The Relic Murders (2 page)

I do not have to walk far down the long, dusty passageway of time before I meet Murder squatting there, his silver skin laced with scarlet blood, his body riven by gashed stabs, face black and full of gore, eyeballs protruding further out than they should in a living man. He has that basilisk stare, ghastly, gasping like a strangled man. His hair is upstanding, his nostrils flared with struggling, his hands stretched out like someone tugging for life. That's Murder! I met him many a time in those turbulent days of Henry VIH when I and my great friend, tall, dark, angel-faced Benjamin Daunbey, nephew of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, were hired to hunt subtle murderers and crafty assassins. Let time be my witness, none of these was more cunning, more artful, more deceitful than those who planned to steal the Orb of Charlemagne and nearly sent old Roger to a watery grave. I cannot remain silent. Murder, though it has no tongue, will speak and I am duty bound to recall it. At Michaelmas the queen will come again. She will hear Mass secretly in my hidden chamber and, afterwards, sit at my table to drink claret and pluck at golden capon. Great Elizabeth will lean across and tweak my cheek.

'Come, Roger,' she'll whisper. 'Bring me the next chapter of your memoirs. Let me see those times again!'

And she will! Murder beckons me down time's sombre gallery, back into the golden, sun-filled, bloody autumn days of 1523 when King Henry, that murderous imp, still ruled England and Cardinal Wolsey, his brain teeming more than a boxful of vipers, tried to rule the king.

Chapter 1

After that bloody business at the Tower in the summer of 1523, Benjamin Daunbey and I, now released from the services of Cardinal Wolsey, returned to our manor outside Ipswich. Benjamin took over the management of the estate and the running of the school he had set up for the ungrateful, snotty-nosed imps from the nearby village. I, of course, true to my nature, returned to villainy as smoothly as a duck takes to water. I was bred for villainy. I was reared on it. People shouldn't really object. I am not an evil man. I just like mischief as a cat does cream. 'Ill met by moonlight!' You could wager your last farthing that I was. When Benjamin slept, I'd quietly slip out to meet young Lucy Witherspoon. She was a comely wench who worked some time in the White Harte tavern and, at others, as a chamber maid for the Poppleton household across the valley. I have mentioned these Poppletons before: spawns of Satan! The family was dominated by a woman I called the Great Mouth, Isabella Poppleton, and her cantankerous, flint-faced sons led by Edmund. She hated me and I reciprocated in kind. May her lips rot off!

Now Lucy and I would spend those early, balmy autumn nights lying in the cool grass beside the river. Lucy was a lovely lass who, when I cradled her in my arms, would whisper, 'My cup overflows with happiness!' It was a quotation she'd learnt from

the wall of the parish church. She said it always tickled her fancy and, I suppose, I did the same. When she left, with my sweet words ringing in her ears and a silver piece in her purse, I'd stay to pick mushrooms, herbs and plants. I still had a deep, abiding desire to be a great physician and make my fortune with miraculous cures. I'd always be back by dawn, sleeping like an angel in my bed, and would awake later in the day to wash, shave, dress and plot fresh mischief.

Benjamin. Well, I loved Benjamin deeply - a scholar, a swordsman and a gentle soul - but a slight coldness had grown up between us. The cause (isn't it always?) was a woman: the marvellous Miranda, daughter of Under-sheriff Pelleter in the city of London. Oh, what a tangled web, the eternal triangle! Benjamin loved Miranda: Miranda loved Benjamin: Roger loved Miranda: Roger loved Benjamin: Benjamin loved Roger. However, here's the rub! Here's the soreness! Here's the canker in my soul, the hatred in my heart! Miranda did not love Roger!

My little secretary sniggers. The scurvy knave says love's not a triangle. If he's not careful I'll take my sword, prick his bum and take him down to the crossroads to my triangular gallows. What does he know of love? The little tick brain! The want wit! Monsieur Muckwater! Triangles, squares, rectangles? Love knows no shape. Whatever, I loved Miranda. I loved her hair, her eyes, her mouth, her body, her soul, her spirit. Oh, she was kind: 'Good Roger,' she called me. 'My dear friend.' But Miranda's eyes hungered only for Benjamin. And here's the second rub. Old Roger Shallot, by some nimble footwork, by playing the counterfeit-man, by devious trickery and subtle wit, had arranged for 'dear' Benjamin to be sent on an embassy to Italy, whilst I, poor Roger, was to stay at home looking after the farm. However, when the time was ripe, I'd foray into London to lay siege to Miranda's heart. Oh villainy! But can you blame me for loving? I, whom few people loved, had a heart bursting with that sweet fragrance and all of it was centred upon Miranda.

