We left The Golden Turk and went down to the riverside. The day was beginning to fade as the barge we hired pulled to mid-stream and took us downriver to Richmond Palace. Benjamin crouched in the bows, rather dull and listless. Agrippa, pleased and contented with himself, kept leaning over and tapping me on the hand for my perspicacity in dealing with Hopkins's riddle.
The oarsmen swept round the bend of the Thames and down past Westminster. The quayside was obscured by the different ships moored there: carracks from Venice, fat sturdy cogs from the Baltic, and fishing smacks getting ready for a night's work. A pleasant enough sight for a trip down the river on a late-autumn evening.
Agrippa, basking in the calmness of the scene, smiled reassuringly at us. Believe me, if I'd known then what lay ahead – mysterious fires, the severed hand of glory, a haunted chapel, witch's curses and decapitated heads dripping blood – I would have slipped over the side of that wherry and swam for dear life to the nearest shore.
My master, however, had more immediate concerns. He looked sleepily back at the disappearing turrets of Westminster Abbey and shook himself alert. 'Why?' he asked abruptly. 'Why what?' Agrippa retorted. 'Why did we have to witness that execution? And was it necessary for us to see Hopkins stretched out on that rack?'
Such thoughts had occurred to me so I stared curiously at Agrippa. He chewed on his lip as he tore his gaze away from the bank. The colour had returned to his eyes. Now they looked dark blue rather than that clear, glass-like appearance they always assumed when Agrippa witnessed any violence or bloodshed.
'In a few days,' the good doctor whispered, 'we will know all. But I tell you this: Buckingham, albeit a fool, died an innocent man.' I stared at him in amazement.
'Oh, yes,' Agrippa continued. 'He may have been a secret Templar. He may even have been searching for the Grail and Arthur's Sword. But, according to Hopkins, that's all Buckingham was interested in.'
'So what proof of treason did the King produce at Buckingham's trial?'
'The testimony of Taplow, Buckingham's agent in London. Mind you,' Agrippa peered into the gathering mist, 'Buckingham is not the only one to lose his life over this matter.' He looked squarely at Benjamin. 'Did you know Calcraft?' 'A little.'
'Well, he was one of Mandeville's most trusted agents: a good man, a subtle scurrier who could worm out secrets and trap those plotting against the crown.'
'Yes, yes, I know,' Benjamin replied, 'I met Master Calcraft on one occasion. He had a face as sour as wormwood and was skilled in putting treasonable words into other men's mouths. Why, what mischief is he up to now?'
'Probably dancing with the devil,' Agrippa replied with a smile. 'Calcraft's dead! He was garrotted only a stone's throw from Richmond.'
'So these secret Templars may be striking back against Mandeville's men?'
'Perhaps. Calcraft was instrumental in sending Buckingham to the block. Anyway, he's gone.' 'Which is why dear Uncle sent for us?'
'Of course; Mandeville still has another agent, Warnham, investigating Buckingham's cover but Uncle wants you!'
'And our attendance at Buckingham's execution was to concentrate our minds.'
Agrippa smiled and nodded. 'The Lord Cardinal knows human nature well,' he replied. 'Master Benjamin, you have been lost in the calm and peace of Ipswich. Buckingham's death was a fitting prelude to the horrors which may await.'
Benjamin leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes whilst Agrippa diverted the conversation to the gossip and petty scandals of the court.
We arrived at Richmond just before dusk. A strange place even though it was relatively new, being rebuilt by the Great Mister, Fat Harry's father in 1490, Richmond was really a series of towers and halls built round a number of courtyards, each containing small orchards or gardens. The walls were covered with trellises of roses, red and white mixed together, to remind everyone that the Tudors united what was best in both the houses of York and Lancaster. The brickwork was ornamented with carvings and strange markings, gargoyles and statues, and each tower was capped by a large onion-shaped cupola. From the highest of these flew the banners of England and the pennants of Wolsey, proclaiming that both the King and his principal minister were now in residence.
Agrippa handed us over to a servant and we were taken to a rather narrow chamber in one of the towers, bleakly furnished with a bed and a few sticks of furniture. A battered painting hung on the wall depicting Noah's departure from the Ark. Benjamin looked around and smiled.
'My good uncle,' he announced sarcastically, 'appears to have the same high opinion of us as always.'
We unpacked our saddle bags then wandered along the corridors, a routine I always insisted on whenever we arrived in any strange place. One of Shallot's golden rules: when you find yourself somewhere strange or new, immediately find the quickest way out for you may well need it. (Only on one occasion did I forget this axiom. A young noblewoman was entertaining me in her bedchamber. I was that interested in seeing her gold-clocked stockings and scarlet garters, I forgot to check the window. When her brother returned unexpectedly, I found myself trapped. I don't recommend standing in a musty wardrobe for three hours whilst furry black rats scurry across your naked feet then return for a swift hungry nibble. Ah well, that's another story!)
We arrived at the buttery where a one-eyed cook refused us food so I knocked a brazier over and, when his back was turned, slipped the spit boy a penny and stole a nicely roasted capon and a loaf of bread. We were in one of the gardens eating our ill-gotten gains when Agrippa hurried up to us.
'Come! Come!' he ordered and, hardly stopping, hurried on, Benjamin and I behind him, greedily finishing our stolen meal. Agrippa took us out of the palace into an overgrown garden which, I realised, also served as a small cemetery. At the back, near the wall, stood a dilapidated charnel house, a small chamber where the corpses of servants who died in the palace would be taken out of the communal coffin and stitched into a cheap canvas sheet.
