by Paul Doherty
Chapter 8
We went downstairs into the street. Kempe muttered about continuing his searches for Hubert Berkeley, and Benjamin grasped him by the arm.
'Where did Henley live? You must know,' he added, 'if you were keeping a watch on his ilk?'
'Nearby.' Kempe withdrew his arm. 'That's right, in Old Jewry. Skinner's Lane, opposite the hospital of St Thomas of Acorn. Why?' Kempe's eyes slid to me. 'Are you thinking of augmenting your relic collection? And what was all that business about the candle?' Benjamin shook his head. 'I was just intrigued.'
'And so will the King be,' Kempe added, hitching his fur robe round his shoulders.
His eyes strayed over my shoulder. I glanced round and saw two well-armed bullyboys standing in the mouth of the alleyway. Men like Kempe didn't go anywhere unless they were protected.
'I really must be going,' he insisted. 'It is important that we find Berkeley.' He prodded me in the chest. 'But meanwhile, what about this business of Lord Charon?'
'We also need to take counsel with His Eminence,' Agrippa said, coming out of the tavern. He smiled apologetically and wiped his lips on the back of his glove. 'They say a good ale is strong and clear. I, too, Master Daunbey, was thinking about candles. But, as Sir Thomas says, Berkeley has to be found and counsel has to be taken.' He winked at both of us. 'The court has moved to Sheen. I shall go there. Sir Thomas has Berkeley to find. Where were you when Charon,' he added, turning to me, 'first met you?' 'At the Flickering Lamp tavern,' I replied.
'Go back there,' Agrippa ordered. 'Sir Thomas and I will meet you later on.'
Agrippa collected his horse from the stable and nonchalantly rode off. Kempe followed a short while later.
'Why were you interested in the candle?' I asked, watching Kempe's bullyboys stride off. 'Collect our horses and I'll tell you.'
Benjamin rode close beside me, as if he sensed we were being followed or watched.
'Describe the Orb to me. I know I have seen it but just describe it to me.'
And so I did. Benjamin paused, absentmindedly stroking his horse's muzzle, unaware of the chaos and confusion he was causing in the narrow streets behind him. 'It's the amethyst,' he declared. ‘I beg your pardon, master?'
'Look around, Roger,' he murmured, stooping to check his saddle as if there was something wrong. 'Is that dog-faced man still following us?' I glanced around but could see no sign of him.
'He'll be there,' Benjamin declared, urging his horse on. 'Anyway, Roger, I have a deep suspicion that the Orb taken from Malevel Manor was not the genuine one.' 'But Egremont checked it!' I exclaimed. 'And Kempe told us the real Orb contained a secret: surely Egremont would have known this.'
'Roger,' Benjamin laughed. 'Gold and silver are easy to replicate and you can collect precious stones to match. However, I wager a jug of wine against a jug of wine that the amethyst on the top of the Orb is special: that's why Henley asked for a beeswax candle. The light from a tallow candle is not pure, the wick gives off a great deal of smoke and it splutters. The flame on a beeswax candle provides pure light. I suspect Henley was one of the few people who could recognise the true Orb of Charlemagne. The person who stole it from Malevel Manor took it to Henley for our relic-seller to inspect. He did so, realised it was a forgery and burst out laughing.' 'For which he promptly had his throat cut,' I added.
'Oh yes, our assassin will be angry.' Benjamin paused. 'We really must check where Kempe, Egremont and Cornelius were yesterday evening.' 'Not to forget Lord Charon?'
'Yes,' Benjamin agreed. 'Our assassin was not only angry, he had to keep Henley's mouth shut. The relic-seller was a fool. He was dead as soon as he entered that tavern garret.'
'And you think something in Henley's house will reveal the secret?' I asked. 'Possibly,' Benjamin replied.
We reached Old Jewry and made our way to the hospital of St Thomas Acorn. A beggar who sat squatting on the steps, scratching his sores, pointed across to a narrow, mean house wedged between two shops.
'That's where Henley lives,' the fellow croaked. 'We all know what he does. Often comes out to sell his trickery to pilgrims.' We left our horses in a nearby tavern, paid an ostler a coin, walked across and knocked at the door. It was locked but what are keys and bolts to a man like Shallot? I soon had the door open. Inside the house was dark, rather eerie, full of strange smells. The front parlour was all shuttered, cobwebs hung on the walls and dusty sheets covered the furniture. The kitchen and buttery were stale and ill washed. In a room at the back of the house we found Henley's workshop. Here the smell was so offensive we had to open the shutters. Benjamin looked at the pot suspended on an iron rod over the white ash in the hearth. He took his dagger out and fished amongst the contents. I gagged at the mess of cats' heads, birds and other small animals boiled in there. The stench was so bad I drew back and retched. Benjamin remained impervious and went around scrutinising the different items on tables and shelves.
