The group at the high table – Sir John, Lady Beatrice, Rachel, Mandeville and the white-faced Damien – had already broken their fast. Sir John clicked his fingers and servants placed a trencher before me with strips of dry bacon, small white loaves and a pot of thick creamy butter; blackjacks of ale were also served.
I gazed around and noticed how white and drawn everyone was. I smiled cheerfully, wished everyone a good morning and began to stuff the food into my mouth. Benjamin, of course, was more courteous. (A proper courtier, my master. He would have shamed an angel with his table manners.) He sipped from a tankard and stared at Mandeville. 'Sir, my condolences on the death of your secretary.' Mandeville nodded slightly. 'Death, Master Daunbey. Death?'
Benjamin coughed. 'No, sir, you are Correct. The word is murder.'
'But how?' Sir John stuttered. 'How in God's name, in my house? The man's chamber was locked. There are no secret entrances or passageways.' He looked away. 'At least not in that room.' Benjamin smiled. 'So some exist?'
'Well, of course,' Santerre stammered. He shifted his feet nervously. 'Here, beneath us, are cellars and passageways.
The Templars often used them.' He smiled faintly. 'Now, I store my wines, wood for the fire and coals there, nothing singular.'
'What makes you think it's murder?' Mandeville asked sharply.
'Because, sir, beds do not explode into flames,' Benjamin replied. 'If my observations are correct, the mattress and blankets were turned into a roaring inferno within seconds. The braziers had not been moved, the fire was dead, the candle had spluttered out. And yet a powerful fire must have started so quickly it gave poor Cosmas no time even to get out of bed.' Benjamin sipped from his tankard. 'But who or why or how,' he continued, 'is as much a mystery to you as it is to me, Sir Edmund.
'As you say, the door was locked, no one else was in the room and the fire was meant to kill swiftly, expertly, and with little damage to anyone else. Go and check the chamber. The ceiling is of plaster and would take hours to ignite. The walls and floor are of stone. In many another house, the flames would have spread along the top story, but not here. Our murderer knew that!'
'But the bed and blankets,' I intervened (Old Shallot being intent on delivering his pennysworth!), 'would be as dry as tinder.'
'And why didn't Cosmas get out of the bed?' Santerre asked. 'Because,' Benjamin answered, 'he was seriously maimed. But how?' He shook his head. 'You think he was murdered?' Santerre asked. 'Yes, I have said so but…’
Mandeville tapped the top of the table with his empty tankard and glanced accusingly at Santerre. 'The question really is, who was behind this attack?'
Sir John pushed back his chair, his red face bristling with rage. 'Are you accusing me, Sir Edmund, or my family or servants? If so, say it!' He breathed in deeply through his nostrils. 'Remember where we are, Sir Edmund. This is not London but the South-West of England. Memories die hard here. Edward Stafford, my late Lord of Buckingham, was much loved and respected, so remember that. I can no more vouch for the loyalty of every one of my tenants than His Grace the King or my Lord Cardinal can guarantee the loyalty of every Englishman.
'Secondly…' Santerre paused to consider what he was about to say.
'Do go on,' Southgate put in silkily. The bastard was really enjoying himself.
'Secondly,' Santerre continued hastily, ignoring his wife's warning glance, 'memories of the Templars still survive here. In their time they were regarded as great magicians who brought prosperity to these parts. They had a reputation as healers, good lords who possessed the secrets of both heaven and earth. Do you think,' he looked straight at Mandeville and I admired the fellow's courage, 'do you really think, Sir Edmund Mandeville, that the people of these parts don't know the true reason for your presence here? That they do not know what you seek as well as your intention of rooting out any trace of an ancient order? Above all, they must know of your part in the destruction of my Lord of Buckingham as, God be my witness, I know mine!'
'Are you saying,' Southgate accused, 'that you sympathise with the dead Duke?'
'No, sir, I do not!' Santerre bellowed. 'And pray do not put words in my mouth. My Lord of Buckingham came here. He sat at this very table and, when he was gone, your two creatures came and asked me what he said. I told the truth. The rest was in your hands.'
Santerre pulled his chair back to the table. 'God knows,' he concluded softly, 'some of the Duke's blood may be on my hands.' He stared round the hall. 'I am not of these parts,' he continued, 'I was Hampshire born.' Santerre clutched his wife's hand firmly in his. 'But when I married Lady Beatrice, she took my name and I took her house. I came here to be a good lord as well as the King's most loyal servant! Think of that, Sir Edmund, before you sit at my table and hint about who was responsible for the death of your secretary! God knows, it wasn't me or mine!'
