Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

We walked back to the quayside, Benjamin still disconsolate.

'Can't anything be done?' I asked. I searched round for a crumb of comfort. 'Master,' I added rather hastily, 'some people spend their Purgatory after death but individuals like Taplow or poor Johanna go through Purgatory here on earth.'

(I was always like that, ever ready to give a tactful word of comfort.) Benjamin gripped my wrist and nodded but, just as we were about to step into the boat, he clapped his hands together. 'Purgatory,' he muttered. 'Yes, Master?'

He glanced at me strangely. 'When is Taplow about to die?' I looked up at the sun. 'Two hours past noon. Why?'

Benjamin pulled me into the boat. 'Then come quickly. We must see him. We have to see him die.'

We arrived too late. Smithfield Common was packed. The horse fair had been abandoned, the stalls cleared and the shops deserted. All of London had poured on to the great open waste, heads craned towards the stake on the brow of a small hill just next to a three-armed gibbet. The crowd was thick as hairs on a dog and we were unable to force our way through. As I have said, all of London was there, bodies reeking of sweat beneath rags, serge and silk, minds and hearts intent on watching a man being burnt to death. We peered over their heads.

Taplow, standing on a high stool, was already tied to the stake, his arms and legs tightly pinioned, head and face partially covered by a white fool's hood. Already small heaps of green faggots were laid about the stool, with dry weeds on top as high as the victim's groin. The masked executioners walked round as if they were involved in some artistic endeavour, positioning the faggots for the best effect. The crowd, held back by serried ranks of soldiers, was already growing restless and shouts of 'Get on with it!', 'Let the poor sod die!', rang out, followed by the usual volleys of refuse. 'We must get closer,' Benjamin muttered. 'Why, Master?' I begged. 'A man is going to die.'

I stood on tiptoe. 'It's too late. The torch has already been put to the kindling.'

I watched the executioner light the faggots but apparently the kindling was too green and the fire didn't catch. Benjamin looked in desperation at the gatehouse of St Bartholomew's Priory: the balcony was already full of important, well-dressed people who had brought their children for a day out; they had also brought sugared apples, dishes of marzipan and jugs of wine to make their enjoyment complete.

Benjamin pulled one of Wolsey's warrants from his pouch, one of those old letters written by the Cardinal so Benjamin could gain access to any place he wanted. My master seized me by the arm and pulled me over. The captain of the guard outside St Bartholomew's let us through and we went under the darkened archway and up some steps into the chamber which led out on to the balcony. Once again Benjamin used his warrant, pushing his way through the grumbling spectators until we had a good view of both the execution scene and Smithfield Common. The catcalls from the crowd had now intensified at the executioners' bungling of their job.

(Believe me, it's a terrible way to die! Once, whilst in Venice, the Inquisition caught me, tried and condemned me to burn in the great piazza before St Mark's. I was actually tied to the stake and the kindling lit but, once again, fortune intervened. However, that's another story!)

Anyway, looking back over the years I can imagine what that poor bastard at Smithfield felt. The Inquisition were effective, his executioners were fools. Torches were again put to the kindling but the fire only teased the victim's feet and ankles. The poor fellow screamed. 'Oh, Christ, son of David!'

As he did, the crowd fell silent. Benjamin just stared fascinated and I studied him rather than the condemned man for, as I have remarked before, Benjamin had a horror of public executions. 'Why are we here, Master?' I whispered. 'Shut up, Roger!' he hissed.

The flames were now strong enough to reach the two bags of gunpowder tied to the man's neck. There was a loud explosion and the flames roared fiercer. The victim's head was thrust back and the fool's cap fell off. The fire was now an intense sheet of flame. Taplow's lips continued to move though his throat was so scorched he could not make a sound. The fire now reached his face, blackening his mouth, swelling the tongue, pushing the lips back to the gums. His limbs began to disintegrate into a bubbling mass of fat, water and blood.

'Christ have mercy on him!' Benjamin muttered. 'I just wish I could have seen his face clearly for one last time.'

The execution stake was now hidden beneath its wall of flame. I stared out over the crowd. They looked like some great beast with gaping mouth and hungry eyes, then I caught a movement over near the great elms at the far side of the common. (The branches of these trees were often used as makeshift gibbets.) I saw a red-haired man jump down from one of the branches as if he, too, was sickening of the scene and was preparing to leave. I glimpsed the black robes and wondered why Southgate would be so interested in such a grisly execution. I asked the same of Benjamin as we walked out of a postern gale of St Bartholomew's back towards the river, but my master was only half-listening.

'I can't tell you the reason,' he murmured. 'Not yet, Roger. Not while we're trapped in this tangle of lies!'

We took a barge back to Richmond to find the palace in turmoil. The King and his Cardinal were preparing to leave and the courtyards were full of sumpter ponies, officials and chamberlains. Porters thronged the stairs and galleries carrying packages and bags. Huge four-wheeled carts, each pulled by six horses, were lined up in front of the main doors as Fat Henry moved his furniture and belongings elsewhere for another round of pleasure. The royal standard of England no longer fluttered on its pole, a sign that Henry and Wolsey had already departed with a small advance party though Doctor Agrippa had remained, waiting for us in our chamber. 'You had a useful visit to the city?' 'Interesting,' my master replied.

Agrippa, like a little spider in his black garments, came up beside Benjamin and handed him a small sheaf of documents and two fat purses.

'Your uncle wishes you a safe journey. This silver will ease your passage and there are the usual letters of accreditation.'

I took down our saddle bags from the hook in the wall and flung them on the bed.

'And you, my good doctor?' I asked. 'You will stay safely in London?'

Agrippa crept near me, pushing his face close to mine. I caught his strange perfume and gazed into those clear, glasslike eyes.

'I wish I could go, Roger,' he murmured. 'I wish I could die, but my time has not come.' Benjamin watched us both strangely.

'Then what is all this?' I asked, refusing to be cowed. 'Why do you talk of death? Agrippa, have you no flicker of friendship for us? What does my Lord Cardinal think will happen at Templecombe? And what does the tortured brain of that royal madman really want?'

Agrippa's face softened. He blinked, and when I looked again, his eyes were light blue, childlike in their innocence.

'Roger, Roger,' he whispered, ‘I am the Cardinal's man in peace and war, at least for the next ten years. But when the prophecy is fulfilled and the cow rides the bull and the priest's skull is smashed, I shall be free.'

(At the time I had not a clue what he was talking about but, in hindsight, he was, of course, referring to Boleyn's ascendancy over Fat Henry and Wolsey falling like a star from the sky of royal preferment.)

'Before you leave,' Agrippa continued, 'for friendship's sake, I will give you this advice: Age Circumspecte. Act wisely!' Then he spun on his heel and left the chamber.

Oh, well, we forgot Agrippa's strange advice as the next few days passed. Benjamin remained locked in the sombre mood which had dogged him since he had witnessed Buckingham's execution. Where possible he would seize scraps of parchment and draw lines, muttering to himself and scratching his head.