Agrippa thrust the door open, muttering to himself as he took a tinder and lit a candle. On a low stone slab in the centre of the room lay the corpse of a man, dressed in cheap brown fustian, now soaked and slimed with river water. His boots had been removed and several toes jutted through ragged stockings. He had died young, with a full head of auburn hair, but his face was disgusting and almost unrecognisable: the skin had turned black, tongue protruding out of one side of his mouth, eyes rolled back in their sockets. There were bite marks on his cheeks, probably caused by pike and other river fish. However, what really caught our attention was a cord wrapped tightly round his throat, the little rod the garrotter had used to tighten it still caught in its clever knot. I took one look, turned away and vomited up most of the capon. 'Who is it?' my master whispered.
'John Warnham,' Agrippa replied. 'Calcraft was killed in the same way.'
Benjamin, who seemed to have a stomach made of steel, knelt down and carefully examined the scarlet cord. 'It's like piping,' he commented. 'From someone's cloak.'
He peered at the knot. I watched him, trying not to glimpse that grotesque, blackened face. Benjamin got up, wiping the dust from his knees, went out and stood in the darkening garden. Agrippa and I followed. 'When was he found?'
'Early this morning in one of the carp ponds down near the river.' 'How long has he been dead?' 'He disappeared about two days ago.'
'Whoever did that,' Benjamin replied, 'was proficient with the garrotte.' He gently touched his own throat and half-smiled at me. 'Beware of the garrotte, Roger, the most skilled assassin, and it could be a mere child, could have his cord round your neck and choke out your life's breath within seconds. Did you know that?'
(At the time I didn't, and shook my head. But now I do! In one of my journals I'll tell you about bribing the Black Eunuch who was master of the harem in Constantinople. A terrible place with its marble walls, golden cups, scented gardens and silent death. The Turks do not believe in public executions. Instead they have a group of deaf mutes nicknamed 'The Gardeners', who carry scarlet cords. If a man or woman displeases the Sultan, the sign is given, 'The Gardeners' appear and strangulation takes place within seconds.
Sometimes it can be on a mere whim. On one occasion a Vizier, one of the Sultan's principal officers, decided to get rid of his entire harem. All the girls were strangled, put in sacks loaded with stones and dumped in the Bosphorus. One afternoon, whilst escaping from the Sultan's palace, I had to leave the boat in which I was fleeing and swam down, deep amongst the shallows of the Bosphorus. Now, you mightn't believe this, but the sea bed was dotted with sacks, with their grisly burdens, tied at the neck, standing upright under the force of the currents. Can you imagine it? A sea of dead girls within a sea? I see my little chaplain snigger. He thinks I am making it up. Far from it. I can swim like a fish, and often had to, and if he doesn't believe me, I'll take him down to the nearest pond and show him how! Ah, well, that's quietened him and, true, I do digress.)
'Warnham was one of the Cardinal's agents?' Benjamin asked. Agrippa nodded. 'As was Calcraft,' he added.
'But why murder them?' Agrippa continued as if talking to himself. 'What is the use of killing agents?' 'They must have known something,' I replied.
Agrippa shook his head. 'No. I think we have already gleaned the information we need. Buckingham is dead, Hopkins too.' He pulled a face. 'Ah, well, only time will tell.' He waddled off and we went back to our chambers.
For the next few days we were left to our own devices. Oh, we glimpsed Wolsey from afar in his scarlet silken robes and, now and again, whilst feasting in the hall at a series of sumptuous banquets. The Great Beast made his presence felt.
King Henry looked a little older but still enormous with his bright gold hair and beard and those blue, agate-hard eyes which seemed to take in everything. He dressed in a brilliant array of jewel-encrusted jerkins, silver hose and high-heeled, ribbon-rosed shoes which made him look even loftier than those around him. The Great Killer always liked to enjoy himself and, whatever dangers threatened, lost himself in a round of festivities.
Some idiot must have told him more stories about King Arthur for this seemed to tickle his fancy and on our third evening at Richmond he staged a marvellous masque. We, along with other guests (the Cardinal had still not acknowledged his nephew), were led into a vast hall lit by hundreds of pure wax candles. Around the walls the rich scarlets, yellows and golds of Venetian tapestries sparkled in the light, whilst at the far end of this cavernous chamber loomed a vision all in green. It was a fairy castle, its high battlements crowned with towers and its walls pierced with crenellations. Carpenters and artists had laboured for two weeks to build this Chateau Vert or Green Castle, covering the wooden frame with green paper, foil and verdigris paint. The effect was quite remarkable: the green castle shimmered in the candle-lit hall like some spectre in a vision.
Well, you have the drift of what was happening. Eight lovely women representing Beauty and Honour, etc, had to defend the castle against eight nobles, led, of course, by the stupid fat beast himself. These eight lords, who had taken the names of Love, Youth, Loyalty and so on pelted the defenders of the Chateau Vert with flowers and were showered with rose-water and sweetmeats in return. Everyone took it seriously. I could hardly stop laughing to see the great ones of the land engaged in such childish games.
My master sat still, rather quiet and withdrawn, pondering on what Agrippa had told him. I was more interested in the food; mutton in beer, duck in orange sauce, pastries and sweet cubes of jellied milk, as well as the cups of claret and chilled wine. I drank as if there was no tomorrow.
One thing I did notice during the masque and another similar farce when we all trooped out to Shooters Hill to see Fat Henry clothed in Lincoln green play Robin Hood, was The Great Killer's new love: a dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl who moved with a languorous grace and whom the King was for ever singling out for marks of special affection.
