by Paul Doherty
‘I am Herne the Hunter,' the figure went on, his voice low and hollow. What are you doing running in my forest?'
'I am going to bloody die!' I screamed back. That Great Beast of a King is hunting me!'
I measured the distance between him and myself. I fleetingly wondered if I could try and unhorse him: spectre or no spectre, that horse was real enough. I could be at the nearest port before Henry found out. The huntsman seemed to read my mind; a crossbow appeared beneath the cloak and an arrow whistled over my head. ‘No further!'
I sat back on my heels. ‘Help me!' I whimpered.
The rider threw a sack down on the ground and, turning his horse's head, galloped back along the forest track. I let him go then, half crying, half laughing, crawling towards the sack. I undid the cord. As I did so, something scratched my arm. I plunged my hand in and drew out a long bow, the wood of polished yew with a strong handgrip and a quiver carrying six goose-feathered arrows. I also drew out a mask and, fastened to the boiled leather on either side, antler horns. There was also some biscuits coated with sugar and a small flask of wine. Now you know old Shallot: never look a gift horse in the mouth! My prayers had been answered, even if my benefactor was Herne the Hunter.
For a while I just stared at what the sack contained. I then wolfed down the biscuits, emptied the wine flask and wondered what I should do. Help had arrived, but why like this? Why Herne the Hunter? I recalled the legends about this mythical figure, supposedly the ghost of a huntsman unjustly hanged from a great oak in Windsor Forest hundreds of years before. He was supposed to still haunt there, with demon hounds and devil riders.
I drew in my breath, great sucking gasps, calming my heart, clearing my mind. Of course, the Great Beast was as superstitious as any old gypsy woman, and I knew what my anonymous benefactor intended. I had been given wine and food to build my strength, a mask bearing antler horns, a long bow and a quiver of arrows. I was no longer to be Roger Shallot but Herne the Hunter.
I made sure there was no wine left in the flask. I pushed that back into the sack, together with the woollen cloth which had contained the biscuits, and hurled the whole lot among the bushes. I heard the long wailing blast of a hunting horn and, on the breeze, the strident, whining howl of the dogs. The hunt was about to begin, but who was to be the hunter?
I ran on, confident ‘I’d escape. I splashed across a small brook and climbed a bank; my legs and hands were caked with mud. The King had instructed me not to remove the deer-skin, but he had not told me what I could put on it. I jumped back in the stream and, scooping up handfuls of mud, began to coat myself from head to toe. By the time I had finished, I did look like some woodland demon sprinting through the trees. Behind me the deep bellows of the dogs grew nearer. As they did, Shallot the coward was replaced by Shallot the cunning.
There was a break in the forest. I scampered up a steep hill and squatted in the bushes at the top. At last the two great hell-hounds came like arrows through the trees. They stopped at the foot of the hill, casting around for my scent. I was pleased to see the mud had at least confused them. Now, despite my poor eye, I was a consummate archer. I came to the brow of the hill, notched an arrow, and drew it back. I tested the wind against my cheek. The breeze was light, hardly noticeable. Now I love animals, and dogs and horses are my favourites, but those two great mastiffs Death and Pestilence were set to tear me limb from limb. I drew in a deep breath and let the arrow fly. Down it sped, catching one of the hounds deep in the throat. The dog jumped up and fell on its side. The other gave a howl of rage and charged up towards me. Another arrow was notched. I no longer felt afraid. My only regret was that it wasn't Henry but some poor dog coining towards me. Again I loosed, but the dog was moving too fast and the arrow skimmed above his head. Other members of the pack were now breaking through the trees. I seized another arrow, took aim, and hit the animal full in its slavering jaw. It swerved, crashed, the slid back down the hill. The other hounds, sensing that something had gone wrong, milled about at the bottom. Their keeper gazed fearfully up at the apparition at the top of the hill.
‘I am Herne the Hunter!' I bellowed, my voice sounding muffled behind the mask.
The hunter dropped his whip and stared up at me. I notched another arrow to my bow and took the bastard full in the shoulder. After that, I sprang up, did a strange dance, and disappeared behind the bushes. Well, what more could I say? Of course, the hunt was finished. The leading hounds were dead. One huntsman was wounded. I now began to double back, thoroughly enjoying myself. Near the forest edge I glimpsed the soaring battlements of Windsor Castle.
