The Grail Murders

Santerres.
    'Before you ask, Master Shallot, the man as dark as Satan is Sir Edmund Mandeville, his red-haired companion Master Geoffrey Southgate, and somewhere near them must be their two sinister clerks, Cosmas and Damien.' Now even my master looked uneasy.
    'Who the bloody hell are they?' I whispered hoarsely. 'What do they mean to you, Master?' 'They are the "Agentes in Rebus",' Agrippa continued.
    My blood ran cold. I had heard of these unpleasant fellows, merciless bastards, the Cardinal's professional spies and assassins. You see, Benjamin and I were Wolsey's emissaries, given this task or that, but the 'Agentes in Rebus', literally the 'Doers of Things', were the Cardinal's own special spies.
    Even in my hanging around the court I had heard of Mandeville who worked like a spider, spinning webs to catch the King's enemies. And, if he didn't find the conclusive evidence, he just made it up. His agents could pop up anywhere, disguised as they wished: a pedlar, a mountebank, even one of the Moon People who wander the road in their gaudy painted wagons. Now every King has his spy service: the French have the 'Luciferi', or 'Lightbearers'; the Ottoman Turks 'The Gardeners'; the Doge of Venice 'The Secretissimi' and Henry of England his 'Agentes in Rebus*. They were founded by Cardinal Morton, chief minister to the King's father, and still flourish to this very day, the most secret servants of the crown. Sometimes they can live for years as your servant, mistress, even your brother or sister. But when the time comes, if your head has to roll, they will produce the evidence. 'Were they involved in this affair?' I whispered.
    Agrippa waved his hand at me. 'Yes, yes.' He stopped whispering as Buckingham stepped back from the executioner and suddenly did a very strange thing. He came across, leaned over the wooden balustrade and looked directly at me, then Agrippa, and finally Benjamin. His eyes were tearful but clear and bright. 'I am innocent,' he hoarsely whispered. I only caught his words faintly. 'Before the hour is out, I shall meet my maker face to face, but I am innocent!' He pointed directly at Agrippa. 'Remember that!'
    Somewhere a single drum began to beat. The yeoman began to push the crowd back, allowing us a better view of what was to happen. Buckingham once more knelt at the feet of the priest. The executioner then knelt to him, asking the Duke for the usual pardon as well as the customary fee. (I can never understand that! How can someone say they are sorry, then cut your bloody head off and, at the same time, ask to be paid for it? Many years later, when I was taken to the block, I told the bastard to piss off and do his worst!)
    At last Buckingham knelt down before the block. A servant bound his hair up but the Duke shook his head when a blindfold was offered. He bowed and slightly turned his head, his hands spread out, moving them once like a stricken bird before it falls. The drum beat grew louder, the two-headed axe rose in a brilliant arc and fell with a thud which sounded like a clap of thunder. A bright spurt of blood shot up. The crowd, hitherto deathly silent, gave a collective sigh at the blood letting and the dwarfs beneath the scaffold became busy. The executioner held up Buckingham's head and came to the edge of the scaffold. 'So die all traitors!' he shouted. I looked away. Benjamin had his back turned. 'So die all traitors!' the executioner repeated. 'Oh, piss off!' a voice shouted.
    'You've got the wrong bloody head,' another bellowed. 'It should be the butcher's son's!'
    Raucous jeers mounted as the scaffold began to be pelted with rotten fruit and offal. Soldiers began to move in and the crowd broke up. 'Come on, Agrippa!' Benjamin hissed. The magician shook himself and looked around. 'Yes, yes, it's time we went.'
    We forced our way down Tower Hill following the wall until we entered the fortress by the Water Gate. (Ah, my chaplain interrupts. Yes, yes, my little sweet is correct. Later generations call this 'Traitors' Gate' – and what a procession went through it! Anne Boleyn, defiant to the last; Thomas More cracking jokes; John Fisher praying; Catherine Howard jeering at Henry's sexual prowess. Oh, by the way, she was right, it wasn't much! I danced between the sheets with young Kate and we roared with laughter at Henry's antics. She was killed and I went to the block but that's another story.)
    Inside the Tower soldiers and yeomen were now standing down, having manned the walls