The Grail Murders (6 page)

'Come!' Agrippa ordered.

We opened an iron-studded door at the basement of the Bloody Tower and walked into a windowless chamber lit only by smoking cressets wedged between the bricks. At first I couldn't see clearly and all I could hear was the murmur of voices and the creaking of ropes, but then my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. I heard my master gasp and, peering through the gloom, made out the sweat-soaked, half-naked figures of the torturers, grouped round the 'Duke of Exeter's Daughter', a popular name for the rack ever since the Duke of Exeter introduced it into England as a means of loosening tongues and getting to the truth - as politicians so aptly put it.

The poor man stretched there was naked except for a loin cloth. I glimpsed wispy white hair and a thin, emaciated figure stretched out on this bed of pain, a foot and a hand being tied at each corner. The torturers manned a wheel and, when they turned this, the bed stretched, cracking bone, muscle and sinew.

Agrippa, hidden in the shadows, beckoned the master torturer across. The fellow, greasy-haired and with a straggly beard, lumbered over like some great bear. His naked torso glistening with sweat, his threadbare hose pushed into boots were similarly soaked. Nevertheless, he was a man who obviously loved his job for he smiled cheerily through his tangle of beard.

'No news yet, Master.'

'Nothing new?' Agrippa asked.

'Only what he said before.'

'How long will he last?' Agrippa asked, still keeping well 4n the shadows whilst Benjamin and I stared fearfully at this dreadful scene. Believe me, if you wish to see hell on earth then watch a man being racked till his arms and legs pop out of their sockets, the torso grows longer and the privy parts become ruptured. Once I was forced to watch the torture of Nicholas Owen, the poor Jesuit lay brother who built the priest's hole in my house and others up and down the kingdom. A crafty, subtle carpenter was poor Owen. He was racked until his body fell apart; they had to hold it together with steel plates so that they could take him out and hang him. Lord, what a cruel world we live in! I fainted at the torture inflicted on Owen but, when I saw Master Hopkins, I stood like a rabbit terrified by a stoat.

'Do you think,' Agrippa asked quietly, 'Master Hopkins knows anything?'

'Yes and no,' the torturer replied. 'But he won't tell us. He is near death, Master. There's not much time left now.'

Agrippa led us back into the daylight.

'Stay here!' he ordered.

He went up the main steps of the Bloody Tower and came back with a bundle of clothes in his hand, afterwards re
-
entering the torture cha
mber. Benjamin and I stood like
two school boys dismissed from their classroom. 'What now, Master?' I asked.

'Hush!' he whispered. 'All we are being shown, Roger, are the opening scenes. I am sure sweetest Uncle will tell us the plot of the play.' He waved a hand at the door to the torture chamber. 'I cannot abide such cruelty! Hopkins may well be a traitor but there's no need for this.'

The grass was still wet after the rainstorm so he led me across to a wooden bench next to a small paved square.

'Do you know, Roger,' he muttered when we took our seats, 'common law in England forbids such torture?'

(Well, I could have burst out laughing, and still do at the memory, for Fat Henry, the evil bastard, believed in torturing everyone. When he wanted to send his second queen to the scaffold, the musician Mark Smeaton was tortured until he confessed to adultery with her, being promised a swift death if he implicated poor Anne.)

I
looked at the square pavement beside me and noticed a small dull stain in the centre.

'What is this, Master?'

Benjamin shuffled his feet. 'This is where princes die, Roger,' he murmured. 'When the person is too important to be a spectacle for the mob, a scaffold's set up here and the head lopped off.'

Strange, isn't it? There was I sitting next to the place where Anne Boleyn, who hired her own executioner from Calais, later put her neck on the block, as did poor Catherine Howard who spent the night before her death practising her poise for the execution stroke. Here died poor Tom More, old Fisher, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury and her three sons. Ah, well!

Benjamin was lost in his own thoughts so I gazed round, half-wondering what might happen to us, when a cart entered the inner bailey bearing a plain wooden coffin. The two waggoners were cursing and laughing between themselves.