'A cunning man,' he breathed. 'He could have taught you a trick or two, Roger. Relics are always bones, pieces of cloth, wood or leather.' He picked up a small silver gilt case. 'Henley must have made a prosperous living out of it. He'd take a bit of cat bone, boil it, clean it, place it in a silver-gilt case and there was part of the finger bone of St Amisias, or whoever you want.' My master must have caught the look in my eye.
'No, Roger, there'll be no more relics at our manor.' He waved a finger at me. 'Relics are forbidden.'
He went across and looked at a shelf which contained some ledgers. He took them down and glanced through them: they were accounts, showing monies owing or salted away with the bankers.
'The King will be pleased,' he murmured. 'I am sure Agrippa will tell him about Henley's death and the Lords of the Treasury will soon have their fingers on all this.'
A leather-bound folio was more interesting. It was an index drawn up by a Dutch scholar, published and printed in Bruges, which listed the principal relics of Western Christendom. Benjamin found the entry for the Orb of Charlemagne. There was a crude drawing above it which I recognised as the relic. The writing was more accurate: in the main it faithfully described the Orb; how it had been owned by the great Emperor and sent to Alfred of England and how the English kings had kept it in the most secret place. However, when it came to a detailed description of the amethyst the writer was silent. Instead Henley had scrawled in the margin: 'Per ig. Cruc. lxthus vid, 'What is that?' I asked. My master, who was skilled in secret ciphers, studied it. 'A mixture of Latin and Greek,' he replied. 'Ixthus is the Greek title for Jesus Our Saviour.' 'And the rest?'
'Bearing in mind Henley's request for a candle, I'd say that per ig means per ignem, through fire. Cruc is Latin for cross: vid means Videtur, can be seen.' Benjamin closed the book. 'That's why Henley wanted the beeswax candle. Hold the Orb up, place the amethyst against a brilliant flame and, somehow or other, a cross can be seen in the centre of the stone.' 'Can that be done?' I asked.
'Not artificially,' Benjamin replied. 'What I suspect is that, when the Orb was made for Charlemagne, this amethyst was particularly chosen because the goldsmith at the time thought it was of a sacred character. That amethyst,' Benjamin continued, 'is probably the only way of ensuring the Orb is genuine.'
'But that's impossible, master. If Henley knew this, then surely the Emperor Charles V, not to mention his envoys Lord Egremont and Cornelius, would also have known?' Benjamin sat down on a stool.
4When the Orb was placed in that sealed casket in Berkeley's house,' I insisted, 'Egremont must have demanded that a light be held against the amethyst. He would then know that he was being tricked.' Benjamin rocked himself backwards and forwards, eyes closed. 'Did they know?' he asked.
'Oh come on, master. If a tawdry counterfeit-man like Henley knew, then surely Charles V's ambassadors would?'
'The only person who could answer that,' Benjamin replied, 'is Henley himself and he's now a member of the choir invisible. I suspect that Henley was not just a tawdry counterfeit man but an expert
on relics. Somehow he found out the real secret and wrote it in the margin of this book.' He sighed. 'Yet, in the end, Henley didn't make the replica, Berkeley did. Is our goldsmith the villain of the piece?'
'No,' I retorted. 'Berkeley acted on the orders of the King.' I paused. 'And that's where the real mystery begins, doesn't it? If Berkeley put a replica in that chest, he must have done so on the orders of the King. If he did, why is Henry now raging? And I don't believe that he's playing one of his little games.'
'It's possible,' Benjamin replied slowly, 'that Berkeley acted on his own: that he intended to dupe both Henry and Charles V. That the Orb is still hidden away in his shop or wherever Berkeley wanted to conceal it. Our goldsmith therefore might have fled, taking the Orb with him.'
I recalled Berkeley's honest face. He would carry out the orders of his king in order to dupe a foreign envoy. But steal the Orb and flee?
'No, master,' I voiced my doubts. 'If Berkeley was ordered to make a replica, he would do so but I doubt he would steal the genuine article. However, that doesn't solve the real mystery. If the amethyst was special why didn't Egremont notice it was flawed?' Benjamin opened the book and studied the inscription again.
