The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

  We met the visitors in our large hall, freshly painted and wood-panelled with shields bearing the arms of Shallot and Daunbey along the wall. The riders, a group of Wolsey's mercenaries, dressed in the scarlet livery of the Cardinal, were taken off to the buttery to quench their thirst and ogle the maids.

  Doctor Agrippa, dressed from head to toe in black leather, tapped his broad-brimmed hat against his leg, waiting for the servants to serve chilled white wine and sweetmeats. All the time he smiled and indulged in tittle-tattle, studying me with those cold, colourless eyes.

  A strange man, Agrippa. I have mentioned him before. He was always cold and, whatever the heat, I never saw him perspire. He was a true magus. Yet, superficially, he looked like some benevolent village parson with his round cheery face sweet as a cherub's, neatly cut black hair, and that smile which failed to reach his eyes. He never grew old and, after Wolsey died, had the gift of appearing in the strangest places.

  Raleigh once told me - yes, that freebooter is still at sea, financed by my gold - that he had seen Agrippa near Jamestown in Virginia. How he got to the New World God only knows! A spy reported he was in Madrid and, years later, when I was fleeing from Suleiman's stranglers. I caught a glimpse of his face in the crowd as I was being pursued through the filthy streets and alleys of Constantinople. I saw him at court once and, only fifteen years ago, he turned up at Burpham looking as young and fresh as he had in my youth. I asked him what the matter was. He only smiled and gave me warning that Mary, Queen of Scots, imprisoned at Fotheringay, was plotting Elizabeth's death. Then he disappeared.

  Agrippa was a magus with a gift for seeing the future and once told me I would die in a most unexpected way, which is one of the reasons I keep my eye on this little turd of a chaplain. A strange man. Perhaps Agrippa was the wandering Jew, condemned to wander the face of the earth for ever? I once asked a few Rabbis about this legend. They just looked askance and shook their heads.

  (By the way, I like Jews. They remind me very much of the Irish. They love debate, honour, the family, and have a wicked sense of humour. Indeed, I have published a learned treatise in which I argue that the Irish are really the lost tribe of Israel. My main conclusion was as follows: when Moses and Aaron left Egypt, they put all the rogues together at the back of the column. After the Israelites crossed the Red Sea, the lot at the back took a wrong turn and ended up in Ireland. Very interesting, you should read it.)

  On that far golden day, however, Agrippa was concerned with more pressing matters. He waited until Benjamin had cleared the hall of servants then slumped down on a high-backed chair before the empty fireplace. As he passed me I caught a whiff of that strange perfume of his - as if some precious ointment had been poured on a burning pan. His eyes changed colour, giving them a black, marble look, and the smile faded from his lips. He stared at Benjamin and myself, sipped the wine and nibbled at a piece of diced marchpane.

  'For goodness' sake, sit down!' he said softly, indicating the empty chairs. He stretched and eased his neck to combat the stiffness after his long ride. 'It's begun,' he murmured.

  'What has?' Benjamin asked testily.

  'The killing,' Agrippa replied. 'The Mouldwarp's emerged.' He held out his hand and splayed his fingers. 'Each man has a choice of different paths. King Henry is no different. He could have been the greatest monarch England has seen, but has chosen instead to be The Mouldwarp, The Dark Prince who will drench his kingdom in blood.'

  'Doctor Agrippa,' I retorted, 'be more precise.'

  'I shall be. In two days' time, Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, will lose his head on Tower Hill.'

  Benjamin just stared aghast and even I, with my ignorance of court politics, could only gape in amazement. Stafford was the direct descendant of Edward III, one of the greatest landowners in England, the son of the Duke of Buckingham who had plotted against Richard III and lost his head just before Henry Tudor landed to kill the usurper at Bosworth.

  'What happened?' Benjamin asked.

  Agrippa shrugged. 'Stafford was always a thorn in the side of your uncle.' He smiled apologetically at Benjamin. 'He was for ever calling him an upstart jackanapes from Ipswich, a common mountebank hiding behind the robes of a Cardinal.' He pulled a face. 'Well, a few weeks ago Stafford was at court. He was standing near Henry and, as is customary, offered the King a silver basin to wash his hands in. When the King had finished, Wolsey dipped his own fingers into the water basin. Stafford, enraged, threw the water over the Cardinal's robes.'

