by Paul Doherty
'Amongst the trees,' he explained, 'there are ruins. Some people claim the Romans built an outstation there: others that it was a small castle built by William the Norman.'
'It's a lonely place,' I replied. 'How was Berkeley's corpse discovered so quickly?'
'Two journeymen coming into the city,' he replied, 'stopped there last night. At first they didn't see anything wrong but, at dawn, they noticed the crows were massing on the walls at the far side of the ruin. They went over, and found Berkeley's body lying in a ditch. He was wearing a gilt bracelet with his name inscribed on it.' Kempe cleared his throat and spat. 'They brought this into the city and went straight to the Guildhall. I have a man there, a clerk, who brought the news to me.'
I strained my eyes and caught a flash of colour amongst the trees. 'I think Lord Egremont is waiting for us.'
Kempe put spurs to his horse and we galloped across the grass, not reining in until we entered the trees. We dismounted and followed Kempe into a large clearing where the ruins sprawled: crumbling walls and towers, covered in lichen and creeping ivy. Egremont and Cornelius were waiting for us inside: the Imperial envoy had his cowl pushed back, his long, dyed hair tumbling down on either side of his unshaven face.
'We've been waiting, Sir Thomas, at least a good half hour!' He looked sinister standing there, legs apart, sword and dagger in their sheaths. Beside him, Cornelius, hands pushed up the voluminous sleeves of his gown, looked even more threatening, the hilt of his dagger just peeping out from the edge of his cloak. Behind him was a silent half-circle of Noctales, an eerie sight with their shaven heads and monkish garb, yet all the more threatening as they were armed to the teeth. They stared at us without a flicker of friendship or camaraderie.
'They hold us responsible,' I whispered to Benjamin. 'You can see it in their eyes!' 'Where's Berkeley?' Kempe asked.
Cornelius snapped his fingers. Two of his men came forward, carrying a small stretcher, a piece of canvas between two poles. They pulled back the covering sheet. Lord have mercy! Berkeley was a good man, he deserved a better death. His boots and hose had been removed, his half-closed, blood-filled eyes gazed blankly up. His mouth was simply a gaping hole of blood and his throat had been slashed, drenching what had been a costly blue and gold jerkin. 'He was a good man, at least to me!'
I knelt down beside the corpse, closed my eyes and said a quick prayer. Benjamin on the other side was already examining the corpse.
'Look.' He held up Berkeley's hand. 'Someone has sliced off the top of each finger. The same with the left hand.'
The soles of the poor man's feet were scorched, while long dagger furrows ran down either side of his bare legs.
'He was tortured,' Cornelius exclaimed. 'Tortured for a while. A small fire lit beneath his feet, the tips of his fingers removed. Now who would do that to Sir Hubert?' 'Anything else?' Benjamin asked. 'How did he come here?'
'There are signs of horses,' Cornelius replied, crouching beside us. 'Whoever did this undoubtedly enjoys his work.'
Benjamin got to his feet. 'Sir Thomas, where were you last night?' he asked abruptly. 'And you, my Lord Egremont?' The Imperial envoy strode over, a riding crop in his hand. He laid this gently on Benjamin's cheek. 4 Are you accusing me?'
I rose, hand on my dagger hilt. Egremont caught the movement and laughed deep in his throat. 'Tell him, Sir Thomas. Tell him where we both were last night.'
'We were guests of His Grace the King and his Eminence Cardinal Wolsey. We were in the court from late afternoon. Master Daunbey, you know the King: we hunted, we feasted, we were entertained by one masque after another and the festivities went on until just before dawn. Master Berkeley here disappeared yesterday. He told his workers he was going out and that's the last we know of him.' 'And where were you?' I asked Cornelius.
'We have lodgings in the old Temple buildings near Fleet Street,' the Noctale replied. 'And?'
'Like you, Shallot, and you, Master Daunbey, I cannot guarantee where I was every single hour.' He gestured at the corpse. 'This is the work of a professional assassin. I believe he kidnapped Berkeley.' He bent down and turned the corpse over. 'Struck him on the back of the head and brought him here for questioning.' He gazed slyly up at me. 'But God knows why?' He pointed to the dagger marks on either side of the knee. 'These would be particularly painful; when a man tenses his legs and the muscles are tight beneath the knees such cuts would make him scream.' He looked over his shoulder at Egremont and said something in German.