That was the first time I saw Anne Boleyn. She wasn't beautiful, not in the classical sense, but exuded a sexual power which drew men's gazes like a magnet. Beside her, the short, dumpy Spanish queen, Catherine of Aragon, resembled a chamber pot next to a beautiful vase.
Poor old Catherine! The bearer of so many children, only one of whom survived: the little, red-haired, pinched-faced girl Mary, who followed her mother everywhere. Good Lord, the things we do to our children! Mary grew up hating her father and, like her mother, spent her entire life pining for a living child. I know she did. When she died she gave me her prayer book. I still have it. One part of it, the prayer of a mother asking to be delivered of a healthy child, was so tear-stained the ink had run.
Mind you, they have all gone now. I sit here and reflect on Fat Henry prancing around pretending to be Robin Hood. As the years passed, he killed all those round him before being murdered himself. Yes, murdered. I confess to it now, I wasn't involved but I knew about it. His council served him white arsenic which created a fire ball in his belly. He lay for days on a stinking bed, with blood-streaked eyes and parchment-coloured complexion, unable to swallow. His skin began to peel off, the gross fat in his belly turned to liquid whilst his stomach and bowels dripped blood. When he died, foaming at the mouth, his tongue was so big it completely filled his mouth and kept it a-gape. They had to hoist his rotting corpse into the coffin, stuffing it in like you would a rotten bale of straw into a sack. Ah, how the glories of the world disappear.
After a few days of kicking our heels round Richmond, the court began to settle down. We became more conscious of the Santerres as well as of the sombre presence of the Agentes. The latter slipped like shadows along the passageways and I formed a secret dread of Sir Edmund Mandeville. He looked as dark as Lucifer, some beautiful angel fallen from grace. He was good-looking in an arrogant, Mediterranean way: olive skin, jet-black hair, neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his hps had a strange twist to them and his eyes were ever mocking. He looked like a man who didn't believe in himself, let alone anything else.
Geoffrey Southgate, his lieutenant, appeared more cheerful with a shock of red hair, beetling eyebrows and pallid skin. The fellow had a slight lisp and rather affected movements but was the dagger to his master's foil.
We met them all in the Fountain Court a few days after arriving at Richmond. Benjamin was reading some manuscript he had borrowed from the library whilst I sat, bored to death, wondering what mischief I could get up to.
The first to approach us were the Santerres. Sir John was a bluff yet shrewd landowner who knew which side of the table to sit. He was the sort of fellow who would buy you a drink in a tavern, regaling you with some funny story, yet whom you would be a fool to trust. His eyes reminded me of the King's, ice blue and piggy in aspect. Lady Beatrice, his wife, now she had regained her composure bore the remnants of great beauty though her pallid-skinned face had a spoilt, rather sensuous cast. She was for ever leaning on her husband's arm as if she was determined he would never wander far from her clutches. Rachel, their daughter, was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a simple veil of murrey covering her hair and a modest blue dress made from pure wool, gilt-edged at the neck and cuffs.
The Santerres came into the Fountain Court as if they were simply wandering round the palace. My master closed the book he was reading and shrewdly watched them approach. 'I wondered when they would come,' he whispered. 'Why?'
'We are too humble to introduce ourselves,' he hissed, 'so they have to come to us. After all, if Agrippa is to be believed, we will be travelling back with them. So, Roger, to your feet and behave yourself.'
We rose as the Santerres swept grandly towards us; the introductions were made, hands clasped or kissed. Sir John stepped back, clearing his throat.
'I am given to understand,' he boomed, his accent burred by a rustic twang, 'that you will be returning with us to Somerset. This business!' He flung his hands up in the air. 'Lackaday! Lackaday! What can I say?'
Aye, I thought, what can you? A man looking for the main chance was Sir John. I could just imagine poor Buckingham's confidences being betrayed by him. 'You saw the good Duke die,' I blurted out.
'Good?' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Buckingham was a traitor to his King. A Judas in Henry's court. Why say you differently?'
'The man's dead,' I replied quickly. 'And his soul's before God. Why should we speak ill of him now?' Santerre rubbed his eyes and looked at me warily.
'Aye, aye,' he whispered. 'He was a good lord but he went poaching in the wrong fields.'
'Master Shallot is noble to defend the Duke.' Rachel Santerre spoke, her voice soft and low.
I glanced at her and my heart leapt. She had raised her face and it was truly beautiful: her skin was like shot silk, pure gold. I would have loved to touch her cheek or gently caress that long, slender neck. I looked for humour, perhaps sarcasm, but her dark eyes were clear and those lips, slightly parted, bore no trace of sneer. I blushed, bowed and showed a leg. 'Mistress, you are too kind.'
Benjamin nudged me for he knew me. My brains were in my codpiece and, when it came to beautiful women, discretion was cast to the winds – and a lot more if I could help it!
'Come, Rachel,' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Your father and I have other business.' 'You mean my step-father,' she said quietly.
Now I smiled at her. I could see a little of Lady Beatrice in Rachel, but I had wondered how a red-faced, wart-covered farmer like Sir John could sire such a beauty. 'I am your father,' he firmly replied.
Lady Beatrice caught her husband's wrist and looked at Benjamin. She'd dismissed me with a contemptuous flicker of her eyelids, of course. Old Shallot was used to that.
'Sir John is my second husband,' she explained. 'Rachel's father died when she was a child.'
'In which case, Mother,' Rachel replied, 'I was a child for a long time. Father has only been cold in his grave for five years.'