Southgate sneered. Mandeville simply stroked his dark face as if weighing up carefully what he was to do next.
'Sirs,' Benjamin intervened tactfully, 'before any judgement is passed, we must recognise the truth of what Sir John says. My Lord of Buckingham was of these parts. We have come here to disturb legends which are a part of the very soil of these lands. Sir Edmund Mandeville, think about what has been said. Your two agents, Calcraft and Warnham, may have been followed to London and killed by one of the Duke's retainers or by these secret Templars. Sir John cannot be held responsible for the loyalty of every one of his servants, and Cosmas's death, God rest him, is a mystery.'
'What intrigues me,' I asserted, 'is that the witch we met yesterday prophesied such a death. Don't you remember, Sir Edmund? Death by fire, by rope, by steel and by water? And may I remind you that none of us were exempt from that curse.' My words created an eerie silence. *I should have had that witch brought in!' Mandeville cursed.
"The witch can't be blamed,' Rachel declared softly. 'She only spoke the truth: this house is haunted. The spirits of the Templars wander its passageways and galleries. Cosmas's death is not the first tragedy to have occurred here.' Her face hardened. 'Oh, yes, there have been other deaths here, haven't there, Mother?' She did not wait for a reply. 'My own father was killed in a riding accident. Servants have slipped downstairs. An old nurse hanged herself in one of the barns. A gardener was found drowned in the lake. Suicides, or so the coroner declared.' Rachel's sombre words chilled all our souls. 'Is this true?' Benjamin asked her parents.
Santerre nodded. Lady Beatrice rubbed her face in her hands, distraught, losing her air of frosty self-possession.
'Yes,' she answered reluctantly. 'Many say this house is haunted. The common people do not blame me or my husband for Buckingham's downfall but say his fate was star-crossed by this house. Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could burn the entire building to the ground!' 'We could always make a start,' Southgate quipped.
'Nonsense!' Benjamin replied. 'True, I accept the legions of hell are all around us. We fight, as St Paul says, against an invisible foe. Ghosts may walk but so do murderers. Cosmas's death had more to do with flesh and blood than curses, witches or ghosts.' He smiled bleakly at Rachel. 'Though I agree that the old witch has a most singular gift for prophecy. Sir Edmund Mandeville is correct – perhaps she should be brought in for questioning. However, before we consider that, let's establish if anyone went into Cosmas's room.'
Damien the mute had been watching my master's hps intently. He tugged me by the sleeve and pointed to Santerre's wife.
'Lady Beatrice, did you go into Cosmas's chamber?' Mandeville asked.
'Yes, earlier in the day I did. I am mistress of this house and I have to see that all is well.' 'As did I,' Sir John added. 'For the same reason.'
‘I saw a maid going in,' Southgate declared. 'A brown-haired lass with a white coif on her head. She was carrying blankets and linen.'
'That would be Mathilda,' Sir John replied. 'But she's a simple country girl with hardly a thought in her head. Nevertheless, I'll question her.'
'I don't think a maid,' Benjamin asserted, 'would plot murder. Sir John, how long did yesterday's evening meal last?' 'About two hours.'
Benjamin stared down at the table top. 'Roger was the first to leave, then you, Master Southgate, followed by Lady Beatrice and Sir John. Finally you, sir,' he pointed at Mandeville, 'with your two clerks.' 'And what time did you leave?' Southgate asked.
Benjamin blushed. 'I didn't. Lady Rachel and I remained here. She collected a book from her father's library containing all the Arthurian legends, a copy of Malory's Arthur of Britain and the Knights of the Round Table.’
My heart chilled and I gnawed at my lip to hide my disappointment. Rachel had caught my eye but it seemed her interest was in my master rather than me. 'What are you implying?' Mandeville asked.
'I am implying nothing. I'm just curious if anyone visited poor Cosmas's chamber.'
A chorus of denials greeted his question. Mandeville stood and picked up his cloak, thrown over the back of a chair.
'We were to travel to Glastonbury today but first I must deal with this dreadful business. Sir John, I will need some sort of box to serve as a coffin for poor Cosmas. This can be placed in your manor chapel and perhaps tomorrow, on our way to Glastonbury, we can leave it at the village church. I also have letters to write. His Grace the King will not be pleased by what I have to say. Master Southgate?'