'What was that?' Benjamin asked, who knew a little of the tongue.
'We talked of the Schlachter, the Slaughterer. Years ago,' Cornelius replied, 'before I joined the Noctales and his Imperial Excellency was pleased to promote me in his favour, there was another Noctale, a master torturer, called the Schlachter. He served the Emperor Maximilian but-' Cornelius wiped his hands on his brown robes and stared up at the crows complaining raucously in the trees around the ruin. 'This man became over-enthusiastic in his work. He made the mistake of torturing an innocent merchant and was dismissed by Emperor Charles. His name was Jakob.' Cornelius narrowed his eyes. 'That's right, Jakob von Archetel. He fled the empire and warrants were issued for his arrest. His apprehension was my first task.' He smiled thinly. 'At which I failed.'
'Are you saying this could be the work of the Schlachter?' I asked.
'Possibly,' Cornelius replied. 'It bears all the hallmarks of his handiwork. The removal of the tips of fingers, the dagger wounds on the legs.' His face became grave. 'If Archetel is involved in this business, then it doesn't bode well. He would like to hurt the Emperor as well as line his own purse.'
'And what about your outlaws?' Egremont intervened. 'This Lord Charon you mentioned?'
'Ah yes.' Kempe came forward, the bastard was smiling from ear to ear. 'We discussed what you told us, Master Shallot, with His Grace the King. He wants Lord Charon trapped, arrested and interrogated.' He tweaked my cheek. 'And you, my dear Roger, are to be the bait.'
Chapter 9
We returned to the Flickering Lamp: it was late in the afternoon and I was torn between rage and fear. 'Always poor Shallot,' I snarled as we sat in the taproom.
Boscombe came over: this time he was garbed as a friar, even his face was pulled in a sanctimonious expression and his little mockery did something to restore my good humour. Benjamin introduced himself fully, thanking Boscombe for his kindness to me during my recent troubles. The landlord simply pushed his hands up the sleeves of his gown, smiled beatifically, sketched a blessing in the air and walked away. Benjamin watched him go curiously. 'Master?' I asked.
Benjamin picked up his blackjack, tossing the remains of his chicken on the floor for Castor to eat.
'I am sure I have seen him before,' Benjamin declared. He put his tankard down. 'I am sure I have,' he repeated.
'Perhaps when we came here first?' I retorted. (Oh yes, I regret I was so dismissive.) 'Maybe you glimpsed his face then? But, never mind him, what am I to do about Lord Charon?'
'Sir Thomas Kempe made it very clear,' Benjamin replied. 'Lord Charon may have had a hand in the business at Malevel Manor.' He leaned across and gripped my wrist. 'Roger, it's the only path we can follow: better that than being summoned to kneel before the King and listen to him rage or, even worse, have things thrown at us!' Benjamin glanced across the tavern to where Boscombe was standing beside the ale casks. 'If we fail the King on this,' he added, 'it will no doubt mean spending months in the Tower, followed by some sea voyage down the coast of Africa.'
He came over, sat beside me and leaned his back against the wall.
'Let's summarise, Roger, what we know. First,' he said. 'We have the Orb of Charlemagne. The King has really no intention of allowing that out of his realm. He therefore hires a royal goldsmith to fashion a replica. Secondly, this Orb contains a secret. If the amethyst on the top is held up against a flame, I believe the crucified Christ can be seen. This information is known to the King and to Sir Thomas Kempe. Now the relic-seller Henley a
lso knew it but the thief did not. That is why Henley was killed and Berkeley was taken out on to that lonely heath, to be tortured and interrogated about the replica, before he was foully murdered.'
'Thirdly,' I added. 'The replica that Berkeley fashioned apparently fooled both Lord Theodosius and Cornelius. Otherwise they would never have accepted it.' I sipped at my ale. 'This leads us to other interesting possibilities. Was the replica Kempe showed us the genuine article? Or did Berkeley make two?' 'And?' Benjamin asked. 'Where is the replica now?' I asked.
'I can't answer that,' Benjamin replied. 'However, Dearest Uncle told me that Henry has been negotiating with the Emperor for help against France for the last year. In that time Berkeley could have fashioned two or more replica Orbs.' He sighed. 'But we'll never know, will we? Well, Roger, what else have your sharp wits dug up?'
