We took a barge back to Richmond to find the palace in turmoil. The King and his Cardinal were preparing to leave and the courtyards were full of sumpter ponies, officials and chamberlains. Porters thronged the stairs and galleries carrying packages and bags. Huge four-wheeled carts, each pulled by six horses, were lined up in front of the main doors as Fat Henry moved his furniture and belongings elsewhere for another round of pleasure. The royal standard of England no longer fluttered on its pole, a sign that Henry and Wolsey had already departed with a small advance party though Doctor Agrippa had remained, waiting for us in our chamber. 'You had a useful visit to the city?' 'Interesting,' my master replied.
Agrippa, like a little spider in his black garments, came up beside Benjamin and handed him a small sheaf of documents and two fat purses.
'Your uncle wishes you a safe journey. This silver will ease your passage and there are the usual letters of accreditation.'
I took down our saddle bags from the hook in the wall and flung them on the bed.
'And you, my good doctor?' I asked. 'You will stay safely in London?'
Agrippa crept near me, pushing his face close to mine. I caught his strange perfume and gazed into those clear, glasslike eyes.
'I wish I could go, Roger,' he murmured. 'I wish I could die, but my time has not come.' Benjamin watched us both strangely.
'Then what is all this?' I asked, refusing to be cowed. 'Why do you talk of death? Agrippa, have you no flicker of friendship for us? What does my Lord Cardinal think will happen at Templecombe? And what does the tortured brain of that royal madman really want?'
Agrippa's face softened. He blinked, and when I looked again, his eyes were light blue, childlike in their innocence.
'Roger, Roger,' he whispered, ‘I am the Cardinal's man in peace and war, at least for the next ten years. But when the prophecy is fulfilled and the cow rides the bull and the priest's skull is smashed, I shall be free.'
(At the time I had not a clue what he was talking about but, in hindsight, he was, of course, referring to Boleyn's ascendancy over Fat Henry and Wolsey falling like a star from the sky of royal preferment.)
'Before you leave,' Agrippa continued, 'for friendship's sake, I will give you this advice: Age Circumspecte. Act wisely!' Then he spun on his heel and left the chamber.
Oh, well, we forgot Agrippa's strange advice as the next few days passed. Benjamin remained locked in the sombre mood which had dogged him since he had witnessed Buckingham's execution. Where possible he would seize scraps of parchment and draw lines, muttering to himself and scratching his head.
I was left to my own devices. I wandered back into the city and even thought of revisiting my old haunts but, near Whitefriars, a counterfeit man recognised me. Instead of the usual friendly salutations, he scuttled away down the alleyway to sell his information to men like Waller and others to whom I owed debts. A petite, pleasant-faced doxy, however, caught my eye and for a few hours I became old Shallot again, whiling away the time, telling the most outrageous stories and making her laugh both in the taproom and on her feather-filled mattress in the chamber above.
Lovely, lovely girl! She had eyes as bright as buttons, a sharp wit and the most beautiful pair of shoulders I have ever clapped eyes on. Ah, well, she's gone, for golden girls and golden boys must, in their turn, go to dust. A nice little phrase. I coined it but my good friend Will Shakespeare seized it for himself. That's the way with scribblers, they are for ever borrowing other people's quotations.
Refreshed and a little more composed after my love tryst, I went back to Richmond where Benjamin asked me to accompany Southgate to collect stores from the Tower. I reluctantly agreed and we went in silence down the mist-shrouded Thames to that narrow, evil fortress. We had to wait awhile; the troops there were drilling in preparation for being shipped to some Godforsaken town in the Low Countries to wage one of Fat Henry's futile, forgotten wars.
Now you will hear the old buggers tell you how their hearts are kindled and the blood bubbles in their veins at the prospect of war: banners snapping angrily in the breeze; war horses caparisoned for battle pawing the ground; brave young men in shining armour, their faces flushed with the prospect of war; swords sharpened, helmets plumed. It's a load of bollocks! That's how it begins but it ends in maimed bodies, chopped limbs, blood spurting like fountains. Green grass turning rusty brown, rivers choked with corpses.
