The Grail Murders

fleeing and swam down, deep amongst the shallows of the Bosphorus. Now, you mightn't believe this, but the sea bed was dotted with sacks, with their grisly burdens, tied at the neck, standing upright under the force of the currents. Can you imagine it? A sea of dead girls within a sea? I see my little chaplain snigger. He thinks I am making it up. Far from it. I can swim like a fish, and often had to, and if he doesn't believe me, I'll take him down to the nearest pond and show him how! Ah, well, that's quietened him and, true, I do digress.)
    'Warnham was one of the Cardinal's agents?' Benjamin asked. Agrippa nodded. 'As was Calcraft,' he added.
    'But why murder them?' Agrippa continued as if talking to himself. 'What is the use of killing agents?' 'They must have known something,' I replied.
    Agrippa shook his head. 'No. I think we have already gleaned the information we need. Buckingham is dead, Hopkins too.' He pulled a face. 'Ah, well, only time will tell.' He waddled off and we went back to our chambers.
    For the next few days we were left to our own devices. Oh, we glimpsed Wolsey from afar in his scarlet silken robes and, now and again, whilst feasting in the hall at a series of sumptuous banquets. The Great Beast made his presence felt.
    King Henry looked a little older but still enormous with his bright gold hair and beard and those blue, agate-hard eyes which seemed to take in everything. He dressed in a brilliant array of jewel-encrusted jerkins, silver hose and high-heeled, ribbon-rosed shoes which made him look even loftier than those around him. The Great Killer always liked to enjoy himself and, whatever dangers threatened, lost himself in a round of festivities.
    Some idiot must have told him more stories about King Arthur for this seemed to tickle his fancy and on our third evening at Richmond he staged a marvellous masque. We, along with other guests (the Cardinal had still not acknowledged his nephew), were led into a vast hall lit by hundreds of pure wax candles. Around the walls the rich scarlets, yellows and golds of Venetian tapestries sparkled in the light, whilst at the far end of this cavernous chamber loomed a vision all in green. It was a fairy castle, its high battlements crowned with towers and its walls pierced with crenellations. Carpenters and artists had laboured for two weeks to build this Chateau Vert or Green Castle, covering the wooden frame with green paper, foil and verdigris paint. The effect was quite remarkable: the green castle shimmered in the candle-lit hall like some spectre in a vision.
    Well, you have the drift of what was happening. Eight lovely women representing Beauty and Honour, etc, had to defend the castle against eight nobles, led, of course, by the stupid fat beast himself. These eight lords, who had taken the names of Love, Youth, Loyalty and so on pelted the defenders of the Chateau Vert with flowers and were showered with rose-water and sweetmeats in return. Everyone took it seriously. I could hardly stop laughing to see the great ones of the land engaged in such childish games.
    My master sat still, rather quiet and withdrawn, pondering on what Agrippa had told him. I was more interested in the food; mutton in beer, duck in orange sauce, pastries and sweet cubes of jellied milk, as well as the cups of claret and chilled wine. I drank as if there was no tomorrow.
    One thing I did notice during the masque and another similar farce when we all trooped out to Shooters Hill to see Fat Henry clothed in Lincoln green play Robin Hood, was The Great Killer's new love: a dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl who moved with a languorous grace and whom the King was for ever singling out for marks of special affection.
    That was the first time I saw Anne Boleyn. She wasn't beautiful, not in the classical sense, but exuded a sexual power which drew men's gazes like a magnet. Beside her, the short, dumpy Spanish queen, Catherine of Aragon, resembled a chamber pot next to a beautiful vase.
    Poor old Catherine! The bearer of so many children, only one of whom survived: the little, red-haired, pinched-faced girl Mary, who followed her mother everywhere. Good Lord, the things we do to our children! Mary grew up hating her father and, like her mother, spent her entire life pining for a living child. I know she did. When she died she gave me her prayer book. I still have it. One part of it, the prayer of a mother asking to be delivered of a healthy child, was so tear-stained the ink