The Grail Murders srs-3

by Paul Doherty

  So much space, so much beauty. The choir stalls were each carefully sculptured and the wood polished till it shone like burnished gold. Banners of different colours, scarlet, red, green and blue, hung from the hammer-timbered roof whilst around the church were carved statuettes of the most breath-taking beauty depicting the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, St Patrick, and the whole heavenly host. I knelt and gazed around in astonishment.

  Yet now it is all gone, nothing left. Henry's agents saw to that. I know many of you are of the reformed faith and in your minds perhaps rightly so, but if you had seen what I saw then, you'd still mourn. You'd weep at the destruction of such sheer glory.

  After mass a lay brother offered to take us on a tour of the church and other interesting sights of the abbey. The Santerres demurred, Rachel claiming she felt unwell, but Mandeville and Southgate eagerly joined us. We were shown the great marble slab covering Arthur's coffin and the chalice well which provided water for the brothers. My master peered down this as if expecting to see a vision at the bottom.

  'Is it true,' he asked, 'that the Grail might lie beneath the waters of this well?'

  The seamed, yellow face of the old lay brother broke into a grin.

  'So legend says,' he wheezed. 'Many have searched yet nothing has been found.'

  We also visited the holy thorn, a wild rose bush supposedly sprung from Joseph of Arimathea's staff. I tell you this – the legend is true. Even in that bitter weather the plant was beginning to blossom and, when it bloomed at Christmas, the abbot as was customary would send a cutting to the King. After this, at Mandeville's insistence, the old brother took us into the library, a long room, its walls covered with heaped shelves of books. Benjamin's hands positively itched to take down the leather, jewel-embossed tomes (so did mine for other reasons), but Mandeville shook his head.

  'We have seen enough for today,' he murmured. 'Such matters are to be examined at our leisure. Templecombe's our destination. We must be there by noon.'

  We returned to the guest house and found our companions ready to leave. Outside in the courtyard lay brothers were moving baggage from the carts to sumpter ponies whose iron-shod hooves scraped the cobbles, their hot breath hanging like clouds as they whinnied in protest at being taken from their warm stables. I searched out Rachel. She still looked pale so I plucked up courage to speak. 'Mistress, is there anything wrong?' She smiled thinly. 'Nothing, Roger.' (How I thrilled at her use of my first name!)

  The journey has been exhausting and I will be glad to be home.' I would have dallied longer but the venerable Bere came down to wish us farewell. Mandeville was as curt as ever. He leaned over, patting his horse's withers.

  'Father Abbot,' he declared for all to hear, 'we thank you for your hospitality but we shall return. Certain questions need to be asked to which truthful answers must be given.'

  He then gave the order to move off and led us out of the abbey gate.

  Our journey was cold and uncomfortable, a brutal reminder of the comforts we had left behind. The sky, grey and lowering, threatened more snow whilst the previous day's fall carpeted the hedgerows and fields, choking the ditches and making the trackways slippery and dangerous. Never once did we stop even in Templecombe village but made our way through the sleepy hamlet, the houses on either side all boarded up, the only sign of life being columns of smoke and the occasional villager foraging on the outskirts for fire-wood. These seemed happy enough – burly, red-faced peasants who doffed their caps and shouted salutations to their Lord of the Manor, genuinely pleased to greet his return.

  We were making our way up a trackway towards the main gate of the manor when suddenly an old hag slipped out of the trees on one side of the path and stood squarely in front of Mandeville. She was a veritable night bird in a dirty cloak with a hood half-covering her greying wisps of hair. Her face was lined and raddled, the toothless mouth slack, displaying reddened gums, yet her eyes were full of life. She wiped her dripping, hooked nose, clasped her hands together and cackled. Believe me, if I had seen her in any other place, I would have dismissed her as a witch from a mummer's play. One of those old beldames who like to proclaim themselves keepers of secret mysteries. But this old bird was more sinister, a veritable crow, a harbinger of bad news. Mandeville gestured at her to get out of his way. She just laughed and stepped back, her eyes bright with malice.

  'Welcome to Templecombe!' Her voice was surprisingly strong and powerful. She made a mock bow. 'Sir John Santerre, your lovely wife and the beautiful Rachel.' The old crone licked at the saliva frothing on her lips. 'Get out of my way, woman!' Mandeville ordered.

