The Grail Murders (20 page)

The meal was almost over and I had downed at least four deep-bowled cups of claret when the small red stain appeared on the table cloth. At first, I thought it was spilt wine but then it spread and I noticed little splashes coming down from the ceiling above. I gazed up into the darkness but the rafters were cloaked in blackness.

You've drunk too much, I thought, but then Benjamin noticed the spreading pool and splattered drops.

'Look!' he cried, pointing to the widening scarlet stain. The chatter and laughter died down. We all sat watching the drops fall and the scarlet blot widen. Benjamin was the first to recover his wits, standing up and pushing back his chair.

'What's above us, Sir John?'

'A small solar. A chamber with windows looking east. We only use it in summer.'

Benjamin ran out of the room and I followed. Behind us the shouts and exclamations grew as the scarlet stain spread. We ran upstairs, knocking aside startled servants. I glimpsed Mathilda's white face then ran into the gallery, pushing open the door to the solar.

The room was cold and dark, the windows shuttered. Benjamin cursed the darkness but, as in any good household, there were boxes right inside the door containing rushlights and candles. Benjamin lit one of these and we walked into the centre of the room. At first we could see nothing so crouched on our haunches, edging forward like crabs, feeling the soft woollen carpet. I touched something wet and sticky. Benjamin pushed the rushlight closer. God forgive me, I could have screamed in terror. Resting in the centre of the carpet, severed at the neck, eyeballs rolled up in their sockets, was the decapitated head of the witch.

Grotesque in death as it had been, now putrefaction tinged the face a greenish hue. The congealing blood from the severed arteries of the snow-soaked head drenching the carpet and seeping down between the floor boards. My stomach heaved. We heard the door behind us open but Benjamin shouted for everyone to stay out.

'Come on, Roger,' he whispered. "There is nothing we can do here.'

Outside in the gallery Benjamin told the rest of the group what we had found. Lady Beatrice became hysterical, crouching against the wall, covering her face, whilst Rachel tried to comfort her. Santerre was shocked sober whilst Sir Edmund and Southgate were torn between a mixture of anger and fear.

'Clean the mess!' Benjamin snapped at Santerre. 'Just roll up the carpet, take it and its grisly contents downstairs and have it burnt. The floor can be scrubbed.' He looked at Sir Edmund. 'Roger is correct. The Angel of Death walks this accursed house!'

'Who could leave such a thing there?' Southgate murmured.

'One of the servants, someone we don't know,' Benjamin replied. 'But the head and the Hand of Glory come from that poor hag. Oh, by the way, where's our noble Sheriff Bowyer?'

'Drunk as a bishop,' Mandeville snarled. 'Now sleeping like a baby in his cot down in the hall.' Benjamin made to walk away.

'Master Daunbey,' Mandeville caught him up at the corner of the gallery. 'For God's sake, man, what am I supposed to do? My job is to trap conspirators, plotters . . . not stumble around in the dark after some secret assassin.'

Benjamin muttered something to himself.

'What is it? What is it, Daunbey?'

My master looked up, his face as hard as stone, the skin drawn tight. 'I was just thinking of what you said, Sir Edmund. This is not poor Buckingham, is it? Or some pathetic tailor like Taplow being trapped in his little cage and taken off to the slaughter house. And Templecombe is not some abbey where you can tap your toe and play the great lord. So how does it feel, Sir Edmund, to be the hunted instead of the hunter?'

And spinning on his heel, my master stalked off to his chamber.

(My little clerk is muttering that Benjamin was acting out of character. That's not true! Benjamin was a kind, gentle man. He always hated bully-boys and was correct to do so. Mandeville and Santerre had arrived at Templecombe wanting to make everyone dance to their tune. Instead, they had stumbled into a veritable snake pit.)

I wandered round the galleries for a while for the dinner was both spoilt and finished. Sure enough, after a while I caught sight of my quarry, little Mathilda, her chubby arms full of blankets, tiptoeing along without a care in the world. I followed her up to one of the other floors and caught her by the elbow. 'Mathilda, my sweet, a word.'

