The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

  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.

  Chapter 9

  At Templecombe we found everyone going about their own business. After stabling our horses, my master muttered that he had business to attend to and wandered off to his chamber. I went looking for Mathilda and found her working in the buttery with the other maids. She threw me a warning glance, telling me with her eyes to stay well away. I begged a tankard of ale from a surly cook and went to warm myself before the hall fire until my master roused me.

  'Come on, Roger, we have work to do. I have been thinking about that riddle. Perhaps the old Templar chapel can provide an answer.'

  I was warm and sleepy but my master kept haranguing me: compliance seemed the easiest way out so I put on my boots, grabbed my cloak and accompanied him down to the Templar chapel. The door was open. Inside, Mandeville and Southgate were standing near the baptismal font.

  'So the wanderer has returned?' Southgate sneered. 'What brings you here?'

  'The riddle,' Benjamin replied.

  'We've already thought of that,' Mandeville muttered. 'But there's no Jordan water here, or Moses' Ark.' He pointed down the church. 'Damien's in the sanctuary. We found a pinewood arrow box.' Mandeville bit his lip. 'What's left of poor Cosmas has been sheeted, coffined, and lies before the altar. It's the least we could do.' He forced a smile. 'I would appreciate it, Master Daunbey, if you would go there, say a prayer and offer Damien your condolences.'

  Benjamin agreed. We walked down the dark, dingy nave under the simple rood screen into the sanctuary. The makeshift coffin lay on trestles before the altar. Six purple candles, three on either side, flickered in heavy iron holders. Someone had nailed a simple crucifix to the top of the lid with the name 'Cosmas' scrawled in black beneath it. On a prie-dieu, at the foot of the coffin, knelt the dead man's brother, his shaven head bowed, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Mandeville came up behind us.

  The coffin will lie here tonight,' he whispered. Tomorrow we will take it down to the village church.' He then strode off as Damien turned, his eyes red with weeping, his white face now puffy. Before, he had always been rather frightening but now he looked pathetic with his tear-stained cheeks, grieving eyes and red gaping mouth which could only make gurgling sounds as Benjamin took him by the hand and tried to convey his condolences. The poor mute nodded, his hideous face twisted into a smile, but when he looked at me, his eyes narrowed. Oh no, I thought, here we go. Old Shallot's a suspect again! I tried to look sympathetic but that only made matters worse and the fellow waved his fingers in the air as a sign for us to go and, turning his back, resumed his prayers. We left and he followed us to the church door. We heard it slam behind us and the key turn in the lock.

  'The poor fellow wants to be alone,' Benjamin murmured.

  'I understand that,' I replied. 'But must he look at me as if I am the murderer?'

  Benjamin linked his arm through mine and we walked back to the manor house.

  'I know the truth, Roger. But they think differently. After all, you were the first to leave the dinner table. You could have prepared that fire and retired to bed.'

  'How could I?' I cried. 'Moreover, Master,' I dragged my arm away, 'you know Cosmas was a professional spy, an agent. Didn't he lock his chamber door?'

  'Unfortunately not,' Benjamin replied. He looked at me, his face innocent. 'Don't forget, Roger, the key was on the inside of his chamber. Cosmas thought he was safe. After all, he was protected by the King's chief agent. Remember the old proverb: "It's easy for the hunter to forget how quickly it is to become the hunted." Anyway,' he seized my arm again, 'do you always lock your chamber?'

  I wondered if my master knew something about my tryst with Mathilda but he had that distant, innocent expression. Benjamin at his most inscrutable.

  'Did you really think,' I asked, quickly changing the subject, 'the chapel could pose a solution to Hopkins's riddle?'

  'Not really, but the riddle must refer to a place. Either here at Templecombe or, more likely, Glastonbury.'

  "There's one other place, Master.'

  'Such as?'

  'The house on the island.'

  Benjamin's face beamed in surprise. 'Of course,' he breathed and, turning round, went back past the chapel and down to the lakeside.

  We stood staring across the icy water at the mist-shrouded island. God knows, it was a most desolate place. The water was covered with a film of ice whilst above it a grey mist boiled. It almost disguised the island and its strange Templar house for we could only glimpse the tiles of its roof.

  'I wonder what used to happen there?' Benjamin whispered.

  I shivered and stamped my feet. You didn't have to have the soul of a poet to conjure up what could have been; in my mind's eye I had a vision of Templars in their faceless conical helmets, red and white crosses on their black cloaks, moving across the island at the dead of night, the barges being soundlessly poled whilst, at prow and stern, huge cresset torches spluttered and flared in the darkness. Why would they go there? I wondered. Some macabre rite? A Satanic mass? The conjuring of evil spirits? Or to indulge in illicit sexual pleasures?

 
'We should go across,' Benjamin commented.

  'Not now, Master,' I said, trying to hide my panic. 'It's growing dark. Heaven knows how thick that ice is. And, if we have to go, I would like to be armed.'

  Thankfully, Benjamin agreed and we returned to the manor house. I was cold and stiff, so went back to my chamber to warm myself. I lay on the bed for a while wondering if Mathilda might return, before drifting into a troubled sleep where ghastly figures, masked and hooded, danced on a lonely island before a terrible demon god.

  Benjamin shook me awake.

  'Santerre has returned,' he whispered. 'Let's go down and see where he really went.'

  We found Sir John and his family in the great hall, sitting on the coffer-box chairs before the fire. Santerre seemed cheerful enough, shuffling his feet, warming his hands, and loudly declaring how good it was to be back in his own home and with his own people. He smiled and waved us over.

  'A good day's business,' he bellowed. 'Despite the snow, all seems well.' He picked up a brimming wine goblet from the small table beside him. 'And you, sirs, you feel at home now?'

  Benjamin made the usual tactful responses. I just stared at Santerre's cheery face. The man's a consummate liar, I thought. This bastard, with his bluff ways, merry eyes and welcoming invitations, nearly had me murdered this morning. Santerre patted his stomach.

  'God knows, I have an appetite!' he bellowed, smacking his lips. He grinned at his wife. 'Good food, eh, wife?'

  Lady Beatrice caught his mood and laughed back.

  'Only the best for the Lord and Master!'

  'Pork roasted in a lemon sauce, with slices of mutton, heavily garnished.' Santerre rubbed his stomach. 'This cold weather puts the wolf in your belly, eh, Master Shallot? A bowl of claret and afterwards a game of dice?'