Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

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.

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. They 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.