The mood in the Santerre household was not conducive to any more festive banquets or grand meals. Mandeville kept to himself, fretting about Southgate and when the additional soldiers would arrive. So we snatched mouthfuls of cold food and went back to our own chamber to wait until midnight. It seemed an eternity in coming. We carefully watched the flame of the hour candle eating away the wax from ring to ring.
When it reached the twelfth, Benjamin and I dressed in boots and cloaks, put on our sword belts and quietly left. The house seemed asleep yet, as I have said, it had a life of its own. Time and again we stopped, hearts beating, the hair on our necks prickling with fear at the eerie, creaking sounds which seemed to match our every move. We crept down into the hall, through the kitchen and out by a small postern door.
The night was as black as the Devil would wish. No moon, no stars, just a cold biting wind moaning, shifting the gaunt branches of the trees and throwing icy flurries of snow on to our heads. I would have preferred to have lit torches but Benjamin was against this.
'We hunt creatures of the night, Roger. Let us become like them.'
We slipped and slithered out of the stable courtyard where horses moved and snickered, past the Templar church and down to the gleaming lakeside. We sat on our haunches, two black shapes against the snow, and peered through the mist at the faint outline of the island. At first we could see nothing, our eyes hurting and smarting at the strain as well as the biting night air. Then Benjamin stirred and seized my arm. 'Am I seeing things?' he hissed.
I stared through the bleak darkness. Still I could see nothing but then I glimpsed the light of a torch. One, perhaps two. The flames seemed to flicker as if someone was moving about on the island. 'Come on, Roger!'
Benjamin and I slithered down the bank. We saw the barge, pole resting in its stern, as if some ghostly boatman was waiting to take us across. We clambered in. Benjamin sat in the prow whilst I grabbed the pole, brushing the ice away, trying to close my mind and senses to the chill wind and the lapping of the cold black lake. At first I was clumsy but then my old skill returned. (Don't forget, I was raised in Norfolk where the skill of punting barges is as natural as walking.) Nevertheless, I make a confession: Benjamin and I were stupid. Now and again we made such mistakes. An excess of impetuosity, the rashness of youth. Time and again it nearly cost us our life and that night, on the frozen lake, was no different. I had made two, maybe three sweeps of the pole, when I felt a wet slippiness beneath me. Benjamin spun round, his face a white mask in the darkness. He, too, had felt the dampness seep in and yet, due to the broad sweeps of my pole and perhaps the motion of the lake, we had already travelled yards from the shore. 'Roger, it's been holed!'
I let the pole slip and crouched, plunging my hand into the bottom of the barge. My heart jumped in fear as I felt an inch of icy water. I put the pole down and clambered on hands and knees round the barge, looking for the hole.
Now this is where my skill as a bargeman saved our lives. You see, on the Broads of Norfolk and Suffolk such accidents are common and the unwary make one of two mistakes, or even both. They try to reach the place they are heading for or else turn back to the shore. Sometimes, due to panic and fear, they try both. But take Old Shallot's advice: if you are in a boat or barge which has been holed, particularly one where the damage is malicious, stop rowing and block that hole for any further movement of the barge simply helps the water rush in.
At last I found it in the stern of the barge, a hole the size of a man's fist as if someone had taken a hammer and smashed through the bottom. I took off my cloak and immediately began to thread the fabric through the hole. My master, who had found a similar one on the port side, first tried his cloak but then cursed as it went into the lake and he had to stop the hole with the heel of his boot. For a few seconds, and it seemed like hours, we just crouched, looking at each other, as the barge danced on the glassy surface. I glanced quickly towards the island where the siren light still beckoned us on. 'I am sorry, Master,' I wailed. 'Oh, shut up, Roger!' he hissed.
I kept my hand pressed to the bottom of the boat, my fingers freezing in the icy water swilling round us, but I noticed it grew no deeper. 'Master?'
'Yes,' Benjamin hissed. 'Now, Roger, my friend, turn this barge round and pull us to the shore, swiftly, with all your skill. If there's another hole and the water swamps us, we will not survive for long in these icy waters.'
Now you know Old Shallot. My heart was pounding, my stomach spinning like a child's top. I wanted to cry, weep and beg the Almighty for mercy. I seized that bloody pole, swinging the barge round even as I felt the water beneath me slop and gurgle as if maliciously laughing at me, waiting to embrace us in its frozen grasp. The barge turned. I closed my eyes and began to pole.
