by Paul Doherty
Despite its bleak exterior, Templecombe proved to be a jewel. The entrance hall was gleamingly panelled, the wood carved and sculpted. The floorboards, the great sweeping staircase, its balustrade and newels, were fashioned out of the most expensive materials. We were taken to the main hall, a long lofty chamber dominated by a hammer-beamed roof with an oriel window at one end depicting the Lamb of God carrying a standard. Other large windows, with cushioned seats beneath, were on either side of the cleverly carved fireplace above which hung a canvas painting of Adam and Eve being tempted by the serpent. A great log fire crackled in the hearth, the room was lit by squat wax candles fixed on metal spigots around the walls and, at the far end, under the oriel window, was the dais and high table. The floor was paved with marble flagstones, black and white so it looked like a chessboard, and on this had been laid the thickest rugs from Persia, India and Turkey. There were chests of cypress and cedar, small tables bearing trays, silver cups, pewter tankards and flagons. Cloth of gold and exquisite tapestries hung on the walls, their fringes reaching down to the wooden panelling. Everything seemed to boast the power and wealth of the Santerres.
'He owns rich fields,' Benjamin whispered, 'and the wool from his flocks is famous even in Flanders. Sir John has a finger in every pie and is well known to the harbour masters all along the south coast.'
This rich Lord of the Manor now stood in the middle of the hall revelling in his ostentatious show of wealth whilst servants placed high-backed chairs in front of the fire. At Santerre's insistence we sat and warmed ourselves with possets of hot wine and slices of sugared pastry. Even Mandeville, tired after his ride, relaxed and murmured his appreciation.
The greatest change, however, was in Rachel. She'd cast aside her cloak and even her veil so her jet-black hair fell down on either side of a face now glowing with happiness. I had eyes only for her but Benjamin was all agog with interest in the room and kept looking around, murmuring his admiration.
'Come.' Rachel stood, smiling at both of us. 'Whilst our elders and betters take their rest, let me show you round our home.'
She then took us on a tour, chattering excitedly like a child. The house, as I have said, had three stories, each a perfect square bounded by four polished galleries, three rooms leading off each. Even on the top one where Rachel showed us our chambers, the air was warmed by sweetened braziers and the atmosphere was comforting with gleaming wainscoting, coloured cloths, woollen carpets, carved chests and chairs. Everything was clean and bright in the candlelight. Even the corbels and cornices of the ceiling had been freshly painted.
Rachel explained that her step-father had not stinted in his refurnishing of his new home. Now and again, however, we caught glimpses of its Templar past: black Beauce crosses printed on the walls which the passage of time had not faded; old arrow slits through which you could glimpse the snowy fields beyond; small gargoyles, some depicting wyverns or dragons, others the faces of long-dead knights.
Gradually we realised that despite the wealth, warmth and comfort, Templecombe held an eerie, sinister air. Even as Rachel flitted before us down passageways and galleries, I could feel other presences, as if ghosts hiding in the shadows watched her pass then trailed behind us, looking for some weakness they could exploit. Benjamin's shoulders twitched and on one occasion I saw him shiver.
'A strange place,' he murmured as Rachel walked ahead of us. 'The dead do not lie at rest here.'
At last Rachel had shown us everything but, still full of enthusiasm, said there was more to see outside. Benjamin and I hid our exasperation, took our cloaks and followed her into the snow-covered grounds. We visited the outhouses, stables, smithies, brewing rooms, barns - slipping and slithering, though Rachel was as sure-footed as a cat. We went through a clump of yew trees into a clearing where a small church stood, a simple primitive affair with steep tiled roof and a small entrance tower. Rachel pushed the door open and beckoned us in.
If the manor was opulent, the old church was positively bleak. A baptismal font stood near the doorway, a row of squat white pillars on either side of dark transepts, then through a rood screen into a plain, stone sanctuary. On either side were stalls, their seats up, each displaying a scene from the bible. Benjamin looked at these and exclaimed in delight.
'Look, Roger!' He pointed to one of the raised seats where centuries earlier a carpenter had carved a bear climbing a tree. The scene was so vivid and lifelike you almost expected the bear to move or the tree to bend. Rachel sat on the sanctuary steps and watched us.