Both the Agentes took their leave, followed by a silent, doleful Damien. Lady Beatrice and Rachel murmured their excuses whilst Sir John stretched, grumbling that it was all a dreadful business but the affairs of the estate demanded his attention.
Benjamin watched him leave. 'I wonder where Sir John is really going?' he muttered.
'If he had any sense he'd stay here and keep an eye on his daughter,' I quipped back. 'You did not tell me, Master, that you spent the night down here in the hall playing cat's-cradle with Mistress Rachel?'
Benjamin smiled. 'She's beautiful, isn't she, Roger? But she's not for you and she's certainly not for me. This is no game. We are surrounded by death, murder, plot and counter-plot. There is no time for dalliance. Trust no one except me until this matter is finished.'
He stared round. 'Roger, despite the quilted cushions, the golden clocks, the silver spoons and Venetian goblets, this house has the stink of death about it. I did not wish openly to agree with her but Mistress Rachel was correct. There is something about this place which reeks of ancient sin and, the sooner our task is completed, the better.' 'Do you think the secret Templars exist?' I asked.
'Possibly. Such societies or covens batten on their own secrecy. They create an exclusive world and, despite its green fields and pleasant villages, the King is right – England seethes with discontent. Great lords with Yorkist blood in their veins hold high office. There's a growing dislike of the Church. The Scots still threaten in the north whilst in Europe great alliances are formed which leave England isolated. In such an atmosphere secret societies like the Templars flourish. You'll always find the strongest weeds on a dung hill.' 'And the Grail and Excalibur?'
Benjamin shrugged. 'The King wants them or, more importantly, if he can't have them, he wants to make sure no one else does. I cannot make sense of that rhyme. What are the waters of Jordan?' He pulled a face at me. 'That's why I was talking to our young beauty last night. Is there, in this God forsaken place, some stream, river, house or church bearing the name Jordan? And where could Moses' Ark possibly be?' 'And could she help?'
'No, nor could her father – or so Mandeville told me last night after you had retired. So Master Hopkins's riddle is still shrouded in mystery.' 'Did he leave any papers?'
'None whatsoever. According to Mandeville, before he left for his fateful journey to London, Hopkins cleared out his entire chamber, the very one you are now using.' Benjamin pointed to the fire flickering in the great hearth. 'He stripped his chamber of everything, and what he couldn't burn, he destroyed.' 'A strange act.'
Benjamin shrugged. 'Perhaps he had a premonition about what might happen in London. Or maybe someone gave him a warning. Or perhaps he knew that Warnham and Calcraft in Buckingham's retinue were really the King's agents.' Benjamin sighed. 'Whatever, Master Hopkins took his secret to the grave.' He leaned closer. 'Roger,' he whispered, 'I wish to stay here, but you go back to your chamber, collect your boots, cloak and that broad-brimmed hat you wear. Sir John will leave within the hour. When he does, I want you to follow him from afar off. I know it will be hard in a snow-covered countryside but see where he goes to.'
The prospect didn't appeal to me but, there again, neither did the thought of lounging around Templecombe. So I slipped back upstairs, taking more careful note of my surroundings, particularly the small gargoyle's heads in the cornices of the ceilings and, above all, the great blackened Beauce crosses. Why hadn't they faded with time? Were they being constantly re-painted and gilded as some sort of memorial to that ancient secretive order? I reached the chamber, found the door half-open and cursed my own stupidity. I don't trust myself and, apart from Benjamin, I certainly didn't trust anyone else yet I had forgotten to take the key down with me.
I pushed the door open quietly. A young woman sat with her back to me on the far side of the great four-poster bed. Her head was covered in a white coif with a white shawl shaped in the form of a triangle going down her back like a liripipe. I heard the clink of coins, smiled and tiptoed round the bed.
'Good morrow, Mistress,' I said, leaning against a bedpost. I glanced at my purse in her lap and the coins scattered on the bed beside her. 'Do I owe you something?'
The young woman just stared back like a frightened rabbit. I caught a glimpse of auburn hair and large blue eyes in a suntanned face. She seemed to be about seventeen or eighteen years old.
'I asked you a question, Mistress. Do I owe you some money? If not,' I continued sarcastically, 'can you tell me why my purse is in your hand?'
I stepped closer and the young woman rose and made to flee but I seized her by the wrist. She struggled.
'I am sorry,' she pleaded, her voice betraying a thick country burr. 'Oh, sir, I am sorry but I saw it lying there and the temptation was too much for me.'