She whirled round but she was not frightened and I glimpsed the sparkle of triumph in her eyes. I drew her into a shadowy window embrasure.

'You weren't looking for gold, were you?'

She pouted prettily.

'The money was secondary, wasn't it?' I continued. 'What were you looking for? Did you kill that clerk in the fire? What secret device did you use?'

She sighed and sat down in the window seat.

'Master Shallot, you and your fellow clod-hoppers wander into Templecombe.' She looked out into the icy darkness. 'You are in a place hundreds of miles from London with a few paltry soldiers to guard your back. The Devil and his assistant trapped my Lord of Buckingham, a man much loved in these parts. He was hustled up to London to have his head cut off with less mercy than we would treat a chicken. His lands are seized and the monks at Glastonbury bullied as if they are the inmates of some prison.'

She looked squarely at me. 'Oh, yes, we have heard of that.' She flounced the sheets in her hand. 'And what do you expect? To come tripping through without a by-your-leave? These are ancient lands, Master Shallot. Arthur and his knights rode here, or so Master Hopkins told us. The Templars are much feared but also respected for their knowledge.'

Now, I can take a sermon from any pretty woman and Mathilda was no exception, but I also caught the threat in her words. I clapped my hands mockingly. 'So what does all this make you, Mathilda, my dear? A thief looking for gold?'

Even in the darkness I saw the flush on her cheeks.

‘I
am no thief!' she snapped. She drew herself up. 'I am a poor widow. My husband died two years ago from the sweating sickness. Aye, Roger, we marry young in Somerset. I have a child.'

'You also have a father,' I retorted.

She caught her lip between her teeth.

'You do have a father,' I continued smoothly. 'A tall, grizzle-haired fellow who now walks with a pronounced limp. Where did he receive his wound?'

'It was an accident.'

'Nonsense!' I snapped. 'Do you want me to call Mandeville and Southgate and have him dragged into the hall? I'll wager a piece of gold that his wound resembles a sword cut. Your father was one of those who attacked me.'

She mumbled something.

'What was that?'

'If they wanted to kill you,' she whispered, 'they would have done. We have no quarrel with you or your master. They simply wanted to frighten you.' She grasped me by the hand. 'Please, Roger, leave my father be.' She stared through the window. 'This place is full of ghosts,' she murmured.

'And the Templars?'

She lowered her head. I pulled out my short stabbing dagger and held it between my fingers.

'Nothing in life is free,' I whispered. 'You and your father are no threat to me but those you work for . .
’

Mathilda shook her head. I sheathed my dagger and got to my feet.

'Wait!' she seized my wrist. 'Roger, we are small fleas on a very big dog. We take our orders, issued here and there in a whisper.'

'And where does the dog live?' I asked.

Mathilda peered fearfully down into the garden and got to her feet. 'If you wish to meet the dog,' she whispered,

'Y
ou'll find him on the island.' And she slipped like a ghost into the shadows and ran down the gallery.

I stood staring out of the window into the shifting, cloying mist and wondered about Mathilda's ghosts trooping back to their worm-eaten beds. I had learnt enough so returned to my own chamber, secured the lock and, fully clothed, lay down for a fitful sleep.

Chapter 12

The next morning we rose early and broke our fast hastily in the hall for, despite the grisly warning issued the night before, Southgate was determined on a morning's hunting though Bowyer was still suffering the effects of being too deep in his cups. Mandeville, imperious as ever, ignored us as he issued instructions to a bleary-eyed sheriff to send for more men. His attitude towards Santerre was distinctly cool.

As we went out towards the stables I heard Sir Edmund whisper to Santerre that the matters at Templecombe were beyond his brief: he would plan his return to London where he would advise the King to send Justices into the area. If he expected this to frighten Sir John he succeeded. When the King's Justices came south they would arrive with troops and issue writs raising levies from the surrounding countryside, empanel juries, collect evidence, and not move away until the matter was settled. Santerre was about to protest but Mandeville dismissed him with a curt move of his gloved hand.

