by Paul Doherty
'Pasteler!' he exclaimed. 'John Pasteler!'
We walked across. Benjamin gave an urchin a penny to hold our horses. I followed him into the goldsmith's shop. Pasteler in many ways reminded me of Berkeley: an honest, well-to-do merchant busy amongst his apprentices and journeymen. The shelves and tables around the shop were littered with precious objects: cups, bracelets, brooches, ewers and bowls. Pasteler was surprised to see Benjamin but gave us a smile and a warm handshake.
'You have not come to buy, have you, Master Daunbey?' His smile faded. 'I am sorry,' he muttered. 'I forgot, Johanna became ill.'
This was a reference to Benjamin's betrothed who had lost her wits and been cloistered in a convent.
'The years hurry on,' Benjamin replied. 'No more wedding bands but, John, you have a collection of precious stones?'
'In my strongbox yes, rubies, emeralds ...' 'Do you have any amethysts?'
Pasteler went away and came back with a small metal-bound coffer fastened with three locks. He opened these carefully. I caught my breath: there must have been five or six amethysts lying on a satin cushion. Some of them were the size of small eggs, though none was as grand as the one I had seen on the so-called Orb of Charlemagne.
'I am not buying,' Benjamin explained. 'But, is it possible, Master Pasteler, to have an amethyst inside which, against a strong flame, a cross can be seen?'
'Of course.' Pasteler picked up the largest amethyst. 'Notice how they are cut, Benjamin: how many sides to this amethyst are there?'
"There must be at least seven or eight,' Benjamin replied.
'Precisely,' Pasteler declared. 'This one is at least three hundred years old and has been cut in that way. Stay there!'
Pasteler went away. He brought back a small wax candle light. He struck a tinder, lit this and held the amethyst up against the flame. I peered over Benjamin's shoulder and caught my breath. The gem was many-sided, the lines crossed and within I could see a cross glowing. Benjamin studied it intently.
'And would this happen with any amethyst?'
'If it was pure and many-sided with lines and sides crossing,' the goldsmith replied, 'yes, it's possible. It's a well-known trick in this type of stone.'
Benjamin thanked him and we went and stood out in Cheapside.
'I think I have it, Roger,' he declared. 'The Orb of Charlemagne is surmounted by an amethyst. However, Henley's entry talks not only of a cross, as we've just seen, but the Cross of our Saviour.
I suspect very few actually know what this cross is like. The amethyst on the Orb of Charlemagne may be unique: by some cut of the stone and trick of the light, one can not only see a cross but the figure of Christ nailed to it.'
'And Henley would know that, but not the likes of Egremont?'
Benjamin grinned. 'You know the world of relic selling: Henley, perhaps, stumbled on the secret and that is why he wrote the word, Saviour, in Greek. People like our Lord Theodosius would look for a cross, Henley would look for the figure of Christ.' Benjamin sighed. 'It must be the answer - that alone accounts for Henley's use of Ixthus.'
'I agree,' I replied. 'So, when Egremont inspected the Orb at Berkeley's, he and anyone else would see the cross and think it was genuine. Henley knew otherwise. When he saw nothing but a simple cross in the amethyst shown to him, he knew it was false.'
'I think so,' Benjamin declared. 'And he'd tell as much to whoever stole the Orb. Henley would then laugh at the way the thief had been duped. He had his throat cut for his pains, as well as to silence him for ever.'
We went to a nearby tavern for something to eat and drink. We then collected our horses from the stables and rode slowly back to Malevel.
We expected to find it deserted but Kempe and his men were waiting: the soldiers lounged outside, Kempe sprawled in the keeper's small office.
‘I tried to go up to your chambers,' he explained, 'but that bloody hound stopped me! You've got to come with me. We've found Berkeley.'
'Where?' Benjamin asked.
'Amongst the ruins just north of the Tower. He's had his throat cut and he was tortured before he died.'
Above us, Castor had obviously heard me and began to howl mournfully.
'How long has he been dead?' Benjamin asked.
'A few hours perhaps,' Kempe replied.
Benjamin walked outside and stared at Malevel Manor as if, through very thought, he could discern what had happened there. Kempe and I followed him out.
'We are to go now,' Sir Thomas repeated. He glanced at me. 'I suppose the bloody dog has to be fed?'
