A Brood of Vipers srs-4

by Paul Doherty

  After a great deal of hustling and bustling, with people shoving and pushing each other, we were in our places. I had to shield my eyes against the gleam from the white satin table cloths. We had been given pewter goblets but further up the table the cups became more precious. From the royal table a sheen of light dazzled the eye as golden, jewel-encrusted cups, goblets, ewers and basins picked up the candlelight and reflected it back. From behind that great summer house (and God knows it must have cost a fortune to build!) a bray of trumpets sounded. Henry swept into this gorgeous pavilion, a bejewelled bonnet on his golden locks, his fat face red, either from the hunt or perhaps from bouncing some lady on her back in the royal apartments. He scratched his golden beard, his piggy eyes almost concealed in layers of fat. Behind him, like Beelzebub behind Satan, stood Wolsey, dressed in purple si Iks, a skull cap of the same colour on his greying hair.

  'My lords and fair ladies.' The king spread his fat, bejewelled hands. 'You are my honoured guests.'

  He swept up to the dais. A retainer pulled back the throne-like chairs. Henry sat, as did the cardinal. A trumpet sounded and we all took our seats.

  I stared up at the high table. Henry was dressed strangely in a simple, brown robe. If it wasn't for the jewelled bonnet on his head and the evil smile on his fat, red face, he would have looked like a jovial monk. The Florentines, of course, were the quintessence of decorum. I stared at their handsome faces and wondered who was the assassin. Giovanni the condottiero, of course, was not present and I couldn't see Maria either. Secretly, I thanked God – fat Henry loved nothing more than to poke fun at the less fortunate. The queen, poor Catherine of Aragon, was absent. Even I had heard the rumours! Fat, dumpy and barren, she had fallen out of favour with the king, who was bedding any wench who caught his eye.

  Ah well, her fate still lay in the future. On that particular evening I drank a lot. There was little more 1 could do except gorge myself on the venison, swan, goose, jugged hare, golden crisp plover, tarts, quinces and jellies which were served with bewildering speed. Never once did Henry or Wolsey grace us with a glance, though, now and again, I caught the Lord Enrico staring speculatively down at us. Benjamin, of course, as is his wont, was taciturn, carefully studying the king and his Florentine guests. At last he turned to where 1 sat at the end of the table, squeezed in like a small pin in a box. 'Roger, have you noticed?'

  'What?' I slurred, head on hand. I didn't give a damn. I had long stopped any pretence at social graces. Fat Henry disliked me and Wolsey thought I was a fool. Strange, isn't it, how the wheel of Fortune turns? Henry died of poison, clasping my hand, calling me his only beloved friend! At Wolsey's deathbed I held up a crucifix so old Thomas, who had then fallen from royal favour, could glimpse the Christ he'd served so poorly. 'You should have been a priest, Shallot,' the disgraced and dying cardinal croaked. 'Like you, Thomas," I replied.

  It was the last joke Wolsey ever heard this side of heaven. Anyway, that was for the future. On that warm spring evening Benjamin had to shake me to repeat his question.

  'Roger, have you noticed?' He shook me again, clicking his tongue in exasperation. 'The king and his courtiers are not dressed in their finery but in serge cloth.'

  I glanced blearily around. Benjamin was right, and I soon discovered the reason why. At the end of the meal the Great Beast sprang to his feet.

  'Now we shall entertain our guests,' he announced, 'with an old English game!' There were claps of approval from his fawning courtiers. 'The game of Dun in the Mire!' 'Yes! Yes!’ that cohort of cretins chorused.

  The king swept from his throne down to the entrance of the summer house. Only then did I notice a quick, sly glance at myself from those chilling, blue eyes. Henry undid the cord of his cloak and tossed it to a retainer. Beneath, he was dressed only in murrey-coloured hose pushed into leather boots and a white cambric shirt open at the neck.

  'We have to have eight!' he called. 'Norris, Brandon, Boleyn!' He thought for a moment before pointing to three other courtiers. Then he paused again, fingers to his lips. 'And who shall be our eighth?' He smirked down at me. My heart sank. 'Shallot,' he said. 'You're a burly varlet!' I looked away. 'Shallot!' The tone of Henry's voice was more menacing. 'Get up!' my master hissed.