These matters will wait!' he snapped. Today we hunt, tomorrow we go.'

The rest of the party were waiting for us in a courtyard full of yapping dogs; long, lean greyhounds, black, white and brindled. They stood straining at their leashes whilst, on the other side of the yard, a pack of mastiffs whimpered in protest at the muzzles on their grizzled snouts and the

lash of their whippers-in. Maids hurried round with cups of hot posset, stable boys and ostlers shouted as horses were brought out, saddled and made ready to mount. Southgate's and Bowyer's were fiery, hot-tempered, rearing and kicking the air with sharpened hooves. It took some time for their masters to curb them.

At last we all mounted, downing one final cup of posset whilst the huntsmen were sent on before us, the barking of the dogs shattering the silence of the cold country air.

No more snow had fallen, the sky was still overcast but the air was crisp and a little warmer. We left by the back gate of the manor following a trackway through a wood. At first, we rode together but the freshness of the horses, particularly Bowyer's and Southgate's, meant we had to break up. We cleared the trees and stopped on the brow of a small hill which fell down to snow-covered fields, broken here and there by small copses and woods. The trackers and beaters were already there and in a flurry of snow, shouts, cries and yelping barks, the hunters moved down to meet them.

Roger and I hung back on the hill, watching the rest of the party go into a wood. There was a short silence then the dogs' barking grew into a raucous row; shouts and the shrill of hunting horns carried clear to us as a fat buck, together with two hinds, galloped from the trees and across the meadow in a flurry of snow. Santerre sounded the horn and led the excited hunters down the hill. The buck had already cleared one field. Behind him the dogs raced like dark shapes against the snow. The hunt was on.

It is difficult to describe exactly what happened. We were a party of horsemen charging down the hill. Santerre, the chief huntsman, Bowyer, Southgate, Mandeville, Benjamin and myself, Lady Beatrice and Rachel having declined to come. Bowyer and Southgate were the first to break away from the rest, their horses fiery, eager for the exercise after close confinement.

We all spurred and whipped as we reached the bottom of the hill to keep up pace for the snow underfoot made the going heavy, when both Bowyer's horse and that of South-gate suddenly took on a life of their own. They bucked, reared and shot forward like arrows from a bow. Benjamin and I followed quickly afterwards for it was apparent both riders were losing control. Now I realised something was wrong for, as you young men know, if a horse becomes uncontrollable the best thing to do is to dismount as quickly as possible. Bowyer and Southgate tried this but seemed incapable of getting their boots out of the stirrups whilst both were losing control of the reins.

Southgate managed to move his left foot and swung his leg over but his right boot was still caught. The horse reared, Southgate pitched out of his saddle and was dragged along, one boot still caught in the stirrup. Bowyer's horse was galloping even faster, heading towards the trees. Benjamin shouted at Santerre and Mandeville to follow the sheriff, whilst he and I raced after Southgate, now being dragged along like a rag doll. Benjamin drew level and, in a feat of horsemanship, leaned down and slashed his dagger towards the horse's belly, cutting Southgate's stirrup loose.

We dismounted and crouched beside him. God knows, he was a grisly mess: the back of his head and legs were a mass of wounds. He groaned, opened his eyes and lapsed into a swoon.

Bowyer was not so fortunate. His horse reached the trees where he was hit by a thick, low-hanging branch, knocked out of the saddle and, as his horse careered deeper into the wood, dragged through the brambles and undergrowth, his poor body smashing against each tree.

The hunt was called off: the whippers-in and the huntsmen despatched, Benjamin ordering them back to the manor and telling them to bring down two stretchers, wine and bandages.

Mandeville and Santerr
e soon returned from the trees;
the latter had a crossbow in his hand, Bowyer's corpse sprawled across the saddle bow. There was no need to ask: Bowyer's body was an open wound from head to toe, his face disfigured by a mass of bruises, and the slackness of his head showed his neck had been broken. Mandeville had had to shoot his bolting horse to cut him free. 'Southgate?' he asked wearily.