'Don't speak ill of your betters,' I retorted.
Kempe just smirked.
'The King offered me two gold coins to find out how you placated the beast,' he commented.
'Well, both you and he will have to wait, won't they?'
'Sir Thomas.' Benjamin came back. 'Sir Thomas,' he repeated. 'Before Roger and I go riding over the heathland to inspect some poor man's corpse, I have a question for you. You said that there was a way of knowing the Orb of Charlemagne was genuine?'
'That's correct.'
'And the clue lies in the amethyst? If you hold it up against the flame you can see, inside the diamond, the faint outline of a cross and Our Saviour's body on it?'
'That's true,' Kempe replied, his face full of surprise. 'How did you find out?'
Benjamin just shrugged. 'And you are sure,' Benjamin persisted, 'that the Orb which was given to Lord Egremont was the genuine one?' I saw a shift in Kempe's eyes, a slight flicker: his tongue came out to wet his upper lip, all the signs I’ ve gathered over the years of a man about to lie.
'But that's ridiculous,' he stammered. 'Of course the Orb was genuine!'
'In which case,' I spoke up, 'you will not deny us the right to inspect the replica?'
'Of course, at an appropriate time and away from prying eyes.'
'Good!' Benjamin declared. 'And I have other requests, Sir Thomas.' He pointed at the manor. 'I want a guard left here.' He tapped his pouch. 'The windows are all shuttered and I hold the keys to the doors. No one is to go in there without my permission. Agreed?'
Kempe shouted an order at the captain of his guard telling him to leave four men.
'They can use the gatehouse,' I declared. 'My master and I, not to mention Castor, are moving to the Flickering Lamp.'
'Do you have any other requests, Master Daunbey?' Kempe asked.
'Yes, I would like to know,' Benjamin said, 'why, when I inspected the quiver of one of your archers, Sir Thomas, some of the arrows were missing? Now in that silent massacre, no long bow was used. I just wondered, Sir Thomas, if one of the archers was sending messages?'
Kempe's face paled. He opened his mouth to reply but stamped his feet and looked up at the sky.
'We have to hurry,' he declared. 'I know nothing of what you say, Master Daunbey, but Berkeley's corpse is waiting. Lord Egremont and his creature Cornelius will be joining us.'
Benjamin let the matter rest. I went up to our chamber where Castor threw himself on me, bouncing up and down, licking my face. I took him for a walk on the heathland and the mad beast ran around chasing crows and rooks and leaving any rabbit stupid enough to come out of its burrow in a state of mortal fear. At last, exhausted, he trotted back. We returned to the gatehouse where Benjamin had packed our saddlebags and, accompanied by a very sullen Kempe, we rode into the city to hire chambers at the Flickering Lamp.
We had no difficulty getting through the crowds. I tied a piece of rope round Castor's collar and everyone, including the beggars and counterfeit-men, gave us a wide berth. Boscombe seemed pleased to see me. He was in one of his strange moods and had changed his appearance, this time dressing in Lincoln green as if he was one of Robin Hood's men.
'It's good to see you again,' he grinned. 'I, too, have been away, business in the West Country. You still want your chamber and for your friend ... ?'
Boscombe readily agreed to provide a further chamber. He also had the sense to offer Castor a piece of meat. Th
e dog wolfed it down and immediately trotted after Boscombe to a make-shift kennel in a small plot behind the tavern stables. I left our saddlebags in my chamber, came down and pushed my way through the thronged taproom. Even as I did so I glimpsed Cerberus sitting in the corner watching me unblinkingly, his tankard half-raised to his lips.
We left by Cripplegate, galloping hard along the deserted path. It's a strange place north of the Tower. The soil is poor, its sprawling wild heathland is the haunt of footpads and outlaws. This bleak landscape is broken by thick copses of trees, small wood and the occasional dell where the land abruptly dips. A lonely, brooding place, the silence broken only by the sound of the crows which nested in the trees or the occasional howl of a dog from some lonely farm. At the top of a small hill, Kempe paused: behind us in the far distance I could make out the outlines of the Tower. We caught the salty taste of the river. Kempe pointed to a lonely copse further east, well away from the trackway which wound across the heathland.
