by Paul Doherty
Old Quicksilver's manner had now changed. Eager for mischief, he waited for my orders. After I whispered to him the plot, he crowed with laughter, clapped his hands and solemnly promised that, by tomorrow, he'd be taking chambers at the White Hart.
The next day, just before sunset, I walked into our village tavern. I looked around but there was no sign of Quicksilver. I cursed and hoped the thieving bugger hadn't taken my gold and hopped back to London as fast as he could. I sat by the inglenook with my pot of ale, then in comes the Great Mouth's steward, eyes round as saucers, hands all a-tremble. He grasped his tankard, digs his face into it, and then declares for all to here:
'Good sirs, pray for Mistress Poppleton and her family.' His voice sank to one of those dramatic whispers so beloved of playwrights like Jonson. 'All the farting,' he exclaimed. 'Running like greyhounds for the jakes, their skins covered in pustules and blisters.'
The plague?' one yokel asked. They say there's a terrible sickness in London!'
The steward, an inveterate gossip who deeply relished his moment of glory, just shook his head.
(Oh, my little chaplain's asked a question: why wasn't I recognised? The noddle-pate! When I worked for the Poppletons, ‘I’d been disguised.)
‘No one else has caught it,' the steward trumpeted, 'Lord save us. The house stinks like a kennel.'
‘You say pimples and pustules?' A voice rang out from the doorway leading to the stairs. Quicksilver stood there in his best fur-trimmed robe, a pair of spectacles upon his nose. His hand tapped the seal (counterfeit, of course), which proclaimed him to be a member of the Guild of Physicians in London. 'Pimples and pustules?' he repeated, sweeping into the taproom. 'And bowels just like water?'
‘Yes, sir,' the steward replied, tugging at his forelock and glancing at the landlord.
This is Dr Mirabilis,' the landlord declared in a hushed voice. 'A physician of London, patronised by the great Cardinal himself. On his way to see relatives in Norwich.'
Oh Lord. I fought to keep my face straight and stuck my face into my tankard. Quicksilver, of course, acted the part, and old Marlowe would have given his left hand to have seen it. The tavern's best chair was pushed up, and he sat down on it like a king on his throne, looking severely over his spectacles at the steward.
'Pimples and loose bowels,' he repeated.
‘Yes, my lord.'
Quicksilver pulled a face and clicked his fingers. 'An undoubted case of Rotterus Arsicus,' he declared grandly.
‘Is it contagious?' the steward asked.
'Don't be stupid!' Quicksilver replied. 'But it's a savage ailment. I have treated it before in Montpellier and Salerno.'
'Is it fatal?' the landlord asked hopefully.
'How long have the victims been suffering?' Quicksilver demanded gravely.
'About three days. Yes, my lord, this is the third day.'
'It takes a week,' Quicksilver declared pompously, ‘before the real rottenness sets in and death ensues.'
The steward nearly dropped his tankard, and had to be helped to a stool. I don't think he was really bothered about the Poppletons, but the prospect of losing his sinecure made him weak at the knees.
'Oh, good sir,' he gasped, mopping his brow, 'can you help?'
'Of course!'
'And how much will it cost?' The steward screwed his face up into what he thought was a shrewd look.
'Cost! Cost! You dare to talk to me about cost? Me, Dr Mirabilis!'
Quicksilver half rose out of his chair, but the steward threw himself on his knees. 'My lord, come with me, please!' he begged.
The good physician finally agreed and, without even a glance at me, stepped out of the tavern, the steward trotting ahead of him. I waited till they had gone, then fled the place to laugh myself witless in a ditch. Well, the bait was down, the lure was out. Later that night I stole back and met Quicksilver under the moonlight by the gibbet near the crossroads. The rogue was laughing fit to burst.
There's no wine left in that cask,' he declared. ‘Even when they were sick they insisted on drinking it. To fortify,' he gravely mimicked the Great Mouth's tone, 'our poor bodies.'
'And you recommended?'
Quicksilver shrugged. 'I followed your instructions. I gave them no medicine, but told them not to eat or drink anything except sugared water, and that I would return tomorrow evening.'
