The Grail Murders

had run.
    Mind you, they have all gone now. I sit here and reflect on Fat Henry prancing around pretending to be Robin Hood. As the years passed, he killed all those round him before being murdered himself. Yes, murdered. I confess to it now, I wasn't involved but I knew about it. His council served him white arsenic which created a fire ball in his belly. He lay for days on a stinking bed, with blood-streaked eyes and parchment-coloured complexion, unable to swallow. His skin began to peel off, the gross fat in his belly turned to liquid whilst his stomach and bowels dripped blood. When he died, foaming at the mouth, his tongue was so big it completely filled his mouth and kept it a-gape. They had to hoist his rotting corpse into the coffin, stuffing it in like you would a rotten bale of straw into a sack. Ah, how the glories of the world disappear.
    After a few days of kicking our heels round Richmond, the court began to settle down. We became more conscious of the Santerres as well as of the sombre presence of the Agentes. The latter slipped like shadows along the passageways and I formed a secret dread of Sir Edmund Mandeville. He looked as dark as Lucifer, some beautiful angel fallen from grace. He was good-looking in an arrogant, Mediterranean way: olive skin, jet-black hair, neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his hps had a strange twist to them and his eyes were ever mocking. He looked like a man who didn't believe in himself, let alone anything else.
    Geoffrey Southgate, his lieutenant, appeared more cheerful with a shock of red hair, beetling eyebrows and pallid skin. The fellow had a slight lisp and rather affected movements but was the dagger to his master's foil.
    We met them all in the Fountain Court a few days after arriving at Richmond. Benjamin was reading some manuscript he had borrowed from the library whilst I sat, bored to death, wondering what mischief I could get up to.
    The first to approach us were the Santerres. Sir John was a bluff yet shrewd landowner who knew which side of the table to sit. He was the sort of fellow who would buy you a drink in a tavern, regaling you with some funny story, yet whom you would be a fool to trust. His eyes reminded me of the King's, ice blue and piggy in aspect. Lady Beatrice, his wife, now she had regained her composure bore the remnants of great beauty though her pallid-skinned face had a spoilt, rather sensuous cast. She was for ever leaning on her husband's arm as if she was determined he would never wander far from her clutches. Rachel, their daughter, was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a simple veil of murrey covering her hair and a modest blue dress made from pure wool, gilt-edged at the neck and cuffs.
    The Santerres came into the Fountain Court as if they were simply wandering round the palace. My master closed the book he was reading and shrewdly watched them approach. 'I wondered when they would come,' he whispered. 'Why?'
    'We are too humble to introduce ourselves,' he hissed, 'so they have to come to us. After all, if Agrippa is to be believed, we will be travelling back with them. So, Roger, to your feet and behave yourself.'
    We rose as the Santerres swept grandly towards us; the introductions were made, hands clasped or kissed. Sir John stepped back, clearing his throat.
    'I am given to understand,' he boomed, his accent burred by a rustic twang, 'that you will be returning with us to Somerset. This business!' He flung his hands up in the air. 'Lackaday! Lackaday! What can I say?'
    Aye, I thought, what can you? A man looking for the main chance was Sir John. I could just imagine poor Buckingham's confidences being betrayed by him. 'You saw the good Duke die,' I blurted out.
    'Good?' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Buckingham was a traitor to his King. A Judas in Henry's court. Why say you differently?'
    'The man's dead,' I replied quickly. 'And his soul's before God. Why should we speak ill of him now?' Santerre rubbed his eyes and looked at me warily.
    'Aye, aye,' he whispered. 'He was a good lord but he went poaching in the wrong fields.'
    'Master Shallot is noble to defend the Duke.' Rachel Santerre spoke, her voice soft and low.
    I glanced at her and my heart leapt. She had raised her face and it was truly beautiful: her skin was like shot silk, pure gold. I would have loved to touch her cheek or gently caress that long, slender neck. I looked for humour, perhaps sarcasm, but her dark eyes were clear and those lips, slightly parted, bore