'Amongst the trees,' he explained, 'there are ruins. Some people claim the Romans built an outstation there: others that it was a small castle built by William the Norman.'
'It's a lonely place,' I replied. 'How was Berkeley's corpse discovered so quickly?'
'Two journeymen coming into the city,' he replied, 'stopped there last night. At first they didn't see anything wrong but, at dawn, they noticed the crows were massing on the walls at the far side of the ruin. They went over, and found Berkeley's body lying in a ditch. He was wearing a gilt bracelet with his name inscribed on it.' Kempe cleared his throat and spat. 'They brought this into the city and went straight to the Guildhall. I have a man there, a clerk, who brought the news to me.'
I strained my eyes and caught a flash of colour amongst the trees.
'I think Lord Egremont is waiting for us.'
Kempe put spurs to his horse and we galloped across the grass, not reining in until we entered the trees. We dismounted and followed Kempe into a large clearing where the ruins sprawled: crumbling walls and towers, covered in lichen and creeping ivy. Egremont and Cornelius were waiting for us inside: the Imperial envoy had his cowl pushed back, his long, dyed hair tumbling down on either side of his unshaven face.
'We've been waiting, Sir Thomas, at least a good half hour!' He looked sinister standing there, legs apart, sword and dagger in their sheaths. Beside him, Cornelius, hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown, looked even more threatening, the hilt of his dagger just peeping out from the edge of his cloak. Behind him was a silent half-circle of Noctales, an eerie sight with their shaven heads and monkish garb, yet all the more threatening as they were armed to the teeth. They stared at us without a flicker of friendship or camaraderie.
'They hold us responsible,' I whispered to Benjamin. 'You can see it in their eyes!'
'Where's Berkeley?' Kempe asked.
Cornelius snapped his fingers. Two of his men came forward, carrying a small stretcher, a piece of canvas between two poles. They pulled back the covering sheet. Lord have mercy! Berkeley was a good man, he deserved a better death. His boots and hose had been removed, his half-closed, blood-filled eyes gazed blankly up. His mouth was simply a gaping hole of blood and his throat had been slashed, drenching what had been a costly blue and gold jerkin.
'He was a good man, at least to me!'
I knelt down beside the corpse, closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. Benjamin on the other side was already examining the corpse.
'Look.' He held up Berkeley's hand. 'Someone has sliced off the top of each finger. The same with the left hand.'
The soles of the poor man's feet were scorched, while long dagger furrows ran down either side of his bare legs.
'He was tortured,' Cornelius exclaimed. 'Tortured for a while. A small fire lit beneath his feet, the tips of his fingers removed. Now who would do that to Sir Hubert?'
'Anything else?' Benjamin asked. 'How did he come here?'
'There are signs of horses,' Cornelius replied, crouching beside us. 'Whoever did this undoubtedly enjoys his work.'
Benjamin got to his feet. 'Sir Thomas, where were you last night?' he asked abruptly. 'And you, my Lord Egremont?'
The Imperial envoy strode over, a riding crop in his hand. He
laid this gently on Benjamin's cheek. 4 Are you accusing me?'
I rose, hand on my dagger hilt. Egremont caught the movement and laughed deep in his throat.
'Tell him, Sir Thomas. Tell him where we both were last night.'
'We were guests of His Grace the King and his Eminence Cardinal Wolsey. We were in the court from late afternoon. Master Daunbey, you know the King: we hunted, we feasted, we were entertained by one masque after another and the festivities went on until just before dawn. Master Berkeley here disappeared yesterday. He told his workers he was going out and that's the last we know of him.'
'And where were you?' I asked Cornelius.
'We have lodgings in the old Temple buildings near Fleet Street,' the Noctale replied.
'And?'
'Like you, Shallot, and you, Master Daunbey, I cannot guarantee where I was every single hour.' He gestured at the corpse. 'This is the work of a professional assassin. I believe he kidnapped Berkeley.' He bent down and turned the corpse over. 'Struck him on the back of the head and brought him here for questioning.' He gazed slyly up at me. 'But God knows why?' He pointed to the dagger marks on either side of the knee. 'These would be particularly painful; when a man tenses his legs and the muscles are tight beneath the knees such cuts would make him scream.' He looked over his shoulder at Egremont and said something in German.