Oh, oh, I thought, here's a pretty tableau for there's nothing more interesting than a family quarrel. I stared once more at Rachel, revelling in the beautiful lines of her face, and my wicked heart jumped with pleasure. If the mother disliked me, perhaps I had some hope with the daughter? (I see my little clerk sniggering. He thinks I wanted to bed her there and then. No, no, that's not the way of old Shallot. Well, not really, I just wanted to be with her. Gaze at her, become lost in those lovely dark eyes. Not all of us have minds like sewers!)
Looking back I think a family quarrel would have broken out then, but the door leading to the Fountain Court opened and Sir Edmund Mandeville and Geoffrey Southgate emerged, followed by two bald-headed individuals who looked as similar as peas in a pod. Sir John swung round to look at them and his face paled. 'Come,' he whispered. 'We have business to do.'
They walked off, Lady Beatrice still leaning heavily on his arm. Rachel turned her face slightly and I am sure she was smiling.
Mandeville and Southgate made to pass us by as they had previously. I stood watching, fascinated by the two characters trailing behind them: they were twins and reminded me of eunuchs with their fat, doughy faces, cod-like mouths and heads shaven as bald as pigeon's eggs.
Suddenly Mandeville turned, came towards us and bowed. (By the way, have you noticed that? How the most sinister of characters are often the most courteous?)
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. I see the Santerres have introduced themselves, and perhaps it is time we all got to know each other a little better.' He followed my gaze. I was still watching his bald-headed retainers. 'Oh, may I introduce Geoffrey Southgate and my two clerks, Cosmas and Damien?' The eunuchs bowed. 'Are they twins?' I asked. 'Of course,' Southgate languidly replied.
The two eunuchs, as I called them, now watched me; they had eyes like a frog's, glassy and soulless. I couldn't see a speck of hair on face or head. 'Can't they speak?' my master asked. Mandeville half-turned. 'Cosmas, open your mouth!'
I couldn't believe it. At Mandeville's order, both these nightmare creatures opened their mouths. I saw the red rag of flesh where each tongue should have been and glanced away in disgust. My master, God bless him, just peered closer.
'What happened?' he asked, like some family physician making a diagnosis.
'Oh, they were born in England,' Mandeville replied. 'They were with their parents on a carrack in the Middle Sea when it was taken by Turkish corsairs. Cosmas and Damien, as I now call them, were taken to Constantinople, castrated and made mute eunuchs.' He patted one of them affectionately on his bald pate as one would tap the head of a good hunting dog. 'But they are well educated.'
He looked squarely at me but I knew he was studying both of us. Benjamin may have mystified him but I caught the sardonic glint in his eyes as he dismissed me for a rogue. He suddenly stared over his shoulder at the door as if expecting someone else to join us, then took a step closer. Southgate also leaned forward as if they were two school masters admonishing students.
"The Agentes welcome you,' Mandeville whispered, his voice becoming steely. 'We trapped Buckingham. We can weed out these Templars and discover what His Grace the Cardinal needs, but he is insistent that you join us.'
I stared at their hard faces and, despite Rachel Santerre's charms, the prospect of a journey to Glastonbury in the company of this eerie foursome lost any remaining attraction. They both stepped back, bowed and walked out of the court.
Benjamin watched them go. ‘I wonder what all that was about?' he murmured. 'I just wish dear Uncle would reveal his mind to us.' 'Sirs!' a voice called. 'I heard you talking.'
We both turned. A young man had come up quietly behind us. Perhaps his approach had warned the Agentes off. He stood as proud and pert as a barnyard cock. I groaned quietly: the fellow looked a troublemaker with his russet leather jacket, tight hose, protuberant codpiece, high-heeled boots and, above all, the basket-hilted sword he kept drumming with his fingers.
He was a fighting boy, one of those hangers-on who plague every court and nobleman's house, puffed up with their own pride, ever ready to make a quarrel. (Master Shakespeare has borrowed my descriptions of such fellows for Thibault, the swordsman in his excellent play Romeo and Juliet.) The man came closer and doffed his broad-brimmed hat festooned with a cheap plume. His face was sallow with thin bloodless lips and eyes that were narrow and hooded. He thrust his chin forward.
'Sirs, I asked you a question. What was that conversation about? I come across to join you and your friends immediately leave. Was it at your request? Do you find my presence offensive?'
Benjamin seized my wrist. 'Be careful, Roger,' he whispered. 'The fellow's looking for a fight.'
My master was so innocent he was always stating the obvious. Of course I was careful. Old Shallot is a coward! I will run like a whippet at the slightest hint of danger and was preparing to do so then when the fellow blocked my path and poked me in the chest. 'Are you leaving as well, cockscomb?' 'Sod off!' I hissed.
The man stood back, throwing down his hat and half-drawing his sword. Benjamin stepped in front of me. 'We apologise,' he declared. 'Sir, we meant no offence.' My would-be opponent's eyes didn't leave my face.
'My quarrel is not with you, Master Daunbey,' he replied softly. 'I have no dispute with the Cardinal's nephew, but this fellow has insulted me.'
'No, I haven't!' I pleaded. 'I just don't feel well. Sir, let me pass!'
Benjamin came between us again. 'Stand aside, sir!' he ordered. 'We have no quarrel with you.'
'No, you haven't, Master Daunbey,' the man repeated and my stomach curdled with fear for the fellow knew our names. This was no accident. The man had deliberately set out to challenge me and, when that happens, two thoughts always dominate my mind. First, can I run? Secondly, if I can't, will I be hurt?
The fellow drew his sword and rested its cruel point on the ground.