'I love this place,' she murmured, gazing up at the black roof beams. 'It's so simple, so pure. My step-father wanted to tear it down but my mother and I refused to allow it.' She smiled at us, then her face grew solemn and her eyes widened. 'The Templars used to meet here,' she continued. 'This was their chapel.' She shivered and pulled her cloak close. 'Very evil men,' she whispered, 'with such dark practices, their ghosts still linger here. Mother's always saying the house should be exorcised.'
'Do you think they were guilty of such terrible crimes?' Benjamin asked.
Rachel stood up. 'Perhaps, but not committed here. Let me show you something.'
She led us out of the church, round the back and through a wood. The line of trees suddenly ended where the ground fell away and, beneath us, was a large lake, the water turning to ice and, in the middle, a mist-shrouded island. On this, amongst the few trees growing there, stood a low dark building which, in the fading light, had a desolate, sinister air.
The Templar house,' Rachel explained. 'Just a long stone room but legend has it that the Templars used it for their mysteries. I have never been across.' She gestured to the barge nestling amongst the frozen weeds. 'Others go over but I wouldn't set foot there even in the height of summer! That island frightens me.' Her face brightened. 'Come,' she added, 'you must be exhausted and I prattle on. Supper will be served soon.'
She took us back to the house where a servant showed us up to our rooms. We each had a small chamber. Mine was between those of Cosmas and Benjamin. Mandeville, Southgate and Damien were on the other gallery. The rooms were probably once Templar cells but now they were luxuriously furnished. Each had a large four-poster bed, an oaken wardrobe, a table, stool and chair, whilst the arrow-slit windows had been widened and filled with tinted glass. A log fire crackled in the hearth and two capped braziers had been moved in just inside the door. My room was as warm and smelt as fragrant as a summer's day. For a while I sat on the edge of the bed until Benjamin joined me. He seemed tired and perplexed and, without invitation, began to summarise what had happened so far, ticking the points off on his fingers.
'First, Hopkins was a monk, a Benedictine from Glastonbury but he also served as a chaplain for the Santerres here at Templecombe as well as for die outlying farms.
'Secondly, he had a passion for Arthurian legend and lore and searched for the Grail and Excalibur. He discovered an ancient manuscript in Glastonbury's library with a doggerel verse which no one understands.
'Thirdly, Hopkins told Buckingham that he could lay hands on these precious relics. My Lord of Buckingham come to Templecombe thinking the relics might be hidden here, or maybe just to verify with Hopkins that what he had been told was the truth. Sir John Santerre was approached but panicked. He believed Buckingham's search for the relics masked some subtle treason, and so the Agentes were alerted. Buckingham then wrote to Taplow in London but this correspondence was seized by our good Mends Mandeville and Southgate. Buckingham was arrested: he went to the block whilst poor Taplow was burnt at Smithfield. The Santerres were investigated but cleared of any suspicion.' Benjamin paused. 'What else?' 'The murdered agents?'
'Ah, yes. Fourthly, two of Mandeville's agents who had been placed in the Buckingham household and first alerted their masters to Buckingham's so-called treason, were murdered with a garrotte string as was Hopkins's sister but we have no clue as to who the murderer was. Fifthly, there is a secret coven or conspiracy linked to the ancient order of the Templars wh
o are also searching for the Grail and Arthur's Sword. God knows who these could be. The abbot and his brothers at Glastonbury? John Santerre? Or even worse, Mandeville or Southgate. After all, there is suspicion that the order has an accomplice close to the crown.
'Sixthly, we have been sent here to find the Grail and .. Excalibur - though there's fat chance of that - as well as to assist our two dark shadows to root out the activities of these Templars.
'And, finally, we have the warnings of that crone. Why did she deliver the message then? Who told her to? Was it the monks of Glastonbury?'
'Master, she is a witch.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'Nonsense, Roger. I don't believe in such powers.' He got up and started pacing up and down the room.
