by Paul Doherty
We did not hear any angels sing nor silver trumpets blast from heaven. All we saw was a simple wooden cup, shallow-bowled, with a crude stem and stand. The wood had been polished by the hands which had held it over the last one and a half thousand years and, when I smelt it, the cup gave off a resinous fragrance as if its guardian had smeared it with some substance as a protection against decay.
We sat and looked at it. Benjamin held it, then passed it to me. Now, you know Old Shallot is a scoffer. I have seen so many pieces of the true cross that if you put them together you could build a fleet. I have seen feathers which are supposed to have fallen off Angel Gabriel's wings. I have been asked to kiss a piece of Jesus's swaddling clothes; a scrap of Mary's veil; St Joseph's hammer; not to mention a handkerchief used by Moses. I have always laughed out loud at such trickeries but the Grail was different.
When I held it I felt warm, a sense of power and if I closed my eyes, I was no longer in that icy Templar church but in the warm, sweet-scented hills of Galilee. A truly mystical cup! No wonder Arthur searched for it, the Templars guarded it, and that fat bastard Henry VIII would have killed for it!
We paid the Grail reverence, Benjamin wrapped it in his cloak and left, telling me to wait. My master returned with a mixture of cement and plaster and we restored the baptismal font so that, at least to the untrained eye, it would look as if it had never been tampered with.
‘What about the choir stall?' I asked.
'Leave it’ Benjamin answered. 'Let the soldiers take the blame.'
We returned to the manor house to pack our belongings. The next morning we saddled our horses and slipped away from Templecombe, that house of horrible murders. We reached Glastonbury later the same day for, though the countryside was still in winter's icy grip, no snow had fallen and at last the clouds were beginning to break. Benjamin and I had already agreed on what to do. We met Brother Eadred in the guest house. Benjamin quickly described what had happened at Templecombe. Though Eadred tried to hide his pain, Rachel's arrest, the flight of the Santerres and the destruction of the manor house obviously came as a body blow to him. He slumped on to a stool, wrapping his arms round his belly, bending forward almost as if he was in pain.
'Oh, poor Rachel!' he breathed.
'You are one of them, aren't you, Brother?' I asked.
He looked up, dark eyes in an ashen face. 'You're a Templar?' I continued.
He nodded his head. 'As are some others here,' he replied softly. 'We are guardians of a great shrine, keepers of mysteries and, yes, in a sense, avengers of those Templars who were seized, imprisoned and killed.'
'Does that give you the right to murder?'
To protect the mysteries and secrets, yes. But Rachel went too far. She nourished a personal revenge, perhaps even a murderous madness, against the likes of Mandeville and her own family.' He took a deep breath and stood up. 'What will happen to Templecombe?'
'It will be stripped of everything.'
I saw the fear in the monk's face.
'They won't find anything,' Benjamin smiled. 'They will never discover Excalibur or the Grail.'
Eadred shrugged. 'The relics were never at Templecombe.'
'But you suspect they were? After all, succeeding abbots of Glastonbury have established that such relics do not exist here.'
Eadred stared back.
'Excalibur's gone,' Benjamin explained, 'but the Grail. . .'He loosened one of his saddle bags, plucked out his cloak and laid the small cedar cup on the table. The change in Eadred was incredible. He fell on his knees, hands joined, and stared fixedly at the holy chalice.
'You found it!' he murmured.
'And brought it to its rightful home,' Benjamin concluded. He picked up his saddle bags, gestured with his head to me and walked up the stairs to our chamber, leaving Eadred to worship alone.
The next morning, after a short meeting with Eadred, we left Glastonbury for London. He escorted us to the main abbey gates. Only when we were on the very point of departure did he clasp Benjamin's hand and thank him with his eyes. My master leaned down.
'Never,' he whispered, 'say anything to anyone. We have not been here. We gave you nothing. We shall not return.'
Eadred stepped back, sketched a blessing in the air, the gates opened and we left for London.
We took eight days to return to the capital and found it still in the steel grip of winter. The Thames had frozen whilst the city's dirt and refuse were hidden under a carpet of ice which at least killed the offensive stench. We took lodgings at Baynards Castle near St Paul's, sending a message to Hampton Court where Henry and the Cardinal were lodged preparing for Christmas. We patiently waited to see what would happen.
Three days after our arrival dear Doctor Agrippa arrived. Swathed in black robes, he looked like some merry gnome except for those strange, colourless eyes. He stamped his feet and clapped his hands against the cold, shouting for mulled wine. Only when he was alone with us in our chamber did he drop all pretence.