'Fourthly,' I continued. 'We know fifteen men were killed at Malevel Manor but how or by whom is a mystery. There's no evidence as to how the assassin was able to enter and massacre so many able men and then leave without disturbing a mouse. Fifthly, Sir Thomas Kempe is not above suspicion. We believe that at least one archer may have been sending him messages from Malevel Manor.'
'But there again,' Benjamin intervened, 'we have no evidence that it was Kempe who was receiving such messages.'
'Finally,' I concluded. 'Lord Charon may be involved in this wickedness. He was undoubtedly responsible for the murder of Lady Isabella Malevel and he may know some secret entrance into the manor.'
'There is one other person,' Benjamin added. 'The man Cornelius referred to as the Schlachter, a former member of the Noctales who may be working for himself…' 'Or for Lord Charon?' I suggested.
I gazed round the taproom. The day was drawing on; traders, journeymen, porters, a few of the street trollops, two wandering musicians and a beggar with a fistful of pennies were now clamouring for wine and food, laughing loudly at Boscombe's imitation of a friar. One of the porters, a drunken oaf, caught my gaze and came lumbering across threateningly; Castor raised his head and growled and the fellow scuttled off like a beetle.
'I wonder if Cerberus, or another of Lord Charon's men, is here?' Benjamin pulled a face.
'Boscombe!' I called. I held up my hand, a silver piece between my fingers.
The taverner almost jumped across the room, knocking aside other customers. 'Master Roger?'
'If I wanted,' I whispered, 'to speak to Lord Charon, how would I do it?'
Boscombe took the silver piece and, before I could stop him, clapped his hands.
'Hear ye! Hear ye!' he bellowed, mimicking a town crier. 'Know that Master Shallot, my guest and dearest friend, wishes to have words with the Lord Charon!' Boscombe put his hand on his chest and bowed. 'Of course,' he added, 'at a time and place of Lord Charon's choosing.'
The rest of the customers just gazed at him and a deathly silence held the taproom. Boscombe clapped his hands again and laughed.
'The scullions and tap boys will look after you: a free blackjack of ale.' His eyes slid towards me. 'On our good friend Master Shallot!' He sat down on a stool. 'Was that really necessary?' I asked.
'It is the only way, my son,' Boscombe replied unctuously. 'Do it in any other manner and Lord Charon would become suspicious and you, my son, would be dead.' He leaned across the table. 'Why, Roger?' he whispered. 'Why Lord Charon? You were out at Malevel Manor, weren't you? There are terrible stories about a massacre taking place. Was Lord Charon…?'
'They are all true,' Benjamin retorted. 'Will one of Lord Charon's men be here?'
'Oh, don't worry,' Boscombe replied. 'Within the hour he'll know all about it'
'Where do you come from?' Benjamin asked abruptly. 'Your accent?'
'From the West Country,' Boscombe replied cheerily, wiping his hands on his robe. 'But there's not good custom along the south-western road, that's where my father had his tavern. Anyway, we sold up and moved into London, my wife and I. She's now lying in peace in St Botolph's churchyard.' His smile widened. 'And if she's at peace then so am I.' He was about to push his stool back. 'Ah, Master Roger, when Lord Charon took you and your belongings I found a bag under your bed.' He got up, hurried away and then came back and thrust the bag at me.
I looked inside. Nothing much: the cup I had stolen from the Poppletons and a few of my makeshift relics. My smile of thanks faded as I realised that, when all this was over, I would have to go back to Ipswich and face their malice, King's pardon or not. Such a thought would turn any man to drink and indeed I drank so deeply that I slept the night with Castor on the taproom floor. I spent the next day recovering, glad that Lord Charon did not strike immediately; my wits were so befuddled I would have been no use to anyone.
Now Sir Thomas Kempe had called me the bait so, naturally, I became anxious about what might happen if this self-styled lord of the underworld took me prisoner again. I pestered Benjamin but he was of very little help.
'Don't worry, don't worry,' he replied absentmindedly. 'Dearest Uncle will look after us.'
