The Grail Murders

last May Day's mummer's play.
    So here we are. Because it's winter I am not sitting at the centre of my maze but in my secret chamber, wrapped in rugs in my high-backed throne. On one side a jug of claret and a deep-bowled cup, on the other my black ash rod just in case my chaplain mocks too much. You see, this little sod thinks that I dream it all up. He thinks I drink too much wine and that I am a consummate liar. If I am, I am no different from people of his ilk, as he knows to his cost. Oh, yes, I know my chaplain's little sins. I see him steal glances at young Phoebe's rounded thighs or Margot's generous tits. I have heard the stories about how he likes to take young ladies into the hay loft of one of my barns. He must think I am as stupid as he looks! After all, a hay loft on a warm summer's evening is not the ideal place to instruct some buxom wench. Or, on second thoughts, perhaps it depends on what the instruction's about!
    I think my chaplain is jealous of me. He prides himself on being a fine orator, able to give a pithy sermon. Two years ago he was invited up to court to dispute certain theological matters before Her Majesty the Queen. I forget the details – something about the existence of angels.
    A venerable bishop began the debate and did quite well. He kept me awake for at least five minutes. Apparently, the old boy chattered on for an hour. I awoke just as he left the pulpit then it was my chaplain's turn.
    I was sitting next to Elizabeth. I nudged her and declared in a loud stage whisper for all to hear, 'Here comes counsel for the other side.' A subtle joke, only the Queen and I realised its true significance, and she couldn't stop laughing. My chaplain gave his oration whilst the rest of his brother clerics just glared at me. When it was all finished, some elderly, snivelling bishop came over to me.
    'It's easy to mock, Sir Roger,' he cried. 'But could you give a sermon?' Well, you know old Shallot, in for a penny in for a pound! 'Of course I could!' I cried.
    Her Majesty caught my eye, nodded, and the court reassembled. I was helped into the high pulpit. (I had drunk a little too much claret.) I leaned against the wooden rail and gazed blearily around.
    'My text,' I began, 'is: Don't do to others as ye would have others do to you. After all, they may not like what you do to yourself.'
    Well, gales of laughter greeted this. Up springs the red-nosed bishop who had sunk as much claret as I had.
    'A proper sermon!' he screamed. 'Do not mock us, Sir Roger!'
    Elizabeth nodded her red-wigged head and commanded me to continue. 'One with a moral!' a bishop shouted out.
    'Yes,' another of his colleagues roared. 'Practise what you preach, Shallot! Something uplifting.'
    I leaned drunkenly against the pulpit and looked at these two hypocrites, two cheeks on the same arse.
    'All right,' I bellowed back, my mind racing through the possibilities.
    The Queen, lovely girl, was biting her lower lip. Her face had gone puce-red and even her wig had slipped slightly askew as she tried to control herself. She clapped her hands and glared sternly at me.
    'Sir Roger, you are commanded. Make your sermon short and give your gentle listeners at least three themes to reflect upon!' She winked quickly at me.
    'Once upon a time,' I began, 'there was a little sparrow who started to fly south rather late in the winter.'
    I stopped and stared round at my congregation gathered in the tapestry-hung chapel of Hampton Court. The clergy were glaring at me. Elizabeth had lowered her head, hiding her face behind her hand. I think she knew what was coming. Little Cecil, her secretary, stared fixedly at the ceiling.
    'In a short time,' I continued, 'ice formed on this little sparrow's wings and he fell to earth in a barnyard. A cow passed by and crapped on this little sparrow. The sparrow thought he would die but the manure warmed him and thawed out his wings. Snug and happy, the little sparrow began to breathe and then to sing. A passing cat heard this, cleared away the manure, found the sparrow and promptly ate him.
    'Your Majesty, brothers and sisters in Christ, that is my sermon!'
    'What is the moral of this tale?' the bishop shrieked, jumping to his feet. 'Her Majesty commanded that there be three themes for us to reflect upon.'
    'Can't you see them?' I bellowed back. 'First, my lord, anyone who shits on you is not necessarily your enemy. Secondly, anyone who gets you out of the shit is not necessarily your friend. Thirdly, if