The King is not pleased,' he snapped. 'Nor is My Lord Cardinal.'
'Oh dear,' I retorted. 'Little thanks for a frozen arse, almost being killed, not to mention having to spend so much time in the company of bastards like Mandeville and Santerre.'
Agrippa smirked. 'Oh, the King is not angry with you. You have heard the news?' His eyes held mine. 'Rachel Santerre died on her return to London. Apparently her rosary was not what it seemed: two of the beads contained a poisonous substance which deals death in seconds. Her corpse has been left at the new hospital of Mary of Bethlehem just north of the city.' Agrippa pulled a face. 'The King is furious. She could have provided much information.'
Benjamin rubbed the side of his face. 'But His Grace the King should be pleased. My Lord of Buckingham is destroyed, the woman responsible for so many deaths has received her just desserts and the King can seize all the treasures of Sir John Santerre and his wife. I do not mourn for them, for they richly deserved what they got. A Templar coven in Somerset has been broken. And finally,' Benjamin shot a warning glance at me, 'although Excalibur is missing and probably will remain so until the end of time, we have brought back the Grail.'
I schooled my features but, do you know, that was the only time I had seen Agrippa surprised. His cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered.
'Where is it?' he grated.
Benjamin went to his saddle bag, took out a battered silver goblet and thrust it into Agrippa's hands. The magus gazed at it carefully.
'Where did you find this?'
'At Templecombe.'
Agrippa peered at the ancient silver chalice, the paper thin silver of its bowl and the jewels encrusted along the stem. His eyes darted like those of a cat.
'This cup,' he began slowly, 'is ancient but I know the truth and I think you do, Master Daunbey. And perhaps, in time, even the King will.'
Benjamin grinned boyishly. 'But you will tell him it's the Grail,' he declared, 'because that's what he wants to believe, and that's what you want him to believe as well, eh, Doctor Agrippa?'
The magus looked squarely at us. 'What do you mean?' he whispered.
'Oh, come, Doctor Agrippa,' Benjamin replied. 'You are a Templar yourself, aren't you? More than that, I believe you are their Grand Master. You no more want the Grail to fall into Henry's hands than I do. You must be the Grand Master. You suspected Rachel Santerre even before we left London, that's why you gave us the watchword "Age Circumspecte", act carefully. At first we thought it was a piece of advice but, of course, it's the family motto of the Mortimers, Rachel's father's family. You were warning us. You knew she was a Templar, that the Mortimers of Templecombe had been Templars for the last two hundred years. The only person who would know such a secret would be the Grand Master himself. It's true, isn't it? The Templars exist in covens but only the Grand Master knows them all?'
Agrippa sat down on the edge of the bed, cradling the cup in his hands.
'Perhaps what you say is true, Master Daunbey.' He looked at us. 'Let us sa
y this Grand Master did exist. Let us say he feared that King Henry was The Mouldwarp, The Dark Prince prophesied by the Templar magicians themselves as The Great Destroyer. And let us say that members of his secret Templar organisation, men such as Buckingham and Hopkins, defied the order of their Grand Master and began to search out relics which were best left hidden.'
Agrippa paused and chewed his lip. 'And let us also say, for sake of argument, that the Grand Master allowed these Templars to be punished by the due process of law. Perhaps the matter would have ended there but other Templars, desirous of revenge, muddied the waters even further. And so we come to Rachel Santerre. She had no right to execute Warnham and Calcraft or carry out her own private war against the likes of Mandeville and Southgate. She was ordered to cease this but made matters worse by attacking men like you, friends of the Grand Master. Ah, well.' He rolled the cup in his hands. 'Where is the real Grail?'
'In safe hands, as you will discover!'
Agrippa sighed, picked up the cup and walked to the door.
Then let's hope it remains so.' He turned, one hand on the latch. 'Rachel Santerre would never have lived to be questioned. I would have killed her as a disobedient servant as I did Buckingham and Hopkins.' He played with the cup. 'But I thank you for what you did. Believe me, the King and the Lord Cardinal will receive the most glowing reports!'
The magus slipped out of the room. Benjamin went across and locked the door behind him.
That's what you told Rachel to make her confess, wasn't it?' I asked.
'Yes, I told her the Grand Master would not be pleased with her and that her continued obduracy might threaten other Templars. I even lied and told her that the Grand Master had given me her name before we left London.'