'The cross of the Saviour can be seen,' he read aloud. He placed the book back on the shelf. 'Come on, Roger, I want to talk to someone.'
We left Henley's house, collected our horses and walked through the crowds back to Cheapside. It was just after noon: the Angelus bell from St Mary Le Bow was tolling, calling the faithful to prayer. Most people ignored it, more intent on thronging the cookshops and taverns. Benjamin was growing enigmatic. He strode along the broad thoroughfare ignoring my questions. 'In a while, in a while, Roger,' he murmured.
Near the Great Conduit, he gave a cry of exclamation and pointed to a goldsmith's sign. 'Pasteler!' he exclaimed. 'John Pasteler!'
We walked across. Benjamin gave an urchin a penny to hold our horses. I followed him into the goldsmith's shop. Pasteler in many ways reminded me of Berkeley: an honest, well-to-do merchant busy amongst his apprentices and journeymen. The shelves and tables around the shop were littered with precious objects: cups, bracelets, brooches, ewers and bowls. Pasteler was surprised to see Benjamin but gave us a smile and a warm handshake.
'You have not come to buy, have you, Master Daunbey?' His smile faded. 'I am sorry,' he muttered. 'I forgot, Johanna became ill.'
This was a reference to Benjamin's betrothed who had lost her wits and been cloistered in a convent.
'The years hurry on,' Benjamin replied. 'No more wedding bands but, John, you have a collection of precious stones?' 'In my strongbox yes, rubies, emeralds…' 'Do you have any amethysts?'
Pasteler went away and came back with a small metal-bound coffer fastened with three locks. He opened these carefully. I caught my breath: there must have been five or six amethysts lying on a satin cushion. Some of them were the size of small eggs, though none was as grand as the one I had seen on the so-called Orb of Charlemagne.
'I am not buying,' Benjamin explained. 'But, is it possible, Master Pasteler, to have an amethyst inside which, against a strong flame, a cross can be seen?'
'Of course.' Pasteler picked up the largest amethyst. 'Notice how they are cut, Benjamin: how many sides to this amethyst are there?' "There must be at least seven or eight,' Benjamin replied.
'Precisely,' Pasteler declared. 'This one is at least three hundred years old and has been cut in that way. Stay there!'
Pasteler went away. He brought back a small wax candle light. He struck a tinder, lit this and held the amethyst up against the flame. I peered over Benjamin's shoulder and caught my breath. The gem was many-sided, the lines crossed and within I could see a cross glowing. Benjamin studied it intently. 'And would this happen with any amethyst?'
'If it was pure and many-sided with lines and sides crossing,' the goldsmith replied, 'yes, it's possible. It's a well-known trick in this type of stone.'
Benjamin thanked him and we went and stood out in Cheapside.
'I think I have it, Roger,' he declared. 'The Orb of Charlemagne is surmounted by an amethyst. However, Henley's entry talks not only of a cross, as we've just seen, but the Cross of our Saviour. I suspect very few actually know what this cross is like. The amethyst on the Orb of Charlemagne may be unique: by some cut of the stone and trick of the light, one can not only see a cross but the figure of Christ nailed to it.' 'And Henley would know that, but not the likes of Egremont?'
Benjamin grinned. 'You know the world of relic selling: Henley, perhaps, stumbled on the secret and that is why he wrote the word, Saviour, in Greek. People like our Lord Theodosius would look for a cross, Henley would look for the figure of Christ.' Benjamin sighed. 'It must be the answer – that alone accounts for Henley's use of Ixthus.'
'I agree,' I replied. 'So, when Egremont inspected the Orb at Berkeley's, he and anyone else would see the cross and think it was genuine. Henley knew otherwise. When he saw nothing but a simple cross in the amethyst shown to him, he knew it was false.'
'I think so,' Benjamin declared. 'And he'd tell as much to whoever stole the Orb. Henley would then laugh at the way the thief had been duped. He had his throat cut for his pains, as well as to silence him for ever.'
We went to a nearby tavern for something to eat and drink. We then collected our horses from the stables and rode slowly back to Malevel.
We expected to find it deserted but Kempe and his men were waiting: the soldiers lounged outside, Kempe sprawled in the keeper's small office.
‘I tried to go up to your chambers,' he explained, 'but that bloody hound stopped me! You've got to come with me. We've found Berkeley.' 'Where?' Benjamin asked. 'Amongst the ruins just north of the Tower. He's had his throat cut and he was tortured before he died.'
