The Grail Murders (8 page)

After a few days of kicking our heels round Richmond, the court began to settle down. We became more conscious of the Santerres as well as of the sombre presence of the
Agentes.
The latter slipped like shadows along the passageways and I formed a secret dread of Sir Edmund Mandeville. He looked as dark as Lucifer, some beautiful angel fallen from grace. He was good-looking in an arrogant, Mediterranean way: olive skin, jet-black hair, neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his hps had a strange twist to them and his eyes were ever mocking. He looked like a man who didn't believe in himself, let alone anything else.

Geoffrey Southgate, his lieutenant, appeared more cheerful with a shock of red hair, beetling eyebrows and pallid skin. The fellow had a slight lisp and rather affected movements but was the dagger to his master's foil.

We met them all in the Fountain Court a few days after arriving at Richmond. Benjamin was reading some manuscript he had borrowed from the library whilst I sat, bored to death, wondering what mischief I could get up to.

The first to approach us were the Santerres. Sir John was a bluff yet shrewd landowner who knew which side of the table to sit. He was the sort of fellow who would buy you a drink in a tavern, regaling you with some funny story, yet whom you would be a fool to trust. His eyes reminded me of the King's, ice blue and piggy in aspect. Lady Beatrice, his wife, now she had regained her composure bore the remnants of great beauty though her pallid-skinned face had a spoilt, rather sensuous cast. She was for ever leaning on her husband's arm as if she was determined he would never wander far from her clutches. Rachel, their daughter, was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a simple veil of murrey covering her hair and a modest blue dress made from pure wool, gilt-edged at the neck and cuffs.

The Santerres came into the Fountain Court as if they were simply wandering round the palace. My master closed the book he was reading and shrewdly watched them approach.

'I wondered when they would come,' he whispered. 'Why?'

'We are too humble to introduce ourselves,' he hissed, 'so they have to come to us. After all, if Agrippa is to be believed, we will be travelling back with them. So, Roger, to your feet and behave yourself.'

We rose as the Santerres swept grandly towards us; the introductions were made, hands clasped or kissed. Sir John stepped back, clearing his throat.

'I am given to understand,' he boomed, his accent burred by a rustic twang, 'that you will be returning with us to Somerset. This business!' He flung his hands up in the air. 'Lackaday! Lackaday! What can I say?'

Aye, I thought, what can you? A man looking for the main chance was Sir John. I could just imagine poor Buckingham's confidences being betrayed by him.

'You saw the good Duke die,' I blurted out.

'Good?' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Buckingham was a traitor to his King. A Judas in Henry's court. Why say you differently?'

'The man's dead,' I replied quickly. 'And his soul's before God. Why should we speak ill of him now?'

Santerre rubbed his eyes and looked at me warily.

'Aye, aye,' he whispered. 'He was a good lord but he went poaching in the wrong fields.'

'Master Shallot is noble to defend the Duke.' Rachel Santerre spoke, her voice soft and low.

I glanced at her and my heart leapt. She had raised her face and it was truly beautiful: her skin was like shot silk, pure gold. I would have loved to touch her cheek or gently caress that long, slender neck. I looked for humour, perhaps sarcasm, but her dark eyes were clear and those lips, slightly parted, bore no trace of sneer. I blushed, bowed and showed a leg.

'Mistress, you are too kind.'

Benjamin nudged me for he knew me. My brains were in my codpiece and, when it came to beautiful women, discretion was cast to the winds - and a lot more if I could help it!

'Come, Rachel,' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Your father and I have other business.'

'You mean my step-father,' she said quietly.

Now I smiled at her. I could see a little of Lady Beatrice in Rachel, but I had wondered how a red-faced, wart-covered farmer like Sir John could sire such a beauty.

'I am your father,' he firmly replied.

Lady Beatrice caught her husband's wrist and looked at Benjamin. She'd dismissed me with a contemptuous flicker of her eyelids, of course. Old Shallot was used to that.

