The Grail Murders

by Paul Doherty

'Well,' Benjamin got to his feet, 'if it comes from hell, it can go back there!' And he kicked both the candle and the hand into the undergrowth. The flames sizzled out as Mandeville and Southgate dismounted and joined us. Both he and his companion looked pale and I could see all joy had gone out of their task. Mandeville stared into the darkness then up at the rooks cawing around us.

  'This place is hell-touched!' he murmured, kicking the snow where the Hand of Glory had lain. 'Perhaps we should leave it, go back to London and return in the spring with soldiers?' He chewed his lip. 'I could deploy all my agents in the area, root out what is really going on.'

  'And what will the King say?' Benjamin asked quietly. 'Above all, what will my dear uncle think if we now return, empty-handed, to report the deaths of Cosmas and Damien? I want justice, Sir Edmund, and you want vengeance. Murder is like a game of hazard. So far this silent assassin has won every throw, but sooner or later he will make a mistake.'

  (It just shows you how times have changed. God rest them, Mandeville and Southgate could be wicked men, true minions of the King. Nevertheless, they had some kind of conscience. Not like Walsingham and the next generation of spies and 'agents provocateurs'. You take a man like Christopher Marlowe: I was with him when he was murdered in that private house. He and his killers, men like Frizier and Skeres, not to mention Poley, were devils incarnate who feared neither God nor man. Poor Kit! A bad man but a brilliant poet. He died far too young.)

  We continued on our return to Templecombe. The Santerres were waiting for us with Bowyer who looked as if he had really settled in, shirt open at the collar, stubby feet enclosed in buskins whilst his fat face was flushed with drink and his breath smelt like a wine press. He and Sir John now appeared to be bosom friends and I secretly wondered if the Santerres had suborned this bumbling servant of the crown. Mandeville, however, was not at all pleased and gave the sheriff a scathing look.

  'Was your visit to Glastonbury profitable?' Sir John asked as we warmed ourselves before the great fire whilst Lady Beatrice and Rachel served spiced wine.

  Mandeville just muttered a curse and Southgate would have launched a vitriolic attack upon the abbey if Sir Edmund had not told him to shut up and drink his wine. Sir John, full of himself, tried to humour them.

  Tomorrow,' he said, 'let us take a break from affairs of state. There have been no fresh falls of snow and I know where my dogs could rouse a fine hart.'

  Bowyer and Southgate immediately brightened at the prospect of a good hunt. Even Mandeville agreed and, from the discussion which followed, I gathered both agents were keen huntsmen with an inordinate love of the chase. I also wondered if Sir John Santerre, despite his bluff bonhomie, was skilled and well-versed in seeking out a man's weakness and pandering to it. Had he sought mine out? I wondered. Had Mathilda been deliberately sent to my room?

  I stared at Rachel, whose fawnlike eyes were now smiling at Benjamin. Did she, too, play a role? Were we all being bought off? I with Mathilda, Benjamin with Rachel, Bowyer with good food and drink, and the Agentes with the prospect of a good day's hunting. I remembered Mandeville's words as we approached the house. Was the sinister influence of the Temple beginning to work its effect?

  Now, I tell you this, I am a rogue born and bred. I have great difficulty in distinguishing between my property and anyone else's, or at least I used to, but I do not like to be dismissed as stupid. True, we had discovered nothing at Glastonbury or of why Cosmas and Damien had been killed. I stared around. Bowyer was drunk, Benjamin lost in his own thoughts or seduced by Rachel's flattery, Mandeville and Southgate were revelling in the manor's hospitality whilst Santerre, whose conduct was suspicious to say the least, played the role of smiling host.

  I slammed down my cup and stood up. Bowyer's and Southgate's conversation about the coming hunt faltered and died as I went to stand and warm my backside against the fire.

  'Roger?' Benjamin looked at me, puzzled. 'What is the matter?'

  I glared round. 'I'm tired,' I began. 'I'm cold and I'm exhausted.' I held my hand up, fingers splayed, and counted the points off like a teacher in front of a group of scholars. 'Cosmas is dead. Damien is dead.' I stared at Santerre. 'The old witch is dead. If you send men into the forest you will find her frozen corpse in that cave she called her home. Finally, on our return from Glastonbury, we were threatened with witchcraft.'