'And?' I asked hopefully.
Then I’ll strike. I’ll continue the medication but develop the seeds I sowed today. How Rotterus Arsicus is really a mysterious disease, more the product of the humours of the mind than anything else. They must have done great ill, maligned someone: this has infected the soul, turned the humours morbid, which expresses itself in horrid pustules and looseness of the bowels.' Quicksilver smiled and arranged his cloak, easing the cramp from his limbs as he sat on a stile.
The gulls will bite,' he said softly. ‘I’ll be well paid. You'll have your revenge and its heigh ho back to London.' He pointed to the skeleton which swung in its iron gibbet from the scaffold. ‘Do you think we'll end up like that, Roger? A pile of musty bones? The plaything of some evening breeze at a lonely crossroads?'
I stared at the scaffold, bathed in the light of a summer moon, and a shiver ran down my spine. It wasn't usual for Quicksilver to be so melancholic. I jumped down from the fence and clapped my companion on the shoulder.
'He wasn't a rogue,' I declared. 'Don't you know your anatomy, Dr Mirabilis? That poor fellow suffered from Rotterus Arsicus and, in a fit of rage, went out and killed someone.'
Quicksilver burst out laughing. I shook his hand and told him that, if all went well, ‘I’d deliver the rest of the coins, and set off back to the manor.
In the end, all did go well. Every night I went back to the White Hart, where Quicksilver loudly reported how the Poppletons were progressing. The steward sat beside him, nodding solemnly, opening his mouth in one glorious hymn of praise for old Quicksilver's skills. So the trap was closed. On Saturday night I could tell from the charlatan's face that all was going as planned: he designed to notice me in the inglenook corner, brought me a cup of claret and raised his own in a toast, his eyes full of devilment.
The next morning, my master and I went down to church for morning Mass. Benjamin was still subdued. Indeed, I had hardly seen him or talked to him. I could tell the insults had rankled deep.
Accordingly, you can imagine my glow of triumph when Vicar Doggerell stood on the altar steps, hands extended, his fat, foolish face wreathed in smiles. He beamed at the Poppletons, now returned to rude health, sitting in one pew, and then at my master.
This week,' the old fool declared, 'the parish has seen a great victory. One of our noblest families snatched from the jaws of death.'
He turned and, clasping his hands, bowed towards where Quicksilver sat beside a pillar. Good Lord, the rogue looked; so saintly, for a few seconds he even deceived me. ;
Vicar Doggerell continued. 'Now this miracle is not only the result of a physician's skill, but also of a deep-thinking woman realising she may have offended, albeit unknowingly, against a fellow Christian. Mistress Poppleton now wishes to make amends.'
Well, up gets the Great Mouth in her dark brown dress and a ridiculous flurry of veils framing her fat, sullen face. She stood at the mouth of the roodscreen looking as if butter wouldn't melt in that horrible mouth.
'Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ,' she intoned. There is a dreadful rumour running like a sore through this parish that this good man-' she pointed at Benjamin — 'this county's most excellent teacher, is the subject of unnatural lusts.' Her voice rose. ‘I, Goodwoman Poppleton, declare such rumours to be an arrant lie. Master Daunbey is the jewel of our parish! A benefactor of the poor! His school's one of the great glories of the shire, to which purpose,' she plucked from the sleeve of her voluminous gown a heavy purse, 'I now donate this silver for the education of poor scholars.'
Well, everyone began to clap. Benjamin smiled: his body, taut as a spring, relax
ed. He rose from the bench, strode towards Goodwoman Poppleton and there, in full view of all, exchanged the kiss of peace with her. (I jumped up and grabbed the silver.) Mass was then celebrated in a joyous fashion.
Afterwards, everyone gathered round Benjamin, slapping his back and saying what a fine fellow he was. I then made a terrible mistake. Old Quicksilver was for the off. He had carried out his task and, grinning and winking, sidled up to me, hand half-extended. In any other circumstances I would have cursed the idiot roundly, but Benjamin looked so happy that I slipped Quicksilver the purse of coins and turned away. As I did so, I saw the Great Mouth's elder son was glaring daggers at me. Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound is old Shallot. I smiled beatifically back as Quicksilver ran like a hare towards the lych-gate and the safety of London Town. Nonetheless, on reflection, the incident not only saved my life but that of Benjamin. It also helped us thread our way through a bloody maze of murder to unlock one of England's darkest secrets.