'What do you carry, friends?' I asked. The men smiled at each other, got down and hobbled the horses.

'Half the Earl of Stafford!' one of them quipped. He saw the look of stupefaction on my face. 'Well, the head's on London Bridge!' the fellow continued. 'And the rest—' He gestured towards the small, grey stone church of St Peter ad Vincula, the Tower chapel. 'The rest will go beneath the stones like all the others.'

He turned away as an officer and a group of soldiers hurried up to carry the loose-lidded coffin out of the cart and along the gravel path into the darkening chapel. A strange place, St Peter's! All the corpses of men and women executed on Tower Hill or Tower Green lie buried there. Now few people know this but, beneath the chapel, runs a secret passageway or gallery and, years later, I had to hide there. What a dreadful sight! The floor under the chapel awash with headless bodies, all dressed in the glittering rags in which they died. The coffins were simple and soon fell apart so I crawled across the skeletons of Lord Hastings, Anne Boleyn, the de la Poles, Catherine Howard and Thomas Cromwell. (A cunning bastard! I was one of those who arrested him after he had dinner in the Tower.)

Can you imagine it? Wedged between the foundations and the floor of the chapel, a sea of headless corpses? Good Lord, even today at the very thought of it I awake sweating, bawling for a cup of claret, Phoebe's fat buttocks and the plump tits of young Margot. No wonder they say the Tower is infested with ghosts!

I tell you, one time I was there at night, secretly visiting young Elizabeth when her sister Bloody Mary had imprisoned her. The gates were locked and I was shut inside so hid behind a rose bush which grows alongside the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. At one o'clock in the morning I awoke, the hairs on my neck prickling. Deep fear seized me, freezing my heart and twisting my bowels. Looking up I saw a faint bluish glow at one of the chapel windows and heard strange music. I tell you this and I don't lie! I, Roger Shallot, who have seen the will o' the wisps glow above the marsh and witnessed the terrors that stalk the lonely moors, scaled the walls of St Peter ad Vincula and stared through the window. There, in ghostly procession, a long line of figures, including all those who had died at the Tower, swept in stately procession towards the high altar. Oh Lord, I half-fainted in fear. And if you don't believe me, go there, just sit in that chapel for half an hour, and you'll feel the ghosts gather round you.

Mind you, on that distant autumn's day I was more terrified of the living and wondered what the mysterious Agrippa was involving us in. We must have sat there for a full hour, subdued and rather morose, until the doctor suddenly reappeared, coming up the steps dressed in the garb of a priest.

"Hopkins has told me everything,' he murmured, sitting down between us like a benevolent uncle.

'What do you mean, sir?' snapped Benjamin. 'And why are you dressed like that?'

'Well, I heard his last confession.'

Benjamin stood up in surprise. 'Sir, you tricked the man! What is revealed in confession is sacred, and you are no priest!'

Agrippa smiled benignly. 'Who said I wasn't a priest, Benjamin?' He looked at my master squarely. 'And I am not interested in Master Hopkins's sins but in the information he provided. I know Canon Law, that's not covered by the seal of confession.'

Benjamin blew out his cheeks and sat down. 'In which case, what did Master Hopkins reveal?'

'Well,' Agrippa stretched out his short legs, 'according to Hopkins, the Grail and the Sword Excalibur still lie in Glastonbury.'

'Where?' I asked.

'Ah!' Agrippa smacked his lips. 'Do you have a wineskin, Shallot?' 'Yes, but it's empty.'

He smiled. 'Ah, well, it will have to wait.' He looked quizzically at Benjamin. 'Hopkins confessed, he does not care now. Other Templars will resolve the riddle.'

'What riddle?'

Agrippa leaned back and closed his eyes, murmuring:

'Beneath Jordan's water Christ's cup does rest,

And above Moses' Ark the sword that's best.'

'What in God's name does that mean?' I asked.

*I don't know. Hopkins found it in a secret chronicle at Glastonbury Abbey so I suppose we will all have to go there.' He stamped his feet against the cold and looked up at the lowering sky. 'It's going to snow,' he murmured. 'Thick and fast. We should leave London with the Santerres as quickly as possible. The snow will make the roads impassable.'

