Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Henry's piggy eyes flickered at us down the table and I felt a chill of fear.

'My Lord Cardinal is right,' he whispered though his voice carried. 'There may be members of this secret brotherhood, this nest of traitors, here at court. And if Master Hopkins can be believed, they too search for the Grail and the Sword Excalibur. Buckingham,' the word was spat out, 'was undoubtedly of their coven and our two faithful agents, Warnham and Calcraft, have paid for their loyalty with their lives.'

Henry hit the table top with his fist. 'But enough is enough!' He jabbed his finger at Benjamin and myself, 'You, Master Daunbey, and that thing you call your servant, will journey to Glastonbury with my good servants Mandeville and Southgate. You will lodge at Templecombe. You will bring the work of these traitors to nothing and for me, your King, find both the Grail and the Sword of Arthur. Is that clear?' 'Your Grace, I have a number of questions?' "Then ask them!'

'Dearest Uncle, what makes you think the Templars are so active in the South-West?' Benjamin asked.

'They are active everywhere,' Wolsey replied. 'In Madrid, in Rome, in Paris, in London, but particularly in the Southwest. Old memories die slowly where the Templars formerly owned most of the land, such as the Santerre estates.'

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.