'And she believed you?'
'Yes, I think she did.'
‘And the cup?'
'Agrippa is right. It's from the treasures of Glastonbury Abbey. Eadred gave it to me. I believe it once belonged to the Emperor Constantine's father who served as a general here.'
'Will the King suspect?'
'In time, when the cup does not release its magic, he will.' Benjamin gripped me by the shoulders. 'But we know the truth, Roger, and we must keep it a secret. If the King suspects, even for a second, we will go the same way as Buckingham. Now, come, before Uncle can think of any more tasks, let us pack, brave the weather and return to Ipswich.'
Oh, we did, to the most joyous Yuletide ever, leaving behind The Great Killer to sup wine from what he thought was the Grail. The Lord Cardinal sent us letters of the most fulsome praise and heavy purses of gold, but Henry never forgot and neither did the Templars. Sir Edmund Mandeville mysteriously died the following spring after attending a banquet at Sheen. I believe Agrippa was in attendance at the time. Southgate never recovered from his wounds and, although moved to the care of the nuns at Syon, died shortly afterwards. I am not too sure about the details but, the previous afternoon, Doctor Agrippa had come to enquire about his health. The Santerres waited a year and applied for a pardon, offering gold by the cupful, but strangely enough Henry refused to be bribed and I believe they died mysteriously in foreign parts.
Templecombe was seized and stripped of all its possessions, turned into a veritable ruin, but the King found nothing there. Years later, when he launched his great attack on the abbeys and monasteries, Glastonbury was singled out for special attention. Abbot Bere died in 1524 and was succeeded by Richard Whitting. Fat Henry sent special agents to seize Glastonbury's most precious treasures but Whitting was cunning and spirited these away and, for that, paid the supreme penalty. He was brought to London and tortured but would say nothing. Accordingly, he was taken back to Somerset and, after a mock trial, he and two of his monks, one of them being the scholarly Eadred, were dragged through Glastonbury on hurdles and then hanged on the summit of the Tor in November 1539. The secrets of Glastonbury died with them and only the good Lord knows the whereabouts of the Grail.
So this bloody tale is done. I stare through the window and watch the moon's silver light bathing the hard-packed snow in a shimmering light. All have gone. Sometimes I dream of Rachel, cool and serene in her cellar prison; Mandeville and Southgate, arrogant in their power, and those two sombre mutes, Cosmas and Damien, who served them so well and suffered so barbarously. The circle is complete. Mathilda's son has come back to return the ring I gave his mother an eternity ago in the dark shadows round Templecombe. Oh, for a cup of claret to warm the heart and hold back the tears about the past! Even my little clerk is sniffing.
I know he wants to stay, to lust after Phoebe's generous tits. He shakes his head, stands by the window and looks out at the winter sky.
'Do you think, sir,' he whines, 'that there really is a supreme intelligence above us? A wisdom guiding our affairs?'
'I sincerely hope so, because there's bugger all down here!'
Author's Note
I have just finished studying Sir Roger Shallot's next memoirs about his turbulent visit to Florence in sixteenth-century Italy. It's difficult to accept his almost incredible story but the same was true when I first edited his memoirs about the Grail Murders.
Sir Roger can be economical with the facts but there is a great deal of truth in these memoirs. Buckingham was executed for the reasons and in the manner described in this book, whilst the survival of the secret order of the Templars is a well-documented fact, referred to in Graham Hancock's recent book The Sign and the Seal.
The remnants of both Templecombe and Glastonbury can be visited today. At Templecombe in the 1960s a secret painting of Christ was discovered, copied perhaps from the shroud which the Templars once owned. This, in turn, gave rise to the spurious legends that the Templars adored a decapitated head, the source of great power.
Glastonbury did hold the remains of Arthur, and the site of his tomb at Glastonbury can still be visited. The origins and mysteries of that abbey, as described by Shallot, are well documented in various books. Excalibur has lain hidden for ever but the Grail was probably secretly guarded by the monks at Glastonbury which accounts for Henry VIII's vicious persecution of the abbot and his community when that abbey was dissolved in the 1530s. The abbot and certain of his companions were barbarously executed on the summit of the Tor as Shallot describes. The Grail itself was probably spirited away to the abbey of Strata Florida in Wales. According to one source, it was last seen in the 1920s in a bank vault at Nanteos, three miles from Aberystwyth. Consequently, Sir Roger Shallot may not be the great liar we sometimes suspect him to be!
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