The Relic Murders

alive in the blood-chilling days of Henry VIII.)
    Anyway, pleasant things first. The young girl was as sweet and brown as a nut. I sat her on a chair and gave her a silver piece. Tell me, my doucette,' I began. 'What did my chaplain teach you last night? Where did he take you?'
    'Oh, he bought me some sweetmeats,' the little joy replied. 'And took me by the river bank.' Oh dear, I thought. 'And what did you do there?' I asked. 'He took me by the hand.' 'And what did you do?' 'I laughed.' 'And then what?' 'He touched me on the breast.' 'And what did you do?' 'I laughed,' she replied, eyelids all a flutter. 'And then?' 'He touched me on the knee.' 'And what did you do?' I asked. 'I laughed!'
    Now the conversation went on like this for a few minutes until I stopped and said, 'Sweet one, why did you laugh every time my chaplain touched you?'
    'Because the sweetmeats were hidden in the pocket of my cloak all the time.'
    Innocent she was and simple so I gave my chaplain strict instructions to keep her that way. He should be cautious of marriage. Lust and love go hand in hand and both can wither like apples on a branch. Only the other day I was riding down a lane behind a funeral cortege: some poor woman's coffin being carried to the parish grave. The procession passed a tavern where a man sat drinking cheerfully from his tankard. As the coffin passed, I saw him put down his blackjack of ale, doff his cap and go down on his knees. Much touched by this, I rode up.
    'Kind sir,' I said, leaning down from my horse. 'You show great respect for the dead?'
    The fellow, bleary-eyed, red-faced, his nose burning like a coal in hell, just smiled back.
    'Why, Lord Roger,' he slurred. 'It's the least I can do after forty years of marriage to her!'
    Oh, I see my chaplain shake with laughter. The little noddle! The little sweet bag! My little marmoset!
    'Come on. Come on.' He turns in his chair, quill poised. 'Sir Roger,' he expostulates. 'The Queen waits for the next extract of your memoirs.'
    He is referring, of course, to Elizabeth – lovely girl, beauteous queen, my lover, my helpmate, mother of my son, apple of my heart.
    Ah well, I suppose he's right. Here, as I sit in my chamber, perched on my gold stuffed cushions, at my ease, in the centre of my manor, I can revel in its wealth. A veritable palace with its bright red bricks, its master joints picked out in black and white; its galleries of flint chequer work. Within, the rooms are decorated with cloth of gold and ermine hangings, the works of great master painters, tapestries of silk, chests stuffed full of silver and gold pots. My shelves are lined with Italian Majolica, Delft from the Low Countries, Spanish lustre ware. No rushes cover my floor but polished Flemish tiles, and my windows are filled with green leaded mullioned glass. Warm stoves heat my kitchens and butteries whilst water is brought in along pure elm pipes. Oh, I lead a life of luxury, but it wasn't always like that. Time's hand draws back the curtain of the past I sneak a look down the gloomy, vaulted passageway of history, lined with skulls and laced with the blood of those I ate and drank and, God forgive me, sometimes slept with. I must speak clearly so my words do not come out like some tangled chain: in doing so, I'll exorcise the ghosts of my salad days when I was green in judgement yet had such horrors to face.
    I do not have to walk far down the long, dusty passageway of time before I meet Murder squatting there, his silver skin laced with scarlet blood, his body riven by gashed stabs, face black and full of gore, eyeballs protruding further out than they should in a living man. He has that basilisk stare, ghastly, gasping like a strangled man. His hair is upstanding, his nostrils flared with struggling, his hands stretched out like someone tugging for life. That's Murder! I met him many a time in those turbulent days of Henry VIH when I and my great friend, tall, dark, angel-faced Benjamin Daunbey, nephew of Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, were hired to hunt subtle murderers and crafty assassins. Let time be my witness, none of these was more cunning, more artful, more deceitful than those who planned to steal the Orb of Charlemagne and nearly sent old Roger to a watery grave. I cannot remain silent. Murder, though it has no tongue, will speak and I am duty bound to recall it. At Michaelmas the queen will come again. She will hear Mass secretly in my hidden chamber and, afterwards, sit at my table to drink