'He will live,' Benjamin replied. 'Or, at least, I think he will.' He pointed to Southgate's left leg. 'Broken cleanly, as is one of his arms. God knows what other injuries he suffered.'

Mandeville crouched in the snow beside his lieutenant. He looked pathetic.

'Everything is finished,' he groaned. 'The King will not accept this.'

Benjamin forced a wineskin between his lips, urging him to drink.

Bowyer's body was immediately sheeted, placed in a pine-wood box packed with snow, put in a cart and sent off to Taunton.

Back at Templecombe, now over his shock, Mandeville paced around like an angry cat, hurling abuse at Santerre, telling Lady Beatrice to stop screaming and order servants to go down to the village and bring wise women to attend to Southgate. The injured man was taken up to his chamber.

Later in the day, two old women arrived. Mandeville, pale as a ghost, promised them anything provided his companion recovered. He then packed his belongings saying he would no longer stay in Templecombe and requisitioned carts and horses for a move to Glastonbury Abbey.

Any last vestige of merriment at Templecombe completely disappeared. The Santerres stayed well away from Mandeville who stalked the galleries and corridors shouting orders at both servants and the dead sheriff's soldiers. On one occasion he met Santerre inside the main hall. Mandeville pointed an accusatory finger at him.

'I'm leaving, Sir John, but I'll be back in the spring with His Majesty's Justices and a thousand pikemen!'

'Sir Edmund?' Benjamin approached him.

'What is it, Daunbey?' Mandeville snapped, not even bothering to turn his head.

'You are leaving Templecombe for Glastonbury?'

'Yes, I am quitting this hell-hole and recommend you do the same.'

'Southgate cannot be moved.'

'He'll die if he stays here,' Mandeville hissed.

Then perhaps only to the village. Perhaps to the priest's house where he can be guarded by soldiers. Sir Edmund, I beg you, wait a while.

'We can't leave here,' Benjamin insisted. 'Although no snow has fallen, the trackways are frozen hard. Southgate will die before he even reaches the village. Moreover, what will the King say?'

Mandeville stared into the flames of the fire.

'I shouldn't have brought Bowyer here,' he moaned. 'I had forgotten about Buckingham.' He chewed his lip and looked at Benjamin. 'Bowyer was involved in the Duke's destruction. He was a marked man. But how?' he asked bleakly. 'How were those horses made to bolt? If you discover that, Master Daunbey, I promise I'll stay until this business is done.'

'Sirs!'

We spun round. Rachel, beautiful in a dark purple gown, stood in the doorway of the hall.

'Sirs,' she greeted us and stepped forward, a determined expression on her face. 'Sirs - especially you, Sir Edmund. My father is distraught, my mother hysterical. I object to you pacing round this house shouting at our servants like some freebooter. We, too, mourn Bowyer's death, and Master Southgate's wounds are being tended.' She looked appealingly at Benjamin. 'We are doing all we can,' she continued gently. 'Southgate will mend, God knows he was fortunate. A broken leg, a fractured arm. The rest are bruises which will quickly heal.'

Benjamin spread his hands helplessly. 'But the deaths and injuries occurred here, Mistress.' He tapped Mandeville gently on the shoulder. 'However take courage, Sir Edmund, Master Hopkins's riddle may be about to unravel.'

Mandeville looked up, startled. Rachel looked puzzled but Benjamin shook his head.

'Not now, there are other matters to deal with.' He gestured at me and we left the hall.

'What do you mean by that, Master?'

'Everything in its own season, Shallot. Now I want to look at Southgate's horse.'

We found the poor animal securely tethered and hobbled in a small, dank stable. It had been unsaddled but its coat was still covered with a thick, sweaty foam though it was now quiet and placid. Benjamin ignored my warnings: he went into the box, talking gently to the horse, smoothing its flanks whilst he examined its underbelly. Then, still talking quietly, he inspected its side.

'As I thought,' Benjamin murmured, coming out. 'Southgate spurred the horse.'

'I did the same but mine didn't bolt like a shot from a sling!'