Always remember old Shallot's military theories. First, where possible, run! Secondly, if that's not possible, surrender. Thirdly, volunteers never live till pay day. And I know! I have fought in too many battles and lost my boy in one, the only child of my third wife. I called him Benjamin because he wasn't like me, rotten and twisted, but tall and noble. A brave heart, oh sweet Jesus, he went to Ireland with Essex's armies and died in the bogs of Antrim. Oh, Lord, I miss him still! It's true what the Greeks say: 'Those whom the Gods love always die young'. In which case I'll live for bloody ever!
At the Tower, on that distant autumn day, the young men were preparing for war. The smithies were busy beating the rivets of armour into place, fashioning sallets, lances, swords and all the necessary equipment for killing. The young men practised in the dusty yards, swinging swords against each other or dodging the deadly quintain, the stuffed dummy with a club on either end so, if you didn't move quickly enough, you got a nasty bruise on your head. Old Shallot, as always, kept well away from this but Southgate seemed fascinated by it. After we had collected what we came for, he returned for one more look and broke his disdainful silence.
'I wish I was going to war.' His chilling blue eyes stared at me. 'Don't you, Shallot?' 'Oh, yes,' I lied. 'I dream of it every day.'
Southgate smirked. 'When we get to Templecombe, you'll wish you had.' He flicked a hand at the sweating soldiers. 'At least they'll know their enemy.'
We left Richmond two days later, early in the morning, just after first mass. Our small cortege milled about in the courtyard near the large double-barred gate of the palace.
Mandeville and Southgate slouched on their horses, both dressed in leather quilted jackets, their feet encased in long riding boots. They were armed with dirks, swords and daggers and wore large travelling cloaks. Behind them, as if carved in stone, were their two secretaries, Cosmas and Damien, who sat pulling their horses' reins, eyes fixed intently on Mandeville. A short distance away were the Santerres: Sir John shouting orders and beside him his wife, riding side-saddle, her desire to leave apparent in the agitated remarks she made to her husband. Rachel looked as pretty as a picture, her lovely body warmly covered by a grey riding cloak lined with miniver fur. The rest were servants and grooms with our baggage piled on a sturdy, four-wheeled cart.
'Mistress Santerre looks beautiful,' I whispered to Benjamin. 'She puts us all to shame. I tell you this, Master, if we met a pretty maid I suspect she'd fall in love with one of the horses before she took to any of us!'
Benjamin laughed. 'I just hope we will be safe, Roger,' he murmured.
'Oh, Lord save us, of course, Master! As bullocks on thin ice.'
(Looking back, I wish I hadn't said that. Words uttered in haste often have a prophetic ring to them; within a month Benjamin and I would be fighting for our lives on icy waters in Somerset.)
Soon we were ready. Mandeville, who saw himself as the King's own commissioner and therefore self-appointed leader, shouted orders; the great gates swung open, and he led us out. As we rode towards London, one of Mandeville's secretaries unfurled the pennant on a pole he carried bearing the royal arms of England, showing all and sundry that we carried the King's own warrant. As we passed people stood back on either side, loud-mouthed apprentices and washerwomen in leather clogs stopping their noisy clatter and waiting for us to pass. We reached the muddy cobbles of the city, going through Bowyers Row and up towards Cripplegate. On the corner of Carter Lane, with the mass of St Paul's cathedral towering above us, we had to pause whilst labourers using ward hooks pulled down the still smouldering, blackening timbers of a burnt-out tenement to ensure no spark ignited neighbouring houses.
At last a city official, wearing the blue and mustard livery of the Corporation, decided the burnt-out tenement had been sufficiently destroyed and we were allowed to pass on. Now, as I have said, Mandeville led us, the Santerres behind with their small retinue whilst we were at the back just before the cart. I looked hungrily around, drinking in the sights of London: the beaver hats, lined with green velvet, of the wealthy merchants, the shabby caps of the artisans and, above all, the ornate head-dresses covered in clouds of gauze of the court ladies stepping out for a morning's shopping. We reached St Paul's, the great copper eagle on its weather vane dazzling in the weak sunlight. (I remember it well for the sun shortly afterwards disappeared and we did not see it for weeks.) We had to halt as cartloads of bones dug up from the cemetery were taken down Paternoster Row to the enamel house.