'Both of you may go,' he said, swaying his hips in a mocking fashion. 'And by supper everyone will be talking about the courage of "Mistress Shallot". Mistress Shallot! Mistress Shallot!' he continued in a sing-song fashion. 'What's the matter, girl?' he taunted and cocked his head sideways. 'With those funny eyes, one is never too sure what you are looking at.' He held up a finger. 'I know, if you bend over and let me smack your bottom with the flat of my sword, I'll let you go.' Now Benjamin's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
'If you draw, Master Benjamin,' the bully-boy continued. 'I'll just walk away.' 'Please,' I muttered, gazing round the deserted courtyard. 'Please!' the fellow mimicked back. 'You have no choice,' Benjamin whispered.
So there was I, stomach churning, bowels twisting. I doffed my jerkin, drew my hangar and put as brave a face on it as possible. We took up position. The salute was given, our swords crossed and the duel began. I moved, twisting my sword, one eye closed. The fellow just played with me, moving backwards and forwards. He nicked my wrist. I closed my eyes. He slipped behind me and slapped me on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. 'Mistress Shallot!' he called out.
I stared at Benjamin but he had looked away. Then a strange thing happened. Old Shallot has always put a high price on his own skin but that blow on the buttocks stirred my pride (wherever it was hiding) and I recalled the words of my duelling master. I opened my eyes and stared at this braggart dancing before me. He represented everything that was wrong in old Shallot's life: the mocking dismissal of Wolsey, the patronising attitude of Agrippa, the sly taunting jibes that I hid behind my master's skirts. In other words, I lost my temper and found my courage.
My sword came down. I narrowed my eyes and took up a proper fighting stance and a different duel began. I wanted to kill that bastard and he knew it: red spots appeared high on his cheeks, his eyes became fearful, mouth half-open. His breath came in short gasps as we feinted and parried, cut and thrust. Poor sod! He was just a street brawler and, as God is my witness, I only meant to wound him. I thrust, aiming for his fighting arm, he moved with me, and my sword went in, deep into the soft flesh beneath the rib cage. I let go the handle and stood back in horror.
The fellow stared at me, clutching the blade of my sword as blood spurted out of the wound. He dropped his own weapon, took one step towards me, his life blood shot out of his mouth and his eyes, still filled with astonishment, glazed over as he collapsed to the ground. Benjamin turned him over.
'Dead as a stone,' he muttered. 'Sweet Lord, Roger, you had no choice.' He smiled faintly at me. 'I never thought you were a duellist.' 'Neither did I, Master!'
I sat down on the grass in a half-faint. I had just retrieved my sword when the gates of the courtyard were suddenly thrust open and a group of the Cardinal's halberdiers hurried across. Pikes lowered, they ringed both of us. The captain, fat-faced with a russet beard, plucked the sword out of my hand. 'Sir, by what name?'
He clicked his fingers and two of the soldiers dragged me to my feet. 'My servant's name is Roger Shallot,' Benjamin declared. "This fellow challenged him to a duel and would not let him go-' The captain made a face. 'That may well be.' He peered closer. 'You are Master Daunbey, the Cardinal's nephew?' ‘I am.'
'Then, sir, you should know that duelling is expressly forbidden by His Majesty and to draw swords in anger in the King's own palace is high treason. Master Shallot, you are under arrest!'
I gazed speechlessly at Benjamin's white face. He shrugged helplessly.
'Go with them, Roger,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I will see my uncle.'
Ringed by the group of halberdiers, I was half-pushed out of the courtyard. We turned and went down a passageway. Mandeville and Southgate had been standing in the gallery watching the entire spectacle through a window. The two bastards seemed to be enjoying themselves but Southgate held up his hand and the guard stopped whilst Mandeville grabbed my wrist.
'You had no choice, Master Shallot,' he murmured. 'That is why we left so abruptly. We saw the bully-boy coming and thought he might be trouble.'
Oh, thank you very much, I thought. But that's the way of the world. If there's a mound of shit, old Shallot is always dropped in it!
Mandeville and Santerre stood aside and I was marched down to a small narrow cellar which also served as the palace dungeon. I was thrust in, given a candle, a cup of watered wine and a loaf of the hardest bread the kitchen could supply. It was tinged with green mould and, as I sat gnawing on it, reflecting on my fortunes, I realised that bastard of a one-eyed cook had apparently missed the capon I had stolen. I sat there for hours. At first the blood ran hot in my veins and I loudly protested my innocence to the cold grey walls and to two large rats which seemed to appear from nowhere. They listened to my declarations of innocence and, when I fell into a fitful sleep, gnawed the bread and drank what wine was left in the battered cup. When I awoke it was dark and cold and I became frightened. The bully-boy, God rest him whoever he was, had forced that fight deliberately. So who had sent him? Who had staged that little masque?
Then I thought of the King, with his piggy, sly eyes; the Lord Cardinal, his Master of Games – and my fear turned to heart-stopping terror, affairs of state, dearest Nephew.' He pushed back his chair and swept down the chamber. Leaning over, he grasped Benjamin by the shoulders and kissed him affectionately on each cheek. 'Be careful! Be careful, dear Nephew!' I heard him whisper. 'Do whatever the King commands.'
He stood away, smiled falsely, and returned to his seat next to the King. (Lord, he was a treacherous bastard! Wolsey's ambitious fingers poked in every man's pie. Do you know, he was so oily that at the end of the world, when everything else catches fire, he'll burn a week longer than anyone else).
'Master Daunbey,' Henry called out, 'you wish for some wine?'
He clicked his fingers and Agrippa stepped out of the shadows. (God knows where he had been hiding during the last few days.)
The good doctor put two cups down in front of us, filled them and went back to stand at the door. I caught his warning glance but he didn't have to tell Old Shallot anything. I may have the courage of a wild duck but I have more wits than a dog has fleas. Fat Henry had also been studying me.