I didn't believe him. However, on the morning of the second day as I sat in the tavern or walked the maze of alleyways around it, I became aware of men I had never seen before: traders and journeymen as well as beggars who looked as if they had eaten too well. Strangers called into the Flickering Lamp. Three or four self-styled merchants hired chambers in houses around whilst the old beldame who owned a tenement opposite the tavern, commented on how all her rooms, even the filthy cellar, had been hired.
Boscombe became suspicious and, after he served me breakfast, a succulent pie, gold and crusty, he decided to join me.
'What's the matter, Roger? I know your master is the Cardinal's nephew.' His face became worried. 'This invitation to Lord Charon: is it a trap?' I glowered at him. 'I helped you once!'
'If it's a trap,' I replied enigmatically, 'stay well clear of it. If it's not, you have nothing to fear.'
I looked down at the pie, so fresh and sweet, then at Castor who was looking at it longingly, tongue lolling, his great jaws drooling. I cut the pie in two. Castor growled with pleasure and Boscombe, seeing he was going to get nothing from me, shrugged and returned to his post by the ale casks.
Benjamin came in. He had been absent all night and I wondered if he had been across the city to see if the marvellous Miranda had returned. He was unshaven, out of sorts, his eyes red-rimmed. He ordered some food and sat down opposite me. 'The French have left,' he snapped. 'I beg your pardon?'
'The French.' Benjamin paused as Boscombe came over to serve us. 'Don't you remember, Agrippa told us the French were in London? They, too, wanted the Orb of Charlemagne. The envoys had rented a large mansion in Westchepe. I went there yesterday afternoon.' He shrugged. 'To see if I could learn anything. Last night there appears to have been a banquet. Some form of celebration. Nobody we knew attended. Then, this morning, just before dawn, carts were drawn up outside the house, and the envoys' goods and baggage were piled high. I bribed one of the porters. He said the Messieurs were leaving, going down to their warship docked at East Watergate.' 'Why the interest?' I asked. 'Who ever stole the Orb…' Benjamin replied. He put down a piece of the pie he was eating and stared at it. 'Master?' I asked.
'Nothing.' He shook his head. 'My memory was jogged but I am too confused to place it.' 'You were talking about the thief and the Orb?'
'Ah yes. Who ever stole the Orb,' Benjamin continued, 'must have done it for personal gain. They would try to sell it…' 'To the French?' I asked.
'Well,' Benjamin declared. 'Let us say the thief did sell it to the French, is that why they celebrated and left London? They've got what they came for.'
'Kempe should be able to help us there,' I replied. 'He'd keep the French under close scrutiny?' 'Sir Thomas has a great deal to answer but 'Master Daunbey! Master Shallot!'
We looked up at the travel-stained man who stood, hac in his hand, just inside the doorway. He came forward. Benjamin gave a cry of delight and rose to his feet, gesturing the man to a s
tool. I recognised Laxton, one of our manor officials: he looked after the horses and managed the stables.
'I rode through the night,' Laxton explained, taking off his cloak and mopping at the dirt on his doublet. 'Oh master, if you permit…?' He began to ease his boots off. I helped him and he sighed with pleasure.
Benjamin ordered some food and meat. Boscombe, all curious, brought this across. 'How did you know we were here?' Benjamin asked.
Laxton pointed at me. 'You wrote to Lucy. We found the letter on her.' His face grew sad. My heart skipped a beat. 'She's dead, isn't she?' I asked.
Laxton nodded. 'I am sorry, master. She was found in a lane outside the village. She had been attacked, beaten sorely about the head.' 'What was she doing there?' I asked.
'We think she was going to the manor,' Laxton replied. 'She had a cloak and a pair of old battered boots on. She was carrying a small bag full of her possessions: some rosary beads, your letter and, I think, a lock of your hair.' Hot tears scalded my eyes.
'Who attacked her? Why?' I whispered. 'Why Lucy? She was a merry soul.'
'She wasn't dead when we found her,' Laxton replied. 'One of the grooms from the White Harte was going into the fields with his sweetheart, and heard her groaning. Lucy had tumbled into a ditch at the side of the road. They dragged her out. They thought she was dead but then she opened her eyes. She left a message for you.' He closed his eyes. 'Tell Roger,' he repeated carefully. 'Tell Roger the cup…' He opened his eyes. 'She repeated that a number of times. The groom ran for help but, by the time we arrived, Lucy was dead.' He paused. 'What did she mean, master, about the cup?'