Above us, Castor had obviously heard me and began to howl mournfully. 'How long has he been dead?' Benjamin asked. 'A few hours perhaps,' Kempe replied.
Benjamin walked outside and stared at Malevel Manor as if, through very thought, he could discern what had happened there. Kempe and I followed him out.
'We are to go now,' Sir Thomas repeated. He glanced at me. 'I suppose the bloody dog has to be fed?' 'Don't speak ill of your betters,' I retorted. Kempe just smirked.
'The King offered me two gold coins to find out how you placated the beast,' he commented. 'Well, both you and he will have to wait, won't they?'
'Sir Thomas.' Benjamin came back. 'Sir Thomas,' he repeated. 'Before Roger and I go riding over the heathland to inspect some poor man's corpse, I have a question for you. You said that there was a way of knowing the Orb of Charlemagne was genuine?' 'That's correct.'
'And the clue lies in the amethyst? If you hold it up against the flame you can see, inside the diamond, the faint outline of a cross and Our Saviour's body on it?'
'That's true,' Kempe replied, his face full of surprise. 'How did you find out?'
Benjamin just shrugged. 'And you are sure,' Benjamin persisted, 'that the Orb which was given to Lord Egremont was the genuine one?' I saw a shift in Kempe's eyes, a slight flicker: his tongue came out to wet his upper lip, all the signs I’ ve gathered over the years of a man about to lie.
'But that's ridiculous,' he stammered. 'Of course the Orb was genuine!'
'In which case,' I spoke up, 'you will not deny us the right to inspect the replica?' 'Of course, at an appropriate time and away from prying eyes.'
'Good!' Benjamin declared. 'And I have other requests, Sir Thomas.' He pointed at the manor. 'I want a guard left here.' He tapped his pouch. 'The windows are all shuttered and I hold the keys to the doors. No one is to go in there without my permission. Agreed?'
Kempe shouted an order at the captain of his guard telling him to leave four men.
'They can use the gatehouse,' I declared. 'My master and I, not to mention Castor, are moving to the Flickering Lamp.'
'Do you have any other requests, Master Daunbey?' Kempe asked.
'Yes, I would like to know,' Benjamin s
aid, 'why, when I inspected the quiver of one of your archers, Sir Thomas, some of the arrows were missing? Now in that silent massacre, no long bow was used. I just wondered, Sir Thomas, if one of the archers was sending messages?'
Kempe's face paled. He opened his mouth to reply but stamped his feet and looked up at the sky.
'We have to hurry,' he declared. 'I know nothing of what you say, Master Daunbey, but Berkeley's corpse is waiting. Lord Egremont and his creature Cornelius will be joining us.'
Benjamin let the matter rest. I went up to our chamber where Castor threw himself on me, bouncing up and down, licking my face. I took him for a walk on the heathland and the mad beast ran around chasing crows and rooks and leaving any rabbit stupid enough to come out of its burrow in a state of mortal fear. At last, exhausted, he trotted back. We returned to the gatehouse where Benjamin had packed our saddlebags and, accompanied by a very sullen Kempe, we rode into the city to hire chambers at the Flickering Lamp.
We had no difficulty getting through the crowds. I tied a piece of rope round Castor's collar and everyone, including the beggars and counterfeit-men, gave us a wide berth. Boscombe seemed pleased to see me. He was in one of his strange moods and had changed his appearance, this time dressing in Lincoln green as if he was one of Robin Hood's men.
'It's good to see you again,' he grinned. 'I, too, have been away, business in the West Country. You still want your chamber and for your friend…?'
Boscombe readily agreed to provide a further chamber. He also had the sense to offer Castor a piece of meat. The dog wolfed it down and immediately trotted after Boscombe to a make-shift kennel in a small plot behind the tavern stables. I left our saddlebags in my chamber, came down and pushed my way through the thronged taproom. Even as I did so I glimpsed Cerberus sitting in the corner watching me unblinkingly, his tankard half-raised to his lips.
We left by Cripplegate, galloping hard along the deserted path. It's a strange place north of the Tower. The soil is poor, its sprawling wild heathland is the haunt of footpads and outlaws. This bleak landscape is broken by thick copses of trees, small wood and the occasional dell where the land abruptly dips. A lonely, brooding place, the silence broken only by the sound of the crows which nested in the trees or the occasional howl of a dog from some lonely farm. At the top of a small hill, Kempe paused: behind us in the far distance I could make out the outlines of the Tower. We caught the salty taste of the river. Kempe pointed to a lonely copse further east, well away from the trackway which wound across the heathland.