  Agrippa stopped talking, brushing flecks of dust from his black hose.

  (Isn't it strange how great men can lose their heads over a drop of water?)

  'Your uncle was furious,' the doctor continued, 'and, shouting that he would sit on Stafford's robes, strode off, sloshing water, making himself look an even greater fool.'

  I just lowered my head and thanked God I hadn't been there. The sight of Cardinal Tom walking like some little boy who had pissed his breeches would have had me roaring with laughter.

  'The rest of the court laughed?' Benjamin asked.

  'Oh, yes, they roared. The palace rocked with their merriment. Stafford only made matters worse. The next day he turned up wearing a common jerkin and hose and when the King asked him why, replied it was to prevent the Cardinal from sitting on his robes.' Agrippa spread his hands. "The mockery grew even louder.'

  'But if a man is to lose his head for mocking a cardinal,' I replied, 'then Henry would lose all his subjects.'

  Benjamin smiled wryly for, although he had great affection for his powerful uncle, he had no illusions about this commoner with a brilliant brain who had managed to rise to be Cardinal and Lord Chancellor of England.

  'Ah!' Agrippa leaned forward as if he suspected there were spy-holes behind the panelling. 'You know your uncle, Master Daunbey. No man insults him, and Stafford he has always hated. My Lord Cardinal has always believed that revenge is a dish best served cold.

  'Despite my advice, he began to play upon Henry's secret nightmares.' Agrippa studied his finger nails for a while. 'It's the same story,' he murmured, 'the same words, the same tune. Henry may be the son of Elizabeth of York but his father was Henry Tudor, nothing more than a Welsh farmer. The German reformer, Martin Luther, publicly derides him as Squire Harry. He has always feared that others such as Stafford have a better claim than he to the throne.

  'Now,' Agrippa continued, 'the Tudors have a craving for a dynasty. The present King's father called his eldest son Arthur, trying to use his Welshness to build up legends linking his family to Arthur of the Round Table. Do you know these legends?'

  I shook my head. 'Of course not. I'm no scholar.'

  'Well', he stroked his chin, 'there is a legend that, after the great Arthur died, prophecies grew up in the West Country that one day he would return, come riding out of the setting sun to right all wrongs. The Great Miser wanted to depict his family as Arthur's line come again but his eldest son died and now Fat Henry is king. Nonetheless, the Tudor dream or nightmare continues.'

  'Oh, come!' I interrupted. 'You are not saying our noble Henry is frightened of some mythical King riding down to Westminster with the Knights of the Round Table?'

  Agrippa narrowed his eyes. 'Of course not, but he is frightened of the Yorkists, the Plantagenets, those who have better claims to the throne than he! And you know how superstitious he is. What would happen if Stafford or some other prince with Yorkist blood in his veins produced the sacred relics? Arthur's sword, Excalibur, or worse the Grail which sat on his table, the chalice which Jesus drank from at the Last Supper?'

  (No, don't laugh. I know we live in the age of reason and commonsense but in my time I have seen the most incredible rebellions: people marching behind a piece of cloth or those who believe that pieces of the true cross will protect them from arrows or bullets. Isn't it wonderful what people will believe when they want to?)

  'You are not saying,' I scoffed, 'that Buckingham obtained these relics?'

  'Yes and
no,' Agrippa replied. 'After Buckingham's insults, Wolsey's legion of spies went to work. The Cardinal concocted a story that Buckingham was plotting against the King and wished to gain possession of these sacred relics to rally forces to him.'

  'Oh, that's ridiculous!' Benjamin interrupted. 'I understand that centuries ago Arthur's corpse was discovered at Glastonbury but, according to legend, Excalibur was tossed into a lake, whilst the whereabouts of the Grail is still a mystery.'

  'Oh, but Wolsey has proof,' Agrippa replied. 'His agents arrested a Benedictine monk, Nicholas Hopkins, who is now lodged in the Tower. This Hopkins is from Glastonbury. He is also chaplain at the Santerre manor of Templecombe in Somerset.

  'Hopkins claims he knows where both the Grail and the Sword are and that he offered them to Buckingham.

