The Relic Murders

omen of the terrors to come: the prospect of the gallows, the cart and the axe! Of hearts steeped in black wickedness and bloody, mysterious murder. Threats from the Great Beast, the parry and thrust of dagger and sword fights, brutal, sordid assault and, above all, poor old Shallot in danger of his life. My sweat poured down to soak the earth, my bowels turned to water, which they always do when I think even a hair on my precious head is in jeopardy. Oh, believe me, gentle reader, if I had known what was coming I would have jumped into that hole and buried myself, taking refuge in the bowels of the earth. As it was, I slipped the spearhead into my wallet and watched my master dig. At last he stopped and held his hand out. 'Give me the sack, Roger.'
    I smiled wanly but handed it over. I even thought of brushing a tear from my eyes but I am glad I didn't. I have studied Richard Burbage's players and, as I have written to the man, some of them do cry overmuch and it spoils the effect. Benjamin took the sack and knelt down. He took a small phial of oil from his pocket, poured it over the sack and struck a tinder: the rough, dry cloth was soon alight. Benjamin climbed out of the hole and we both watched as the flames roared, turning the sack to blackened ash. I must say I was fascinated. Only the good Lord knows what was in those cures. I mean, it's not often you see blue fire! Benjamin took me by the shoulder. 'It's the best way, Roger. It will keep you out of villainy. I don't want you going into London. I don't want you seeing Miranda. And I don't want you selling medicines. Do you understand?'
    I blinked innocently. Benjamin smiled, shaking his head and, taking his spade, began to fill the hole. I stood and watched, fingering that old spearhead in my wallet; already a vague idea was beginning to form but silence is the best counsel to follow in such matters.
    We returned to the manor. Benjamin now seemed light-hearted, and the tension between us had dissipated. I decided to relax and enjoy the golden autumn sun. The next day I was supposed to be helping with the early harvest I forget the precise details. Anyway, whilst everyone else was working, I and young Lucy Witherspoon found ourselves on top of a haystack. I was teaching her the principles of mathematics and counting, using the laces across her ample bodice as an exemplar. I had just reached the last lace when I heard Benjamin call my name. I looked over the haystack, whispering at Lucy to stay there with the wine I had brought Benjamin was staring up at me.
    'Roger, come down. You look tired. You've been too long under the sun!'
    I just ignored him, my flesh already turning cold at the sight of the visitor standing next to him: Doctor Agrippa! I have talked about this creature many a time. Of medium height and cherubic face, Agrippa had twinkling eyes which could, at a drop of a coin, turn iron hard. As usual he was dressed in sepulchral black from head to toe, his jovial face almost hidden by the broad-brimmed hat. Whatever the weather, he always wore a cloak and black leather gloves on his hands so people couldn't see the strange emblems, bloody crosses on each palm. Warlock? Wizard? I don't know. He was Wolsey's familiar. Agrippa claimed to have lived when the legions still strutted across Europe and the Barbarians hadn't yet poured across the great northern rivers. A man who had been in Palestine when Christ our Lord was crucified. Agrippa claimed to have seen the Golden Horde led by Genghis Khan and been present at Constantinople when the gates were breached and the Turks poured in. A man doomed to live for ever! Agrippa had come to England to stop, as he once told me in hushed tones, the river of blood that Henry the Great Beast was about to unleash. Agrippa was very worried by Henry. He called him the Mouldwarp, the Dark Prince prophesied by Merlin who would turn England from the path of righteousness and unleash horrors for which the kingdom would pay for centuries. He was fascinated by me, was our good Doctor, always sidling up to me. I can still recall his strange odour when he was pleased, the most fragrant of perfumes, cloying and rich. When he was angry or sad, the smell changed to that of an empty skillet left over a roaring fire.
    Did he live for ever? Ten summers ago I commissioned my good ship The Witherspoon to go a-pirating on the Spanish Main. My captain put in at a port in Virginia, and was sitting in a bottle shop, when in strolled