Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

On that cold, snow-laden winter day Bere and his brethren were most welcoming, but the abbot's anxious lined face and short-sighted eyes betrayed his fear at having the powerful Agentes within the sacred walls of the abbey. He had a pathetic wish to please and I hated Mandeville for his arrogance as he rapped out his orders. We would stay the night, transfer our baggage to sumpter ponies and make our way to Templecombe, he instructed.

'But,' Mandeville boomed, standing over the abbot, ‘we shall return, Reverend Father, to ask questions about the traitor Hopkins. You will produce any memoranda or books held by him and, above all, the manuscript he was so fond of studying with its doggerel verses which drew him and others into the blackest treason.'

'We are the King's loyal servants,' murmured Bere defiantly. 'Brother Hopkins, God rest him, was a man lost in the past but the manuscript he studied will be handed over.'

He smiled at all of us, nodding courteously to Lady Beatrice, then with his silent monks around him, walked wearily out of the guest house. We rose early the next morning awoken by the clanging of the abbey bells. I opened the shuttered window to look out on a countryside blanketed in snow. The blizzard had passed but the sky threatened more. We gingerly broke the ice in the washing bowl, washed, changed and joined the others in the small refectory below.

A lay brother came over and took us into the abbey church to hear morning mass and, believe me, for the glory is now gone, the abbey church of Glastonbury was the nearest thing to heaven on earth. Soaring pillars, cupolas and cornices leafed with gold; huge walls covered in brilliant, multi-hued pictures depicting scenes from the bible. The Lady Chapel in blue, red and gold marble; the choir and rood screen of carved, gleaming oak which shimmered in the light of hundreds of candles. The air was sweet with incense which wafted round the marble high altar like the spirits of the blessed.

So much space, so much beauty. The choir stalls were each carefully sculptured and the wood polished till it shone like burnished gold. Banners of different colours, scarlet, red, green and blue, hung from the hammer-timbered roof whilst around the church were carved statuettes of the most breath-taking beauty depicting the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, St Patrick, and the whole heavenly host. I knelt and gazed around in astonishment.

Yet now it is all gone, nothing left. Henry's agents saw to that. I know many of you are of the reformed faith and in your minds perhaps rightly so, but if you had seen what I saw then, you'd still mourn. You'd weep at the destruction of such sheer glory.

After mass a lay brother offered to take us on a tour of the church and other interesting sights of the abbey. The Santerres demurred, Rachel claiming she felt unwell, but Mandeville and Southgate eagerly joined us. We were shown the great marble slab covering Arthur's coffin and the chalice well which provided water for the brothers. My master peered down this as if expecting to see a vision at the bottom.

'Is it true,' he asked, 'that the Grail might lie beneath the waters of this well?'

The seamed, yellow face of the old lay brother broke into a grin.

'So legend says,' he wheezed. 'Many have searched yet nothing has been found.'

We also visited the holy thorn, a wild rose bush supposedly sprung from Joseph of Arimathea's staff. I tell you this – the legend is true. Even in that bitter weather the plant was beginning to blossom and, when it bloomed at Christmas, the abbot as was customary would send a cutting to the King. After this, at Mandeville's insistence, the old brother took us into the library, a long room, its walls covered with heaped shelves of books. Benjamin's hands positively itched to take down the leather, jewel-embossed tomes (so did mine for other reasons), but Mandeville shook his head.

'We have seen enough for today,' he murmured. 'Such matters are to be examined at our leisure. Templecombe's our destination. We must be there by noon.'

We returned to the guest house and found our companions ready to leave. Outside in the courtyard lay brothers were moving baggage from the carts to sumpter ponies whose iron-shod hooves scraped the cobbles, their hot breath hanging like clouds as they whinnied in protest at being taken from their warm stables. I searched out Rachel. She still looked pale so I plucked up courage to speak. 'Mistress, is there anything wrong?' She smiled thinly. 'Nothing, Roger.' (How I thrilled at her use of my first name!)

The journey has been exhausting and I will be glad to be home.' I would have dallied longer but the venerable Bere came down to wish us farewell. Mandeville was as curt as ever. He leaned over, patting his horse's withers.

'Father Abbot,' he declared for all to hear, 'we thank you for your hospitality but we shall return. Certain questions need to be asked to which truthful answers must be given.'

He then gave the order to move off and led us out of the abbey gate.

Our journey was cold and uncomfortable, a brutal reminder of the comforts we had left behind. The sky, grey and lowering, threatened more snow whilst the previous day's fall carpeted the hedgerows and fields, choking the ditches and making the trackways slippery and dangerous. Never once did we stop even in Templecombe village but made our way through the sleepy hamlet, the houses on either side all boarded up, the only sign of life being columns of smoke and the occasional villager foraging on the outskirts for fire-wood. These seemed happy enough – burly, red-faced peasants who doffed their caps and shouted salutations to their Lord of the Manor, genuinely pleased to greet his return.

We were making our way up a trackway towards the main gate of the manor when suddenly an old hag slipped out of the trees on one side of the path and stood squarely in front of Mandeville. She was a veritable night bird in a dirty cloak with a hood half-covering her greying wisps of hair. Her face was lined and raddled, the toothless mouth slack, displaying reddened gums, yet her eyes were full of life. She wiped her dripping, hooked nose, clasped her hands together and cackled. Believe me, if I had seen her in any other place, I would have dismissed her as a witch from a mummer's play. One of those old beldames who like to proclaim themselves keepers of secret mysteries. But this old bird was more sinister, a veritable crow, a harbinger of bad news. Mandeville gestured at her to get out of his way. She just laughed and stepped back, her eyes bright with malice.

'Welcome to Templecombe!' Her voice was surprisingly strong and powerful. She made a mock bow. 'Sir John Santerre, your lovely wife and the beautiful Rachel.' The old crone licked at the saliva frothing on her lips. 'Get out of my way, woman!' Mandeville ordered.

'Yes, I will. I will.' The old crone cringed back. 'When I have told you my news.' Mandeville leaned forward. 'And what news is that?'

'There will be deaths!' the old woman proclaimed, one bony finger streaking up to the grey clouds. 'Death by fire! Death by iron! Death by rope! Death by water! And you, Sir Edmund Mandeville, emissary of a king who is not a king, the hand of death lies over you! The Midnight Destroyer sits at your right elbow whilst the Lord Satan squats at your left. You all,' she screamed, her eyes blazing,*you all have entered the Valley of Death!'

'What do you mean?' Southgate shouted. No languid lisping now, I noted.

The old woman sagged, her chin falling to her breast. She looked up from under grey, bushy eyebrows. 'You have had your news, now I'll be gone!'

And, before any of us could do anything, she flitted like a ghost back into the trees. Mandeville glared furiously at Sir John Santerre. 'Who the devil was that?' 'One of your tenants, sir?' Southgate accused.