I pulled the girl closer, caught the faint perfume of lavender and roses and noted appreciatively how, under the brown smock, her plump breasts rose and fell in agitation. 'You're Mathilda, aren't you?'
'Yes, sir, I'm the chambermaid and I am also responsible for the linen cupboard.' 'And you prepared the beds for Sir John's guests?' The girl nodded, still wide-eyed. 'Including the bed of the man who died?'
Now the girl's face paled. 'Yes, sir, but as I have told Sir John and Master Devil…' I laughed at the girl's pun on Mandeville's name. With his black garb, Italianate features and fearsome reputation, Sir Edmund must appear as Master Lucifer himself to the peasants of Templecombe Manor.
'I saw nothing untoward,' she repeated. 'You are hurting me, sir, let go of my wrist!'
'Why should I? You are a thief. You could be hanged for what you have done.' I looked at her in mock sternness. She caught the mischief in my eyes and pressed against me.
'Oh, come, sir,' she said. 'Perhaps you could give me one of these coins and send me away with a beating? I have been wicked.'
She pressed her body closer against me. I could feel her soft breasts and noted how slender and long her neck was. I released her hand and grasped her firmly by the buttocks, small but ripe. The girl touched the leather belt round my waist. 'You could use that,' she said thickly.
Well, you know Old Shallot. Like a jousting knight, my lance was ready! The girl's body was curved and slender and my hands were straying to the ribbons on her bodice. Then I thought again. Old Shallot's rule: never force yourself on a woman. And, like the romantic fool I was, I thought Mathilda was only offering herself in an act of desperation. I tapped her gently, picked up a silver coin and thrust it into her soft, warm hand. 'Don't do it again,' I growled. 'Now, begone!'
I heard her trip across the floor and the door closed behind her. I stood, eyes closed, congratulating myself on my newly found sanctity – then cursed at the sharp knock on the door. I went across and threw it open, exasperated that my holy moment had been so brutally shattered. Mathilda stood there, her bodice unlaced, breasts as ripe as any fruit, half-spilling out of her dress.
‘I really do think,' she murmured mischievously, 'that I deserve correction.'
Well, what could I say? Old Shallot has another rule: never resist temptation twice. And within five minutes, we were both as naked as when we were born, bouncing merrily across the great four-poster bed. She was young and vigorous, a warm and comely maid, and what she lacked in skill, Mathilda certainly made up for in enthusiasm. She laughed and screamed until I had to smother her mouth with kisses. Even now, years later, I still remember poor Mathilda. A small, warm flash of sunlight in that grim, murderous place.
Sometime after, pleasantly exhausted, I collected my horse from the stable, saddled it and led it down the causeway out of the manor gate. A fresh sheet of snow had fallen in the night which now lay two or three inches thick, the cold wind freezing it hard. The countryside looked like some vision of hell; white, silent fields and black trees against a grey sky. Rooks cawed as they foraged hungrily for food but, apart from that, nothing except the eerie, deathly silence of a countryside in the grip of winter. Lord save us, I would have given a bag of silver for the sounds and smells of old Cheapside! I had already gathered from the groom that Sir John had not left so, when I came to a small copse of trees, I took my horse deep inside, hobbled it and sat on a boulder. I sipped from a wineskin, remembering Mathilda's warm charms and waiting for Sir John to come. My buttocks began to freeze and I was wondering whether to return when I heard the clop of the horse's hooves and glimpsed Sir John riding vigorously by.
Despite the icy ground underneath, he was urging his large roan horse on with all his might. A few minutes later I followed, using dips and bends in the track to keep myself hidden. He reached the crossroads, deserted except for a lonely scaffold post and the rotting cadaver of a hanged man still in its gibbet jacket. I watched Sir John take the path to Glastonbury and knew there was little point in tracking him any further. The Lord of the Manor had apparently lied to us. He must have some urgent business with the monks to make this cold, lonely journey.
I turned my horse back, looking forward to the warmth of Templecombe Manor and feeling rather sleepy after my exertions with young Mathilda. The turrets and gables of Templecombe were almost in sight beyond the trees when my horse whinnied and shook me awake. A group of masked men had slipped like ghostly shadows from the trees on either side of the track. They were all dressed in black, though I glimpsed the white three-pointed cross of the Templars daubed crudely on the shoulders of their cloaks.
'What is it you want?' I shouted, desperately trying to turn my horse's head so I could flee like the wind.
One of the figures moved. I heard the click of a crossbow and a bolt whirled warningly above my head. The man holding the crossbow approached; his voice, muffled by the mask he wore, ordered me to dismount.