'Roger!' my master screamed. 'You are going the wrong way!'
I opened my eyes and realised the barge had only half-turned and we were now running parallel to both the island and the shore. I began to pole and pray with a vigour which would have astonished any monk. In between snatches of prayer I cursed, using every filthy word I knew, until that bloody barge was heading straight back to the bank. The water lapped round my ankles. We had failed to discover a third or even fourth hole and still the water was rising.
My master manoeuvred himself round, using his hand to scoop out the icy water, shouting at me to pole faster. We skimmed across the surface of that sodding lake whilst all around us gathered the dark hosts of hell. The water rose higher but then, just as Old Shallot's courage began to crumble into blind panic, the barge shuddered to a stop; both my master and I ran ashore, grateful to fall sobbing on to the snow-soaked bank.
My master crouched, breathing in deeply to calm himself, whilst Old Shallot dealt with the threat in his usual formidable way.
'Bastards!' I screamed, jumping up and down on the bank, shaking my fist at the island. 'You murdering, sodding bastards! Come on, Master!' I seized Benjamin by the arm.
He trotted breathlessly beside me as I strode like a madman through the snow, back to that accursed manor. 'Roger, what are you going to do?' 'I am going to slit that bitch's throat for a start!' 'Roger, don't!'
'All right, I'll cut her head off! Master, I don't mind being shot at, hunted, trapped, attacked – but to die on a frozen lake at the dead of night!'
'Roger.' Benjamin grabbed me by my doublet. 'Listen! Mathilda will be well away now. Do you think she's going to wait for you to come back? There was always the possibility you might escape. No, listen, I know who the murderer is. I know where the Grail and Arthur's Sword could be.' I stopped. 'Why didn't you tell me this before?'
‘I had to wait. I suspected the murderer would strike at us, and what happened on that lake proved it. Now, Roger, I beg you, let us go back to our chamber, warm ourselves, snatch a few hours of sleep and tomorrow, as we break fast in the hall, I shall confront the murderer.'
Of course my master had his way. Anyway, by the time we reached our chambers my anger had been replaced by sheer terror at the danger we had just escaped. All the old signs appeared: I wanted to be sick, my knees kept quivering, and it took three deep-bowled cups of claret before I could even remember what day of the week it was. Naturally, I taxed my master on what he had learnt. He merely sat on the only chair in my room, shook his head and told me to sleep, and that it would be best if we shared the same chamber that night.
The next morning we woke none the worse for our terrible experience. Benjamin insisted that we shave, wash and change our linen and doublets before going down to the hall. On our way I looked for Mathilda but Benjamin was right, there was no sign of the little minx.
The Santerres were already at high table, Mandeville also. My master waited until a kitchen boy served us, then suddenly rose, locking the great doors of the hall as well as those to the kitchen and buttery. Mandeville broke free of his reverie. Sir John Santerre stared, a ghost of his former self. Lady Beatrice watched fearfully whilst Rachel sat like an innocent child waiting for a play to begin. 'Daunbey, what's all this?' Mandeville grated.
Now Benjamin had unmasked many a killer and brought numerous murderers to boot. Sometimes he played games, drawing the assassins into verbal battles in which they would confess. But this time it was different. He walked once, twice round the table on the dais, pausing for a few seconds behind each chair. Then he went round again and stopped between John Santerre and Rachel, putting his hand gently on the man's shoulder. 'Sir John, are you the killer?'
Santerre shot back in his chair. If a man's face could age in a few seconds, his did. 'What do you mean?' he stuttered.
'On our first day here you claimed you left Templecombe to ride your estates. You did not. Instead you went to Glastonbury.' 'There's no crime in that.' 'And, just before we left London, why did the beggar give you that note?' 'I…'
'If you lie,' Benjamin snapped, 'these matters will be laid before the King's Council in London.'
Sir John stretched over and, despite the hour, filled his wine goblet completely to the brim. He gobbled its contents like a thirsty man would the purest water. Mandeville was now alert as a hunting dog. 'Answer the questions, Santerre!'