  'According to Hopkins, the Duke planned to use them to lead a revolt, depose and execute Henry, and take the throne himself.'

  'And Buckingham believed this junk was holy?' I laughed. 'Fell for the ramblings of some mouldy monk!'

  'What about the Santerres?' Benjamin asked. 'Were they involved?'

  'No. They are merely tenants of Buckingham. The good Duke went to Templecombe to meet Hopkins and tried to draw Sir John Santerre into the conspiracy. Santerre refused, which is just as well for Wolsey's agents had infiltrated both this household and Buckingham's retinue. The good Duke,' Agrippa concluded, 'certainly had an interest in the relics: he sent messages to his agent in London that once he obtained them he would lead a revolt.'

  'There's more, isn't there?' asked Benjamin.

  Agrippa rubbed his face with his hands. 'Yes. The Grail and the Sword are being sought by others.'

  'Who?' my master asked.

  'The Templars,' Agrippa snapped.

  'Who?' I asked.

  The Templars,' he continued, 'were a military order formed in the twelfth century to defend the Holy Land. They acquired vast possessions in England and France -castles, land and manors. They also obtained secret knowledge and possessed all the great holy relics, such as the shroud in which Christ's body was wrapped, the Mandylion which cleaned his face on the way to Calvary, and, if legend is to be believed, the Grail and the Sword Excalibur.'

  'So,' Benjamin asked, 'what have they to do with us?'

  (Oh, my master was so innocent. I almost guessed what was coming next.)

  'His Grace the King and my Lord Cardinal want you to go to Somerset, find the Grail and Excalibur, and if possible root out these Templars.'

  'They still exist?' I asked.

  'Oh, yes.' Agrippa rubbed the side of his face. 'I didn't finish my story. On Friday, the thirteenth of October 1307, the Templars were seized throughout Christendom, tortured and put to death on charges of idolatry, sodomy and black magic. Most of them died at the stake or on the gallows but a few escaped and organised themselves into secret conventicles. These Templars are determined that the Grail and the Sword should not fall into Henry's hands for they see him as the incarnation of evil.'

  (Very perceptive, I thought.)

  Agrippa cleared his throat. 'There is evidence that some of the Yorkists were members of this secret order. Hopkins certainly was, and Buckingham may be.'

  'And our noble King believes all this?'

  Agrippa made a face. 'Hopkins confessed, Wolsey informed the King, and Stafford did little to help his cause. He was arrested at London Bridge and taken to the Tower. He would neither deny nor confirm Wolsey's allegations.'

  The doctor steepled his fingers together. 'Buckingham had also been stupid enough, in the privacy of his own home, to make certain treasonable remarks to his own sister, the Lady Fitzwalter.'

  Benjamin smiled thinly and I realised how clever the Cardinal had been: Henry had seduced Buckingham's sister and the Duke had been furious that the King should treat her like some common trollop. Wolsey would have struck - summoning the hapless woman before the Privy Council, placing her on oath and making her confess to words which he could so easily twist.

  'Then what happened?' asked Benjamin.

  'Buckingham was tried at Westminster Hall before a panel of his peers, led by the Duke of Norfolk. The sentence was a foregone conclusion: he was to be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution there to be hanged, cut down alive, his private parts to be hacked off and cast in the fire, his bowels burnt before his eyes, his head smitten off and his body to be quartered and divided at the King's will.'

  'Surely Henry will show mercy?'

  'Queen Catherine went down on her knees and begged for the Duke's life. The King took to his bed for three days suffering from a fever, but the only mercy he will show is that Buckingham must lose his head. The rest of the indignities have been cancelled. He will die in two days.'

  'When you came here, you said the killing was beginning, that Henry will be The Mouldwarp?' I prompted him.

  Agrippa looked at me chillingly and I remembered his diagnosis, many years earlier, of how sick the King's mind had turned.

  'Can't you see, Roger,' he whispered, 'if Henry can kill the greatest peer in his realm, who will be safe? Already the courts of Europe have lodged their protests. The King of France has openly derided the Cardinal, claiming the butcher's dog has pulled down the fairest buck in Christendom.'