Chapter 2
Within days the axe had fallen. Benjamin summoned me to his chamber. He was sitting like a hanging judge just before sentence is passed.
'Sit down, Roger’
I did so.
'Roger, what you did was brave and good.' Benjamin smiled across the desk at me.
Well, you know old Shallot. I just stared owlishly back at his eyebrows. It's an old trick - if you do that, people think you're being manly and holding their gaze, open and honest. Actually, some of the biggest rogues I have ever met could stare you in the eye and let the lies trip from their tongue. Oh yes, and a few of them wore skirts...
'Master?' I asked innocently.
The business with the Poppletons, Roger,' Benjamin replied. 'I know what happened. Mistress Poppleton is a wicked woman and, on reflection, I could not understand her speedy conversion to the truth.' He waved a hand. 'Oh, don't worry, she won't recant, but they are now asking questions, Roger. They are searching for a servant whom their steward hired to empty the jakes pots. He dropped one on the floor and mysteriously disappeared. They have also made enquiries about the great Dr Mirabilis. Moreover, the Poppleton steward, to save himself, has suddenly remembered how, when Dr Mirabilis was holding forth in the taproom of the White Hart, you were always present.' Benjamin joined his hands and leaned across the desk. To cut a long story short, Roger, the Poppletons are after your blood. They are threatening to lay certain information about you before the justices’
‘I have done nothing wrong,' I retorted. 'And if they wish to make fools of themselves in public ...'
'Oh, they won't mention "Rotterus Arsicus",' Benjamin replied, trying not to laugh. ‘But they will allege you sell potions and physics, that you are a counterfeit man.' He shrugged. 'And you know where that could end? A fine, prison, the stocks or the whipping post.'
'My medicines are good,' I wailed.
'All of them?'
'Well, I do my best. They are no better, and certainly no worse, than what is being sold in London.'
'But they'll say different.'
‘You could appeal to "dearest Uncle"?'
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew it was a mistake. If Cardinal Wolsey, old fat Tom, knew I was heading for a beating, he'd just sit back, let it happen, and watch the fun. (Strange, isn't it? Thomas Wolsey, Chancellor and Cardinal! In his prime he didn't give a fig about old Shallot. However, years later, when he was dying and his throat began to rattle and he began to fear hell-fire, whom does he turn to, but old Shallot?)
Benjamin's face told me there would be no comfort there.
'What do you advise?' I sighed.
Benjamin threw a purse of silver across the table.
‘Roger, you are to go into hiding. I have a kinsman, a very distant one, more an acquaintance really. He is the Prior of St Dunstan's outside Swaffham. I have sent him a message asking him to protect you. Go and hide there.'
'In a priory?' I yelled. 'Amongst mouldy monks and fornicating friars? No ale, no wine!'
'Aye and no wenches,' Benjamin added. 'Roger, it's the safest. The Poppletons are wicked people. If the justices have no time for them, they will hire others to do their bidding.'
‘I can take care of myself,' I replied, pushing my chest out and pulling back my shoulders. ‘I am skilled at dagger and club, and Seigneur Damoral, our fencing master, says there's little more he can teach me.'
'And that will be your defence?' Benjamin replied. 'Against ten rogues on a dark and lonely lane? Or a musket fired behind a hedgerow? Or a crossbow bolt as you sit fishing on the riverbank?'
Benjamin was a very wise man. I am not a coward. I just run very fast. I am also not a fool. It's all right for you young men who read stories about idiots leading charges, but I am of a different mould. 'He who fights and runs away may get out of fighting on another day is one of Shallot's favourite maxims. Three hours later I left the manor. I'd washed, shaved and changed. Benjamin's silver was in my purse. My swordbelt on, my horse the best we had, and all of my worldly possessions (including my medicine chest) strapped to a sumpter pony. I shook my master's hand. I stared at his eyebrows and solemnly promised I would be the best monk in Swaffham.
