Paul Doherty - The Grail Murders

Santerre shrugged. 'She's a crazed old woman who says she has visions. She's lived in a hut in a clearing just beyond the trees for God knows how long.' His eyes were lowered. 'Some people call her mad. Others say she is Hecate, Queen of the Night.'

'She's just an old woman.' Rachel spoke up, her voice muffled behind her cloak. 'Pay no attention to her, sirs. She's a veritable Cassandra who sees doom and death in the flight of a sparrow.'

Mandeville coughed and spat. 'If she accosts me again’ he grumbled, ‘I’ll burn the bitch!'

And on that uncomfortable note we continued our way along the track. A porter opened the double-barred gate, shouting a welcome to the Santerres as he led us along the old causeway which wound past birch, oak and yew trees up to the front of the house.

Let me tell you about Templecombe. The Templars had first built it as a fortified manor but later generations had embellished it to make it more comfortable. A massive stone edifice built in a square about a spacious inner courtyard, three stories in all, its roof was of grey slate. Although we could see the old arrow-slit windows, more sophisticated owners had added rounded oriels, jutting bays and ornate chimney stacks. The stone gleamed as if freshly washed whilst every window was glazed, some with pure glass, others, despite the poor light, even displaying brave heraldic emblems in a variety of hues.

On our arrival, the great door was flung open. Servants gathered on the steps and for a while all was confusion as stewards, bailiffs, cooks, huntsmen and pages hurried down to greet the Santerres. Despite Sir John's brusque ways, I saw he was a well-respected, even loved, lord of the soil. Servants took our baggage, grooms led our horses away, as the Santerres proudly escorted us in.

Despite its bleak exterior, Templecombe proved to be a jewel. The entrance hall was gleamingly panelled, the wood carved and sculpted. The floorboards, the great sweeping staircase, its balustrade and newels, were fashioned out of the most expensive materials. We were taken to the main hall, a long lofty chamber dominated by a hammer-beamed roof with an oriel window at one end depicting the Lamb of God carrying a standard. Other large windows, with cushioned seats beneath, were on either side of the cleverly carved fireplace above which hung a canvas painting of Adam and Eve being tempted by the serpent. A great log fire crackled in the hearth, the room was lit by squat wax candles fixed on metal spigots around the walls and, at the far end, under the oriel window, was the dais and high table. The floor was paved with marble flagstones, black and white so it looked like a chessboard, and on this had been laid the thickest rugs from Persia, India and Turkey. There were chests of cypress and cedar, small tables bearing trays, silver cups, pewter tankards and flagons. Cloth of gold and exquisite tapestries hung on the walls, their fringes reaching down to the wooden panelling. Everything seemed to boast the power and wealth of the Santerres.

'He owns rich fields,' Benjamin whispered, 'and the wool from his flocks is famous even in Flanders. Sir John has a finger in every pie and is well known to the harbour masters all along the south coast.'

This rich Lord of the Manor now stood in the middle of the hall revelling in his ostentatious show of wealth whilst servants placed high-backed chairs in front of the fire. At Santerre's insistence we sat and warmed ourselves with possets of hot wine and slices of sugared pastry. Even Mandeville, tired after his ride, relaxed and murmured his appreciation.

The greatest change, however, was in Rachel. She'd cast aside her cloak and even her veil so her jet-black hair fell down on either side of a face now glowing with happiness. I had eyes only for her but Benjamin was all agog with interest in the room and kept looking around, murmuring his admiration.

'Come.' Rachel stood, smiling at both of us. 'Whilst our elders and betters take their rest, let me show you round our home.' She then took us on a tour, chattering excitedly like a child. The house, as I have said, had three stories, each a perfect square bounded by four polished galleries, three rooms leading off each. Even on the top one where Rachel showed us our chambers, the air was warmed by sweetened braziers and the atmosphere was comforting with gleaming wainscoting, coloured cloths, woollen carpets, carved chests and chairs. Everything was clean and bright in the candlelight. Even the corbels and cornices of the ceiling had been freshly painted.

Rachel explained that her step-father had not stinted in his refurnishing of his new home. Now and again, however, we caught glimpses of its Templar past: black Beauce crosses printed on the walls which the passage of time had not faded; old arrow slits through which you could glimpse the snowy fields beyond; small gargoyles, some depicting wyverns or dragons, others the faces of long-dead knights.

Gradually we realised that despite the wealth, warmth and comfort, Templecombe held an eerie, sinister air. Even as Rachel flitted before us down passageways and galleries, I could feel other presences, as if ghosts hiding in the shadows watched her pass then trailed behind us, looking for some weakness they could exploit. Benjamin's shoulders twitched and on one occasion I saw him shiver.

'A strange place,' he murmured as Rachel walked ahead of us. 'The dead do not lie at rest here.'

At last Rachel had shown us everything but, still full of enthusiasm, said there was more to see outside. Benjamin and I hid our exasperation, took our cloaks and followed her into the snow-covered grounds. We visited the outhouses, stables, smithies, brewing rooms, barns – slipping and slithering, though Rachel was as sure-footed as a cat. We went through a clump of yew trees into a clearing where a small church stood, a simple primitive affair with steep tiled roof and a small entrance tower. Rachel pushed the door open and beckoned us in. If the manor was opulent, the old church was positively bleak. A baptismal font stood near the doorway, a row of squat white pillars on either side of dark transepts, then through a rood screen into a plain, stone sanctuary. On either side were stalls, their seats up, each displaying a scene from the bible. Benjamin looked at these and exclaimed in delight.

'Look, Roger!' He pointed to one of the raised seats where centuries earlier a carpenter had carved a bear climbing a tree. The scene was so vivid and lifelike you almost expected the bear to move or the tree to bend. Rachel sat on the sanctuary steps and watched us.

'I love this place,' she murmured, gazing up at the black roof beams. 'It's so simple, so pure. My step-father wanted to tear it down but my mother and I refused to allow it.' She smiled at us, then her face grew solemn and her eyes widened. 'The Templars used to meet here,' she continued. 'This was their chapel.' She shivered and pulled her cloak close. 'Very evil men,' she whispered, 'with such dark practices, their ghosts still linger here. Mother's always saying the house should be exorcised.'

'Do you think they were guilty of such terrible crimes?' Benjamin asked.

Rachel stood up. 'Perhaps, but not committed here. Let me show you something.'

She led us out of the church, round the back and through a wood. The line of trees suddenly ended where the ground fell away and, beneath us, was a large lake, the water turning to ice and, in the middle, a mist-shrouded island. On this, amongst the few trees growing there, stood a low dark building which, in the fading light, had a desolate, sinister air.

The Templar house,' Rachel explained. 'Just a long stone room but legend has it that the Templars used it for their mysteries. I have never been across.' She gestured to the barge nestling amongst the frozen weeds. 'Others go over but I wouldn't set foot there even in the height of summer! That island frightens me.' Her face brightened. 'Come,' she added, 'you must be exhausted and I prattle on. Supper will be served soon.'