The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

  'Strange, Roger,' he remarked. 'Here we are. We have just witnessed an old lady's strangling and a silly tailor imprisoned in squalor who, in a few hours' time, will be burnt horribly to death. Death seems everywhere,' he continued, 'and red-handed murder is a constant visitor in our lives.'

  I sat and let him brood. Indeed, looking back over the years, I have become surprised, not that people murder each other but that, given our love of bloodshed, they don't do it more often. Anyway, I just tapped my boot against the bottom of the boat and looked over the river, busy with huge dung barges emptying their putrid waste in midstream. Benjamin stayed lost in his own thoughts but I caught his unease. Old Wolsey loved to lead people by the nose, in particular his nephew and myself, and relished his little games of sending us unarmed into darkened chambers full of assassins. (Just wait until I've finished this story and you'll see what I mean!)

  At last we reached the great Convent of Syon, its gleaming white stone crenellations peeping above a green fringe of trees. We disembarked and made our way up a gravel path, through the gatehouse and into the guest room. The white-garbed nuns fluttered around us excitedly, pleased to welcome visitors to their famous house. A beautiful place Syon, with its cool galleries and passageways, high-ceilinged chambers and pleasant gardens. Mind you, this was no ordinary convent. The nuns were some of the best doctors in Europe and saved many a person from death but old Henry put paid to them, flattening the convent and pillaging its treasures. The great bastard!

  A lovely house Syon, whose occupants tended the sick and brought about many a cure. Mind you, they could do nothing for Johanna, the love light of Benjamin's life. I have mentioned her before: the daughter of a powerful merchant, seduced and abandoned by a great nobleman whom Benjamin later killed in a duel. Johanna, however, had become witless, her beautiful hair streaming down about a pallid face, her mouth slack, her eyes vacuous.

  Whenever Benjamin was in London he always visited her. He would sit and hold her, rocking her gently to and fro as if she was a child whilst she, muttering gibberish, rubbed salt into his wound by believing he was the nobleman come back to claim her. The meetings were always heart-wrenching. I could never stand and watch so would walk away to wink and flirt with the young novices. At last Benjamin would drag himself away and Johanna, screaming for her lost love, would be taken away by the gentle sisters. This time was no different and my master left Syon with the tears streaming down his face. As usual he grasped my hand.

  'Roger,' he urged, 'if anything should happen to me, swear you will protect Johanna!'

  And, as usual, I would swear such an oath. Oh, don't worry, I kept it! Years later when The Great Bastard pulled down the monasteries and emptied the convents I took Johanna into my own home. Indeed, I have made her immortal: my old friend Will Shakespeare wrote a play about a Danish prince called Hamlet who moons about the stage wondering whether he should kill his murderous mother. I don't like it and I told Will that he should reduce it to one act with Hamlet throttling the silly bitch immediately! But, you know old Will Shakespeare. Shy and quiet, he hid his face behind his hands and laughed.

  Nevertheless, I helped him out with one scene where this Danish prince sends his betrothed Ophelia mad. (May I say, having watched the play, I'm not surprised.) Anyway poor Ophelia emerges as a tragic woman who drowns herself in a river, flowers in her hand, hair spread out like a veil around her. Well, Ophelia was really Johanna and the river is the Thames. I always think it was a nice touch.

  We walked back to the quayside, Benjamin still disconsolate.

  'Can't anything be done?' I asked. I searched round for a crumb of comfort. 'Master,' I added rather hastily, 'some people spend their Purgatory after death but individuals like Taplow or poor Johanna go through Purgatory here on earth.'

  (I was always like that, ever ready to give a tactful word of comfort.) Benjamin gripped my wrist and nodded but, just as we were about to step into the boat, he clapped his hands together.

  'Purgatory,' he muttered.

  'Yes, Master?'

  He glanced at me strangely. 'When is Taplow about to die?'

  I looked up at the sun. 'Two hours past noon. Why?'

  Benjamin pulled me into the boat. 'Then come quickly. We must see him. We have to see him die.'