I reached the priory late that night. I didn't even say who I really was. I pretended to be Dr Mirabilis journeying between York and London.
'Now, that's really strange,' the grizzled, old guest-master declared, fingering his lips. 'Only recently we had another Dr Mirabilis pass this way. He treated some boils on Brother Ralph's backside.'
'Oh?' I asked.
'Oh yes. He gave him a potion.' 'And the boils went?' I asked hopefully. 'Oh yes, but Brother Ralph is now weak on his feet.' 'Oh, that Dr Mirabilis.' I drew my brows together. 'He's a distant kinsman of mine.' I pushed open the door leading to the warm, clean-swept guest-chamber. That's one of the reasons I am going to London,' I declared in hushed tones. ‘His Excellency the Cardinal has asked me to follow this Dr Mirabilis round the country and expose him for the charlatan he is.'
Oh, heigh nonny no: the monk accepted every word I said. I spent a very comfortable night at the priory. I ate a hearty breakfast and left a bottle of my elixir for weak legs in lieu of payment.
'Oh,' I added as I mounted my horse in the courtyard, tell Father Prior that I bear messages from Master Benjamin Daunbey. Roger Shallot will not be coming here. The poor man has had a sudden conversion and decided to join the Cistercians at Mount Grace in Yorkshire.'
I shook the guest-master's hand and galloped out of the priory, heading like an arrow straight for the fleshpots of London. I arrived there two days later and took chambers in a tavern, the Mitre and Pig, which stands between two brothels in Southwark, overlooking the Thames. I ate heartily, bedded one of the wenches, and plotted what I should do. Naturally I spent a great deal of the time in the taproom searching out the lie of the land, but the news I heard there chilled my blood. A terrible sickness was sweeping through the city. Sudden and violent, it gave people the cramps followed by sweating and vomiting. Buboes appeared in the armpits and groin and, once this happened, death followed in a matter of days.
'Oh yes,' an old tinker assured me, 'they be dropping like flies across the river. The King, the great Cardinal, and all the Court have gone to Windsor.' He lowered his voice, whispering through where his teeth had once been. The city is going to die. Satan has risen from Hell to collect his own. People say this is a curse from God. A plague sent to punish their sins.'
I let the old fool prattle on. To me London was not the mouth of Hell but a veritable paradise: the streets were packed with morris dancers, hobby horses, minstrels, men in armour and trumpeters. Nevertheless, next morning when I crossed London Bridge, through the gatehouse and past the chapel of St Thomas a Becket, I noticed a difference. There were not so many carts. Nor the crowds who stand and gape on either end of the bridge at the severed heads and quartered, pickled limbs of traitors.
As I walked deeper into the city I realised the old tinker was not a fool but a prophet. Enti
re streets had been closed, sealed off with bars, wooden railings and chains: dark, gloomy tunnels where the refuse had not been collected but simply burnt and left to smoulder. An occasional flicker of flame showed through the heavy pall of smoke which hung there, trapped by the overhanging houses.
In Cheapside the markets and stalls were empty; not even the whores touted for business. A whining beggar on the corner of an alleyway in the Poultry told me how the rich and powerful had fled the city, following the King and Court for the fresh air of the countryside. I could scarcely believe it. I wandered back down towards the river, but the cranes and wharves were empty. The fine shops and houses of the merchants were locked and barred, their windows shuttered. So I went to the area around Newgate, always a busy place, the justices and their bailiffs forever carrying out sentence. In the Great Beast's London you could be hanged for stealing a hawk's egg, letting out a pond, or buggery (though that was rare, you had to catch them red-handed). Or for cutting a purse, as well as conjuring, sorcery, witchcraft and all those other roguish hobbies. The great yard in front of the prison doors, however, was deserted. I found the same at Smithfield. London had become an eerie city, where smoke from burning fires wafted like ghosts amongst the houses. I called into a tavern. The landlord stood far off and inspected me most carefully.
'Are you hale and well?' he asked.
'As merry-legged as you are!' I retorted.
Well, there's nothing the kitchen can offer you!' he snapped.