Now Benjamin may have been a scholar but he was no dullard. He spent his days preparing to leave, drawing up instructions, yet I would catch him watching me with his dark, soulful eyes.

'You'll not go to London?' Benjamin declared one afternoon when I was helping him place clothing in a chest.

Now I am a born liar but I couldn't lie to Benjamin. 'Sometimes, master,' I replied, turning away.

'And you'll not see Miranda?'

'Master, master!' I knelt down to buckle up some saddlebags, deciding to make light of it. 'You've heard, master, the story about Lord Hudson?'

'No.'

'Our good king sent him on an embassy to Spain. The old lord did not trust his young, fresh-faced wife so he locked a chastity belt about her and gave the key to his best friend. Well—' I threaded the strap through the buckle. 'Lord Hudson was at Dover, about to climb into a wherry boat to take him out to the waiting ship, when a messenger arrived from his best friend.' I got to my feet, keeping my back to Benjamin. 'He delivered a note,' I continued. 'Lord Hudson opened it. Inside was the key with a message: "WRONG KEY".'

My laughter was cut short by a prick of steel just beneath my left ear.

'Turn round, Roger.'

I did so. My master was standing, his duelling sword only a few inches away from my eyes, but it wasn't the sharp point which frightened me. (There are some things more terrifying to even old Shallot than cold steel.) Benjamin's face was white with fury. No gentle eyes now or kind, smiling mouth but a mask, fierce and hard.

'Master!' I stepped back.

Benjamin followed me.

'Master!' I protested.

'Roger, you are my brother and my soul mate. I am your man in peace and war. Yet, I will not, I shall not share Miranda with you!' He laid the point on my chest. 'If I return, Roger, and find you have, if I suspect that you have crept where I would not dream of creeping, I shall kill you because if you do you are no friend of mine and I am no friend of yours!'

This was no jest. Benjamin's eyes brimmed with tears. He was a man of his word. He'd once loved a woman whom another had seduced and sent insane. Poor Johanna was in the care of the kind nuns at their convent at Syon on the Thames. Benjamin had killed Cavendish, the young nobleman responsible.

'I have loved once and lost, Roger,' Benjamin continued as if reading my mind. 'I shall not love and lose again. Give me your word.'

I lifted my right hand. 'On the sacrament,' I swore. 'And on your mother's soul!'

Benjamin knew me well. Mother had died young but all my memories of her were sweet. God knows I dreamt of her every night in some form or other. To me, her memory was sacred.

'On my mother's soul!' I declared.

Benjamin sighed but the sword point didn't fall.

'Oh no, master,' I joked. 'Don't say I have to take an oath not to drink wine or kiss any girl?'

Benjamin smiled thinly. 'While I am gone, Roger, I will worry. You are back to your medicines, aren't you? Cures for catarrh; to make hair grow where it doesn't; to make the fat lean and the lean plump.'

I swallowed hard.

'Roger, you know such trickery will take you to the gallows. I want you, now, to bring all your medicines down here. Go on!'

I hastened to obey. I suspected what was coming. I could have wept as I filled my bag with dried cowpate (Shallot's cure for baldness); lambs' testicles (Shallot's cure for impotence); dried newt (Shallot's veritable cure for catarrh); juice of valerian (for those who couldn't sleep); and my latest discovery, dried sunflower seed mixed with pig's urine and ground dates to make a man more virile. Into an old leather bag I piled the phials and potions, saying goodbye to each of them as if they were close and bosom friends. I returned downstairs. I looked fearfully at the spade Benjamin held in his hands though, thankfully, his sword was now sheathed. He took me out across the meadow to an old and ancient hill that overlooked the mill. I gazed tearfully down at the rush-filled riverside, savouring the memory of my sweet nights with Lucy Witherspoon.

'What are we going to do, master?' I asked.

Benjamin started digging. I watched with curiosity, hope once again flaring in my wicked heart. Benjamin was interested in antiquities: we had dug here before, looking for ruins of an ancient Roman fort, collecting the artifacts left by that ancient people.

'You are searching for something, master?' I asked expectantly.

'No, Roger. Just digging a very deep pit.'

He dug on. I stood woebegone; my sack of miraculous cures in my hand, and then I noticed it. Isn't it strange, how simple things can be a pointer to events yet to come? Benjamin unearthed a spear head, an ancient one, covered in rust but still good and hard; beneath the rust and clay, I saw an emblem: the Roman eagle with wings outstretched.

