Paul Doherty: The Grail Murders

We turned north into Hog Street, past the church of St Mary Grace where we glimpsed the high grey turrets of the Tower, and into the dense crowd milling round Tower Hill. Believe me, all of London had turned out. There was not a place to be found between the Tower and Bridge Street.

I have often wondered why people like to view executions. What fun is there in seeing a man lose his head or his balls? I asked this of Agrippa.

'We are born killers,' he murmured. 'We have a love affair with death. And, if our Henry has his way, he will glut all our appetites for executions and the spilling of blood.'

We used our warrants and the swords of our entourage to force our way through, right up to the black-draped execution platform which stood on the brow of the hill ringed by yeomen of the guard. On the platform, arms folded, stood a red-masked executioner. Beside him his assistant, dressed from head to toe in black leather with a pair of antlers on his head, held the huge, two-headed axe near the execution block. A priest mumbled prayers whilst officials whispered to each other and gazed expectantly over the sea of faces around them.

At first quite a peaceful scene, but let old Shallot tell you: in later years (and, yes, it is another story), I had to place my head on that block, the axe was raised – and only a last-minute pardon saved me. I tell you, the waiting is worse than death itself. The great hunk of wood reeks of blood and all around you is the paraphernalia of violent death: a sheet to soak up the blood which spurts violently from the neck, the basket for the head, the elm-wood coffin for the torso, and the knife just in case they leave the odd sinew or muscle uncut. Quick it may be but it's still a terrible death. When Mary, Queen of Scots was decapitated, her eyelids kept fluttering and the lips moving for at least a minute after the head left the body. Mind you, matters were not helped by the executioner at Fotheringay not realising the Scottish queen was wearing a wig and letting the head drop and bounce like ball.

I had seen executions before but never anything so ceremonious as Buckingham's. Agrippa closed his eyes, I am sure he was asleep, whilst Benjamin, white-faced, stared under the platform. I followed his gaze and saw small, dark shapes moving about. 'Who are they?' I asked one of the guards.

'Dwarfs,' the fellow replied out of the corner of his mouth. 'They buy the right from the mayor. When the head is lopped off, the blood gushes out and seeps through the wood. They catch it in their rags and sell them as relics and mementos.' The man turned and spat over his shoulder. 'I understand there are always plenty of buyers.'

Our wait continued, the crowd growing restless. Pedlars moved amongst the throng selling sweetmeats, sliced apples and even ragged copies of Buckingham's so-called last confession'. Water tipplers with their stoups cursed and bawled for trade. Children cried and were hoisted up on their parents' shoulders. The great ones of the land, lords and ladies, both they and their horses covered in silken canopies, forced their way through for a clearer view. Everyone pushed and shoved and took their violence out on a cut-purse who was caught red-handed. He was nearly torn apart by the crowd until the sheriff's men hustled him away.

The sky darkened, great grey clouds sweeping up the Thames. People saw them as a divine omen, God's displeasure at Buckingham's death, and their curses against the Cardinal grew even more vocal when the cold rain soaked them to the skin.

The storm passed and, as the clouds broke, we heard a roar from the crowds near the Tower. A group of horsemen appeared, led by the sheriffs and mayor. They ringed a tall, auburn-haired man, his face as pale as the open-necked shirt he wore under a scarlet cloak. Agrippa whispered that this was Buckingham.

The horsemen approached the scaffold, dismounted, and Buckingham walked up the steps, cool and calm as if he was about to deliver a sermon rather than meet his maker. He knelt before the priest who sketched a hasty blessing, exchanged words with the sheriffs, then came and leaned over the scaffold above us. Yet, at the very moment he began speaking, a declamation of his innocence, a wind sprang up and wafted the words from his mouth.

Pressed in by people all around me, I looked along the line of yeomen. My attention was caught by a tall, swarthy-faced man, his hair black as night, nose beaked like an eagle. But what made him and his red-haired companion so singular were that both were garbed in black from head to toe. My attention then turned to the young woman standing next to these two crows. She had the hood of her cloak pushed back, revealing jet-black hair, a high forehead and a strikingly beautiful face. She must have sensed my interest and glanced towards me – and I was smitten to the heart by those dark luminous eyes. She moved her cloak slightly and I saw that she was wearing a gown of amber silk. One jewelled hand came up and I glimpsed the pure white froth of lace at neck and sleeve and the glint of a small spray of diamonds pinned to her bodice and another on the wide band of amber velvet which bound her beautiful hair. She smiled (though that may have been my imagination), then turned to speak to a tall, fair-haired man with the rubicund face and portly features of a wealthy landowner. He had his arm around a pale-faced, dark-haired woman and, as the crowd shifted, I saw that she was leaning against him, swooning in terror at what was about to happen.

'Who are they?' I nudged Benjamin who, like Agrippa, seemed to be asleep on his feet. He shook his head but Agrippa followed my gaze.

'The fair-haired fellow is Sir John Santerre, Lord of the Manor of Templecombe in Somerset. The fainting lady is probably his wife.' 'And the young beauty?' I asked. 'Santerre's daughter, Rachel.' 'Why are they here?' I whispered.

They are come to London to account and purge their innocence. Sir John and his family must, at the King's orders, witness Buckingham's death.' 'Why?' 'Never mind, you'll find out.'

Agrippa's face hardened as he shifted his gaze to the black-garbed men around the Santerres.

'Before you ask, Master Shallot, the man as dark as Satan is Sir Edmund Mandeville, his red-haired companion Master Geoffrey Southgate, and somewhere near them must be their two sinister clerks, Cosmas and Damien.' Now even my master looked uneasy.

'Who the bloody hell are they?' I whispered hoarsely. 'What do they mean to you, Master?' 'They are the "Agentes in Rebus",' Agrippa continued.

My blood ran cold. I had heard of these unpleasant fellows, merciless bastards, the Cardinal's professional spies and assassins. You see, Benjamin and I were Wolsey's emissaries, given this task or that, but the 'Agentes in Rebus', literally the 'Doers of Things', were the Cardinal's own special spies.

Even in my hanging around the court I had heard of Mandeville who worked like a spider, spinning webs to catch the King's enemies. And, if he didn't find the conclusive evidence, he just made it up. His agents could pop up anywhere, disguised as they wished: a pedlar, a mountebank, even one of the Moon People who wander the road in their gaudy painted wagons. Now every King has his spy service: the French have the 'Luciferi', or 'Lightbearers'; the Ottoman Turks 'The Gardeners'; the Doge of Venice 'The Secretissimi' and Henry of England his 'Agentes in Rebus*. They were founded by Cardinal Morton, chief minister to the King's father, and still flourish to this very day, the most secret servants of the crown. Sometimes they can live for years as your servant, mistress, even your brother or sister. But when the time comes, if your head has to roll, they will produce the evidence. 'Were they involved in this affair?' I whispered.

Agrippa waved his hand at me. 'Yes, yes.' He stopped whispering as Buckingham stepped back from the executioner and suddenly did a very strange thing. He came across, leaned over the wooden balustrade and looked directly at me, then Agrippa, and finally Benjamin. His eyes were tearful but clear and bright. 'I am innocent,' he hoarsely whispered. I only caught his words faintly. 'Before the hour is out, I shall meet my maker face to face, but I am innocent!' He pointed directly at Agrippa. 'Remember that!'