Sir John put the wine cup down. 'When I was in London I paid people to ascertain if the Templar church near Fleet Street contained anything resembling the River Jordan or the Ark of Moses.' 'And did it?' 'No.' 'And Glastonbury Abbey?'
Sir John licked his lips. 'Both Abbot Bere and I wanted an end to all this nonsense.' He glanced at Mandeville. 'No offence, Sir Edmund, but no lord in the kingdom wants you or your sort prying round his estates. I used my wealth to fund the building of a crypt at Glastonbury. I thought that something might be found.' 'And has it been?' I asked. 'Nothing whatsoever.'
Benjamin stepped beside Lady Beatrice, who sat rigid in her chair. 'Lady Beatrice, what do you know of these matters?' The woman's mouth opened and closed. She shook her head. 'Oh, yes, you know something. Your first husband's name was Mortimer?' Lady Beatrice nodded. 'He came of a crusading line which has held the manor of Templecombe since time immemorial?' Again the nod.
'And the Mortimer family motto is "Age Circumspecte" is it not?' Benjamin glanced at me. 'Shallot discovered that in the Book of Legends at Glastonbury Abbey.' 'Yes,' she whispered. 'What's that got to do with us?' Mandeville interrupted. 'Was your husband a member of the Templars?' Lady Beatrice's eyes, glassy with fright, stared down the hall.
'I think he was,' Benjamin continued, whispering in her ear. 'When the Templars were dissolved some two hundred years ago, some escaped, assumed other identities, married and settled down. Your husband's ancestor was one of these. Nevertheless, the Templars continued meeting in secret, each coven acting like a small community, the mysteries of the Order being passed from one generation to another.' He moved slightly and rested a hand lightly on Rachel's shoulder. 'You were given these mysteries, weren't you, Rachel?'
Do you know, the girl just smiled and played with the ring on her finger.
'You are a Templar, aren't you?' Benjamin whispered. 'Your father passed the secrets on to you. In time you would have married and passed the mystery on to your first born. For generations,' Benjamin's voice rose, 'the lords of Templecombe have been members of the secret Templar organisation.' He paused. 'Oh no, not you, Sir John, nor Lady Beatrice, but I think you both had your suspicions.'
'Impossible!' Mandeville shouted. 'She is a mere chit of a girl.'
'She's eighteen summers old,' Benjamin retorted. 'And if you remain quiet, Sir Edmund, I will tell you what happened.'
He went round the table, stepped off the dais and stood looking at all of us. Santerre and his wife were like waxen effigies but Rachel, her face slightly flushed, leaned forward as if without a care in the world.
The Lords of Templecombe,' Benjamin began, 'were always Templars. They kept the Order's secrets and in dark covens met their helpers, probably in the sombre house on that Godforsaken island. Now in the main these Templars lay sleeping like seeds planted in the soil, though sometimes they would burgeon, quickening into life, particularly in any uprising or rebellion against our Tudor masters. Nevertheless, they were content to sit, watch and wait. Hopkins was one of these, though deranged in his wits.'
Benjamin paused to collect his thoughts. "The Templars always coveted the great relics, the Grail and Arthur's Sword, Excalibur, but these remained hidden. They were content with that, provided no one else discovered them.' Benjamin stared at Mandeville. 'Hopkins began the drama. He had a passion for the relics and believed their discovery would strengthen the Order. My Lord of Buckingham, also a Templar, was drawn into the mystery. He received a message from Hopkins and came to Templecombe but then blundered into the trap My Lord Cardinal had laid for him. Hopkins and Buckingham were killed.' Benjamin glanced at Rachel. 'But I suspect the Templars have a code. No one strikes at their interests and walks away unharmed. Moreover, there was a greater danger: His Grace the King was now interested in these relics and was insisting on a thorough search for them. So the Templars struck.' Mandeville tapped the top of the table with his knuckles. 'You say Buckingham was a Templar?'
Benjamin smiled thinly. 'Oh, come, Sir Edmund, he could have been a Cardinal of Rome and his fate would have been the same. Don't play games. Buckingham was baited, trapped and killed because my uncle hated him and because he had royal blood in his veins.' Benjamin glared at him. 'Hopkins was a traitor, perhaps deserved his death, but Buckingham was innocent. His death was murder made legal.' 'I will tell My Lord Cardinal your words!'