I doffed the mask, hid the bow and quiver-arrows in the undergrowth, washed off the mud in a nearby stream and walked, cool as any courtier, back through the village. I ignored the astonished looks of traders and hawkers as I strolled back to the castle. Oh, how my blood sang and the fire burned in my belly! Chamberlains and servitors looked at me as if they had seen a ghost. I found my way back to the stable-yard and imperiously demanded a cup of sack and a dish of stewed meat. I sat down with my back to an outhouse wall and ate and drank my full in the warm sunlight.
The hours passed. I grew a little cold. There was no sign of the hunt returning, so I seized a cloak and began to wander the palace. Rumours of my escape had already swept the royal household and, although the day before, people would have seized me and escorted me to the nearest horse-trough, now they left me alone. I returned to the tower, but the staircase to Benjamin's room was still heavily guarded. I decided not to exert my newfound authority, but at least I knew that my mysterious benefactor in the forest could not have been Benjamin. I went on to the kitchens, bullied some more meat and drink from a terrified cook, and roamed the palace once more.
That particular day was important to me, not just because I had escaped Henry's wrath: it was also closely entwined with the bloody murders which puzzled Benjamin and myself. I must have been in the main keep, going along a wooden gallery, when I glimpsed a large framed picture at the end, mounted against the wooden panelling. It depicted the Great Beast's mother, Elizabeth of York. I went along and stared up at her beautiful, thin, ivory-white face, her famous golden hair tightly bound under a jewelled cap. Behind her, in the background, were pictures of her family: these were fairly indistinct, as the painting had gone dark with age and was covered with dust. (It just goes to show you the manners of the old Beast! He never cared for his father or his mother. When his commissioners under Cromwell began to destroy the abbeys and churches, Henry actually dug up his great-grandmother, leaving her coffin to be abused and rifled by any passing villain. Years later I intervened, and begged Elizabeth to have the remains properly coffined and reinterred.)
I pulled up a stool and climbed up to clear away the dust for, in the background, playing in a field, were two young boys: Elizabeth's two brothers, the Princes in the Tower. I thought the picture might give me some clue, then the stool slipped and I fell against the wooden panelling. My nailing hand must have caught some secret lever, the panelling moved inwards, acting as a secret door. I looked around. No one was present so I went in. I jammed the stool between the door and the lintel lest it close and seal me in for ever.
Inside was a small, musty chamber. Straining my eyes, I could make out a table, a chair and, in the far corner, a small truckle-bed. I stretched my hand out across the table. I grasped a thick, squat candle and, beside it, a tinder with flint. After a great deal of difficulty, I lit the candle and the chamber flared into light. God knows what I expected, but all I found was an earthernware pot, a few rags on the bed, a stained pewter jug and the remains of a cup which had apparently fallen from the table. Nevertheless, the chamber looked as if it had been occupied, though not recently. I blew the candle out, left the chamber, and quietly resealed the panelling.
I was about to continue my wandering when I heard the faint sound of a hunting horn. I scurried back to the stable-yard, taking up position at the very spot where the King had last threatened me. I breathed in deeply to calm m
y thudding heart as the King and his cronies, spattered with mud and rather subdued, swept into the yard. Henry slid down from his horse and ordered the wounded verderer to the castle infirmary, and the corpses of his two great mastiffs to be laid out in the castle chapel. The Great Beast swaggered towards me; his cronies, faces tense, eyes watchful, crowded behind him.
'So, Shallot, you escape yet again?'
‘Yes, your Grace.'
'And how?' The Beast thrust his face towards me.
I acted all coy and frightened, opening my mouth to reply, then closing it with a sigh.
‘You know what happened to my hounds?' the King barked.
I shook my head fearfully.
'Or my verderer?'
I began to sob.
(Kit Marlowe once told me I would have made a fine actor. I could change my moods at the drop of a coin. Believe me, on that day at Windsor I was acting for my life!)
I knelt on the cobbled yard before the Great Beast. A nice touch! Henry liked to see people abase themselves before his majesty.
What is it?' Henry barked.
‘You’ll not believe me.' I grasped his boots and glanced up fearfully. What I saw, Your Grace, was most fearful! A vision from Hell.'