'What was that?' Benjamin asked, who knew a little of the tongue.
'We talked of the Schlachter, the Slaughterer. Years ago,' Cornelius replied, 'before I joined the Noctales and his Imperial Excellency was pleased to promote me in his favour, there was another Noctale, a master torturer, called the Schlachter. He served the Emperor Maximilian but—' Cornelius wiped his hands on his brown robes and stared up at the crows complaining raucously in the trees around the ruin. 'This man became over-enthusiastic in his work. He made the mistake of torturing an innocent merchant and was dismissed by Emperor Charles. His name was Jakob.' Cornelius narrowed his eyes. 'That's right, Jakob von Archetel. He fled the empire and warrants were issued for his arrest. His apprehension was my first task.' He smiled thinly. 'At which I failed.'
'Are you saying this could be the work of the Schlachter?' I asked.
'Possibly,' Cornelius replied. 'It bears all the hallmarks of his handiwork. The removal of the tips of fingers, the dagger wounds on the legs.' His face became grave. 'If Archetel is involved in this business, then it doesn't bode well. He would like to hurt the Emperor as well as line his own purse.'
'And what about your outlaws?' Egremont intervened. 'This Lord Charon you mentioned?'
'Ah yes.' Kempe came forward, the bastard was smiling from ear to ear. 'We discussed what you told us, Master Shallot, with His Grace the King. He wants Lord Charon trapped, arrested and interrogated.' He tweaked my cheek. 'And you, my dear Roger, are to be the bait.'
Chapter 9
We returned to the Flickering Lamp: it was late in the afternoon and I was torn between rage and fear.
'Always poor Shallot,' I snarled as we sat in the taproom.
Boscombe came over: this time he was garbed as a friar, even his face was pulled in a sanctimonious expression and his little mockery did something to restore my good humour. Benjamin introduced himself fully, thanking Boscombe for his kindness to me during my recent troubles. The landlord simply pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, smiled beatifically, sketched a blessing in the air and walked away. Benjamin watched him go curiously.
'Master?' I asked.
Benjamin picked up his blackjack, tossing the remains of his chicken on the floor for Castor to eat.
'I am sure I have seen him before,' Benjamin declared. He put his tankard down. 'I am sure I have,' he repeated.
'Perhaps
when we came here first?' I retorted. (Oh yes, I regret I was so dismissive.) 'Maybe you glimpsed his face then? But, never mind him, what am I to do about Lord Charon?'
'Sir Thomas Kempe made it very clear,' Benjamin replied. 'Lord Charon may have had a hand in the business at Malevel Manor.' He leaned across and gripped my wrist. 'Roger, it's the
only path we can follow: better that than being summoned to kneel before the King and listen to him rage or, even worse, have things thrown at us!' Benjamin glanced across the tavern to where Boscombe was standing beside the ale casks. 'If we fail the King on this,' he added, 'it will no doubt mean spending months in the Tower, followed by some sea voyage down the coast of Africa.'
He came over, sat beside me and leaned his back against the wall.
'Let's summarise, Roger, what we know. First,' he said. 'We have the Orb of Charlemagne. The King has really no intention of allowing that out of his realm. He therefore hires a royal goldsmith to fashion a replica. Secondly, this Orb contains a secret. If the amethyst on the top is held up against a flame, I believe the crucified Christ can be seen. This information is known to the King and to Sir Thomas Kempe. Now the relic-seller Henley also knew it but the thief did not. That is why Henley was killed and Berkeley was taken out on to that lonely heath, to be tortured and interrogated about the replica, before he was foully murdered.'
'Thirdly,' I added. 'The replica that Berkeley fashioned apparently fooled both Lord Theodosius and Cornelius. Otherwise they would never have accepted it.' I sipped at my ale. 'This leads us to other interesting possibilities. Was the replica Kempe showed us the genuine article? Or did Berkeley make two?'
'And?' Benjamin asked.
'Where is the replica now?' I asked.
'I can't answer that,' Benjamin replied. 'However, Dearest Uncle told me that Henry has been negotiating with the Emperor for help against France for the last year. In that time Berkeley could have fashioned two or more replica Orbs.' He sighed. 'But we'll never know, will we? Well, Roger, what else have your sharp wits dug up?'