  We arrived too late. Smithfield Common was packed. The horse fair had been abandoned, the stalls cleared and the shops deserted. All of London had poured on to the great open waste, heads craned towards the stake on the brow of a small hill just next to a three-armed gibbet. The crowd was thick as hairs on a dog and we were unable to force our way through. As I have said, all of London was there, bodies reeking of sweat beneath rags, serge and silk, minds and hearts intent on watching a man being burnt to death. We peered over their heads.

  Taplow, standing on a high stool, was already tied to the stake, his arms and legs tightly pinioned, head and face partially covered by a white fool's hood. Already small heaps of green faggots were laid about the stool, with dry weeds on top as high as the victim's groin. The masked executioners walked round as if they were involved in some artistic endeavour, positioning the faggots for the best effect. The crowd, held back by serried ranks of soldiers, was already growing restless and shouts of 'Get on with it!', 'Let the poor sod die!', rang out, followed by the usual volleys of refuse.

  'We must get closer,' Benjamin muttered.

  'Why, Master?' I begged.

  'A man is going to die.'

  I stood on tiptoe. 'It's too late. The torch has already been put to the kindling.'

  I watched the executioner light the faggots but apparently the kindling was too green and the fire didn't catch. Benjamin looked in desperation at the gatehouse of St Bartholomew's Priory: the balcony was already full of important, well-dressed people who had brought their children for a day out; they had also brought sugared apples, dishes of marzipan and jugs of wine to make their enjoyment complete.

  Benjamin pulled one of Wolsey's warrants from his pouch, one of those old letters written by the Cardinal so Benjamin could gain access to any place he wanted. My master seized me by the arm and pulled me over. The captain of the guard outside St Bartholomew's let us through and we went under the darkened archway and up some steps into the chamber which led out on to the balcony. Once again Benjamin used his warrant, pushing his way through the grumbling spectators until we had a good view of both the execution scene and Smithfield Common. The catcalls from the crowd had now intensified at the executioners' bungling of their job.

  (Believe me, it's a terrible way to die! Once, whilst in Venice, the Inquisition caught me, tried and condemned me to burn in the great piazza before St Mark's. I was actually tied to the stake and the kindling lit but, once again, fortune intervened. However, that's another story!)

  Anyway, looking back over the years I can imagine what that poor bastard at Smithfield felt. The Inquisition were effective, his executioners were fools. Torches were again put to the kindling but the fire only teased the victim's feet and ankles. The poor fellow screamed.

  'Oh, Christ, son of David!'

  As he did, the crowd fell silent. Benjamin just stared fascinated and I studied him rather than the condemned man for, as I have remarked before, Benjamin had a horror of public executions.

  'Why are we here, Master?' I whispered.

  'Shut up, Roger!' he hissed.

  The flames were now strong enough to reach the two bags of gunpowder tied to the man's neck. There was a loud explosion and the flames roared fiercer. The victim's head was thrust back and the fool's cap fell off. The fire was now an intense sheet of flame. Taplow's lips continued to move though his throat was so scorched he could not make a sound. The fire now reached his face, blackening his mouth, swelling the tongue, pushing the lips back to the gums. His limbs began to disintegrate into a bubbling mass of fat, water and blood.

  'Christ have mercy on him!' Benjamin muttered. 'I just wish I could have seen his face clearly for one last time.'

  The
execution stake was now hidden beneath its wall of flame. I stared out over the crowd. They looked like some great beast with gaping mouth and hungry eyes, then I caught a movement over near the great elms at the far side of the common. (The branches of these trees were often used as makeshift gibbets.) I saw a red-haired man jump down from one of the branches as if he, too, was sickening of the scene and was preparing to leave. I glimpsed the black robes and wondered why Southgate would be so interested in such a grisly execution. I asked the same of Benjamin as we walked out of a postern gale of St Bartholomew's back towards the river, but my master was only half-listening.

  'I can't tell you the reason,' he murmured. 'Not yet, Roger. Not while we're trapped in this tangle of lies!'

  Chapter 6

  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.