The Grail Murders

later, I still remember poor Mathilda. A small, warm flash of sunlight in that grim, murderous place.
    Sometime after, pleasantly exhausted, I collected my horse from the stable, saddled it and led it down the causeway out of the manor gate. A fresh sheet of snow had fallen in the night which now lay two or three inches thick, the cold wind freezing it hard. The countryside looked like some vision of hell; white, silent fields and black trees against a grey sky. Rooks cawed as they foraged hungrily for food but, apart from that, nothing except the eerie, deathly silence of a countryside in the grip of winter. Lord save us, I would have given a bag of silver for the sounds and smells of old Cheapside! I had already gathered from the groom that Sir John had not left so, when I came to a small copse of trees, I took my horse deep inside, hobbled it and sat on a boulder. I sipped from a wineskin, remembering Mathilda's warm charms and waiting for Sir John to come. My buttocks began to freeze and I was wondering whether to return when I heard the clop of the horse's hooves and glimpsed Sir John riding vigorously by.
    Despite the icy ground underneath, he was urging his large roan horse on with all his might. A few minutes later I followed, using dips and bends in the track to keep myself hidden. He reached the crossroads, deserted except for a lonely scaffold post and the rotting cadaver of a hanged man still in its gibbet jacket. I watched Sir John take the path to Glastonbury and knew there was little point in tracking him any further. The Lord of the Manor had apparently lied to us. He must have some urgent business with the monks to make this cold, lonely journey.
    I turned my horse back, looking forward to the warmth of Templecombe Manor and feeling rather sleepy after my exertions with young Mathilda. The turrets and gables of Templecombe were almost in sight beyond the trees when my horse whinnied and shook me awake. A group of masked men had slipped like ghostly shadows from the trees on either side of the track. They were all dressed in black, though I glimpsed the white three-pointed cross of the Templars daubed crudely on the shoulders of their cloaks.
    'What is it you want?' I shouted, desperately trying to turn my horse's head so I could flee like the wind.
    One of the figures moved. I heard the click of a crossbow and a bolt whirled warningly above my head. The man holding the crossbow approached; his voice, muffled by the mask he wore, ordered me to dismount.
    'Piss off!' I shouted. I desperately tried to draw my sword but my belly was churning with such fear that I was unable to grasp the hilt. 'Get down!'
    The group drew closer. I glimpsed naked steel and, as you know, that has only one effect on Old Shallot. I get this indescribable desire to flee. One of the masked men tried to seize the bridle of my horse.
    'Damn you all!' I screamed and, pushing my horse forward, sent him sprawling with my foot.
    Hands clutched at my legs whilst the horse, thoroughly alarmed, reared, flailing his iron-shod hooves. I had now regained some of my little courage, drew my sword and whirled it round my head like Sir Lancelot of the Lake. My only desire was to keep these hideous creatures at bay whilst I desperately looked for a gap in the ring of steel surrounding me. I felt my sword bite flesh, a scream, then I struck again. I don't know what really happened for I had my eyes closed, lashing out with my sword, whilst my horse, who had more courage than brains, took care of itself.
    I heard hoof beats and opened one eye to see my attackers run back into the trees, two of them not moving as quickly as they would want. I admit, I was quaking with fright and this had its usual effect on Old Shallot: weak legs, wobbly belly, heaving chest and total panic. When my master found me I had dismounted and was squatting on a patch of snow, busily emptying the contents of my stomach. Benjamin heard the faint crackling in the undergrowth but took one look at me and gave up any idea of pursuit. Instead he took the wineskin from the horn of my saddle and forced me to drink. He looked around and saw the patches of red on the snow. 'A terrible fight, Roger?' (God bless him, he was so innocent.)
    'I did my best, Master,' I said humbly. 'There must have been at least a dozen of them,' I lied in mock modesty, 'and I doubt if four of them will live to greet tomorrow's dawn.' 'Who were they?'
    'God knows!' I snarled. "They were hooded, capped