'Sir John is my second husband,' she explained. 'Rachel's father died when she was a child.'

'In which case, Mother,' Rachel replied, 'I was a child for a long time. Father has only been cold in his grave for five years.'

Oh, oh, I thought, here's a pretty tableau for there's nothing more interesting than a family quarrel. I stared once more at Rachel, revelling in the beautiful lines of her face, and my wicked heart jumped with pleasure. If the mother disliked me, perhaps I had some hope with the daughter? (I see my little clerk sniggering. He thinks I wanted to bed her there and then. No, no, that's not the way of old Shallot. Well, not really, I just wanted to be with her. Gaze at her, become lost in those lovely dark eyes. Not all of us have minds like sewers!)

Looking back I think a family quarrel would have broken out then, but the door leading to the Fountain Court opened and Sir Edmund Mandeville and Geoffrey Southgate emerged, followed by two bald-headed individuals who looked as similar as peas in a pod. Sir John swung round to look at them and his face paled.

'Come,' he whispered. 'We have business to do.'

They walked off, Lady Beatrice still leaning heavily on his arm. Rachel turned her face slightly and I am sure she was smiling.

Mandeville and Southgate made to pass us by as they had previously. I stood watching, fascinated by the two characters trailing behind them: they were twins and reminded me of eunuchs with their fat, doughy faces, cod-like mouths and heads shaven as bald as pigeon's eggs.

Suddenly Mandeville turned, came towards us and bowed. (By the way, have you noticed that? How the most sinister of characters are often the most courteous?)

'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. I see the Santerres have introduced themselves, and perhaps it is time we all got to know each other a little better.' He followed my gaze. I was still watching his bald-headed retainers. 'Oh, may I introduce Geoffrey Southgate and my two clerks, Cosmas and Damien?'

The eunuchs bowed.

'Are they twins?' I asked.

'Of course,' Southgate languidly replied.

The two eunuchs, as I called them, now watched me; they had eyes like a frog's, glassy and soulless. I couldn't see a speck of hair on face or head.

'Can't they speak?' my master asked.

Mandeville half-turned. 'Cosmas, open your mouth!'

I couldn't believe it. At Mandeville's order, both these nightmare creatures opened their mouths. I saw the red rag of flesh where each tongue should have been and glanced away in disgust. My master, God bless him, just peered closer.

'What happened?' he asked, like some family physician making a diagnosis.

'Oh, they were born in England,' Mandeville replied. 'They were with their parents on a carrack in the Middle Sea when it was taken by Turkish corsairs. Cosmas and Damien, as I now call them, were taken to Constantinople, castrated and made mute eunuchs.' He patted one of them affectionately on his bald pate as one would tap the head of a good hunting dog. 'But they are well educated.'

He looked squarely at me but I knew he was studying both of us. Benjamin may have mystified him but I caught the sardonic glint in his eyes as he dismissed me for a rogue. He suddenly stared over his shoulder at the door as if expecting someone else to join us, then took a step closer. Southgate also leaned forward as if they were two school masters admonishing students.

"The
Agentes
welcome you,' Mandeville whispered, his voice becoming steely. 'We trapped Buckingham. We can weed out these Templars and discover what His Grace the Cardinal needs, but he is insistent that you join us.'

I stared at their hard faces and, despite Rachel Santerre's charms, the prospect of a journey to Glastonbury in the company of this eerie foursome lost any remaining attraction. They both stepped back, bowed and walked out of the court.

Benjamin watched them go. ‘I
wonder what all that was about?' he murmured. 'I just wish dear Uncle would reveal his mind to us.'

'Sirs!' a voice called. 'I heard you talking.'

We both turned. A young man had come up quietly behind us. Perhaps his approach had warned the
Agentes
off. He stood as proud and pert as a barnyard cock. I groaned quietly: the fellow looked a troublemaker with his russet leather jacket, tight hose, protuberant codpiece, high-heeled boots and, above all, the basket-hilted sword he kept drumming with his fingers.

