by Paul Doherty
'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.
Chapter 5
We both slept badly that night: on two occasions I woke when Benjamin cried out in his sleep. He was as anxious as I was about our journey to Glastonbury and the next morning we went down to the palace refectory feeling heavy-eyed and sluggish. A surly servitor thrust poorly baked bread and watery beer at us and we sat, lost in our own thoughts, until the door was flung open and Mandeville and Southgate entered. They looked as fresh as maids in May. (You take it from old Shallot, the wicked have little difficulty in sleeping!) They slid on to the bench opposite us, making pleasantries about how cold the weather had become and that we should soon be on the road for Somerset.
'Do you believe all this?' I abruptly asked them the same question I had of Benjamin.