As we did so, a ragged urchin slipped from the crowd and passed a piece of parchment to Sir John Santerre. I was about to tell my master when we heard the sounds of music coming from beyond the wall of St Paul's. Benjamin waved me over and we looked through the open gate. A group of musicians stood in the angle of one of the buttresses of the cathedral playing tambour and fife whilst the Dean and Chapter, garlands of roses on their heads, danced in solemn procession around the severed head of a buck which had been placed on a pole, its brown eyes staring glassily over those who now rejoiced at its death. At the foot of the pole the succulent body of the deer lay sprawled, blood still seeping from the severed arteries of its neck. I stared in astonishment at Benjamin.
'It's a custom,' my master muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Every month the city verderers have to deliver a fat buck for the Dean's kitchen; in thanksgiving the Dean and Chapter perform this dance.' He cleared his throat. 'God knows why, when they call themselves churchmen.'
I looked at the sleek, well-fed clerics performing their silly jigs.
'It's hard to decide, Master, which are fatter, they or the buck.' 'Never mind that,' he murmured. 'Did you see that message being slipped to our bluff Sir John?' I nodded. 'I wonder what it said, Roger?'
'God knows, Master. Your uncle weaves such tangled webs!'
We heard Mandeville calling us and continued our journey up towards Cripplegate, forcing our way through the lawyers and Serjeants of the coif who were assembling outside the door of the Priory of St Elsing-Spital for their last mass of the Michaelmas term.
We reached the old city walls and passed through the gates. Above us the decapitated heads of traitors, crowned with laurels or ivy, gazed down at us, their eyes and mouths turned black by the pecking of ravens. We had to pause awhile as the body of a suicide, dragged by the feet, was taken by city bailiffs to be dumped in the city ditch. This was followed by a cart full of putrid offal, heading for one of the brooks near the Barbican. A beggar ran alongside the cart and came whining towards us, hands extended. Mandeville drove him away so he passed further down the group and tugged at Benjamin's leg. 'Master, Master, a penny, a penny!'
Benjamin's hand went to his wallet and he gasped as he stared down at the beggar. Despite the ragged head-dress and mud-stained face, I recognised our good Doctor Agrippa.
'Age Circumspecte!’ he hissed and disappeared into the crowd. 'What does he mean?' I asked. 'He told us that before.'
'A pun, Roger. The old Latin tag, "Act wisely", perhaps a warning about the Agentes?
'Magnificent!' I murmured. As if I hadn't realised that already. We reached Red Cross where the city dwellings gave way to fields and small copses and, an hour later, we were in the open countryside.
I won't bore you with the details of our journey across southern England. The roads were still hard so travel was fast and easy as Mandeville used the royal messenger service to obtain good food and warm beds at priories, monasteries, taverns or royal manors. We travelled in three distinct groups: the Agentes, the Santerres and ourselves.
No one was really at ease. Lady Beatrice ignored my wandering eye, young Rachel dared only smile shyly at us, whilst the Agentes were a law unto themselves. Southgate and Mandeville, their two mutes behind them, travelled at the head of the procession, whispering to each other. My master, preoccupied with Hopkins's riddle drew me into discussion about its meaning, only to reach the conclusion it would tell us nothing until we had reached Glastonbury or Templecombe.
For the rest, when the opportunity presented itself, we questioned Sir John about the legends of Arthur, the Grail and the wonders of Glastonbury Abbey, but never once were the Templars mentioned, as if they were a forbidden subject, a treasonable offence even to refer to them.