He was a fighting boy, one of those hangers-on who plague every court and nobleman's house, puffed up with their own pride, ever ready to make a quarrel. (Master Shakespeare has borrowed my descriptions of such fellows for Thibault, the swordsman in his excellent play
Romeo and Juliet.)
The man came closer and doffed his broad-brimmed hat festooned with a cheap plume. His face was sallow with thin bloodless lips and eyes that were narrow and hooded. He thrust his chin forward.

'Sirs, I asked you a question. What was that conversation about? I come across to join you and your friends immediately leave. Was it at your request? Do you find my presence offensive?'

Benjamin seized my wrist. 'Be careful, Roger,' he whispered. 'The fellow's looking for a fight.'

My master was so innocent he was always stating the obvious. Of course I was careful. Old Shallot is a coward! I will run like a whippet at the slightest hint of danger and was preparing to do so then when the fellow blocked my path and poked me in the chest.

'Are you leaving as well, cockscomb?'

'Sod off!' I hissed.

The man stood back, throwing down his hat and half-drawing his sword. Benjamin stepped in front of me.

'We apologise,' he declared. 'Sir, we meant no offence.'

My would-be opponent's eyes didn't leave my face.

'My quarrel is not with you, Master Daunbey,' he replied softly. 'I have no dispute with the Cardinal's nephew, but this fellow has insulted me.'

'No, I haven't!' I pleaded. 'I just don't feel well. Sir, let me pass!'

Benjamin came between us again. 'Stand aside, sir!' he ordered. 'We have no quarrel with you.'

'No,
you
haven't, Master Daunbey,' the man repeated and my stomach curdled with fear for the fellow knew our names. This was no accident. The man had deliberately set out to challenge me and, when that happens, two thoughts always dominate my mind. First, can I run? Secondly, if I can't, will I be hurt?

The fellow drew his sword and rested its cruel point on the ground.

'Both of you may go,' he said, swaying his hips in a mocking fashion. 'And by supper everyone will be talking about the courage of "Mistress Shallot". Mistress Shallot! Mistress Shallot!' he continued in a sing-song fashion. 'What's the matter, girl?' he taunted and cocked his head sideways. 'With those funny eyes, one is never too sure what you are looking at.' He held up a finger. 'I know, if you bend over and let me smack your bottom with the flat of my sword, I'll let you go.'

Now Benjamin's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

'If you draw, Master Benjamin,' the bully-boy continued. 'I'll just walk away.'

'Please,' I muttered, gazing round the deserted courtyard.

'Please!' the fellow mimicked back.

'You have no choice,' Benjamin whispered.

So there was I, stomach churning, bowels twisting. I doffed my jerkin, drew my hangar and put as brave a face on it as possible. We took up position. The salute was given, our swords crossed and the duel began. I moved, twisting my sword, one eye closed. The fellow just played with me, moving backwards and forwards. He nicked my wrist. I closed my eyes. He slipped behind me and slapped me on the buttocks with the flat of his sword.

'Mistress Shallot!' he called out.

I stared at Benjamin but he had looked away. Then a strange thing happened. Old Shallot has always put a high price on his own skin but that blow on the buttocks stirred my pride (wherever it was hiding) and I recalled the words of my duelling master. I opened my eyes and stared at this braggart dancing before me. He represented everything that was wrong in old Shallot's life: the mocking dismissal of Wolsey, the patronising attitude of Agrippa, the sly taunting jibes that I hid behind my master's skirts. In other words, I lost my temper and found my courage.

My sword came down. I narrowed my eyes and took up a proper fighting stance and a different duel began. I wanted to kill that bastard and he knew it: red spots appeared high on his cheeks, his eyes became fearful, mouth half-open. His breath came in short gasps as we feinted and parried, cut and thrust. Poor sod! He was just a street brawler and, as God is my witness, I only meant to wound him. I thrust, aiming for his fighting arm, he moved with me, and my sword went in, deep into the soft flesh beneath the rib cage.