My master was like that: once his mind probed a mystery or problem, he became physically agitated, gnawing away at it until he had satisfaction. A true Renaissance man, Benjamin Daunbey. He didn't believe in witches, sorcerers and warlocks. I did. When you meet the likes of Mabel Brigge, you quickly recognise someone who has made a pact with Satan and acquired occult powers! A beautiful demon, Mabel! To kill someone, all she did was fast for three days and concentrate her mind on destroying the life of her enemy. I watched her do this and bring about the destruction of one of England's greatest noblemen but that's another story.
Benjamin stopped pacing up and down.
'Do you agree with what I have said, Roger?'
'Well, of course, Master. It's all happened, hasn't it?'
'Of course not.'
'If you say so, Master.'
Benjamin came and sat down beside me. 'Less of your sarcasm, Roger. We know only what we have been told or made to see. How do we know Buckingham committed treason? How do we know he wrote those letters to Taplow?'
'Because the mad bugger confessed!' I interrupted. 'We met Taplow in prison and saw the poor bastard die!'
Benjamin pulled a face. 'No, the man we met in prison was not Taplow but someone else.' He smiled at my snort of disdain. 'Don't you remember, Roger? Think of that prisoner, with his fat arms and legs. Oh, he was covered in dirt and spoke like an actor reciting his lines but he made one mistake. Taplow was supposed to be a Lutheran but the prisoner said he believed in Purgatory. No Lutheran would have said that.
'Now, when we went to Smithfield I caught a glimpse of the dying Taplow. Oh, he had the same colour hair as the man we met in prison but he was much more emaciated.'
I closed my eyes and thought back. Taplow, in his prison cell: the fat on his arms and legs, the chubby, well-fed face beneath the dirt, the reference to his soul going to Purgatory, the fire at Smithfield, the thin, broken body I had glimpsed. My master was right.
'Why?' I asked.
'Let's remove Buckingham from our investigations,' Benjamin replied. 'He was a great nobleman with Yorkist blood in his veins and Henry wanted his head. The good Duke was foolish enough to make enquiries about certain precious relics and the King's agents closed in. I suspect his letters to Taplow produced during his trial were forgeries, whilst Taplow himself with his tenuous links with Buckingham was used as a catspaw. You know our gracious King. Taplow, the poor sod as you would put it, was tortured, bullied, to say what he did in court but then Mandeville had to make sure he did not tell the truth afterwards. He was removed to some far cell and a minion brought in to act his part. Mandeville thought we would be satisfied with that. He never dreamt that we would go to witness the execution or, even if we did, would get close enough to realise the man being burnt at the stake was not the same person we'd questioned at Newgate. I would have suspected nothing if the counterfeit Taplow had not made reference to Purgatory. So . . .'
'So,' I finished for him, 'we can ignore everything the little bastard in Newgate told us!'
'Yes, a pack of lies.' Benjamin drew in his breath. 'But if one part of the pie is rotten,' he concluded, 'how do you know the rest is true? What if there is no Grail or Excalibur or secret Templars? And why were those agents murdered?'
'Mandeville might have killed them,' I suggested. 'Perhaps they objected to the destruction of Buckingham and the web of deceit to which they'd been party?'
'Possible,' Benjamin murmured. 'Possible.' He rose and absentmindedly patted me on the shoulder. 'But come, Roger, we have to wash and change. Our hosts await us.'
My master wandered out and I unpacked my belongings, washed, changed and went down to the sumptuous banquet Santerre's cooks had prepared for us.
The high table was covered in pure silk cloths, bathed in light by countless wax candles which winked and dazzled on the silver trenchers, flagons, glass goblets and knives with precious pewter handles. The meal was delicious: beef and venison pastries and different wines, blood-red claret as well as light, sweet Rhenish.
Conversation was desultory for we were all exhausted though Mandeville declared that tomorrow he would spread his net. Certain questions had to be answered by Sir John and then we would return to Glastonbury Abbey. I ignored the sinister bastard and drank fast and deep with eyes only for Rachel. Dressed in a sea-blue gown with matching headdress, each studded with small mother-of-pearls, she looked so beautiful!
(I see my little chaplain snigger because he knows I have talked about her before. All right, the little sod's reminding me of the truth, so I'll tell it.)