  I staggered to my feet. I stared at the king's fat, evil face and bowed in obedience. Henry clapped his hands. The rest of his companions were taking off their robes. They were all dressed like the king. Even in my cups I realized I'd been cleverly trapped. They were in hose, shirt and proper hunting boots; I was in my best raiment and soft buskins. I was to be the jester in the pack. Led by the king, the guests streamed down the hill towards a small pond. Now, Dun in the Mire was a simple game beloved by thick-headed peasants or someone of Henry's low mentality. Basically, a log was thrown into a pond, the eight players jumped in after it and whoever carried the log out to dry land was the winner. Naturally, the others had an interest in stopping this happening. It was a violent, savage game in which men were sometimes killed. I went to take off my jerkin.

  'No, no!' the king shouted. 'As you are, Shallot! As you are!'

  Behind him I glimpsed Wolsey. I'll give His Satanic Eminence his due, I caught a look of pity in those hollow, dark eyes. The Florentines thought it was very amusing, though Enrico, short-sighted as usual, smiled kindly at me. The rest were like a baying pack of hounds chorusing the king's commands that I keep every piece of raiment on. They not only wanted to be treated to a game but to the prospect, much beloved of the human heart, of someone being ridiculed, made into a laughing stock.

  'For God's sake, go!' Benjamin whispered. 'Don't refuse, Roger!'

  I just stared, thick-headed, slightly befuddled, at the muddy pool of water.

  'Your Grace, my lords, gentlemen!' The chamberlain grinned maliciously at me. 'And anyone else. Take your places!'

  Hot-faced with embarrassment I sidled up to the line. I must have looked pathetic, dressed in my best, slightly drunk, at the end of a line of men all prepared for the game. 'Throw the log!' the king commanded.

  A squire tossed the piece of wood up into the air. It fell with a splash. I had my first benediction from the muddy water. 'Go!' the king shouted.

  He and his companions rushed in, knocking and jostling each other. I was a little more reluctant, so the laughter grew. Oh well, what can I say? Within minutes I was covered in black ooze from head to toe. I was bumped, kicked, ducked to roars of laughter from the spectators. Now, of course, in all these games, fat Harry, His Grace the Royal Tub of Lard, always had to win. And, sure enough, he was the first to carry the squat, thick, heavy log back to the bank.

  Again we lined up, again the log was thrown. As I went forward, the king, next to me, stuck out his foot and I fell face down in the mud. Well, old Shallot might be a coward, but he's got his pride. I picked myself up and ran into the water. I was like a man possessed. After all, I was Shallot the street-fighter, the squire of the alleyways, the lord of the runnels. I knew every dirty trick in such close combat and, believe me, I used them. My elbow went into the princely ear of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, my boot into the crotch of Sir Henry Norris. Then I grasped the log, swinging it round like a hero, I ran back to the bank and triumphantly slung it down. Well, you know the mob – and a mob's a mob whatever it wears, shot silk or rat skins – its mood is fickle, Henry's courtiers cheered me up to the darkening sky. I glared in triumph at Benjamin, but he shook his head warningly. Old Shallot, however, couldn't give a fig.

  We lined up and went in again. My fingers went up different orifices. I kicked, bit, nipped and, once again, 1 placed the log on the bank. Old Henry was a sight to see. Puce-faced with anger, he glared at his courtiers. The shouting died down. They had forgotten the first rule – Henry never lost. I was, in any case, beginning to calm down though, on the next throw of the log, I had no choice. Norris and Brandon held me down under the water. Fat Henry, his broad, wet buttocks quivering like a boar's ran to the bank with the log then jumped up and down to the pl
audits of the crowd. He reminded me of a fat, overgrown, red-faced baby, full of hot air at both ends.

  We toed the line for the fifth time. Whoever took the log in this round would be the victor. I had enough cunning and wit not to win. However, I planned to amuse myself. There was a fair scrimmage, people bending over, pushing, shoving, sweating and cursing. At last I saw my chance. Henry was bending down, legs apart. I squatted behind him, thrust my hand up into his groin and gave his nuts a vice-like squeeze. I ran like a greyhound before the beast could look round. He yelped like a whipped dog but still seized that bloody log and staggered as the victor to the bank. The claque of courtiers applauded him. I, grinning sheepishly from ear to ear, played the role of the valorous vanquished. I stole a look at Henry and my heart leapt with pleasure. He was still puce-faced, grimacing with pain as he clawed surreptitiously at his codpiece.