  Santerre exclaimed in surprise. Bowyer looked at me drunkenly. I glared at Benjamin and the Agentes.

  'Well, aren't you going to tell him?'

  'Roger,' Benjamin intervened, 'it's best if you keep a still tongue in your head.'

  'Bollocks!' I replied. 'As we came up the trackway of your house, Sir John, we found a Hand of Glory with a lighted candle in its fingers.'

  The Santerres just stared, open-mouthed, back at me.

  'I'm bloody frightened!' I bawled. 'In the stinking alleys and runnels of Southwark and Whitefriars, the Hand of Glory is a powerful talisman, a warning to us all. Someone here wishes our deaths. Someone at Templecombe or on the estates around. And I for one don't intend to play coney in the hay!'

  I stalked out of the hall, quite pleased with myself, and went back to my own chamber. A few minutes later Benjamin joined me. He slipped through the door and pulled up a stool as I lay on the bed.

  'Roger, why the outburst?'

  I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at him.

  'Outside, it's dark, cold and more snow has fallen. Bowyer's drunk as a lord, Mandeville and Southgate are scared, whilst you seem more absorbed in Rachel than anything else.'

  Benjamin smiled and shuffled his feet. 'Is that the problem, Roger? Are you jealous?'

  I threw myself back on the bed with a laugh. He grabbed my wrist.

  'Tell me why you spoke Roger? You usually keep a still tongue in your head. The dutiful, sharp-witted servant who sees all and says nothing.'

  I just stared up into the darkness. 'Perhaps you are right, Master, but I am frightened. We are threatened, attacked, two of our companions murdered. We go chasing around this frozen, benighted countryside and discover nothing. Yes, I wish Rachel would look at me as she does at you.' I gazed at him beseechingly. 'But here I'm like a duck out of water, Master. If these were the alleyways of Paris or the runnels of London I could hide or strike back. But what happens if we have been sent here to die, one by one?'

  Benjamin shivered and folded his arms. 'We have found something,' he replied. ‘I saw the look on your face as we left Glastonbury.'

  'What did Eadred tell you?' I countered.

  ‘I asked why Sir John Santerre had such close links with Glastonbury?'

  'And?'

  'At first Eadred tried to bluff, claiming Sir John was a local landowner, but then he confessed that Santerre was funding Abbot Bere's construction of the crypt but told me if I wished to know more, I should ask either Sir John or the abbot. So,' Benjamin smiled, 'what did you find, Roger?'

  I told him of my discovery. Now, perhaps it was the poor light but Benjamin's face paled. (Excuse me for a minute, my little clerk is again insisting I furnish such clues immediately. No I will not! As Shakespeare says, 'Every tale has its own metre and beat.' He'll have to wait!) I'll be honest, at the time, I did not recognise the true value of my discovery but Benjamin did.

  'Master,' I begged, 'does it mean anything to you?'

  'Yes and no,' Benjamin slowly replied. 'When we searched Templecombe's rooms a vague suspicion of how Cosmas died occurred to me. I also thought of something in the church the afternoon Damien was killed.' He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. 'But they are only pieces, Roger. By themselves they mean nothing.'

  He left me to sulk until a servant came to announce dinner was ready. I went down to the hall and found Santerre still intent on lavishing hospitality on his guests. The high table was covered in a silk sheet cloth, the best glass and silver had been laid out, whilst the savoury smells from the kitchen and scullery teased our nostrils and mouths with the sweet fragrance of roast duck, meat pie
s, quince tarts and the sugary odour of fresh marchpane.

  Santerre had changed into a doublet and hose of grey-silver whilst his wife and daughter both looked resplendent in gowns of blue satin trimmed with gold. Santerre bubbled like a stream in spring. He assured the drunken Bowyer that he would always be welcome at Templecombe and I recalled the friendship formed between Pilate and Herod. Southgate was in his cups though Mandeville looked subdued and stared speculatively at me as if my outburst had revealed a side of my character he had not noticed before.

  The meal was almost over and I had downed at least four deep-bowled cups of claret when the small red stain appeared on the table cloth. At first, I thought it was spilt wine but then it spread and I noticed little splashes coming down from the ceiling above. I gazed up into the darkness but the rafters were cloaked in blackness.

  You've drunk too much, I thought, but then Benjamin noticed the spreading pool and splattered drops.