Oh, my arrow struck its mark. Big, fat Henry! As superstitious as any gypsy.
'On your loyalty,' the Beast barked.
'I was in the woods, Your Grace. I was running for my life, aware of how my clacking tongue and stupid wits had brought this sad fate about.'
'And?' Henry asked.
'A rider came out of the trees. Oh, Your Grace, he was fearful. The horse was black as coal, its eyes like burning embers. The harness was ribbons of fire and the saddle was fashioned out of human skin.' I paused for effect. ‘Your Grace, I fell into a swoon.'
Henry crouched down beside me. 'And what happened then?'
When I awoke the rider had dismounted. He was towering over me, tall, dark, black. Only Your Grace,' I added falteringly, "has ever appeared more fearful to me.'
Henry smiled knowingly. I knew I had hit my mark.
'And what did this figure say?' Henry asked.
‘I am Herne the Huntsman.' My voice rose. 'His voice was like yours, thunderous and majestic, roaring like the sound of cannon-fire at the height of battle.'
'And how was he dressed?' the King urged.
'Black as night with a great pair of sweeping antler horns on his head. He carried a bow, so huge only someone like yourself could have stretched it.'
'And what did he say?' someone shouted.
Henry turned round and glared. Tell me, Shallot.' He scratched my head as if I was a dog.
'I am Herne the Hunter," the figure repeated. "You, Shallot, are a base-born rogue. You have deserved to die for offending the King's greatness. However, I am here to show you great pardon and mercy. You shall not die today."' I paused, swallowing hard. 'Go on!' Henry hissed.
I glanced up. '"You are to be my most faithful emissary,'' Herne proclaimed. "The servant of my beloved, England's greatest King."' I lowered my voice. ' "You will free him from his present troubles."'
Henry was now beaming from ear to ear.
'Continue,' he urged.
‘I am to serve you all your days,' I continued.
'And did he promise anything?' the Great Beast urged, like a child begging for a sweetmeat.
'Greatness of days for yourself^ Sire,' I replied. 'A lusty son and a long line. I asked him for a sign,' I whined.
'And?' the Great Beast asked.
1 "Have I not given you a sign already?" Herne replied. "Did I not rescue you from the sweating sickness in London?"'
(Oh, a beautiful touch! Will Shakespeare would have loved it, for it brought 'oohs', 'aahs' and knowing nods from Henry's companions.)
The King squeezed his lower lip between his fat fingers.
True, true,' he muttered. ‘I had heard of that. Go on.'
' "I shall deliver you from this hunt," Herne promised. "I cannot touch my beloved Henry, but I shall punish those who put this idea into his head. Tell the King that when my punishment is done, the matter is forgotten."' I stared up, my eyes full of tears. 'Your Grace, I just ran on. I seemed to fall into a deep slumber, as if I was in a trance. I could hear the dogs behind me, then I found myself on the outskirts of Windsor and walked back here. I am sorry —' a delicious quaver entered my voice - 'about the death of your hounds.'
I stared into the Great Beast's eyes. He continued to squat there, scratching his chin. I could see suspicion but, there again, what could he do?
‘I have also won my wager,' I whispered.
Henry got to his feet and pulled me up by the shoulder.
‘We saw Herne the Hunter,' he declared. 'As you describe, on the brow of a hill.' He snapped his fingers; one of the huntsmen brought forward three arrows. Henry held them up. 'I have never seen the likes of these before,' he remarked. 'Beautiful, steel-tipped.' He threw them back. 'Norris!' He shouted without turning round. ‘You remember that purse of gold you won from me at gambling last night? Well, now it's Shallot's, give it to him.'
Red-bearded Norris came forward and sullenly handed the prize over. I guessed he must have been the architect of today's villainy: he put the idea in the King's mind that it would be better to hunt poor old Shallot rather than some old boar who would probably have loved a sprint through the woods. The Beast clapped me on the shoulder.
'Faithful, faithful, faithful Roger.'
Again I caught the suspicion in his voice, but he then dismissed me and I returned to my chamber. My master took one look at me, hugged me, then pushed me away, studying me from head to toe.
'Roger, did they hurt you? I heard what happened.' He held his hand up. 'No, don't reply. I'll wait.'
Benjamin went to the door, shouting for servants to bring buckets of hot water. My master waited until I was soaking under deep, thick suds, a bowl of sack in my hand, before continuing his questioning.