'You can keep it, Roger.' Benjamin wiped the sweat from his face and handed the spear to me. 'A relic from the past.'

Relic! Relic! I tell you this, before I was much older I would come to dread the very mention of relics. That spearhead was a pointer, a dark omen of the terrors to come: the prospect of the gallows, the cart and the axe! Of hearts steeped in black wickedness and bloody, mysterious murder. Threats from the Great Beast, the parry and thrust of dagger and sword fights, brutal, sordid assault and, above all, poor old Shallot in danger of his life. My sweat poured down to soak the earth, my bowels turned to water, which they always do when I think even a hair on my precious head is in jeopardy. Oh, believe me, gentle reader, if I had known what was coming I would have jumped into that hole and buried myself, taking refuge in the bowels of the earth. As it was, I slipped the spearhead into my wallet and watched my master dig. At last he stopped and held his hand out.

'Give me the sack, Roger.'

I smiled wanly but handed it over. I even thought of brushing a tear from my eyes but I am glad I didn't. I have studied Richard Burbage's players and, as I have written to the man, some of them do cry overmuch and it spoils the effect. Benjamin took the sack and knelt down. He took a small phial of oil from his pocket, poured it over the sack and struck a tinder: the rough, dry cloth was soon alight. Benjamin climbed out of the hole and we both watched as the flames roared, turning the sack to blackened ash. I must say I was fascinated. Only the good Lord knows what was in those cures. I mean, it's not often you see blue fire! Benjamin took me by the shoulder.

'It's the best way, Roger. It will keep you out of villainy. I don't want you going into London. I don't want you seeing Miranda. And I don't want you selling medicines. Do you understand?'

I blinked innocently. Benjamin smiled, shaking his head and, taking his spade, began to fill the hole. I stood and watched, fingering that old spearhead in my wallet; already a vague idea was beginning to form but silence is the best counsel to follow in such matters.

We returned to the manor. Benjamin now seemed light-hearted, and the tension between us had dissipated. I decided to relax and enjoy the golden autumn sun. The next day I was supposed to be helping with the early harvest I forget the precise details. Anyway, whilst everyone else was working, I and young Lucy Witherspoon found ourselves on top of a haystack. I was teaching her the principles of mathematics and counting, using the laces across her ample bodice as an exemplar. I had just reached the last lace when I heard Benjamin call my name. I looked over the haystack, whispering at Lucy to stay there with the wine I had brought Benjamin was staring up at me.

'Roger, come down. You look tired. You've been too long under the sun!'

I just ignored him, my flesh already turning cold at the sight of the visitor standing next to him: Doctor Agrippa! I have talked about this creature many a time. Of medium height and cherubic face, Agrippa had twinkling eyes which could, at a drop of a coin, turn iron hard. As usual he was dressed in sepulchral black from head to toe, his jovial face almost hidden by the broad-brimmed hat. Whatever the weather, he always wore a cloak and black leather gloves on his hands so people couldn't see the strange emblems, bloody crosses on each palm. Warlock? Wizard? I don't know. He was Wolsey's familiar. Agrippa claimed to have lived when the legions still strutted across Europe and the Barbarians hadn't yet poured across the great northern rivers. A man who had been in Palestine when Christ our Lord was crucified. Agrippa claimed to have seen the Golden Horde led by Genghis Khan and been present at Constantinople when the gates were breached and the Turks poured in. A man doomed to live for ever! Agrippa had come to England to stop, as he once told me in hushed tones, the river of blood that Henry the Great Beast was about to unleash. Agrippa was very worried by Henry. He called him the Mouldwarp, the Dark Prince prophesied by Merlin who would turn England from the path of righteousness and unleash horrors for which the kingdom would pay for centuries. He was fascinated by me, was our good Doctor, always sidling up to me. I can still recall his strange odour when he was pleased, the most fragrant of perfumes, cloying and rich. When he was angry or sad, the smell changed to that of an empty skillet left over a roaring fire.

Did he live for ever? Ten summers ago I commissioned my good ship
The Witherspoon
to go a-pirating on the Spanish Main. My captain put in at a port in Virginia, and was sitting in a bottle shop, when in strolled Agrippa. According to my man's description he wasn't a day older. He was accompanied by tribesmen with shaven heads and painted faces. Agrippa explained he had been out west across the great mountain range but he still remembered Old Shallot and asked the captain give me his most tender regards. Only a summer ago, when I was in the Mermaid tavern joking with Ben Jonson and lying fit to burst, I saw a man standing in the doorway looking across at me. He smiled, raised a hand and was gone. I recognised that face immediately. Doctor Agrippa had returned.