Benjamin shrugged. 'Do so and dear Uncle will simply laugh and put it down to my youthful impetuosity. I only say what thousands think.'
Mandeville glared down the table at Rachel who sat, hands joined, like some novice at prayer. She seemed fascinated by Benjamin as if he was telling some mysterious tale on a cold winter's night and she was a spectator, not a party to it.
'I cannot believe,' Mandeville jibed, 'that this girl garrotted two experienced agents, Calcraft and Warnham.'
'Oh come, Sir Edmund,' Benjamin replied. 'I have heard how in Spain there are beggar children so skilled with the garrotte they can kill a fully grown man in a matter of seconds. It would have been simple for Rachel.' Benjamin spread his hands. 'Calcraft, and on another occasion Warnham, were invited down to a meeting in some tavern by the riverside where Mistress Rachel was waiting to talk to them. After her coy glances and generous cups of wine, they were lured out into the dark so Rachel might speak where no spy could overhear. Perhaps they sat down. Mistress Rachel would find it so easy; a desolate spot, the garrotte cord in her hands, men in their cups. Just a few seconds, Sir Edmund, and the cord slips round their throat; fuddled in their wits they would struggle but only briefly before lapsing into unconsciousness. If the garrotte cord did not kill, the cold water of the Thames would. Then Rachel would flit back along the alleyways to Richmond Palace.'
'You have proof of that?' Sir John blustered, though his eyes betrayed him.
'Yes and no.' Benjamin replied. 'Except I was intrigued why a scarlet cord should be used. So, before I left London, I took it to one of the maids at Richmond Palace, and do you know what she said?' Santerre shook his head.
'That it is a sort of material women might buy to serve as piping on their dresses, gowns or cloaks. At the time I dismissed this but later it was a piece which fitted the puzzle.'
Rachel, her lower Up caught between her teeth, shook her head disbelievingly. I felt a chill of fear at her complete imperviousness to what my master was saying.
'Hopkins's sister,' I intervened, 'was also a victim of the garrotte. Rachel, you see, overheard us as we left the hall in Richmond Palace. She subtly covered this up by appearing to be concerned about what dangers might face us here at Templecombe.' 'Why should she kill Hopkins's sister?' Mandeville asked.
'Because,' I replied, 'there was always a danger that Hopkins, who confided in so few people, may have said something to his sister which could have threatened her. And it was so easy.' I spread my hands. 'Rachel slipped out of Richmond Palace and went hot foot to the house of Hopkins's sister who would, of course, admit her as a friend, the daughter of the lord whom her dead brother had served. Rachel would reassure her, they even shared a goblet of wine, before Rachel slipped the garrotte round her throat. The old woman died, Rachel searched the house for anything which might incriminate her, and then disappeared.'
'That poor old woman was murdered,' Benjamin declared, 'not because she had said or done anything wrong but simply because of what she might know. We tell the truth, I believe, Rachel?' The girl stared back silently.
'Once we left London,' Benjamin continued, 'the real dance began, didn't it, Roger?'
'Oh, yes,' I replied. 'When we stopped at Glastonbury, Mistress Rachel sent a message, God knows how, to that old witch who was waiting for us with her prophecies. Look, it stands to reason,' I continued. 'No man, or woman could read the future so clearly. Even before we reached Templecombe our deaths were planned. The old hag was really a mummer mouthing lines taught to her and, once her part was played, she too had to die. An easy feat. There must be secret passageways and entrances out of Templecombe. Mistress Rachel used these, first to silence the witch; secondly, to cut off her hands and head in order to frighten us on our return to Glastonbury.' 'And the deaths of Cosmas and Damien?' Mandeville asked.
Benjamin gave a pithy description of how both men had died.
'Cosmas was the easiest,' he concluded. 'On our first evening here, after you had all retired, Rachel allegedly left the hall to collect a manuscript. I am sure she went up to the poor man's room, picked up the thread lying there, pulled out the slow fuse, lit it with a tinder and then came back down here.'
'Was she so certain Shallot would be roused?' Mandeville asked.
'Oh, if Roger hadn't woken, she always had me. After she returned, she could feign sleep and say she wanted to retire. I would go to my chamber on the same gallery as poor Cosmas and, of course, notice something was wrong.