Twenty years ago I took the same journey to look at the ruins of Glastonbury, destroyed by Fat Henry and his evil spirit, Thomas Cromwell. Sad, nostalgic, the countryside had hardly changed and, if I closed my eyes at certain parts, I was back with Master Benjamin and all those people, now long dead, travelling to a place where conspiracy, treason and sudden death became part of the very fabric of our lives.
The only difference then was the weather for it turned cold and hard, the clouds massing thick above us as if the sky intended to fall and crush out all life on the face of the earth. A cold, biting wind chilled our fingers and stiffened the muscles of our body and, just as we crossed into Somerset, the long-awaited snow began to fall. At first in soft flurries but, by the time the gables, spires and turrets of Glastonbury came into view, a veritable blizzard raged.
Now I am an old cynic. I have seen men and women betray and kill each other without batting an eyelid. (So much so that, although I believe in God, my great difficulty is accepting that he believes in us!) Glastonbury, however, would challenge the most hardened hearts, a place of mystery and mysticism which catches you by the throat and provokes the mind to strange dreams.
The land itself is relatively free from trees, low, flat and well beneath sea level. The abbey was great and sprawling, a veritable palace behind its high walls and, from the brow of a small hill, Sir John Santerre pointed out the chapel, the abbey church, the cloisters, the hall, the abbot's kitchen, guest houses and gardens, all quite distinct in spite of the falling snow.
However, what caught my imagination was the great Tor or hill overlooking the abbey which jutted like a giant's finger up towards the heavens, making the small church on its summit a most suitable meeting-place between God and man. If the abbey was a marvel of man's work, the Tor was God's answer for in that flat land it looked like one of the high places mentioned in the bible where the ancient patriarchs went to talk to Yahweh. Even Mandeville and Southgate murmured in admiration. Benjamin and I just stared speechlessly down at the abbey, then up at the great Tor.
'Oh, yes,' Santerre declared proudly. 'This, gentlemen, is Avalon. The island of glass, the island of apples, Arthur's last resting place. Once,' he continued, 'everything beneath the great Tor was covered in marsh, meres and pools, but the monks have drained these dry and turned the land into one of God's great wonders.' I forgot the falling snow and biting wind. 'What is that?' I pointed to the great Tor.
'What you see, Master Shallot. A high place,' Santerre replied. 'Sacred even before Christ was born. The ancient tribes used to come here by boat, led by their leader the Fisher King, to worship on the Tor. Some people say,' he lowered his voice, 'that inside the hill are secret passageways, halls and chambers used by the ancient ones. People have entered its secret paths and entrances and have either never returned or, if they were fortunate enough to do so, came out with their minds mazed, their wits scattered.' 'And why should Arthur come here?' Benjamin asked.
To be healed,' Santerre replied. "There has always been a monastery here but, in ancient times, when the meadows were flooded you had to use secret routes and pathways to reach it. Arthur's great fortress lies further north at Cadbury, a huge hill which still bears the remnants of a formidable fortress. Legend says Arthur's Sword was thrown into one of the pools here after the Grail, kept in the monastery, was brought to him too late. If he had drunk from it, the wounds received in his last dreadful battle against his nephew Mordred would have healed. So, Arthur now lies buried beneath the Abbey.' Santerre wiped the snowflakes from his face as he stared round at us.
‘Chilling legends,' Mandeville interrupted, his dark face damp with snow. 'But, remember, we are here on the King's own business and the legends of this place sent Buckingham to his death.'
With that he kicked his horse forward and we made our way down the trackway to the ornately carved gateway of Glastonbury Abbey. A porter let us in and we were taken into a great yard. Lay brothers hurried about, unpacking the carts, and we were escorted into the spacious, white stone guest house: a large solar on the ground floor with above it chambers for each of the abbot's guests. Servitors took our wet clothing and served us cups of mulled wine, followed by earthenware bowls full of a meaty soup which warmed our hands and removed the chill from our stomachs.