  'Yes, I will. I will.' The old crone cringed back. 'When I have told you my news.' Mandeville leaned forward. 'And what news is that?'

  'There will be deaths!' the old woman proclaimed, one bony finger streaking up to the grey clouds. 'Death by fire! Death by iron! Death by rope! Death by water! And you, Sir Edmund Mandeville, emissary of a king who is not a king, the hand of death lies over you! The Midnight Destroyer sits at your right elbow whilst the Lord Satan squats at your left. You all,' she screamed, her eyes blazing,*you all have entered the Valley of Death!'

  'What do you mean?' Southgate shouted. No languid lisping now, I noted.

  The old woman sagged, her chin falling to her breast. She looked up from under grey, bushy eyebrows. 'You have had your news, now I'll be gone!'

  And, before any of us could do anything, she flitted like a ghost back into the trees. Mandeville glared furiously at Sir John Santerre. 'Who the devil was that?' 'One of your tenants, sir?' Southgate accused.

  Santerre shrugged. 'She's a crazed old woman who says she has visions. She's lived in a hut in a clearing just beyond the trees for God knows how long.' His eyes were lowered. 'Some people call her mad. Others say she is Hecate, Queen of the Night.'

  'She's just an old woman.' Rachel spoke up, her voice muffled behind her cloak. 'Pay no attention to her, sirs. She's a veritable Cassandra who sees doom and death in the flight of a sparrow.'

  Mandeville coughed and spat. 'If she accosts me again’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll burn the bitch!'

  And on that uncomfortable note we continued our way along the track. A porter opened the double-barred gate, shouting a welcome to the Santerres as he led us along the old causeway which wound past birch, oak and yew trees up to the front of the house.

  Chapter 7

  Let me tell you about Templecombe. The Templars had first built it as a fortified manor but later generations had embellished it to make it more comfortable. A massive stone edifice built in a square about a spacious inner courtyard, three stories in all, its roof was of grey slate. Although we could see the old arrow-slit windows, more sophisticated owners had added rounded oriels, jutting bays and ornate chimney stacks. The stone gleamed as if freshly washed whilst every window was glazed, some with pure glass, others, despite the poor light, even displaying brave heraldic emblems in a variety of hues.

  On our arrival, the great door was flung open. Servants gathered on the steps and for a while all was confusion as stewards, bailiffs, cooks, huntsmen and pages hurried down to greet the Santerres. Despite Sir John's brusque ways, I saw he was a well-respected, even loved, lord of the soil. Servants took our baggage, grooms led our horses away, as the Santerres proudly escorted us in.

  Despite its bleak exterior, Templecombe proved to be a jewel. The entrance hall was gleamingly panelled, the wood carved and sculpted. The floorboards, the great sweeping staircase, its balustrade and newels, were fashioned out of the most expensive materials. We were taken to the main hall, a long lofty chamber dominated by a hammer-beamed roof with an oriel window at one end depicting the Lamb of God carrying a standard. Other large windows, with cushioned seats beneath, were on either side of the cleverly carved fireplace above which hung a canvas painting of Adam and Eve being tempted by the serpent. A great log fire crackled in the hearth, the room was lit by squat wax candles fixed on metal spigots around the walls and, at the far end, under the oriel windo
w, was the dais and high table. The floor was paved with marble flagstones, black and white so it looked like a chessboard, and on this had been laid the thickest rugs from Persia, India and Turkey. There were chests of cypress and cedar, small tables bearing trays, silver cups, pewter tankards and flagons. Cloth of gold and exquisite tapestries hung on the walls, their fringes reaching down to the wooden panelling. Everything seemed to boast the power and wealth of the Santerres.

  'He owns rich fields,' Benjamin whispered, 'and the wool from his flocks is famous even in Flanders. Sir John has a finger in every pie and is well known to the harbour masters all along the south coast.'

  This rich Lord of the Manor now stood in the middle of the hall revelling in his ostentatious show of wealth whilst servants placed high-backed chairs in front of the fire. At Santerre's insistence we sat and warmed ourselves with possets of hot wine and slices of sugared pastry. Even Mandeville, tired after his ride, relaxed and murmured his appreciation.

