A Brood of Vipers

cured. The same applies to his lover, the ex-nun {Catherine. I met both of them once; all I can say is that they were as ugly as sin and richly deserved each other.) Ah, the people I have met. I only wish Benjamin was here now. Will Shakespeare would have fascinated him. Last summer Will came to Burpham and staged his play Twelfth Night. I helped him with some of the lines, especially Malvolio's

    Some men are born great, Others achieve greatness, And others have greatness thrust upon them.

    I composed those lines myself. Old Will cocked his cheerful face and stared at me.
    'And what about you, Roger Shallot?' he asked. 'Which one of these applies to you?' 'All three!' I retorted.
    Shakespeare laughed in that pleasant, delicate way he has. I could tell from his clever eyes that he knew the truth, so I laughed with him. And what is the truth? Old Shallot's a liar. (My clerk taps his quill and looks over his shoulder disapprovingly at me. Do you know, his face has more lines than a wrinkled prune. The little tickle-brain. My juicy little mannikin! 'You digress!' he wails. 'You digress!')
    Yes, I do, in a fashion. But everything I say has a bearing on my story. I am going to tell about murders to chill the marrow of your bones and send your heart thudding like a drum, about subtle, cruel men! However, we'll soon come to that. To cut a long story short, on that warm spring day my master had set his heart upon digging up the old hill that overlooked the mill. So the next morning, armed with a copy of Tacitus's Life of Agricola, as well as some picks, bows, hoes and shovels, we went out to dig.
    At first I really moaned. I wailed that my old wounds sheeted my back in throbbing pain. Benjamin just laughed. I see him now, his hair gathered up in a knot behind him, dressed in black hose pushed into stout boots, his cambric shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. The sweat coursed down his face, turning his shirt grey with patches of damp. He gazed at me solemnly.
    'I think you should dig, Roger. I believe there may be treasure hidden here.'
    Believe me, I dug as if there was no tomorrow, until Benjamin had to restrain my enthusiasm. I found no treasure. At last I stopped, rested on my shovel and glared at him furiously.
    'Why are we digging? Here, I mean? Why not further along?' Benjamin pointed to the top of the hill.
    'I believe a fort once stood there. This would have been the ditch or moat at the bottom of the hill, lying on either side of the entrance. The people who lived here would dump their refuse into the ditch. Moreover, according to Tacitus, when the Romans came, these hill forts were stormed and the dead were always buried here. So, dig on, Roger!'
    I did, cursing and swearing. The soil became looser. I glimpsed something white. 'Master!' I called.
    Roger hastened over. He scooped the soil out with his hands and we gazed down at the uncovered skeleton.
    'What's this, Master?' I whispered. 'Oh, bloody hell!' I stepped back. 'I know what will happen. We will be blamed for this. What is it? Witchcraft? Someone buried alive?'
    'Hush, Roger. This man has been dead for over a thousand years.'
    We kept digging, unearthing more skeletons. Now and again we found artefacts – a ring, a sword, necklaces and leather sandals. Benjamin patiently explained that we had found a burial pit, pointing to the skulls of the skeletons, each with a perfect hole in the forehead, just above the nose.
    'I suspect these were Celts,' Benjamin observed. 'Killed when the hill fort was taken.' 'Master Daunbey, you are right.'
    We both whirled around. Murder was standing there -dressed as usual in black from head to toe. The face beneath the broad-brimmed hat was red and merry as any jovial monk's, clean-shaven and snub-nosed except for those strange, colourless eyes.
    'Doctor Agrippa,' Benjamin breathed, throwing down the pick and wiping his hands on his shirt. He clasped the black, leather-gloved hand of Cardinal Wolsey's special emissary. 'Uncle wants us?'
    Agrippa nodded and took off his hat. He stood, one leg slightly pushed forward, tapping the hat against his knee whilst staring down at the skeletons. 'I was here,' he said in a half-whisper. 'Here?'
    Agrippa's eyes shifted to mine. 'It's good to see you, Roger.' He walked a little closer. I caught the fragrance of his exotic perfume – sandalwood, I think, mixed with myrrh and frankincense. I stared at his face and tried to calm the chill of fear which ran along my sweaty