by Paul Doherty
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. The
y 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. 'Do we believe what?' Southgate answered angrily. 'In Arthur's sword and a miraculous chalice?'
'If the King does,' Mandeville replied, 'I do. We also believe, Master Shallot, in the need for good order, strong rule, peace, and no stupid, futile rebellions.'
His two strange secretaries slid into the room and, without a nicker of a glance at us, went to sit at another table.
Mandeville, his mouth full of bread, nodded towards them. 'You consider us ruthless, Shallot? Then think of Cosmas and Damien. Or, even worse, of their elder brother who tried to escape. Do you know what the Turks did? They stripped him naked, pegged him to the soil, tied a hollow pipe to his side and took a starving rat-' Mandeville slurped from his beer '-not one of your English sort. Those in Asia are two foot long from tip to tail. Anyway, they put this rat down the pipe with a fire at the open end. The rat could only go one way, burrowing its way out through the living flesh.'
I gagged and glanced at the two bald-pated twins: they didn't seem so terrible now but rather pathetic. I then stared at Mandeville and Southgate. Whatever they said, these were the real madmen. They had a passion for law and order which bordered on mania, living examples of Machiavelli's The Prince, for what Henry wanted, these men would do.
'Why do we have to go to Glastonbury?' I blurted out before my master could stop me.
Mandeville sneered as his strong teeth tore at the coarse rye bread.
'Master Shallot, you and your master have a growing reputation for quick eyes and subtle wits. Do you ever go hunting?' 'Not if I can help it!'
'You should do, Shallot. Especially with dogs, for that's what we are going to do in Somerset. Hunt down traitors and find what the King wants. We are the huntsmen and you are our dogs.'
I bit back a tart reply as my master tugged at my sleeve and we tactfully took our leave. Outside in the corridor I grabbed him by the elbow. 'I'm no man's dog, Master!' Benjamin shook his head. 'Just leave it, Roger, leave it! We have other matters to tend to.' 'Such as?' 'Hopkins's sister, not to mention Tailor Taplow.' 'Master Shallot!'
We both spun round. Rachel Santerre stood there, looking as beautiful as a summer's dawn though her face was pale with dark rings round the eyes.
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot.' She looked fearfully over her shoulder.
'Mistress, what's the matter?' I asked, watching that lovely bosom rise and fall in agitation.
'I don't know,' she stammered. 'But I am fearful. Buckingham's blood is on Sir John's hands, and Mandeville and Southgate frighten me. They are going to stick their noses into matters which do not concern them.' We looked at her.
'You don't understand,' she whispered hoarsely. 'I live at Templecombe. God forgive me, I feel the ghosts there, the Templar knights.' 'Rachel! Rachel!'
The young woman cast one more despairing glance at us, shook her head and disappeared round the corner to answer her mother's plea.
Benjamin kicked at the rushes. 'Pray,' he muttered. 'Pray, Roger, that we return safe from Templecombe!' (As if I needed such urging!) We returned to our chamber for our cloaks and wallets though Benjamin appeared to dally. 'Master, we should go.' 'In a little while, Roger, I am waiting for someone.'
He became lost in one of his dour moods so I let him be and went to the window to stare out at a dairy maid carrying pitchers of milk between the barns and the kitchen. At last there was a knock on the door and a young man entered wearing a battered leather jacket and torn breeches. He bobbed his greasy head at Benjamin as if greeting some great lord. 'You have the address?' my master asked. 'Oh, aye, sir.' In any other circumstances the young man's burr would have made me laugh. 'Well?'
'Hopkins's sister is a widow and has been for many a year,' the fellow replied. 'She lives in a small alleyway just past The Magpie and Crown off Watling Street.'
'Thank you.' Benjamin slipped the fellow a coin and closed the door behind him.
'Mistress Hopkins,' I asked, 'off Watling Street? What has she to do with this business, Master?'
'She may know something, a piece of tittle-tattle, which may help us.' 'So we are off to Watling Street?' Benjamin smiled. 'And Newgate Prison.'
Naturally we had to obtain Doctor Agrippa's permission to leave but, within the hour, we were on a barge taking us upriver. It was a cold but beautiful day. The sun shone from blue skies, the water was glassy smooth and, on every side, I felt London press in: the green fields, the orchards, the cries of the boatmen and those of children playing with hoops along the river bank. Suddenly I felt homesick, even before I left, and quietly raged at the royal bastard's devious plans.