  After that the banquet ended. Benjamin dragged me back to our chamber. I stripped, opened the window and threw my best but now muddy clothes through it. The bastards can have those as well!' I bellowed.

  I washed, finished off the wine, clambered into bed and, within a few seconds, was fast asleep. I woke the next morning fresh as a daisy, roused Benjamin and went down to the buttery to break our fast.

  'What now?' I grumbled between mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

  I was also making obscene gestures at the cook, who had refused me some of the pork, coated with mustard and spices, that was roasting slowly over a spit. It smelled delicious.

  'We'll wait and see what "dear uncle" wants,' Benjamin replied.

  'Dear uncle' soon made his presence felt. A chamberlain ponced in, shouting our names, and, without further ado, led us up into the royal apartments and through into Wolsey's privy chamber. The cardinal and his king were ensconced in quilted chairs before the fire, murmuring, heads together, as Wolsey sifted through documents. The chamberlain announced us and withdrew. The precious pair ignored us. We, of course, were kneeling as protocol demanded. The two bastards kept on talking. I looked at Benjamin but he shook his head, warning me with his eyes to be patient. Well, I was still furious after the escapade of the night before. I had a special liking for my murrey jacket with its silver piping and gold buttons and I don't like to be insulted. So I did the only thing a man could do and not be blamed. I felt my tummy grumble and I farted like a dray horse. Benjamin's head went down, shoulders shaking. Henry turned slightly, one blue eye gleaming like a piece of ice. Wolsey looked so horrified, I felt like asking whether cardinals farted or whether there was a difference between their stomachs and those of other human beings. 'What!' the king exclaimed.

  Well, you know old Shallot, in for a penny in for a pound. I farted again, loud and braying like a trumpet blast.

  'You varlet!" The king sprang to his feet, glaring furiously down at me.

  He reminded me of that horror of a schoolmaster who used to teach me. Wolsey kept staring into the fire. Years later he told me that if he had got to his feet he would have burst out laughing. I rolled my eyes heavenwards.

  'Your Majesty,' I flattered. 'My belly is clutched with fear whenever I enter your august presence.' (I was always a smooth-tongued knave.)

  'Your Majesty,' I wheedled on. 'You rule my brains and my heart but my bowels are another matter.' 'I'll have them decorating a gibbet!' Henry growled.

  He rose, strode across the opulent chamber and sat down, sprawling in the great throne-like chair. Wolsey, in a flutter of purple silk and fragrant perfume, took a seat next to him.

  The cardinal picked up a silver bell and rang it whilst smiling endearingly at his nephew. A door concealed in one of the wall panellings opened, making me jump. Agrippa came through, soft and silent as the shadow of death. He bowed at the king, who chose to ignore him, for he was still glaring at me. Agrippa took up position behind his master.

  'Dearest nephew!' Wolsey leaned forward, his jewelled fingers twisting together. 'Dearest nephew,' he repeated, 'it gladdens my heart to see you again.'

  He shoved his chair back and got up. He came round the desk, brought Benjamin to his feet and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. He glanced down at me, winked mischievously and went back behind the desk.

  'Oh, for God's sake, sit down!' The king clicked his fingers at us and pointed to two stools in front of the desk.

  Benjamin took his gratefully. I, bobbing like a leaf on water, squatted next to him, wondering whether, for good measure I should fart just once more. Then Henry stirred wincingly in his seat. This warmed the cockles of my heart – my little leaving present to the king the previous evening had still not worn off. Henry, I suspect, knew it was me; his piggy, blue eyes had narrowed, his red lips pursed full and soft like those of a petulant girl. Ah well, that was the way with old Harry! He always wanted to be one of the boys as long as he won, and he hated to be seen moaning in public. A man full of arrogance! Do you know, once he condemned a nobleman's son to death. The day before the execution he stopped the father at court.