Benjamin looked round the busy yard where servants were pulling out carts and hitching up horses under the watchful eye of Bowyer's soldiers. Benjamin pulled me into the shadows as Mandeville came out to issue curt instructions for the dead sheriff's body to be removed and informed the soldiers that he would stay at Templecombe for a while. Once he had gone, Benjamin led me back to the stable.

He plucked an apple from his pocket, God knows where he got it from, and gave it to the horse who munched it greedily. Benjamin then dug his hand into the empty manger and plucked out the remains of the horse's feed. He examined this curiously, ignoring my questions, and went into the adjoining stable where his own horse was stabled and did the same. Benjamin muttered to himself, wiped his hands and shook his head.

'Ingenious,' he murmured. 'Come on, Roger.' He grabbed me by the arm. 'One final call.'

He led me back into the house and up to Southgate's chamber. The poor man now lay in a great
four-poster
bed while the two old beldames clacked and muttered to themselves as they fastened splints to his leg and carefully washed his naked, bruised body. Benjamin ignored them as he looked round the chamber.

'Southgate's boots,' he whispered.

I saw one lying under the dresser and pulled it out gingerly lest the spur catch my finger. Benjamin hid it under his cloak and hurried back to his own chamber like a schoolboy who has stolen a sweetmeat. He bolted the door behind us, sat on the bed and carefully examined the spur in the light of a candle flame.

'Perhaps it's washed off,' he murmured. 'But, as Pythagoras said, "Truth can only be found through experimentation".' He lightly scored his finger on the edge of the spur, gasped and quickly dipped it in the bowl of water on the lavarium before bathing it in a little wine.

'That hurt!' he grimaced.

'Master, you will tell me?' I asked.

Benjamin, his wounded finger clasped in a wet rag, grinned from ear to ear.

'Roger, Roger, isn't the human mind ingenious when it comes to plotting the destruction of another being? When I examined Southgate's horse I saw the spur marks. When I examined the manger where the feed had been put, I found oats and bran. When I examined my own horse's stable I found only traces of hay. And finally, when I scrutinised Master Southgate's spur, I found its sharpness tinged with mercury.'

'So?' I began slowly, trying to assemble all the facts.

'So,' Benjamin continued. 'I suspect Bowyer's and Southgate's horses were fed a rich diet of oats and bran both last night and this morning. Now you know, Roger, how that would affect an excitable horse who has had little strenuous exercise? It would become fiery and restless, something I noticed when Bowyer and Southgate left for the hunt. However, can you imagine what would happen if such a horse was not only spurred but goaded by a spur tinged with mercury?'

'It would bolt.'

'Which is what happened.'

'But, Master, Bowyer and Southgate, for all their faults, were expert horsemen. Why didn't they just dismount?'

'Ah! But what if the stirrups of their saddle had been changed, each being given a narrower set? Now, when you mount a horse, you simply push your boot in to the stirrup. That's the easy part. It's like anything else: you can get a small ring on your finger, the problem is getting it off. Remember, Bowyer's and Southgate's boots were wet and so leather would swell a little. Now, as they left Templecombe, the boots fitted snugly. They would not object to such a tight fit, in fact it would help them keep their restless horses under control, but once they had set spurs and the horses bolted, murder occurred.' He shook his head. 'There's no proof. Bowyer's and Southgate's saddles have now been returned to the stable and the original stirrups probably replaced. Nevertheless, that is how I believe the trap was set.'

'But the spurs would be kept in their own chambers?' Benjamin shrugged. 'I don't think that need bother us.

There are probably keys to fit every chamber in this house. It would take only a few minutes to open a door, search out the riding boots and pour a little mercury over each spur.' 'And the murderer?'

'A vague suspicion as yet but I tell you this: if the murderer strikes again, it will be against us, Roger, so be on your guard!'

'What about Mandeville?'

Benjamin peered at me.

'He could be the murderer, Master. He knew where those agents were in London and about Mistress Hopkins. He could have killed his own men, Cosmas and Damien. Above all, he survived the hunt.'