the courtiers in the next room. Froissart glanced back to see Gian Visconti standing with his back to the door, his languid posture not masking the fact that his hand rested on a small, jewelled dagger. Froissart swallowed. He realised that there was a good chance he and Chaucer would never leave the room alive.

  “Well?” Duke Galeazzo said. “What do you want?”

  “To show you this, my lord.” Chaucer was still holding the poisoned cup, with the hand that wore the hawking glove. “Observe, but do not touch.” He gripped the handle again and the poisoned dart flickered out and vanished once more.

  The duke’s brows snapped together in a frown. He examined the cup carefully, then raised his gaze to meet Chaucer’s. Froissart breathed a little more easily to see that his impatience had vanished; he seemed to show no more than honest concern.

  “Where did you get this?”

  It was Froissart who replied. “This is the cup that Duke Bernabo gave to Duke Lionel when he came here to Alba.”

  There was a harsh gasp from Gian, who had drawn closer so that he too could examine the cup. His father glanced at him, but addressed Chaucer. “I could have the two of you killed, and the cup melted down.”

  Fear thrilled through Froissart, but if Chaucer felt the same he did not show it. “I do not think you are such a man, my lord.”

  Duke Galeazzo shook his head. “Then what am I to do?” Froissart noticed that he made no attempt to defend his brother or argue that he could not be guilty. Clearly he knew Bernabo too well.

  “Arrest my uncle!” Gian leant urgently over his father’s chair. “Put him to death for murder – then you can rule alone in Milan.”

  Froissart would not have thought there was such a fire in the young man. It smouldered in his eyes as his father waved him away.

  “I cannot do that,” he said. “Milan would split into factions, his
followers and mine. There could be war.”

  “There could be war with England,” Chaucer reminded him.

  The duke looked trapped. Froissart could see his dilemma. He could imprison them or order their deaths, but that would only raise more questions, among the rest of Lionel’s retinue and back in England.

  “A bargain,” Chaucer continued, when the silence had dragged out for a century. “Keep the cup. Allow us and the rest of our duke’s people to take our leave unharmed. In return, we will keep silence. We will tell King Edward that Duke Lionel died of over-exertion, as Duke Bernabo’s physician told us.”

  Struggling with the injustice that Bernabo would not pay for his crime, Froissart could not help an inarticulate protest, but Chaucer cut it off with a glance.

  “You would trust me?” Duke Galeazzo asked indecisively.

  “We must trust each other,” Chaucer pointed out. “I think none of us here wants war.”

  After another long silence Duke Galeazzo nodded, and at once Gian broke in eagerly. “Ottone and I mean to hunt tomorrow. We will invite my uncle to go with us. If the chase takes us far enough – and it will – we can spend the night at Ottone’s lodge in the mountains. By the time we return, Duke Lionel’s retinue can be long gone.”

  Froissart looked at the young man with a sudden, startled respect. The plan was a good one. He had been wrong, he could see, to dismiss Gian as an empty-headed peacock. Perhaps he had the makings of a finer ruler than his father.

  “Very well.” Duke Galeazzo rose to his feet. “And now I must go to supper, or Bernabo will begin to wonder what we speak of, closeted alone like this. Gian, attend me.”

  He went out, but for a moment his son did not follow him. He drew closer, and rested a hand lightly on Chaucer’s arm.

  “My father is weaker than his brother,” Gian said, “and he loves peace. My uncle despises him. He despises me, too.” A small smile curved his lips, but did not touch his eyes. “One day he will discover how foolish that is. Do not fear, my friends. Your English duke will not go unavenged.” His voice dropped; Froissart shivered at the look in his eyes. “Do they not say that revenge is a dish best eaten cold?”