Yes, I was jealous, that's why I drank deep. I could not but notice how tenderly Rachel looked at Benjamin and jealousy, a flame so quickly started, is the most difficult fire to extinguish. After a while I became so deep in my cups I grew surly, said I felt unwell and trotted off to bed where I could nurse my hurt as well as conceal my bad manners. I lay on my four-poster ready to bemoan what had happened but the next minute I rolled over and sank into the deepest sleep. God knows when the banquet ended. I remember half-waking and seeing my master bend over me.
'Are you well, Roger? Is it something you ate?'
'Yes, yes,' I murmured bitterly, half-asleep. 'Something I ate.'
My next awakening was more harsh. I was in the middle of my favourite dream, standing in the dungeons, sipping a cup of claret whilst masked torturers had Fat Henry spread-eagled on the cruellest rack. I could smell smoke and hear the most terrible screams. Suddenly I shook myself awake, realising it was no dream; smoke was drifting under my door and, in spite of the thickness of the walls, I could hear the most awful groaning and crashing.
'For pity's sake, fire!' I shouted.
I opened the door and went out. The gallery was filled with smoke, the guttural screams and crackling sounds coming from the chamber occupied by the secretary, Cosmas. Quick-witted as usual, I snouted: 'Fire!' and dived back into my room with only one thought in my mind. The cornerstone of Shallot's philosophy: when danger threatens, collect your possessions and flee like the wind. I ran to find my master who was still fully dressed.
'For God's sake, Roger,' he said, 'what's happening?'
'For God's sake, Master!' I snarled back. 'Isn't it obvious? The silly bastard next door started a fire and I have no desire to join him!'
Benjamin stared at my cloak full of the little trinkets and valuable possessions I had collected.
'Roger, Roger, don't be so modest, you can't break the door down with those!'
He snatched the cloak out of my hand and threw it on the bed. Outside, I could hear doors opening on the gallery and running footsteps. At Benjamin's urging I helped pick up a wooden chest. We staggered out and began to use it as a battering ram against the locked door.
Mandeville and Southgate appeared, followed by the other secretary, Damien, his pallid face even more ghastly as he stared in terror at the fire enveloping his brother's room. He beat the air with his hands and made the most heart-rending cries. God be my witness, Mandeville was as tender with him as a mother with a baby. He grabbed the poor creature by the neck and drew him close, then gazed savagely across at us.
'Come on, you poltroons! Break the bloody door down!'
Assisted by Southgate and two sleepy-eyed, half-d
ressed servants we hammered again at the door until it buckled, creaking and groaning, before snapping back, breaking the lock. The smoke billowed out, forcing us to drop the chest. Benjamin scurried back to his room and brought napkins soaked in water, flung these at us and told us to cover our mouths and eyes. Other servants appeared led by Santerre. A chamber was opened and I realised that, like many wise householders, Santerre used one room to store huge vats of water against the very fire we were now fighting.
Benjamin and I, however, were first into the room. My master staggered over and opened the nearest window and, as the smoke cleared, we saw that the huge four-poster bed was now a sheet of flame.
It was one of the most curious things I had ever seen. You must remember Templecombe was made of stone and the chambers on the top gallery had no wooden wainscoting so the fire hadn't spread. Oh, two rugs on the stone floor were smouldering but the fire was contained. It looked as if the entire bed had simply erupted into a ball of flame.
Even then, as servants pushed by us with buckets of water and began to douse the flames, I knew there was something wrong. Both the braziers near the door had not been disturbed. The fire in the hearth was now a heap of white ash. So where had the flames sprung from? I concluded that I had done enough and was getting ready to sidle away when a servant pushed a large bucket of water into my hands and I realised that, under Santerre's direction, a human chain had been formed. At first the water made no difference but eventually the flames began to die until what was left of the bed was nothing but black smouldering ash.
Mandeville was the first to approach it and, amongst the remains of the bed, we found the charred body of Cosmas. His corpse was nothing but burnt flesh, his features indistinguishable. I glimpsed white teeth and a gaping jaw but the sight of the eyeballs turning to water and the blackened flesh of the man's hands proved too much. I fled back to the privacy of my own room to retch and vomit. Further down the hall, Santerre shouted for the windows to be opened, canvas sheets to be brought, and issued curt requests that Rachel and his wife go back to their rooms.