'We?' I cried.

'Oh, yes. Well,' Agrippa smiled, 'you two at least.' 'Why not go back and ask Hopkins what he meant?' I asked.

'I can't ask Hopkins anything.' 'Why?'

'He's dead,
I
cut his throat.' Agrippa shrugged. 'It was a mercy. What more could I do? The man would have died before the day was out and suffered even more terrible agony so I slit his throat.' He stood up, stamping his feet, and as he turned, his black robes wafting, I caught that strange exotic perfume once more. 'I must drink,' he whispered hoarsely. "There's a fine tavern beyond the Tower gate, The Golden Turk.'

We walked back across the green. Agrippa disappeared into the royal lodgings to rid himself of the priestly robes and returned looking as cheerful as ever, clapping his hands and saying how a cup of fine blood-red claret would suit him. I studied the cunning little bastard with his smiling lips and soulless eyes and made a vow that I'd never turn my back on Doctor Agrippa.

Once we were in The Golden Turk he continued his role of genial friend, ordering trenchers of meat, capon soaked in lemon and a jug of the best Bordeaux.

After he had whetted his appetite and slaked his thirst, he leaned back, fingers locked above his stomach like some genial gnome. He stared at my master who had been quiet and withdrawn during the meal.

'You are suspicious, Master Benjamin?'

'Aye, sir, I am.'

Agrippa made a dismissive gesture with his fingers. 'So you should be, so you should be. But you have my drift? All you have seen so far are the opening lines of a play and what we see touches the fate of Kings, the power of the crown, mystery, treachery, intrigue - and, as you will later discover, bloody murder!' He sipped from his wine cup and smacked his lips. 'Oh, yes, you'll see wickedness,' he breathed, 'the like of which you have never witnessed before!'

Benjamin slammed his own wine cup down, disturbing the other customers, a group of tinkers who were sorting out their sundry relics and other wares to be sold at the nearby market of Smithfield.

'Why not tell us all? And why are you involved?' I stuttered.

Agrippa held out his hand, splaying his fingers. 'There are many routes to heaven,' he murmured. 'But, as long as we get there, who cares! The Cardinal controls the game, Master Shallot, and although I'll deny these words later, I control the Cardinal. Events must pattern out as they are intended and I am here to see that they do.' He wagged a stubby finger at the two of us, and smiled. 'And both of you are here to help me and, in doing so, will win fame and fortune.'

The last words held a sardonic tinge and I caught the wicked look on his face. Puppets, I thought, puppets on a string. But you know old Shallot - once locked in a game I'll play it out.

'Well,' Agrippa continued, 'poor deserted Hopkins's riddle:

"Beneath Jordan's water Christ's cup does rest,

And above Moses' Ark the sword that's best." '

'The River Jordan is in Palestine,' mused Benjamin, 'and I suppose the Ark of Moses refers to the Ark of the Covenant, the chest which carried the ten commandments. Though God knows where that is!' He sipped from his wine cup. 'Of one thing I am certain, my good Agrippa, you'll find neither of these at Glastonbury, so why should we go there?'

My master was out of moods, sickened by Buckingham's death and Agrippa's cool despatch of poor Hopkins. So this was one of the rare occasions I did his thinking for him.

'They must be in Glastonbury,' I insisted. 'Somehow or other the River Jordan and Moses' Ark refer to something there.'

'How do you reach that conclusion?' Benjamin asked.

'Well, the writing is from a secret chronicle at Glastonbury, the scribe must have been a monk there. He must have been writing a riddle known only to a few others, perhaps Templars in refuge. The River Jordan and Moses' Ark probably refer to places in or around Glastonbury.'

Agrippa leaned forward and squeezed my hand. 'Shallot, Shallot!' he murmured. "There may be a slight cast in your eye'— and in truth there was, an affliction since birth — 'but beneath that cunning face a subtle wit thrives and grows. The Lord Cardinal will be pleased.'