'A rare honour for you, Master Shallot. We do not welcome traitors close to our bosoms – men who kill in our presence.' 'Your Majesty, I was provoked!' I blurted out.
Henry smirked as Wolsey leaned over and whispered in his ear. The King flicked his fingers contemptuously at me. Wolsey smiled unctuously, like some pompous priest talking to his dimmest parishioner.
'Master Shallot,' the Cardinal purred, 'so pleasant to see you again.'
I became more nervous and stared quickly round the room: the windows were all shuttered and none of the cresset torches had been lit. A dark shape lurked in the shadows and I knew Agrippa was standing listening to everything. Wolsey nodded at the King, clasped his hands and leaned forward. Oh Lord, I thought, here comes danger. 'Dear Nephew, you saw Buckingham die?'
The King sniffed and dabbed at his eyes with one laced cuff.
'A bosom friend,' he interrupted, 'a man close to my heart. How could he betray his friend and King?'
I just stared at the fat hypocrite as Wolsey patted him gently on the wrist. One of the finest actors I have ever met, old Henry. He could turn the tears on as easily as the tap on a beer keg. He always delivered a fine performance, almost believable – unless you knew how black his heart was.
'Buckingham was a traitor,' Wolsey declared sonorously, 'and deserved his death. Dearest Nephew, Hopkins was questioned in the Tower and you have the famous riddle. How does it go? Ah yes: "Beneath Jordan's water Christ's cup does rest, And above Moses' Ark the sword that's best." 'Yes,' he murmured. 'Very clever.' 'Agrippa discovered that,' Benjamin answered sharply.
'Yes, yes, he did,' Wolsey purred. 'But let us review matters. Buckingham's power lay in the South-West along the Welsh march and in the counties of Somerset, Devon and Dorset. He had Yorkist blood in his veins and a history of treason, for his father also went to the block. Now his treason began when he went to Templecombe…' Wolsey glanced sideways at Sir John Santerre. 'Perhaps, sir, you would like to continue?'
Santerre cleared his throat. 'My Lord of Buckingham,' he began, then coughed. 'I mean, the traitor Buckingham, came to my house on a Friday evening late last autumn. I thought it strange for, although we corresponded on estate matters, he very rarely travelled so far south, even though I knew he had a special regard for Father Hopkins.
'Now, Hopkins,' Santerre continued, 'was a London-bora priest, a Benedictine monk from Glastonbury who had been dispensed from his monastic vows to serve as chaplain at Templecombe as well as a priest serving the outlying farms and granges belonging to Glastonbury Abbey.' Santerre looked down the table at us. 'Hopkins was a strange man, an antiquarian and historian. He knew all the legends of Somerset and Devon and could recount the tales of Arthur backwards.'
'Did he ever talk about the Grail or Excalibur?' Benjamin interrupted, ignoring his uncle's frown of annoyance.
'Sometimes at the table he would do so, but he spent most of his time either in his chamber or on what he called his travels, visiting the farms or ferreting out new secrets.' 'About what?' I asked.
'About Arthur, and the whereabouts of his Grail. His chamber was for ever full of manuscripts.' 'Where are these now?' Benjamin asked.
'Destroyed,' Southgate interrupted lazily. 'The mad priest burnt everything before coming up to London.' 'Continue, Sir John,' snapped Wolsey. 'Dearest Uncle, one more question?' Wolsey nodded angrily.
'Sir John, was Hopkins friendly with you and your family?'
'No,' Santerre replied heatedly. 'I have explained that. He kept himself to himself. Oh, he performed his priestly functions, Mass and Confession, but you could see his heart was not in it. They were more duties then priestly celebrations.' Sir John glanced quickly at his wife and daughter. 'He didn't seem to like women. I rarely saw him, nor can my wife or daughter ever remember having a conversation with him, which lasted longer than ten minutes.'
'This is true,' Rachel added softly, and her dark sloe eyes smiled, making me momentarily forget I was sitting in the presence of a great murderer. 'Continue!' Henry rapped the table.
'I now know,' Santerre continued hurriedly, 'that Hopkins often visited my Lord of Buckingham and, when the Duke visited Templecombe, he asked to see me in my private chamber. The Duke was very excited, claiming that Hopkins had told him that the Grail and Arthur's Sword still existed, that he was most desirous of obtaining them, and that Hopkins believed that once he had solved a secret cipher, such precious relics would be in his possession.'
"This secret cipher,' Benjamin intervened, 'is the riddle heard from Hopkins's dying lips at the Tower and which my Lord Cardinal has just recited?' 'Yes, yes,' Santerre answered. 'And where did Hopkins find that?'
'Apparently in the fly-leaf of a book, an ancient chronicle, in Glastonbury library.'
'We do not know if that's true,' Mandeville spoke up, 'but it can be verified.'
'Anyway,' Santerre continued, aware of the King's fingers drumming on the table top. 'I asked my Lord of Buckingham why he needed such relics, to which he replied: "Who knows? Who knows to what heights a man could rise, if he held Arthur's sword and drank from the cup Christ himself used?" '
'Dear Uncle,' Benjamin said sweetly, 'is that treason? My Lord of Buckingham was like other great men. Indeed, His Grace the King and yourself are avid collectors of relics.'
'But not traitors,' Mandeville interrupted. 'You see, Master Daunbey, what Buckingham did not know is that two of my men, skilled ferreters out of treason, were members of his retinue.'
Benjamin smiled. 'You mean Calcraft and Warnham who have since been garrotted?'