  'Why don't you ask for your son's life?' the royal bastard bellowed. 'I am too ashamed,' the poor man mumbled.

  'Then, if you are too ashamed to beg!' the beast roared, 'we are too ashamed to grant clemency!'

  Can you believe it? Sending a young man to his death, refusing a pardon, just because the old father was too frightened to beg for mercy! I have a copy of Holbein's painting of Henry. I keep it in my secret chamber. Every so often, when I am in a bad humour, I practise my knife-throwing skills, an art I learnt from a member of Sulemain's harem.

  Now, in that chamber at Eltham, another painting caught my attention. It hung on the wall to the left of the king. Beneath it, on a cedarwood table, an eight-branched silver candelabra burnt like a votive offering before a shrine. Whilst the king and Wolsey made commonplace pleasantries with my master I kept staring at it. It was a huge painting, at least two yards high and about four feet across. It caught my attention because of the resplendent colours and the life-like brush strokes of the artist. (You young people must realize that in 1523 England had yet to see the full glories of the great Italian artists.) Now this painting depicted Henry VIII, much younger, slimmer and better-looking. He was kneeling at a prie-dieu, a flower in his hand, before his father's tomb in Westminster Abbey. Above this hung a canvas depicting a saint in armour who, I presumed, was St George. A small monkey, looking in the opposite direction, crouched at the young king's feet. Henry's other hand was on a book and, narrowing my eyes, I could see it was the Bible opened at the Book of Deuteronomy. Beside the tomb was a simple altar surmounted by a silver crucifix. A vase of flowers stood at either end. Beneath the altar was a small triptych depicting the death of Henry VIII's father, his burial and the coronation of the new king. On the steps of the altar, to the left of where the young king knelt, was what appeared to be a small bucket with an Asperges rod used for sprinkling holy water, which was ringed by more flowers. Wolsey noticed my wandering glance. 'Master Shallot, you like the painting?'

  'Yes, Your Eminence, the colour and life.' I bowed towards the beast. 'It does His Majesty great credit.' The king pulled a face.

  'A gift,' he murmured, 'from the late Lord Francesco Albrizzi. That and this.'

  Henry plucked from beneath his cambric shirt a gold chain with the most brilliant emerald gleaming there. Cut in the shape of a heart, and set in a pure gold clasp, the jewel blazed like fire in the candlelight.

  'Gifts from the Albrizzi family and the city of Florence,' Wolsey said. He smirked. 'Though nothing more than His Majesty deserves. Florence needs our alliance, our wool and our support.' He paused as Henry leaned across the desk and slopped a goblet full of wine. 'Now, our good friend Doctor Agrippa,' Wolsey continued, 'has informed you about the dreadful assassination of Lord Francesco?' Benjamin nodded. 'And can you help, dearest nephew?'

  Benjamin spread his hands. 'Dearest uncle, it is a conundrum, a puzzle. How can a man be shot in public yet no one glimpse the assassin? Especially one carrying an unwieldy handgun which he ha
d to load and prime?' Wolsey shook one gloved hand. 'I realize the problem, dearest nephew.' Again the smirk. 'But I have every confidence in your ability and skill.'

  'Who would assassinate the Lord Francesco?' Benjamin asked bluntly. Wolsey shrugged. 'A powerful man always has enemies.' 'But in England, dearest uncle?'

  'Perhaps not. Nevertheless,' Wolsey continued, 'I have no doubt that the assassin is someone in Lord Francesco's household, though how and why the murder was committed is for you to resolve.' Wolsey licked his red, sensuous lips. 'We cannot be accused of being dilatory in protecting our guests and accredited envoys. What better response than to appoint my own dearest nephew to hunt the murderer down.'

  He gazed fondly at Benjamin. I closed my eyes and cursed. The good cardinal wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on his soft, plump nose. Oh, I knew, as the old bishop said to the buxom milkmaid, there was more to this than met the eye.

  'But, dearest uncle, must we go back to Florence with them?' Benjamin asked.

  'Ah!* Wolsey raised a finger and grinned over his shoulder at Doctor Agrippa, who stood there, holding his broad-brimmed hat, his face impassive as a statue. 'We have other missions for you.' 'Such as, dearest uncle?'