'Piss off!' I shouted. I desperately tried to draw my sword but my belly was churning with such fear that I was unable to grasp the hilt. 'Get down!'
The group drew closer. I glimpsed naked steel and, as you know, that has only one effect on Old Shallot. I get this indescribable desire to flee. One of the masked men tried to seize the bridle of my horse.
'Damn you all!' I screamed and, pushing my horse forward, sent him sprawling with my foot.
Hands clutched at my legs whilst the horse, thoroughly alarmed, reared, flailing his iron-shod hooves. I had now regained some of my little courage, drew my sword and whirled it round my head like Sir Lancelot of the Lake. My only desire was to keep these hideous creatures at bay whilst I desperately looked for a gap in the ring of steel surrounding me. I felt my sword bite flesh, a scream, then I struck again. I don't know what really happened for I had my eyes closed, lashing out with my sword, whilst my horse, who had more courage than brains, took care of itself.
I heard hoof beats and opened one eye to see my attackers run back into the trees, two of them not moving as quickly as they would want. I admit, I was quaking with fright and this had its usual effect on Old Shallot: weak legs, wobbly belly, heaving chest and total panic. When my master found me I had dismounted and was squatting on a patch of snow, busily emptying the contents of my stomach. Benjamin heard the faint crackling in the undergrowth but took one look at me and gave up any idea of pursuit. Instead he took the wineskin from the horn of my saddle and forced me to drink. He looked around and saw the patches of red on the snow. 'A terrible fight, Roger?' (God bless him, he was so innocent.)
'I did my best, Master,' I said humbly. 'There must have been at least a dozen of them,' I lied in mock modesty, 'and I doubt if four of them will live to greet tomorrow's dawn.' 'Who were they?'
'God knows!' I snarled. "They were hooded, capped and masked, though they had crude Templar crosses painted on their cloaks. I think they were more than just a maurading band of outlaws.'
Benjamin walked into the line of trees and stared through the snow-dripping darkness. 'A dozen you say, Roger?' 'At least, Master.' 'Then why didn't they kill you immediately?' ‘I don't know!' I snapped. 'But when they come back, I'll ask them!'
'No, no, you have been brave enough, Roger. I think they either wanted to question you or give you a warning. What it does prove,' Benjamin continued, 'is that they have the manor watched. They must have seen you follow Santerre.' He looked over his shoulder at me. 'And why aren't you pursuing him?'
There's no need. For some reason the pompous bastard has decided to return to Glastonbury. He must have pressing business there. Perhaps,' I added, 'Santerre's a Templar and has gone to warn his masters that one of Mandeville's men has already been killed.' I got up and drained the rest of the wineskin.
'I'd give a bag of gold,' Benjamin murmured, 'to know what has taken Santerre to Glastonbury. Perhaps you should have followed him.'
'And do what?' I shouted, my legs still shaking with fright. 'Wandered into the monastery and said, "Oh, what a coincidence! What are you doing here, Sir John?" Anyway,' I nodded into the trees, 'perhaps those bastards would have struck before I reached Glastonbury. There are enough woods, marshes and fog-shrouded moors to hide a bloody army in this Godforsaken land!' I patted my horse, whispering my thanks to him, then mounted. 'I'm going back to Templecombe,' I moaned. 'I'm tired, wet, pissed off, really pissed off, Master, and I have had enough!' I looked evilly at him. 'Anyway, what were you doing here?'
Benjamin remounted and grinned at me. 'I am still intrigued by that witch. I was trying to find the place we met her yesterday morning when I heard you shouting and the sounds of ambush so I rode to investigate.' He pushed his horse nearer and grasped me by the arm, his long dark face, usually solemn, wreathed in smiles.
'Come on, my warrior prince,' he murmured. 'What's a few footpads to a man like Shallot, eh?'
(I felt like telling him those bastards had aged me by years, but I suppose we have to keep up a brave face.)
'Come on.' Benjamin kicked his horse forward. 'Let's see if we can find where the old witch lives.' Moaning and groaning, I rode alongside. We were almost near Templecombe gates when Benjamin and I both decided that we had found the gap in the trees through which she had fled and, despite my warnings, he insisted on going in.
If the old witch was a prophet, then so was I, for we had hardly ridden a bow's length into the trees when Benjamin declared himself lost. The wood was thick, the undergrowth covered in snow; even in summer it would have been difficult to follow the trackway. It was already getting dark and so, to my relief, Benjamin decided to turn back.