Mandeville lost some of his composure. His grin fell away and he chewed angrily on the quick of his thumb.
'Yes.' He nodded. 'Yes, Master Daunbey, Calcraft and Warnham who have since been killed, but let that wait. Suffice to say that at Templecombe they approached Sir John Santerre and asked him what Buckingham had said. My Lord of Templecombe was astute and loyal enough to tell the truth.' 'And then what?' Benjamin asked.
'We established,' Mandeville continued, 'that Hopkins often carried messages to a certain Master Taplow in London. Taplow, a Lutheran tailor, used his links with certain noblemen to report back to my Lord of Buckingham the doings of the court and what was happening in the city. Master Taplow is now in the Fleet Prison. He has confessed that letters written to him by Buckingham and carried by Hopkins demonstrate how this traitorous Duke intended to find the sacred relics and use them to cause bloody rebellion against the King. We seized such letters. Buckingham has gone to the block, Taplow will go to the stake, whilst Hopkins has already answered for his crimes.'
'Very neat, very neat,' Benjamin muttered. 'But this business of the Templars?'
Wolsey, who had been watching his nephew, waved his hand for silence and whispered into the King's ear. Henry, who had been staring assiduously at Rachel Santerre, lifted his heavy-lidded eyes, smirked and nodded.
'Dearest nephew,' Wolsey continued, 'the Templars were fighting monks dedicated to defending the Holy Land. They amassed great wealth in this country and others. On Friday October the thirteenth 1307 all the Templars in France were arrested, their lands and wealth were seized by King Philip IV with the blessing of Pope Clement V. Similar arrests occurred in this country and elsewhere but some Templars survived. Their fleet disappeared from La Rochelle whilst those who escaped arrest went underground, particularly in Scotland, where they were protected by Robert the Bruce. The Templars vowed vengeance against every royal family who betrayed them, and that includes the Crown of England. The spiritual descendants of these Templars are now a secret brotherhood.' Wolsey paused and smirked. 'The word "brotherhood" must not be taken literally. The Templars themselves were celibate men but we know this society includes cleric and lay, young and old, married and celibate, male and female, English and French, high and low. Some people say the Yorkist princes, enemies of His Grace the King, may have been members of this brotherhood.'
Wolsey stopped speaking as Henry stirred in his chair. The Cardinal had rubbed an open wound for Henry, the Welsh squire, hated any reference to these Yorkist princes and (as I have demonstrated many times in my journals), by the time the old bastard died, he had destroyed that family root and branch.
'Now,' Wolsey pushed his cup away. 'Hopkins confessed to being a secret Templar. He also said comrades of this brotherhood were close to the King.'
Henry's piggy eyes flickered at us down the table and I felt a chill of fear.
'My Lord Cardinal is right,' he whispered though his voice carried. 'There may be members of this secret brotherhood, this nest of traitors, here at court. And if Master Hopkins can be believed, they too search for the Grail and the Sword Excalibur. Buckingham,' the word was spat out, 'was undoubtedly of their coven and our two faithful agents, Warnham and Calcraft, have paid for their loyalty with their lives.'
Henry hit the table top with his fist. 'But enough is enough!' He jabbed his finger at Benjamin and myself, 'You, Master Daunbey, and that thing you call your servant, will journey to Glastonbury with my good servants Mandeville and Southgate. You will lodge at Templecombe. You will bring the work of these traitors to nothing and for me, your King, find both the Grail and the Sword of Arthur. Is that clear?' 'Your Grace, I have a number of questions?' "Then ask them!'
'Dearest Uncle, what makes you think the Templars are so active in the South-West?' Benjamin asked.
'They are active everywhere,' Wolsey replied. 'In Madrid, in Rome, in Paris, in London, but particularly in the Southwest. Old memories die slowly where the Templars formerly owned most of the land, such as the Santerre estates.'
I looked at Sir John and his wife, rigid and still as waxen figures, Rachel quiet as a nun beside them.
Templecombe was a Templar stronghold?' I asked, speaking my master's thoughts.
Lady Santerre looked dolefully down at us. 'Yes, and we fear the Order as much as His Grace the King. My maiden name is Belamonte. My ancestor was the King's agent in Somerset and Dorset, responsible for arresting the Templars and seizing their lands.' She muttered something else.
'Speak up, My Lady!' Henry insisted. 'Tell us what you know.'
'They say,' Lady Santerre began, 'that the Belamontes are cursed and that no good will come to us for the seizure of the Templar manors. My first husband died in a riding accident.' She grasped her second husband's hand. 'I took the name Santerre. Perhaps that will wipe out the curse.'
'No curse, my Lady.' Mandeville spoke up. 'There is nothing under heaven which cannot be tracked down, trapped and killed. These are a treasonable coven.'
My master abruptly changed the conversation, 'You said that Hopkins was born in London?' 'Yes,' Mandeville replied. 'Does he have any kin here?'
'Yes, yes, an elder sister. A woman of faded beauty and slender means. And, no, Master Daunbey, before you ask, she was not party to her brother's treasonable activities.' My master pulled a face.
'Why do you ask?' Wolsey demanded, his chin thrust forward aggressively.
Benjamin gazed unblinkingly back whilst I studied these men, their hearts filled with arrogance and pride: the King and Wolsey were devils in silk, Mandeville and Southgate looked venom-mouthed, whilst the Santerres just sat like a row of candlesticks.
What are you up to, I thought. Why was I provoked into that duel? And what will come of us? Does our fat King see us as mere crow pudding? 'Dear Nephew, I asked you a question?'
