Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Sometimes it can be on a mere whim. On one occasion a Vizier, one of the Sultan's principal officers, decided to get rid of his entire harem. All the girls were strangled, put in sacks loaded with stones and dumped in the Bosphorus. One afternoon, whilst escaping from the Sultan's palace, I had to leave the boat in which I was fleeing and swam down, deep amongst the shallows of the Bosphorus. Now, you mightn't believe this, but the sea bed was dotted with sacks, with their grisly burdens, tied at the neck, standing upright under the force of the currents. Can you imagine it? A sea of dead girls within a sea? I see my little chaplain snigger. He thinks I am making it up. Far from it. I can swim like a fish, and often had to, and if he doesn't believe me, I'll take him down to the nearest pond and show him how! Ah, well, that's quietened him and, true, I do digress.)

'Warnham was one of the Cardinal's agents?' Benjamin asked. Agrippa nodded. 'As was Calcraft,' he added.

'But why murder them?' Agrippa continued as if talking to himself. 'What is the use of killing agents?' 'They must have known something,' I replied.

Agrippa shook his head. 'No. I think we have already gleaned the information we need. Buckingham is dead, Hopkins too.' He pulled a face. 'Ah, well, only time will tell.' He waddled off and we went back to our chambers.

For the next few days we were left to our own devices. Oh, we glimpsed Wolsey from afar in his scarlet silken robes and, now and again, whilst feasting in the hall at a series of sumptuous banquets. The Great Beast made his presence felt.

King Henry looked a little older but still enormous with his bright gold hair and beard and those blue, agate-hard eyes which seemed to take in everything. He dressed in a brilliant array of jewel-encrusted jerkins, silver hose and high-heeled, ribbon-rosed shoes which made him look even loftier than those around him. The Great Killer always liked to enjoy himself and, whatever dangers threatened, lost himself in a round of festivities.

Some idiot must have told him more stories about King Arthur for this seemed to tickle his fancy and on our third evening at Richmond he staged a marvellous masque. We, along with other guests (the Cardinal had still not acknowledged his nephew), were led into a vast hall lit by hundreds of pure wax candles. Around the walls the rich scarlets, yellows and golds of Venetian tapestries sparkled in the light, whilst at the far end of this cavernous chamber loomed a vision all in green. It was a fairy castle, its high battlements crowned with towers and its walls pierced with crenellations. Carpenters and artists had laboured for two weeks to build this Chateau Vert or Green Castle, covering the wooden frame with green paper, foil and verdigris paint. The effect was quite remarkable: the green castle shimmered in the candle-lit hall like some spectre in a vision.

Well, you have the drift of what was happening. Eight lovely women representing Beauty and Honour, etc, had to defend the castle against eight nobles, led, of course, by the stupid fat beast himself. These eight lords, who had taken the names of Love, Youth, Loyalty and so on pelted the defenders of the Chateau Vert with flowers and were showered with rose-water and sweetmeats in return. Everyone took it seriously. I could hardly stop laughing to see the great ones of the land engaged in such childish games.

My master sat still, rather quiet and withdrawn, pondering on what Agrippa had told him. I was more interested in the food; mutton in beer, duck in orange sauce, pastries and sweet cubes of jellied milk, as well as the cups of claret and chilled wine. I drank as if there was no tomorrow.

One thing I did notice during the masque and another similar farce when we all trooped out to Shooters Hill to see Fat Henry clothed in Lincoln green play Robin Hood, was The Great Killer's new love: a dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl who moved with a languorous grace and whom the King was for ever singling out for marks of special affection.

That was the first time I saw Anne Boleyn. She wasn't beautiful, not in the classical sense, but exuded a sexual power which drew men's gazes like a magnet. Beside her, the short, dumpy Spanish queen, Catherine of Aragon, resembled a chamber pot next to a beautiful vase.

Poor old Catherine! The bearer of so many children, only one of whom survived: the little, red-haired, pinched-faced girl Mary, who followed her mother everywhere. Good Lord, the things we do to our children! Mary grew up hating her father and, like her mother, spent her entire life pining for a living child. I know she did. When she died she gave me her prayer book. I still have it. One part of it, the prayer of a mother asking to be delivered of a healthy child, was so tear-stained the ink had run.

Mind you, they have all gone now. I sit here and reflect on Fat Henry prancing around pretending to be Robin Hood. As the years passed, he killed all those round him before being murdered himself. Yes, murdered. I confess to it now, I wasn't involved but I knew about it. His council served him white arsenic which created a fire ball in his belly. He lay for days on a stinking bed, with blood-streaked eyes and parchment-coloured complexion, unable to swallow. His skin began to peel off, the gross fat in his belly turned to liquid whilst his stomach and bowels dripped blood. When he died, foaming at the mouth, his tongue was so big it completely filled his mouth and kept it a-gape. They had to hoist his rotting corpse into the coffin, stuffing it in like you would a rotten bale of straw into a sack. Ah, how the glories of the world disappear.

After a few days of kicking our heels round Richmond, the court began to settle down. We became more conscious of the Santerres as well as of the sombre presence of the Agentes. The latter slipped like shadows along the passageways and I formed a secret dread of Sir Edmund Mandeville. He looked as dark as Lucifer, some beautiful angel fallen from grace. He was good-looking in an arrogant, Mediterranean way: olive skin, jet-black hair, neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his hps had a strange twist to them and his eyes were ever mocking. He looked like a man who didn't believe in himself, let alone anything else.

Geoffrey Southgate, his lieutenant, appeared more cheerful with a shock of red hair, beetling eyebrows and pallid skin. The fellow had a slight lisp and rather affected movements but was the dagger to his master's foil.

We met them all in the Fountain Court a few days after arriving at Richmond. Benjamin was reading some manuscript he had borrowed from the library whilst I sat, bored to death, wondering what mischief I could get up to.

The first to approach us were the Santerres. Sir John was a bluff yet shrewd landowner who knew which side of the table to sit. He was the sort of fellow who would buy you a drink in a tavern, regaling you with some funny story, yet whom you would be a fool to trust. His eyes reminded me of the King's, ice blue and piggy in aspect. Lady Beatrice, his wife, now she had regained her composure bore the remnants of great beauty though her pallid-skinned face had a spoilt, rather sensuous cast. She was for ever leaning on her husband's arm as if she was determined he would never wander far from her clutches. Rachel, their daughter, was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a simple veil of murrey covering her hair and a modest blue dress made from pure wool, gilt-edged at the neck and cuffs.

The Santerres came into the Fountain Court as if they were simply wandering round the palace. My master closed the book he was reading and shrewdly watched them approach. 'I wondered when they would come,' he whispered. 'Why?'

'We are too humble to introduce ourselves,' he hissed, 'so they have to come to us. After all, if Agrippa is to be believed, we will be travelling back with them. So, Roger, to your feet and behave yourself.'