The Grail Murders (11 page)

A greasy tub of lard with filthy hair and a red, unshaven face introduced himself as the keeper and became almost fawning when Benjamin informed him who he was.

The keeper wiped dirty fingers on a stained leather jacket and jangled a huge bunch of keys.

'Come, come, my lords!' he murmured, bowing and scraping before us. He smiled ingratiatingly. 'After all, Master Taplow hasn't much time left, he's to die at two this afternoon.

He led us across the antechamber to show us a tar
-
drenched jacket lined with sulphur which hung from a hook on the wall. The gaoler stopped and gazed at it admiringly.

'Master Taplow's winding sheet,' the evil sod murmured as if he was examining a painting by da Vinci or Raphael.

'He'll wear that!' I exclaimed.

'Of course,' the keeper replied. 'It will be slipped round him and he'll burn all the quicker.'

'Why not just hang the poor sod?' I muttered.

'Oh, no.' The gaoler stepped back, eyes widening. 'Oh, no, we can't have that! The law is the law. Taplow is a common traitor and the law says he should burn.'

(Do you know, I am a wicked old man, I love soft tits and a good cup of claret. I must have lived, oh, well over ninety-five years, but when I eventually meet God I want to ask him a question which has haunted me all my life. Why do we human beings love to kill each other? And why do we do it in the cruellest possible ways? Excuse me, I must lift my cane and give my chaplain a good thwack across the knuckles. 'You'll not go to heaven and meet God,' the snivelling little hypocrite mumbles. 'Yes, I will, I'll tell St Peter a joke and, when he's busy laughing, I'll nick his keys.' Lack a day, I digress!)

The little grease-ball of a gaoler waddled off, taking us along passages and galleries as black as midnight, down steps coated with slime and human dirt where rats swarmed thick as fleas on a mangy dog. The smell was nauseous, the cobbled floor ankle-deep in slops. At last we came to the Corridor of the Damned, the cells housing those waiting to be executed.

'Hello there, my beauties!' A smiling, mad face pressed itself against the grille. 'Don't feel sorry for me,' the madman shouted. 'All Tyburn is is a wry neck and wet breeches!'

The gaoler spat a stream of yellow phlegm and the mad face disappeared. At last we stopped at a door. The gaoler opened it, took a cresset torch from the passageway and pushed it into a small crevice in the cell wall. The dungeon pit flared into life as the door slammed behind us. It stank like a midden and the straw underfoot had lain so long it was a black, oozy mess. A heap of rags in the corner suddenly stirred and came to life and Taplow, loaded with chains, got to his feet. He had dark hair and his plump body was covered in filth. He grinned at us through the darkness.

'Welcome to my palace, sirs. And who are you? Those who like to see a man before he dies? Do you like to ask me how I feel? What I am thinking?' He peered closer at us. 'No, you're not that sort.'

'We are from the Lord Cardinal,' Benjamin announced. 'No, no,' he added quickly. 'We bring no pardon. But, who knows,' he added desperately, 'perhaps a mercy, a bag of gunpowder tied round the neck. Master Taplow,' he continued softly, 'later this day you will be burnt at Smithfield, convicted of treason.'

Taplow crouched down. 'Aye,' he muttered, 'a bad end to a good tailor.'

Benjamin crouched down with him. I just leaned against the wall, trying to control my panic for I hate prisons, Newgate in particular. (Oh, yes, and before you ask, I have been there many a time. If you want to see hell on earth go to the condemned hole the night before execution day. The singing,
the crying and the screaming -I
thought I had already been killed and gone to hell! Ah, the cruelty of the world!)

'Master Taplow,' Benjamin continued, 'you were involved with the monk Hopkins, acting as his courier?'

The tailor licked his lips. 'Aye, that's the truth. Will you tell that gaoler to give me some wine?'

'Of course.'

'Ah, well.' Taplow scratched his head. 'Yes, I was Hopkins's courier. I took messages to the Lord Buckingham, pretending I was delivering suits or looking for trade at his London house.'

'Did Buckingham ever reply?'

'No, he did not.'

'What else did you do?'

Taplow edged closer. God forgive me, he looked like a mud-coloured frog crouching there in the half-light. I had to cover my nose against the terrible stench and just wished my master would finish the business.

'What else did you do?' Benjamin asked again.

'Different errands for Hopkins. Leaving messages here and there, but nothing in particular.'

'Why did you do it?' Benjamin gazed at the man. 'Why should a tailor become involved with some mad, treasonable monk? Especially a man like you, Taplow, who accepts the reformed doctrines of Luther?'