  'Look!' he cried, pointing to the widening scarlet stain. The chatter and laughter died down. We all sat watching the drops fall and the scarlet blot widen. Benjamin was the first to recover his wits, standing up and pushing back his chair.

  'What's above us, Sir John?'

  'A small solar. A chamber with windows looking east. We only use it in summer.'

  Benjamin ran out of the room and I followed. Behind us the shouts and exclamations grew as the scarlet stain spread. We ran upstairs, knocking aside startled servants. I glimpsed Mathilda's white face then ran into the gallery, pushing open the door to the solar.

  The room was cold and dark, the windows shuttered. Benjamin cursed the darkness but, as in any good household, there were boxes right inside the door containing rushlights and candles. Benjamin lit one of these and we walked into the centre of the room. At first we could see nothing so crouched on our haunches, edging forward like crabs, feeling the soft woollen carpet. I touched something wet and sticky. Benjamin pushed the rushlight closer. God forgive me, I could have screamed in terror. Resting in the centre of the carpet, severed at the neck, eyeballs rolled up in their sockets, was the decapitated head of the witch.

  Grotesque in death as it had been, now putrefaction tinged the face a greenish hue. The congealing blood from the severed arteries of the snow-soaked head drenching the carpet and seeping down between the floor boards. My stomach heaved. We heard the door behind us open but Benjamin shouted for everyone to stay out.

  'Come on, Roger,' he whispered. "There is nothing we can do here.'

  Outside in the gallery Benjamin told the rest of the group what we had found. Lady Beatrice became hysterical, crouching against the wall, covering her face, whilst Rachel tried to comfort her. Santerre was shocked sober whilst Sir Edmund and Southgate were torn between a mixture of anger and fear.

  'Clean the mess!' Benjamin snapped at Santerre. 'Just roll up the carpet, take it and its grisly contents downstairs and have it burnt. The floor can be scrubbed.' He looked at Sir Edmund. 'Roger is correct. The Angel of Death walks this accursed house!'

  'Who could leave such a thing there?' Southgate murmured.

  'One of the servants, someone we don't know,' Benjamin replied. 'But the head and the Hand of Glory come from that poor hag. Oh, by the way, where's our noble Sheriff Bowyer?'

  'Drunk as a bishop,' Mandeville snarled. 'Now sleeping like a baby in his cot down in the hall.' Benjamin made to walk away.

  'Master Daunbey,' Mandeville caught him up at the corner of the gallery. 'For God's sake, man, what am I supposed to do? My job is to trap conspirators, plotters . . . not stumble around in the dark after some secret assassin.'

  Benjamin muttered something to himself.

  'What is it? What is it, Daunbey?'

  My master looked up, his face as hard as stone, the skin drawn tight. 'I was just thinking of what you said, Sir Edmund. This is not poor Buckingham, is it? Or some pathetic tailor like Taplow being trapped in his little cage and taken off to the slaughter house. And Templecombe is not some abbey where you can tap your toe and play the great lord. So how does it feel, Sir Edmund, to be the hunted instead of the hunter?'

  And spinning on his heel, my master stalked off to his chamber.

  (My little clerk is muttering that Benjamin was acting out of character. That's not true! Benjamin was a kind, gentle man. He always hated bully-boys and was correct to do so. Mandeville and Santerre had arrived at Templecombe wanting to make everyone dance to their tune. Instead, they had stumbled into a veritable snake pit.)

  I wandered round the galleries for a while for the dinner was both spoilt and finished. Sure enough, after a while I caught sight of my quarry, little Mathilda, her chubby arms full of blankets, tiptoeing along without a care in the world. I followed her up to one of the other floors and caught her by the elbow. 'Mathilda, my sweet, a word.'

  She whirled round but she was not frightened and I glimpsed the sparkle of triumph in her eyes. I drew her into a shadowy window embrasure.

  'You weren't looking for gold, were you?'

  She pouted prettily.

  'The money was secondary, wasn't it?' I continued. 'What were you looking for? Did you kill that clerk in the fire? What secret device did you use?'

  She sighed and sat down in the window seat.