I told him everything that had happened. Every so often, he'd go and check the door to ensure there was no eavesdropper. Benjamin heard me out and whistled under his breath.
"Who was it?' he asked.
'Herne the Hunter as far as I am concerned,' I replied.
That's my story, Master, and I am not changing it.'
Afterwards, feeling heavy-eyed and sleepy, I dressed in the new clothes sent to me by the King and went down to the Great Hall where I was toasted and cheered. People came up to me, slapping me on the back, saying what a good fellow I was. The whole palace had now heard the news, and everyone thronged about to ask about Herne the Hunter. I told my story, embellishing it where I could; now and again I caught the Great Beast's sardonic glance. I could see he was puzzled, but he couldn't come up with a solution. Afterwards, my belly full and my purse swollen with gold and silver, I stumblingly followed Benjamin back to my room. Agrippa was sitting on the bed waiting for us, a large leather sack tied at the neck on the floor between his feet.
'Beloved Uncle sends his compliments, dearest Nephew,' he intoned. Tomorrow you are to take this gold into London. You are to leave it on the steps of St Paul's Cross as the cathedral bell tolls the midday Angelus.'
'And the King will do nothing?'
'Oh, the King will do everything. The place will be swarming with sheriff's men, all in disguise. Royal archers will guard and seal every gateway at the Tower from ten o'clock in the morning onwards.' Agrippa's face broke into a lopsided smile. The King has great confidence in you, Roger. Herne the Hunter has favoured you and vowed you will bring the King safely through this crisis.'
I groaned and slumped down on a stool. The great bag of wind had closed the trap. If Herne the Hunter had appeared to me, then tomorrow I would be successful. If not, ‘I’d be running for my life again!
Chapter 8
We left by barge the following morning, just as dawn was breaking. Agrippa walked us down to the quayside, humming some little song under his breath. He helped me to the barge, grasped my han
d and pulled me towards him.
‘Next time you meet Herne the Hunter,' he whispered, his eyes bright with merriment, 'do give him my regards.'
I sat down, gaping in surprise as the barge pulled away: Agrippa simply lifted his hand, turned and disappeared into the early morning mist. I'll be honest. I have always wondered whether he was Herne the Hunter. Years later, when old Tom Wolsey had fallen into disgrace because he couldn't get the King a divorce and journeyed south to York to stand trial for treason, I accompanied him. I was there in Leicester Abbey when he fell suddenly sick. (Oh, yes, he was poisoned and, no, it wasn't me.) I knelt by Wolsey's bedside as the death rattle began in his throat, and he confessed all his sins. I squeezed his fat, podgy hand.
Tell me, Tom,' I asked. (By then I was on first-name terms with everyone; even the Great Beast let me call him Hal!) Tell me, Tom,' I said. 'As you hope to meet your Saviour, did Agrippa dress as Herne the Hunter?'
Fat Tom shook his head. 'Impossible,' he whispered. ‘He was with me all that day, closeted on the King's business.'
‘Ah well, maybe Agrippa got one of his bully-boys to dress the part. I never have found out.
We reached St Paul's Wharf just as the city church bells tolled for mid-morning Mass. Benjamin had remained quiet during the journey, but now he stirred himself: gripping the bags of gold, he ran up the quayside steps and stared anxiously around.
‘What's wrong, Master?' I asked, following him quickly.
Benjamin hid the gold beneath his cloak and stared round anxiously.
‘Roger, I feel uneasy!'
I pointed to the halberdiers and archers still on the barge.
They'll be with us,' I declared. 'And the King undoubtedly has others hidden around St Paul's Cross.'
But Benjamin would not be comforted. The royal bodyguard quickly formed a screen around us and we went up towards the towering mass of St Paul's. The city had returned to some form of normality. Traders, hucksters and merchants were busy behind their stalls. Dung-collectors were cleaning the public latrines: they dressed like lazars, covered from head to toe in rags against the foulness and the fetid smells which cloyed the air and caught the throat. There were no signs of any death-carts or red crosses daubed on doors. I glimpsed two cunning men, pickpockets, and idly wondered where Quicksilver was. I still harboured a deep desire to shake him warmly — by the throat! However, as the psalmist says: 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and Benjamin and I were busy.