We sat in chairs before a great log fire. Only when we were rested and our bags unpacked did the abbot, Richard Bere, together with a young sub-prior and other monks of the abbey, enter the guest house to greet us. Bere was a frail, white-haired man, one vein-streaked hand clutching an ash cane, the other resting on the arm of the sub-prior. (A great man, Bere. He carried out many building works at Glastonbury. After him came poor old Richard Whitting, who was abbot when Cromwell sent his agents in. Whitting died a horrible death. The abbey was plundered and pillaged, its treasures looted, its roofs pulled off, and what was once man's homage to God became a nesting place for foxes, ravens and kites. Ah, well, enough of that.)
On that cold, snow-laden winter day Bere and his brethren were most welcoming, but the abbot's anxious lined face and short-sighted eyes betrayed his fear at having the powerful Agentes within the sacred walls of the abbey. He had a pathetic wish to please and I hated Mandeville for his arrogance as he rapped out his orders. We would stay the night, transfer our baggage to sumpter ponies and make our way to Templecombe, he instructed.
'But,' Mandeville boomed, standing over the abbot, ‘we shall return, Reverend Father, to ask questions about the traitor Hopkins. You will produce any memoranda or books held by him and, above all, the manuscript he was so fond of studying with its doggerel verses which drew him and others into the blackest treason.'
'We are the King's loyal servants,' murmured Bere defiantly. 'Brother Hopkins, God rest him, was a man lost in the past but the manuscript he studied will be handed over.'
He smiled at all of us, nodding courteously to Lady Beatrice, then with his silent monks around him, walked wearily out of the guest house. We rose early the next morning awoken by the clanging of the abbey bells. I opened the shuttered window to look out on a countryside blanketed in snow. The blizzard had passed but the sky threatened more. We gingerly broke the ice in the washing bowl, washed, changed and joined the others in the small refectory below.
A lay brother came over and took us into the abbey church to hear morning mass and, believe me, for the glory is now gone, the abbey church of Glastonbury was the nearest thing to heaven on earth. Soaring pillars, cupolas and cornices leafed with gold; huge walls covered in brilliant, multi-hued pictures depicting scenes from the bible. The Lady Chapel in blue, red and gold marble; the choir and rood screen of carved, gleaming oak which shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles. The air was sweet with incense which wafted round the marble high altar like the spirits of the blessed.
So much space, so much beauty. The choir stalls were each carefully sculptured and the wood polished till it shone like burnished gold. Banners of different colours, scarlet, red, green and blue, hung from the hammer-timbered roof whilst around the church were carved statuettes of the most breath-taking beauty depicting the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, St Patrick, and the whole heavenly host. I knelt and gazed around in astonishment.
Yet now it is all gone, nothing left. Henry's agents saw to that. I know many of you are of the reformed faith and in your minds perhaps rightly so, but if you had seen what I saw then, you'd still mourn. You'd weep at the destruction of such sheer glory.
After mass a lay brother offered to take us on a tour of the church and other interesting sights of the abbey. The Santerres demurred, Rachel claiming she felt unwell, but Mandeville and Southgate eagerly joined us. We were shown the great marble slab covering Arthur's coffin and the chalice well which provided water for the brothers. My master peered down this as if expecting to see a vision at the bottom.
'Is it true,' he asked, 'that the Grail might lie beneath the waters of this well?'
The seamed, yellow face of the old lay brother broke into a grin.
'So legend says,' he wheezed. 'Many have searched yet nothing has been found.'
We also visited the holy thorn, a wild rose bush supposedly sprung from Joseph of Arimathea's staff. I tell you this – the legend is true. Even in that bitter weather the plant was beginning to blossom and, when it bloomed at Christmas, the abbot as was customary would send a cutting to the King. After this, at Mandeville's insistence, the old brother took us into the library, a long room, its walls covered with heaped shelves of books. Benjamin's hands positively itched to take down the leather, jewel-embossed tomes (so did mine for other reasons), but Mandeville shook his head.
'We have seen enough for today,' he murmured. 'Such matters are to be examined at our leisure. Templecombe's our destination. We must be there by noon.'