  Of course, Agrippa was right. Henry was mad as a March hare: he was obsessed with plots against him and would brook no opposition. By the time he died, he was said to be responsible for at least sixty thousand executions. I can well believe it! I was with the fat bastard as he grew old. I'll never forget those puffy white cheeks and mad, pig-like eyes. The open ulcer on his leg which smelt like a sewer and the syphilis in his brain which turned him into a devil incarnate . . .

  Benjamin rose and refilled our cups. 'So the killing has begun?' he murmured. 'Buckingham will die and dear Uncle needs us.'

  Agrippa folded his hands in his lap. Once again he underwent one of those remarkable character changes - no longer the sombre prophet but the amiable priest seeking counsel and help.

  'You are right, Master Benjamin,' he said lightly, 'Buckingham will die and there's nothing we can do to prevent it. But, of course, there is also Master Nicholas Hopkins's confession. Your uncle needs you in London. He has given express orders that we are all to witness Buckingham's execution.*

  (Oh, Lord, I thought, here we go again, blood and gore and poor Shallot in the middle of it!)

  'And then what?' Benjamin asked sharply.

  'We are to continue the interrogation of Master Hopkins and find out more about his mysterious revelations.'

  'But you said the man was mad?'

  'Oh, he undoubtedly is but that doesn't necessarily make his confession false.'

  'Do you think Buckingham was involved in treason?' I asked.

  Agrippa shook his head. 'No. But you see, Master Shallot, the problem has two sides. Buckingham is going to die and that is the end of that matter. Hopkins, however, was a bearer of messages. He must have received instructions. But from whom?'

  'And Uncle is determined,' Benjamin concluded flatly, 'to seek out the truth?'

  'Truth, Master Benjamin? What is the truth? Pilate asked me the same question and I could not answer him then.' Agrippa smiled as if we shared a joke and ran the edge of his cloak through his fingers.

  'Enough,' he murmured. 'We must leave for London now.'

  Chapter 2

  Benjamin reluctantly agreed to our leaving immediately and brushed aside my objections. I went to my chamber feeling like a school boy being forced back to his studies and angrily began to throw clothing and other necessities into saddle bags. Benjamin slipped quietly into my room and stood with his back to the closed door.

  'Roger, I am sorry but we have no choice. You remember the oath we took, to be the Cardinal's men during peace and war?' He waved a hand airily. 'Everything we have comes from him.'

  'If the Duke of Buckingham can lose both his life and possessions,' I shouted, 'then what about the other fleas who do not live so high on the hog?'
>
  Benjamin shrugged. 'We can only live each day as it comes.'

  'Aye, and if the Cardinal has his way we'll have few days left to us!'

  We finished packing; ostlers brought round saddled horses and sumpter ponies. Benjamin left strict instructions with Barker the steward and, by late-afternoon, we were galloping south. I remember it well. The sun died that day and winter came rushing in. Who says the seasons are not harbingers of what is to come?

  Agrippa was now quiet, or rather talking to himself in a strange tongue I couldn't understand, whilst his entourage, the nicest group of gallow's birds you'd chance to encounter, kept to themselves. We stopped that night at a priory. Agrippa was still bad company, wrestling with his own problems. Only once did he pause, gaze round the deserted refectory and announce: 'There's more to it, you know.'

  'What do you mean?' asked Benjamin.

  Agrippa shook his head. 'There's more to it,' he repeated. 'Oh, how this world is given to lying!'

  (You'll find that phrase too in old Will Shakespeare's plays.)

  The weather continued to worsen but, early on the morning of our second day out of Ipswich, we left Waltham Abbey and reached the Mile End Road which wound through different hamlets into East Smithfield. The crowds on the road increased. Not just the usual tinkers and pedlars with their handcarts or wandering hedge-priests looking for a quick penny and a soft bed (I love to see my chaplain twitch!), but common folk, surging down to Tower Hill to watch one of the great ones spill his blood.

  We turned north into Hog Street, past the church of St Mary Grace where we glimpsed the high grey turrets of the Tower, and into the dense crowd milling round Tower Hill. Believe me, all of London had turned out. There was not a place to be found between the Tower and Bridge Street.

  I have often wondered why people like to view executions. What fun is there in seeing a man lose his head or his balls? I asked this of Agrippa.