The Relic Murders

Hudson?' 'No.'
    'Our good king sent him on an embassy to Spain. The old lord did not trust his young, fresh-faced wife so he locked a chastity belt about her and gave the key to his best friend. Well-' I threaded the strap through the buckle. 'Lord Hudson was at Dover, about to climb into a wherry boat to take him out to the waiting ship, when a messenger arrived from his best friend.' I got to my feet, keeping my back to Benjamin. 'He delivered a note,' I continued. 'Lord Hudson opened it. Inside was the key with a message: "WRONG KEY".'
    My laughter was cut short by a prick of steel just beneath my left ear. 'Turn round, Roger.'
    I did so. My master was standing, his duelling sword only a few inches away from my eyes, but it wasn't the sharp point which frightened me. (There are some things more terrifying to even old Shallot than cold steel.) Benjamin's face was white with fury. No gentle eyes now or kind, smiling mouth but a mask, fierce and hard. 'Master!' I stepped back. Benjamin followed me. 'Master!' I protested.
    'Roger, you are my brother and my soul mate. I am your man in peace and war. Yet, I will not, I shall not share Miranda with you!' He laid the point on my chest. 'If I return, Roger, and find you have, if I suspect that you have crept where I would not dream of creeping, I shall kill you because if you do you are no friend of mine and I am no friend of yours!'
    This was no jest. Benjamin's eyes brimmed with tears. He was a man of his word. He'd once loved a woman whom another had seduced and sent insane. Poor Johanna was in the care of the kind nuns at their convent at Syon on the Thames. Benjamin had killed Cavendish, the young nobleman responsible.
    'I have loved once and lost, Roger,' Benjamin continued as if reading my mind. 'I shall not love and lose again. Give me your word.' I lifted my right hand. 'On the sacrament,' I swore. 'And on your mother's soul!'
    Benjamin knew me well. Mother had died young but all my memories of her were sweet. God knows I dreamt of her every night in some form or other. To me, her memory was sacred. 'On my mother's soul!' I declared. Benjamin sighed but the sword point didn't fall.
    'Oh no, master,' I joked. 'Don't say I have to take an oath not to drink wine or kiss any girl?'
    Benjamin smiled thinly. 'While I am gone, Roger, I will worry. You are back to your medicines, aren't you? Cures for catarrh; to make hair grow where it doesn't; to make the fat lean and the lean plump.' I swallowed hard.
    'Roger, you know such trickery will take you to the gallows. I want you, now, to bring all your medicines down here. Go on!'
    I hastened to obey. I suspected what was coming. I could have wept as I filled my bag with dried cowpate (Shallot's cure for baldness); lambs' testicles (Shallot's cure for impotence); dried newt (Shallot's veritable cure for catarrh); juice of valerian (for those who couldn't sleep); and my latest discovery, dried sunflower seed mixed with pig's urine and ground dates to make a man more virile. Into an old leather bag I piled the phials and potions, saying goodbye to each of them as if they were close and bosom friends. I returned downstairs. I looked fearfully at the spade Benjamin held in his hands though, thankfully, his sword was now sheathed. He took me out across the meadow to an old and ancient hill that overlooked the mill. I gazed tearfully down at the rush-filled riverside, savouring the memory of my sweet nights with Lucy Witherspoon. 'What are we going to do, master?' I asked.
    Benjamin started digging. I watched with curiosity, hope once again flaring in my wicked heart. Benjamin was interested in antiquities: we had dug here before, looking for ruins of an ancient Roman fort, collecting the artifacts left by that ancient people. 'You are searching for something, master?' I asked expectantly. 'No, Roger. Just digging a very deep pit.'
    He dug on. I stood woebegone; my sack of miraculous cures in my hand, and then I noticed it. Isn't it strange, how simple things can be a pointer to events yet to come? Benjamin unearthed a spear head, an ancient one, covered in rust but still good and hard; beneath the rust and clay, I saw an emblem: the Roman eagle with wings outstretched.
    'You can keep it, Roger.' Benjamin wiped the sweat from his face and handed the spear to me. 'A relic from the past.'
    Relic! Relic! I tell you this, before I was much older I would come to dread the very mention of relics. That spearhead was a pointer, a dark