'However,' Benjamin stared at Rachel, his face betraying his hurt at being used by her, 'only after examining the Templar chapel following Damien's death did I really begin to suspect Mistress Rachel. You see, in the chapel, near one of the windows, I noticed bits of wood from a ladder which had been left there. Only a member of the Santerre household would have access to such a ladder.
'Secondly, when I simulated what she had done, I found the window was rather narrow. Even I, slender as I am, found it difficult to squeeze through.' He paused. 'So it had to be someone young and supple and only Rachel fitted that description.
'Finally, there was something else. Did you notice, Sir Edmund, when we were trying to force the door of the church, how Rachel and her mother hurried along shouting for Damien through the window? At the time I thought it was strange but, on reflection, Rachel was simply checking that no trace of her departure from the church remained. Once we were inside, she was also most assiduous in accompanying us as we searched for any secret entrance or passageway. I recall her being near one of the windows. I am sure it was then she either brought the latch down or, if it had already fallen, made sure it was in place.'
'But the snow?' Mandeville interrupted. 'You said someone who had been travelling through snow stood at the back of the church.'
'No, that was just a clever ploy to tangle matters even further. Rachel could have brought the snow in and let it melt so as to distract attention from herself. She had ostensibly stayed in the manor house all day.'
Benjamin paused and we all stared at the young woman now sitting back in her chair looking up at the rafters, tapping the table top and humming a tune to herself. She was one of the most curious assassins I had ever met. Benjamin had levelled the most serious allegations against her, yet never once had she protested, objected or interrupted. Even my master seemed unnerved by her cool demeanour.
'Daughter,' Sir John grated, 'have you anything to say against this?'
'I am not your daughter,' she replied flatly. She then sat up straight and stared at my master. 'Where's your proof that I lit the slow fuse? Where is your proof that I garrotted two men, not to mention an old woman, in London? Where is the proof that I lurked in a church and killed Mandeville's servant with a crossbow bolt? Or that I killed and mutilated a half-mad witch?'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'Aye, Mistress, you are correct. Other people could have bought the scarlet cord. Other people could have committed these terrible crimes. But, think carefully. Someone at Templecombe knew where to get gunpowder, oil and a slow fuse. Someone at Templecombe knew where to hide both herself and a scaling ladder in the church, as well as how to use that poor hag; first to deliver messages and then, as a warning to the rest of us, as a victim.'
The same is true of Bowyer and Southgate,' I interrupted. Their horses were fed a meal of oats and bran to make them more fiery. Who else but someone at Templecombe could manage that? And then you changed their stirrups and tainted their spurs with mercury?'
'So Bowyer's death was no accident?' Mandeville interrupted.
'Of course not!' Benjamin replied, and gave a short description of what we had found in the stables and in Southgate's chamber. Rachel heard him out. She placed her elbows on the table, resting her face between her hands, nodding approvingly as if Benjamin was some favoured pupil who had learnt a poem by rote. 'But you have no proof,' she repeated.
'There's the proof!' I snarled, pointing to her white-faced mother and the haggard Sir John. 'They know! They suspect!' The young woman shrugged.
'Then there's the servants,' I continued. 'Those who carried out your orders. You dragged down everyone with you.'
Rachel daintily arched one eyebrow as if I had mentioned inviting her servants to some feast or revelry. Benjamin watched her curiously. 'You are not afraid of death, Mistress?'
'Why should I be frightened of the inevitable?' she replied. 'And why threaten me with death? As I keep repeating, you have no proof.'
The King's torturers in the Tower will find it!' Mandeville retorted.
Benjamin walked in front of Rachel and studied her carefully. I watched, fascinated, for this was the first time he had confronted a murderer with a plausible explanation but very little proof. The deaths of the agents, Cosmas and Damien, Bowyer and those terrible injuries inflicted on Southgate, would in a court of law puzzle any jury. They might declare there was a case to answer, but what proof? (Mind you, Mandeville was right! Henry VIII cared little about evidence or the finer points of law. I always remember him turning to Thomas Cromwell about the trial of an abbot who had refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. 'Give him a fair trial,' the fat bastard roared, 'and then hang him from his own gate!')
Benjamin beckoned Rachel. 'Mistress, a word by ourselves, please?'