  'Master Shallot, you and your fellow clod-hoppers wander into Templecombe.' She looked out into the icy darkness. 'You are in a place hundreds of miles from London with a few paltry soldiers to guard your back. The Devil and his assistant trapped my Lord of Buckingham, a man much loved in these parts. He was hustled up to London to have his head cut off with less mercy than we would treat a chicken. His lands are seized and the monks at Glastonbury bullied as if they are the inmates of some prison.'

  She looked squarely at me. 'Oh, yes, we have heard of that.' She flounced the sheets in her hand. 'And what do you expect? To come tripping through without a by-your-leave? These are ancient lands, Master Shallot. Arthur and his knights rode here, or so Master Hopkins told us. The Templars are much feared but also respected for their knowledge.'

  Now, I can take a sermon from any pretty woman and Mathilda was no exception, but I also caught the threat in her words. I clapped my hands mockingly. 'So what does all this make you, Mathilda, my dear? A thief looking for gold?'

  Even in the darkness I saw the flush on her cheeks.

  ‘I am no thief!' she snapped. She drew herself up. 'I am a poor widow. My husband died two years ago from the sweating sickness. Aye, Roger, we marry young in Somerset. I have a child.'

  'You also have a father,' I retorted.

  She caught her lip between her teeth.

  'You do have a father,' I continued smoothly. 'A tall, grizzle-haired fellow who now walks with a pronounced limp. Where did he receive his wound?'

  'It was an accident.'

  'Nonsense!' I snapped. 'Do you want me to call Mandeville and Southgate and have him dragged into the hall? I'll wager a piece of gold that his wound resembles a sword cut. Your father was one of those who attacked me.'

  She mumbled something.

  'What was that?'

  'If they wanted to kill you,' she whispered, 'they would have done. We have no quarrel with you or your master. They simply wanted to frighten you.' She grasped me by the hand. 'Please, Roger, leave my father be.' She stared through the window. 'This place is full of ghosts,' she murmured.

  'And the Templars?'

  She lowered her head. I pulled out my short stabbing dagger and held it between my fingers.

  'Nothing in life is free,' I whispered. 'You and your father are no threat to me but those you work for . .’

  Mathilda shook her head. I sheathed my dagger and got to my feet.

  'Wait!' she seized my wrist. 'Roger, we are small fleas on a very big dog. We take our orders, issued here and there in a whisper.'

  'And where does the dog live?' I asked.

  Mathilda peered fearfully down into the garden and got to her feet. 'If you wish to meet the dog,' she whispered,


  'You'll find him on the island.' And she slipped like a ghost into the shadows and ran down the gallery.

  I stood staring out of the window into the shifting, cloying mist and wondered about Mathilda's ghosts trooping back to their worm-eaten beds. I had learnt enough so returned to my own chamber, secured the lock and, fully clothed, lay down for a fitful sleep.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning we rose early and broke our fast hastily in the hall for, despite the grisly warning issued the night before, Southgate was determined on a morning's hunting though Bowyer was still suffering the effects of being too deep in his cups. Mandeville, imperious as ever, ignored us as he issued instructions to a bleary-eyed sheriff to send for more men. His attitude towards Santerre was distinctly cool.

  As we went out towards the stables I heard Sir Edmund whisper to Santerre that the matters at Templecombe were beyond his brief: he would plan his return to London where he would advise the King to send Justices into the area. If he expected this to frighten Sir John he succeeded. When the King's Justices came south they would arrive with troops and issue writs raising levies from the surrounding countryside, empanel juries, collect evidence, and not move away until the matter was settled. Santerre was about to protest but Mandeville dismissed him with a curt move of his gloved hand.

  These matters will wait!' he snapped. Today we hunt, tomorrow we go.'

  The rest of the party were waiting for us in a courtyard full of yapping dogs; long, lean greyhounds, black, white and brindled. They stood straining at their leashes whilst, on the other side of the yard, a pack of mastiffs whimpered in protest at the muzzles on their grizzled snouts and the

  lash of their whippers-in. Maids hurried round with cups of hot posset, stable boys and ostlers shouted as horses were brought out, saddled and made ready to mount. Southgate's and Bowyer's were fiery, hot-tempered, rearing and kicking the air with sharpened hooves. It took some time for their masters to curb them.

  At last we all mounted, downing one final cup of posset whilst the huntsmen were sent on before us, the barking of the dogs shattering the silence of the cold country air.