The Relic Murders

small sack into my hands. I felt it carefully, it was some form of powder. 'When you win your prize, use that!' I gazed quizzically back. 'You'd better go.'
    I went down the stairs to where Kempe and the others were waiting. ‘I paused halfway down and undid the scrap of parchment. The writing was small and neat, the letters perfectly formed. I read it once, twice, then grinned and put it back in my wallet: I knew the solution to the Great Beast's riddle!
    We arrived back at court just before sunset. The Great Bastard was in one of his moods of revelry. He had spent the afternoon flying his falcons out above the marshes so he was in fine fettle, still playing the role of the great statesman relaxing at his pleasures. We met in the same room though, this time, tables had been laid out, covered in silken cloths and decorated with the most beautiful silverware. Henry sat in the middle of a small horseshoe of tables. He was dressed in velvet buckram, his bonnet rakishly pulled to one side of his head. His other cronies were there: Norreys, Brandon the Earl of Suffolk, and their ladies. One beauty caught my eye: tall, elegant, dark-haired and sallow-faced, she was strikingly attractive, dressed in dark-green. She reminded me of some beautiful phantasm, some goddess who appears to huntsmen in the depths of dark woods. Raven brows over eyes full of sensuality. Anne Boleyn! I tell you this – she's been in her grave more than sixty years, buried deep beneath the cold flagstones of St Peter's ad Vincula in the Tower, nevertheless, I can remember every detail about her from that evening. Modest yet saucy, retiring yet alluring, soft spoken and unobtrusive, she drew your eyes and made your heart beat a little faster. I tell the Great Elizabeth whenever she visits: her mother was every inch a woman. Beautiful beyond compare! Like Helen of Troy, mortal sin in clothes. Henry was infatuated with her. You could tell that. He was showing off, seeking her approval for everything he did. She, eyes lowered, would laugh soft and deep in her throat. I envied Henry. I really did. One other thing I noticed: Anne kept the cuffs of her dress well over her hands to cover her extra finger. Years later when I was closeted with her she allowed me to examine this closely. It was nothing much – a slight malformation of her right hand – but her enemies said it was the devil's teat on which she suckled her familiars. Anne didn't need such witchcraft. One kiss was enough!
    Anyway, back to the Great Beast's banquet. Cardinal Wolsey was present but he was quiet, rather withdrawn. He was the only man apparently unimpressed by Boleyn and he was intent on showing it. We ate well, roast pheasant, swan, duck, lampreys, eels, the tenderest beef and the most succulent capon, all served in tangy sauces. The wine cups were deep bowled and were constantly replenished. We ate and drank while, in a far comer, boy choristers entertained us with a song composed by Abelard. Henry, like the pig he was, drank deeply until his fat cheeks glowed, his eyes glittered and, in his malice, he turned on old Shallot.
    'Tell us now, Roger,' he bawled. 'Tell us the solution to the riddle!'
    'What riddle?' Norreys cried, as if the lying bastard didn't know.
    'A man has to take a fox, a chicken and a bowl of grain across the Thames,' the great pig bellowed. 'His rowing boat can take only the man and the fox, or the man and the chicken or the man and the grain at any one time.' Henry sighed at the knowing looks of his cabal. 'If he takes the grain, the fox will eat the chicken. If he takes the fox, the chicken will eat the grain. So, Roger, how does he get the three across?' The fat turd licked his fingers. 'If you can't solve it, you must pay the forfeit: the sun has dried our carp pond to a muddy mess and tomorrow, if you fail, you'll have to stand in the centre and play "Mummer's Boy"!'
    I quietly groaned and shut my eyes. 'Mummer's Boy' was an old village game: some unfortunate was made to stand in the middle of a mud pack on a three-legged stool whilst others flung clods of mud at him. The one who knocked him off three times was the winner. A stupid, cruel game. Henry would love it! My master stiffened and was about to protest but I tapped him on the knee. I also caught Wolsey's anxious gaze and winked quickly. He smiled back. Anne Boleyn, God bless her, lifted her head and – perhaps it was my fevered brain or the light wasn't so good -1 am sure she blew me a kiss.