  The greatest change, however, was in Rachel. She'd cast aside her cloak and even her veil so her jet-black hair fell down on either side of a face now glowing with happiness. I had eyes only for her but Benjamin was all agog with interest in the room and kept looking around, murmuring his admiration.

  'Come.' Rachel stood, smiling at both of us. 'Whilst our elders and betters take their rest, let me show you round our home.' She then took us on a tour, chattering excitedly like a child. The house, as I have said, had three stories, each a perfect square bounded by four polished galleries, three rooms leading off each. Even on the top one where Rachel showed us our chambers, the air was warmed by sweetened braziers and the atmosphere was comforting with gleaming wainscoting, coloured cloths, woollen carpets, carved chests and chairs. Everything was clean and bright in the candlelight. Even the corbels and cornices of the ceiling had been freshly painted.

  Rachel explained that her step-father had not stinted in his refurnishing of his new home. Now and again, however, we caught glimpses of its Templar past: black Beauce crosses printed on the walls which the passage of time had not faded; old arrow slits through which you could glimpse the snowy fields beyond; small gargoyles, some depicting wyverns or dragons, others the faces of long-dead knights.

  Gradually we realised that despite the wealth, warmth and comfort, Templecombe held an eerie, sinister air. Even as Rachel flitted before us down passageways and galleries, I could feel other presences, as if ghosts hiding in the shadows watched her pass then trailed behind us, looking for some weakness they could exploit. Benjamin's shoulders twitched and on one occasion I saw him shiver.

  'A strange place,' he murmured as Rachel walked ahead of us. 'The dead do not lie at rest here.'

  At last Rachel had shown us everything but, still full of enthusiasm, said there was more to see outside. Benjamin and I hid our exasperation, took our cloaks and followed her into the snow-covered grounds. We visited the outhouses, stables, smithies, brewing rooms, barns – slipping and slithering, though Rachel was as sure-footed as a cat. We went through a clump of yew trees into a clearing where a small church stood, a simple primitive affair with steep tiled roof and a small entrance tower. Rachel pushed the door open and beckoned us in. If the manor was opulent, the old church was positively bleak. A baptismal font stood near the doorway, a row of squat white pillars on either side of dark transepts, then through a rood screen into a plain, stone sanctuary. On either side were stalls, their seats up, each displaying a scene from the bible. Benjamin looked at these and exclaimed in delight.

  'Look, Roger!' He pointed to one of the raised seats where centuries earlier a carpenter had carved a bear climbing a tree. The scene was so vivid and lifelike you almost expected the bear to move or the tree to bend. Rachel sat on the sanctuary steps and watched us.

  'I love this place,' she murmured, gazing up at the black roof beams. 'It's so simple, so pure. My step-father wanted to tear it down but my mother and I refused to allow it.' She smiled at us, then her face grew solemn and her eyes widened. 'The Templars used to meet here,' she continued. 'This was their chapel.' She shivered and pulled her cloak close. 'Very evil men,' she whispered, 'with such dark practices, their ghosts still linger here. Mother's always saying the house should be exorcised.'

  'Do you think they were guilty of such terrible crimes?' Benjamin asked.

  Rachel stood up. 'Perhaps, but not committed here. Let me show you something.'

  She led us out of the church, round the back and through a wood. The line of trees suddenly ended where the ground fell away and, beneath us, was a large lake, the water turning to ice and, in the middle, a mist-shrouded island. On this, amongst the few trees growing there, stood a low dark building which, in the fading light, had a desolate, sinister air.

  The Templar house,' Rachel explained. 'Just a long stone room but legend has it that the Templars used it for their mysteries. I have never been across.' She gestured to the barge nestling amongst the frozen weeds. 'Others go over but I wouldn't set foot there even in the height of summer! That island frightens me.' Her face brightened. 'Come,' she added, 'you must be exhausted and I prattle on. Supper will be served soon.'

  She took us back to the house where a servant showed us up to our rooms. We each had a small chamber. Mine was between those of Cosmas and Benjamin. Mandeville, Southgate and Damien were on the other gallery. The rooms were probably once Templar cells but now they were luxuriously furnished. Each had a large four-poster bed, an oaken wardrobe, a table, stool and chair, whilst the arrow-slit windows had been widened and filled with tinted glass. A log fire crackled in the hearth and two capped braziers had been moved in just inside the door. My room was as warm and smelt as fragrant as a summer's day. For a while I sat on the edge of the bed until Benjamin joined me. He seemed tired and perplexed and, without invitation, began to summarise what had happened so far, ticking the points off on his fingers.