We returned to the guest house and found our companions ready to leave. Outside in the courtyard lay brothers were moving baggage from the carts to sumpter ponies whose iron-shod hooves scraped the cobbles, their hot breath hanging like clouds as they whinnied in protest at being taken from their warm stables. I searched out Rachel. She still looked pale so I plucked up courage to speak. 'Mistress, is there anything wrong?' She smiled thinly. 'Nothing, Roger.' (How I thrilled at her use of my first name!)
The journey has been exhausting and I will be glad to be home.' I would have dallied longer but the venerable Bere came down to wish us farewell. Mandeville was as curt as ever. He leaned over, patting his horse's withers.
'Father Abbot,' he declared for all to hear, 'we thank you for your hospitality but we shall return. Certain questions need to be asked to which truthful answers must be given.'
He then gave the order to move off and led us out of the abbey gate.
Our journey was cold and uncomfortable, a brutal reminder of the comforts we had left behind. The sky, grey and lowering, threatened more snow whilst the previous day's fall carpeted the hedgerows and fields, choking the ditches and making the trackways slippery and dangerous. Never once did we stop even in Templecombe village but made our way through the sleepy hamlet, the houses on either side all boarded up, the only sign of life being columns of smoke and the occasional villager foraging on the outskirts for fire-wood. These seemed happy enough – burly, red-faced peasants who doffed their caps and shouted salutations to their Lord of the Manor, genuinely pleased to greet his return.
We were making our way up a trackway towards the main gate of the manor when suddenly an old hag slipped out of the trees on one side of the path and stood squarely in front of Mandeville. She was a veritable night bird in a dirty cloak with a hood half-covering her greying wisps of hair. Her face was lined and raddled, the toothless mouth slack, displaying reddened gums, yet her eyes were full of life. She wiped her dripping, hooked nose, clasped her hands together and cackled. Believe me, if I had seen her in any other place, I would have dismissed her as a witch from a mummer's play. One of those old beldames who like to proclaim themselves keepers of secret mysteries. But this old bird was more sinister, a veritable crow, a harbinger of bad news. Mandeville gestured at her to get out of his way. She just laughed and stepped back, her eyes bright with malice.
'Welcome to Templecombe!' Her voice was surprisingly strong and powerful. She made a mock bow. 'Sir John Santerre, your lovely wife and the beautiful Rachel.' The old crone licked at the saliva frothing on her lips. 'Get out of my way, woman!' Mandeville ordered.
'Yes, I will. I will.' The old crone cringed back. 'When I have told you my news.' Mandeville leaned forward. 'And what news is that?'
'There will be deaths!' the old woman proclaimed, one bony finger streaking up to the grey clouds. 'Death by fire! Death by iron! Death by rope! Death by water! And you, Sir Edmund Mandeville, emissary of a king who is not a king, the hand of death lies over you! The Midnight Destroyer sits at your right elbow whilst the Lord Satan squats at your left. You all,' she screamed, her eyes blazing,*you all have entered the Valley of Death!'
'What do you mean?' Southgate shouted. No languid lisping now, I noted.
The old woman sagged, her chin falling to her breast. She looked up from under grey, bushy eyebrows. 'You have had your news, now I'll be gone!'
And, before any of us could do anything, she flitted like a ghost back into the trees. Mandeville glared furiously at Sir John Santerre. 'Who the devil was that?' 'One of your tenants, sir?' Southgate accused.
Santerre shrugged. 'She's a crazed old woman who says she has visions. She's lived in a hut in a clearing just beyond the trees for God knows how long.' His eyes were lowered. 'Some people call her mad. Others say she is Hecate, Queen of the Night.'
'She's just an old woman.' Rachel spoke up, her voice muffled behind her cloak. 'Pay no attention to her, sirs. She's a veritable Cassandra who sees doom and death in the flight of a sparrow.'
Mandeville coughed and spat. 'If she accosts me again’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll burn the bitch!'
And on that uncomfortable note we continued our way along the track. A porter opened the double-barred gate, shouting a welcome to the Santerres as he led us along the old causeway which wound past birch, oak and yew trees up to the front of the house.