Our meeting then broke up, Mandeville stalking back into the hall whilst we returned to our chambers. Benjamin became lost in his own thoughts so I left him alone and lay on my own bed thinking about Mathilda until the bell sounded for supper.
Despite the rich food, the meal was a sombre affair. Benjamin tried his best to make light conversation but Mandeville and Southgate were withdrawn, Sir John Santerre lost in his own thoughts, Lady Beatrice looked anxious whilst the pale-faced Rachel merely toyed with her food. Once the table had been cleared and everyone was preparing to leave, my master suddenly stood up.
'This house must be searched,' he declared. 'Every room, every closet.'
'What for?' Mandeville asked.
*I don't really know though I will when I see it.'
Santerre bristled with rage.
'You may accompany us,' Benjamin added softly.
'Must it be now?' Lady Beatrice asked.
'I agree,' Mandeville insisted. 'Either now or tomorrow when Sir Henry Bowyer will arrive with armed men from Taunton.'
Sir John flinched. 'Is that necessary?'
'Yes, I sent the message when I was at Glastonbury. The sheriff's men will be able to assist us. Now, after the death of two of my colleagues, I need them for my own protection. Anyway, I am sure you prefer myself and Master Daunbey to search the house rather than clod-hopping shire levies?'
Sir John did not demur but insisted that he join us. Servants were called, torches and lamps brought and we began our search. Believe me, Templecombe proved to be an even larger house than I thought. The cellars were huge and cavernous but contained nothing remarkable; beer barrels, wine tuns, cut logs, sea coal and other stores. At the far end of the cellar, we found one chamber where the door was padlocked and barred. Santerre hastened to open it but told us not to bring any torches in.
'Gunpowder and oil are stored here,' he explained. 'We use it for taking rock from the local quarries.'
The door was opened and I went in. The room was nothing more than a dry, musty cell. Benjamin followed, studying the coiled slow fuses, jars of oil and small barrels of gunpowder piled there. He cocked his head to one side and I could see that something had caught his attention.
'What is it, Master?' 'Nothing, nothing at all.'
We continued our search and, I tell you this, if any place was haunted, it was Templecombe, particularly those cellars. We then returned upstairs, going from room to room, only to discover nothing untoward.
At last Mandeville himself called off the search, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
'We have done what we can,' he commented. 'Tomorrow we search the church and cross to the island.'
Benjamin objected. 'There are still the servants' quarters.'
Mandeville made a face. 'Let the sheriff's men deal with them. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.'
We returned to our chambers, Benjamin joining me in mine. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to recite all he knew as if memorising some poem: 'Buckingham dies, the agents die, garrotted to death.' He looked up. 'Did you know you can garrotte someone in a few seconds?'
'Is that relevant?' I asked. I felt so tired I just wanted to go to sleep.
'No. No,' Benjamin murmured absentmindedly. 'Then we come here and a witch warns us, prophesying death by various means. Cosmas is burnt to death in his bed; Damien killed by a mysterious archer who apparently can pass through thick walls, but there's no clue to the riddle, no sign of the Templars and not a shred of evidence to indicate where the Grail or Excalibur lie.' He rubbed his chin. 'But there must be a solution. Perhaps the sheriff's men will help.'
Chapter 10
We were awakened the next morning by Sir Henry Bowyer's rough arrival accompanied by at least a dozen likely-looking rogues. These were not shire levies but professional soldiers who acted as the sheriff's posse in the pursuit of criminals. Bowyer was a short, squat man with very little hair and a cheery red face. He was always smiling and greeted us most amicably as we broke our fast in the great hall.
Nevertheless, he was a man you wouldn't trust. He had piss-holes as eyes, foul breath, decaying teeth and an attitude towards Mandeville which can only be described as servile. The sort of man whose head has been turned by success and left him staring in the wrong direction.
Bowyer's troopers, as professional soldiers are wont, soon made themselves at home in the courtyard and outhouses: within an hour, Sir John was receiving complaints of food being stolen from the kitchen; jugs of wine mysteriously emptying; and chickens, full of life the night before, suddenly being killed, plucked and spitted over makeshift fires. Santerre, however, had problems of his own as Mandeville, assisted by Southgate and a servile Bowyer, had the great hall cleared and turned into a shire court. He and Bowyer sat at the high table, the Santerres and ourselves were treated as onlookers. Mandeville then gathered all the servants, cooks, scullions, chambermaids, Mathilda included, even the men from the stables. He addressed them in short,