  'First, Hopkins was a monk, a Benedictine from Glastonbury but he also served as a chaplain for the Santerres here at Templecombe as well as for die outlying farms.

  'Secondly, he had a passion for Arthurian legend and lore and searched for the Grail and Excalibur. He discovered an ancient manuscript in Glastonbury's library with a doggerel verse which no one understands.

  'Thirdly, Hopkins told Buckingham that he could lay hands on these precious relics. My Lord of Buckingham come to Templecombe thinking the relics might be hidden here, or maybe just to verify with Hopkins that what he had been told was the truth. Sir John Santerre was approached but panicked. He believed Buckingham's search for the relics masked some subtle treason, and so the Agentes were alerted. Buckingham then wrote to Taplow in London but this correspondence was seized by our good Mends Mandeville and Southgate. Buckingham was arrested: he went to the block whilst poor Taplow was burnt at Smithfield. The Santerres were investigated but cleared of any suspicion.' Benjamin paused. 'What else?' 'The murdered agents?'

  'Ah, yes. Fourthly, two of Mandeville's agents who had been placed in the Buckingham household and first alerted their masters to Buckingham's so-called treason, were murdered with a garrotte string as was Hopkins's sister but we have no clue as to who the murderer was. Fifthly, there is a secret coven or conspiracy linked to the ancient order of the Templars who are also searching for the Grail and Arthur's Sword. God knows who these could be. The abbot and his brothers at Glastonbury? John Santerre? Or even worse, Mandeville or Southgate. After all, there is suspicion that the order has an accomplice close to the crown.

  'Sixthly, we have been sent here to find the Grail and.. Excalibur – though there's fat chance of that – as well as to assist our two dark shadows to root out the activities of these Templars.

  'And, finally, we have the warnings of that crone. Why did she deliver the message then? Who told her to? Was it the monks of Glastonbury?' 'Master, she is a witch.'

  Benjamin shook his head. 'Nonsense, Roger. I don't believe in such powers.' He got up and started pacing up and down the room.

&nbs
p; My master was like that: once his mind probed a mystery or problem, he became physically agitated, gnawing away at it until he had satisfaction. A true Renaissance man, Benjamin Daunbey. He didn't believe in witches, sorcerers and warlocks. I did. When you meet the likes of Mabel Brigge, you quickly recognise someone who has made a pact with Satan and acquired occult powers! A beautiful demon, Mabel! To kill someone, all she did was fast for three days and concentrate her mind on destroying the life of her enemy. I watched her do this and bring about the destruction of one of England's greatest noblemen but that's another story. Benjamin stopped pacing up and down. 'Do you agree with what I have said, Roger?' 'Well, of course, Master. It's all happened, hasn't it?' 'Of course not.' 'If you say so, Master.'

  Benjamin came and sat down beside me. 'Less of your sarcasm, Roger. We know only what we have been told or made to see. How do we know Buckingham committed treason? How do we know he wrote those letters to Taplow?'

  'Because the mad bugger confessed!' I interrupted. 'We met Taplow in prison and saw the poor bastard die!'

  Benjamin pulled a face. 'No, the man we met in prison was not Taplow but someone else.' He smiled at my snort of disdain. 'Don't you remember, Roger? Think of that prisoner, with his fat arms and legs. Oh, he was covered in dirt and spoke like an actor reciting his lines but he made one mistake. Taplow was supposed to be a Lutheran but the prisoner said he believed in Purgatory. No Lutheran would have said that.

  'Now, when we went to Smithfield I caught a glimpse of the dying Taplow. Oh, he had the same colour hair as the man we met in prison but he was much more emaciated.'

  I closed my eyes and thought back. Taplow, in his prison cell: the fat on his arms and legs, the chubby, well-fed face beneath the dirt, the reference to his soul going to Purgatory, the fire at Smithfield, the thin, broken body I had glimpsed. My master was right. 'Why?' I asked.