Taplow's eyes fell away.

'Once I was a Catholic,' he stuttered, 'till my wife died. Hopkins was the only priest who cared.'

I stirred, forgetting the discomfort in the cell, as I caught my master's suspicions. Something was wrong here. Taplow was filthy, but looked well fed and, for a man facing a horrible death, too calm and serene.

'Did you take messages to anyone else?'

He shook his head. Benjamin stretched across and grasped the man's hand.

'Master Taplow,' he whispered, 'there is very little I can do for you except make sure the gaoler gives you your wine, pray for your speedy death and that in Purgatory Christ will have mercy on your soul.'

'Aye,' Taplow whispered. 'Let my Purgatory be short.' Then he went back to lie down in the corner of the cell.

We hammered on the door for the gaoler and returned to the main gates of the prison where Benjamin left a coin and instructed the sadistic bastard to do what he could for poor Taplow. Then we left, through the old city gates, skirting its wall as we hastened along alleyways and runnels down to the river quayside at East Watergate. Benjamin hardly spoke but kept muttering to himself. Only when I ordered the boatman to take us to Syon did my master break free of his reverie.

'Strange, Roger,' he remarked. 'Here we are. We have just witnessed an old lady's strangling and a silly tailor imprisoned in squalor who, in a few hours' time, will be burnt horribly to death. Death seems everywhere,' he continued, 'and red-handed murder is a constant visitor in our lives.'

I sat and let him brood. Indeed, looking back over the years, I have become surprised, not that people murder each other but that, given our love of bloodshed, they don't do it more often. Anyway, I just tapped my boot against the bottom of the boat and looked over the river, busy with huge dung barges emptying their putrid waste in midstream. Benjamin stayed lost in his own thoughts but I caught his unease. Old Wolsey loved to lead people by the nose, in particular his nephew and myself, and relished his little games of sending us unarmed into darkened chambers full of assassins. (Just wait until I've finished this story and you'll see what I mean!)

At last we reached the great Convent of Syon, its gleaming white stone crenellations peeping above a green fringe of trees. We disembarked and made our way up a gravel path, through the gatehouse and into the guest room. The white-garbed nuns fluttered around us excitedly, pleased to welcome visitors to their famous house. A beautiful place Syon, with its cool galleries and passageways, high-ceilinged chambers and pleasant gardens. Mind you, this was no ordinary convent. The nuns were some of the best doctors in Europe and saved many a person from death but old Henry put paid to them, flattening the convent and pillaging its treasures. The great bastard!

A lovely house Syon, whose occupants tended the sick and brought about many a cure. Mind you, they could do nothing for Johanna, the love light of Benjamin's life. I have mentioned her before: the daughter of a powerful merchant, seduced and abandoned by a great nobleman whom Benjamin later killed in a duel. Johanna, however, had become witless, her beautiful hair streaming down about a pallid face, her mouth slack, her eyes vacuous.

Whenever Benjamin was in London he always visited her. He would sit and hold her, rocking her gently to and fro as if she was a child whilst she, muttering gibberish, rubbed salt into his wound by believing he was the nobleman come back to claim her. The meetings were always heart-wrenching. I could never stand and watch so would walk away to wink and flirt with the young novices. At last Benjamin would drag himself away and Johanna, screaming for her lost love, would be taken away by the gentle sisters. This time was no different and my master left Syon with the tears streaming down his face. As usual he grasped my hand.

'Roger,' he urged, 'if anything should happen to me, swear you will protect Johanna!'

And, as usual, I would swear such an oath. Oh, don't worry, I kept it! Years later when The Great Bastard pulled down the monasteries and emptied the convents I took Johanna into my own home. Indeed, I have made her immortal: my old friend Will Shakespeare wrote a play about a Danish prince called Hamlet who moons about the stage wondering whether he should kill his murderous mother. I don't like it and I told Will that he should reduce it to one act with Hamlet throttling the silly bitch immediately! But, you know old Will Shakespeare. Shy and quiet, he hid his face behind his hands and laughed.

Nevertheless, I helped him out with one scene where this Danish prince sends his betrothed Ophelia mad. (May I say, having watched the play, I'm not surprised.) Anyway poor Ophelia emerges as a tragic woman who drowns herself in a river, flowers in her hand, hair spread out like a veil around her. Well, Ophelia was really Johanna and the river is the Thames. I always think it was a nice touch.

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!)