She rose, tripping round the table as if Benjamin had asked her for a dance. They walked down the hall and stood near the fireplace. Benjamin whispered to her and I heard her hissed reply, followed by silence. She then spread her hands and Benjamin led her back to the table where she stood defiantly before Mandeville.
'Master Daunbey is correct,' she murmured. 'I am a member of the secret Order of the Templars. I am responsible for the deaths he has listed.' She smiled obliquely. 'I pay respect to his brilliance and subtle astuteness but I am proud of what I did. My Lord of Buckingham's death is avenged. Those responsible, except you, Sir Edmund, have received their just deserts.' She lowered her voice. 'But don't sleep easy, Mandeville, for your time will come. Beware of every alleyway, of every drink and bite you swallow, of every horse you mount, every stranger you meet, because in time, when you least expect it, other Templars will finish what I have begun!' 'And us?' I shouted.
(Isn't it strange? This mere slip of a girl responsible for at least seven deaths. A self-confessed killer who could, even on the brink of her own destruction, still hold us with a threat. And you know Old Shallot, I have a well-developed sense of my own preservation. Yes, I will be honest, Rachel Santerre, or more correctly Rachel Mortimer, chilled my soul to the marrow.)
The young woman stared at me. ‘I like you, Shallot,' she murmured. 'No, for the moment you are safe. What happened last night should never have taken place.'
Now Mandeville got to his feet. 'Rachel Santerre,' he intoned, 'I arrest you for treason and the most horrible homicides. You will be taken to London and stand trial for your life before King's Bench at Westminster. Sir John, Lady Beatrice, you will accompany her.' Mandeville walked to the door and called for some of Bowyer's soldiers. 'Take this woman,' he ordered, pointing to her, 'to her chamber. One man is to stay on guard in the room, two others outside! She is to be chained hand and foot. Do it!' he ordered the surprised soldier.
The fellow grasped the unresisting Rachel and pushed her out of the hall. Mandeville glared back at Santerre.
'I will now search this house,' he barked, 'beginning with your daughter's chamber!' And swept out of the room. 'Roger,' Benjamin whispered, 'come with me.'
He hurried out of the hall. The soldiers were already putting manacles around Rachel's wrists. Her face was marble-white, Even then I knew she was determined not to become the plaything of the London mob.
'Mistress Rachel,' Benjamin asked, ignoring Mandeville's protests, 'is there anything we can do?'
She forced a smile and shook her head. Mandeville pushed her further down the gallery.
'Sir,' Benjamin intervened, 'the woman is your prisoner, there is no need for such rudeness.'
Rachel shrugged off Mandeville's hand and looked once more at Benjamin.
'Ever the gentleman, Master Daunbey. I am sorry about last night. I was ordered not to touch you.' And without explaining that enigmatic remark further, she allowed the soldiers to lead her away.
Benjamin and I walked back into the hall. Lady Beatrice was sobbing hysterically. Sir John Santerre looked an old, beaten man. 'Master Daunbey,' he pleaded, 'what shall we do?' Benjamin climbed on to the dais and leaned over the table. 'You have interests abroad, Sir John?' Santerre nodded. 'And gold with the Antwerp bankers?' Again the nod. Benjamin looked at Lady Beatrice. 'You knew, didn't you?'
The woman's thin face was a mask of terror. 'I couldn't stop her,' she whispered hoarsely. 'When I married my husband, I knew the legends, the stories, the whispers.' She glanced round the deserted hall and glared at Santerre. 'I hate this place!' She spat out the words. 'I asked Sir John to burn it to the ground but Rachel played him like a piece of string around her finger. She could always do that! Templars, ghosts, curses – and now we shall answer for it with our lives!'
'Sir John,' Benjamin replied briskly, 'there are secret entrances and passageways out of Templecombe, are there not?' Sir John nodded. 'Yes, yes,' he said absentmindedly.
'Then, sir,' Benjamin declared, 'I would collect up all that is valuable, leave immediately, get to the coast and put as much distance as you can between yourself and the King's fury. It's your only chance,' he persisted. 'Otherwise the King's lawyers will spin their web and have you hanged at Tyburn. You'd best go now.'
Benjamin straightened up as if he was listening carefully. 'Your servants are wise, Sir John. They have already gone. I suggest you do likewise.'