'I was just wondering,' Benjamin replied, 'you say Buckingham wrote to Taplow?' 'I did.' 'So Taplow must have carried messages to someone else?'
'As I said, dear Nephew,' Wolsey pulled back the silken sleeves of his gown, 'members of this secret Templar brotherhood could be here at court.'
'And could be responsible for the deaths of Calcraft and Waraham?* 'Perhaps.'
'It stands to reason they must be,' Benjamin continued remorselessly. 'Someone here in London killed your two agents, either as revenge or because they continued to meddle.'
Wolsey smiled. 'You are most perceptive,' he murmured. 'Yes, yes, Warnham and Calcraft did believe a Templar lurked high in His Grace's Council, but whom we do not know. Master Taplow, who has been ruthlessly questioned, could not assist us.'
'So why should we go to Templecombe?' Benjamin sharply asked. 'Dearest Uncle, you have your own agents.' He nodded at Mandeville and Southgate. 'And what guarantee do we have that we will not suffer the same fate as Warnham and Calcraft?' The King's face turned thunderously angry.
'Because I want you to!' Wolsey intervened quickly, then closed the trap. 'Of course you will be rewarded – whilst the charge of treason, of duelling in the King's presence by Master Shallot will be dropped.' Wolsey spread his hands. 'Indeed, a pardon has already been drawn up.'
If the fat bastard had not been glaring down at me I would have burst into peals of mocking laughter. Benjamin, God bless him, just sighed at how sly Tom Wolsey had trapped us.
He smiled wanly. 'In which case, dear Uncle, we are as ever your most humble servants.'
The atmosphere in the room lightened. Mandeville, that crow bait, leaned forward.
'We shall be honoured by your presence, Master Daunbey. Your assistance will, I am sure, be invaluable.'
Wolsey tossed a red-ribboned scroll down the table towards his nephew. 'This is further information. You may study it at your leisure.' Another thinner scroll followed.
'And that, Master Shallot, is your pardon for the killing of Robert Brognar.' Wolsey shrugged his shoulders. 'He was a city bully and will not be missed.' He smiled at me.
Oh, no, I thought, poor Brognar won't be missed, you bull's-pizzle of a Cardinal: once I had drawn my sword I was guilty of treason. I took cold comfort in that wily Wolsey had probably intended Brognar to make a fool of me as well as involve me in treason. Instead I'd killed him, a sure protection against mockery though it made my 'crime' all the worse. Wolsey smiled and clapped his hands. 'These proceedings are now finished, dearest Nephew. You may withdraw.'
Well, what more could I say? Benjamin and I trotted off back to our tower like well-trained lap dogs. I am sure that after the Santerres left, Henry and Wolsey must have rocked with laughter at us. Once we were in the security of our own chamber, I gave full vent to my anger.
'Doesn't your bloody uncle care?' I cried. 'Is that how he treats his kith and kin? Of course he doesn't give a mouldy fig about old Shallot!' I added bitterly. 'I am just a cross-eyed piece of turd to be discarded at will!'
Benjamin smiled. 'One of the many things I like about you, Roger, is how very rarely you complain. My uncle's treatment must have hurt you. I apologise.' (Lord, wasn't he innocent?) I refused to be mollified.
'Do you know,' I bawled, 'I once talked to a mariner who sailed north of Newfoundland. He claimed to have seen great islands of ice floating in the sea but, large as they were, there was more ice under water than showed on top. Your bloody uncle's like that,' I whispered hoarsely. 'A great, fat, floating dangerous rock!'
'True, true, Roger, and it also applies to the story he spun us this evening. Or, as the vicar said about the lady's bosom, "There's more to it than meets the eye".' Benjamin looked at me. 'Someone told me that as a joke. I never really did understand it.'
'Never mind, Master,' I muttered. 'Similes and metaphors will not get us out of this.'
Benjamin undid the red cords and loosened the two scrolls his uncle had tossed at him. He read the first and handed it over – my pardon for killing Brognar. The second was a memorandum from some anonymous clerk describing the ancient legends of Glastonbury: how, a few years after Christ's death, Joseph of Arimathea and other refugees from the Roman persecution of the early Christian Church had fled to England. Joseph had planted his staff at Weary Hill near Glastonbury which flowered as a white rose bush, a cutting from which was always sent to the Crown every Christmas. Benjamin, standing beside me, tapped the parchment.
'Our noble King would not like that,' he murmured. 'Any reference to white roses, the emblem of the House of York, sends him into a state of frenzy.' 'Good!' I murmured and read on.
The legends, so the clerk maintained, also stated that Joseph brought with him the Grail, the cup used at the Last Supper, and this was supposed to be buried somewhere in the grounds of Glastonbury Abbey.
The second part of the document was an extract from the twelfth-century chronicler Gerald of Wales and described how, in 1184, the monks found the bodies of Arthur and Guinevere in a hollow oak coffin in the grounds of the abbey. A cross of lead placed over the coffin claimed: 'HERE LIES BURIED THE RENOWNED KING ARTHUR WITH GUINEVERE HIS SECOND WIFE IN THE ISLE OF AVALON'. Guinevere's skull still had traces of yellow hair attached to it and, when a certain monk tried to grab it, crumbled into dust. The clerk added that these remains were re-interred in 1278 under a marble slab before the high altar of Glastonbury Abbey.
'Do you believe all this?' I asked. 'Knights of the Round Table, magic swords and mystical cups?'
Benjamin lay down on his bed and pulled his cloak over him.
'There are more things in heaven and earth, my dear Roger, than are contained in our philosophy.'
A nice phrase, isn't it? I gave it to old Will Shakespeare to use in his play Hamlet.