We landed at East Watergate and made our way up into Knight Rider Street. Our short walk through London soon cheered me up, especially the taverns – The Raven's Watch, The Bible and Swan, The Leg and Seven Stars – with drinkers outside, their flagons full of 'angel's food' or 'dragon's milk', whilst the air was sweet with the smell of soft raisin-filled saffron cakes baking in the cookshops.
It was mid-morning and many of the apprentices and stallholders were taking a short rest, albeit some of them were already as drunk as March hares: one group of apprentices outside The Death's Head on the corner of Old Fish Street were indulging in a strident belching contest. I kept a wary eye open for any of my old friends, in particular the goldsmith Waller, even as I was distracted by the sight of the apprentices throwing their caps in the air as they shouted for custom, pompous city officials in their fur-lined robes and, of course, those beauties of the night, the high-class courtesans in their satin dresses and flowery head veils. These arrogantly wandered along the streets raising plucked eyebrows at the young bucks and gallants resplendent in tight hose, padded doublets and incredibly large codpieces.
We then took a short cut through some alleyways. Here the street-walkers were not too sophisticated: outside her tenement a harlot stood, skirts raised, over a chafing dish of coals on which she had sprinkled brimstone and perfume so as to fumigate herself. Further along, an apothecary was trying to sell the customers of such women a cure for the clap made out of boar's grease, sulphur, bark and quicksilver, all thickened by heavy treacle.
My master, of course, ambled along like a child and I had to keep him away from the rufflers, those former soldiers looking for easy pickings, the mad Abraham men who danced naked pretending to be insane, the cappers who begged for money and attached horse-locks to the outstretched arms of people stupid enough to give it. Once attached, the cappers would not let their victims go until they handed their purses across.
The din became even louder as we turned into Trinity where a gang of felons was being driven about London in a cart wearing a scrawled notice around their neck listing their offence. These were hookers – rogues who carried a tall staff with a hook at the end which they pushed through windows to pluck down everything of value – best blankets, nightshirts or pots. (It was because of these men that the legends spread that goblins and elves stole such stuff.) Anyway a gang of these had been caught and the crowd now vented their fury by pelting them with rotten eggs whilst householders tipped chamber pots from upper stories. A young man was chained to the back of the cart for pretending to be a priest. His back was lacerated, the tips of his ears bloody where they had been cropped whilst a fool's cap, fastened to his head, listed his lies and deceptions.
At last we reached the alleyway just past The Magpie and Crown. A beggar lad showed us the house in a dank, narrow alleyway where Mistress Hopkins lived. It was a lean, high tenement, three or four stories high. The windows were all shuttered and what paint was left was peeling off in huge flakes. The door was ill-fitting yet surprisingly open, off the latch. I knocked loudly and shouted. Even then I had a premon
ition of danger, of menace. Old Shallot's signs: a pricking at the back of the neck, a churning of the bowels, light sweat on the forehead and this incredible desire to run. 'Mistress Hopkins!' I bawled. 'Mistress Hopkins!'
The small passageway was shadowy and fetid and my words rang hollow. 'Mistress Hopkins!' I repeated.
Above us the old house creaked and groaned. Benjamin pushed me in and slammed the door behind us. We groped around in the darkness, found a fat tallow candle and I lit it with my tinder. Hands shaking, I walked deeper into the house, Benjamin behind me. We passed a small, ill-kept chamber, dusty rickety stairs, then entered a scullery or kitchen. This was a little cleaner. A battered pewter cup stood on the table and, at the other end, in a chair facing an ash-filled fire grate, sat a lady, head forward, shoulders hunched, her veil fallen over her face. The place stank of death.
I walked over, tipped the head back and bit back my scream. Mistress Hopkins, no beauty in life with her scrawny face and wispy hair, had been brutally killed: her eyes popped out of their sockets, her swollen tongue was clenched between gapped yellow stumps whilst her skin was blue-black, the breath throttled by the scarlet garrotte cord still tied round her neck. Benjamin lifted the old woman's hand.
'Not too cold,' he murmured. 'She probably died within the hour'. 'Why?' I asked. 'Why an old lady?'
Benjamin covered the woman's face with a cloth and sat at the table. 'Someone,' he declared, 'knew we were coming. But that was no great secret. After all, I hired a servant at Richmond to discover where Mistress Hopkins lived.' He rubbed his chin. 'I suppose it's useless asking him. He could have let others know where we were going without realising it. No,' he sighed, 'someone knew we were coming. Someone who knows the mind of priests. A monk, especially a recluse like Hopkins, would have few friends and would scarcely confide in his brothers at Glastonbury. So perhaps he discussed matters with his sister?'
