by Paul Doherty
Now, as I said, my master was a great scholar, a true lover of all things classical. And why not? He had even travelled to Wales to attend the Eisteddfod held at Caurawys and became friends with its foremost poet Tudor Aled. He bought John Fitzherbert's book on husbandry and ordered a copy of Hans
Sachs' work The Wittenberg Nightingale, a poem about Martin Luther. (The Wittenberg Nightingale! Luther was a constipated old fart! You know that, don't you? That's why many of his writings, including Table Talk, are full of references to bowels, stools and body fluids. There was nothing wrong with Luther a good purge wouldn't have cured. The same applies to his lover, the ex-nun {Catherine. I met both of them once; all I can say is that they were as ugly as sin and richly deserved each other.) Ah, the people I have met. I only wish Benjamin was here now. Will Shakespeare would have fascinated him. Last summer Will came to Burpham and staged his play Twelfth Night. I helped him with some of the lines, especially Malvolio's
Some men are born great,
Others achieve greatness,
And others have greatness thrust upon them.
I composed those lines myself. Old Will cocked his cheerful face and stared at me.
'And what about you, Roger Shallot?' he asked. 'Which one of these applies to you?'
'All three!' I retorted.
Shakespeare laughed in that pleasant, delicate way he has. I could tell from his clever eyes that he knew the truth, so I laughed with him. And what is the truth? Old Shallot's a liar. (My clerk taps his quill and looks over his shoulder disapprovingly at me. Do you know, his face has more lines than a wrinkled prune. The little tickle-brain. My juicy little mannikin! 'You digress!' he wails. 'You digress!')
Yes, I do, in a fashion. But everything I say has a bearing on my story. I am going to tell about murders to chill the marrow of your bones and send your heart thudding like a drum, about subtle, cruel men! However, we'll soon come to that. To cut a long story short, on that warm spring day my master had set his heart upon digging up the old hill that overlooked the mill. So the next morning, armed with a copy of Tacitus's Life of Agricola, as well as some picks, bows, hoes and shovels, we went out to dig.
At first I really moaned. I wailed that my old wounds sheeted my back in throbbing pain. Benjamin just laughed. I see him now, his hair gathered up in a knot behind him, dressed in black hose pushed into stout boots, his cambric shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled up. The sweat coursed down his face, turning his shirt grey with patches of damp. He gazed at me solemnly.
'I think you should dig, Roger. I believe there may be treasure hidden here.'
Believe me, I dug as if there was no tomorrow, until Benjamin had to restrain my enthusiasm. I found no treasure. At last I stopped, rested on my shovel and glared at him furiously.
'Why are we digging? Here, I mean? Why not further along?'
Benjamin pointed to the top of the hill.
'I believe a fort once stood there. This would have been the ditch or moat at the bottom of the hill, lying on either side of the entrance. The people who lived here would dump their refuse into the ditch. Moreover, according to Tacitus, when the Romans came, these hill forts were stormed and the dead were always buried here. So, dig on, Roger!'
I did, cursing and swearing. The soil became looser. I glimpsed something white.
'Master!' I called.
Roger hastened over. He scooped the soil out with his hands and we gazed down at the uncovered skeleton.
'What's this, Master?' I whispered. 'Oh, bloody hell!' I stepped back. 'I know what will happen. We will be blamed for this. What is it? Witchcraft? Someone buried alive?'
'Hush, Roger. This man has been dead for over a thousand years.'
We kept digging, unearthing more skeletons. Now and again we found artefacts - a ring, a sword, necklaces and leather sandals. Benjamin patiently explained that we had found a burial pit, pointing to the skulls of the skeletons, each with a perfect hole in the forehead, just above the nose.
'I suspect these were Celts,' Benjamin observed. 'Killed when the hill fort was taken.'
'Master Daunbey, you are right.'
We both whirled around. Murder was standing there -dressed as usual in black from head to toe. The face beneath the broad-brimmed hat was red and merry as any jovial monk's, clean-shaven and snub-nosed except for those strange, colourless eyes.
'Doctor Agrippa,' Benjamin breathed, throwing down the pick and wiping his hands on his shirt. He clasped the black, leather-gloved hand of Cardinal Wolsey's special emissary.
'Uncle wants us?'
Agrippa nodded and took off his hat. He stood, one leg slightly pushed forward, tapping the hat against his knee whilst staring down at the skeletons.
'I was here,' he said in a half-whisper.
'Here?'
Agrippa's eyes shifted to mine. 'It's good to see you, Roger.'
He walked a little closer. I caught the fragrance of his exotic perfume - sandalwood, I think, mixed with myrrh and frankincense. I stared at his face and tried to calm the chill of fear which ran along my sweaty neck. Agrippa's eyes had changed colour again, now they were light blue, innocent like a child's.
'Oh, yes, I was here,' he continued. 'A great hill fort once stood at the top of this hill. The Iceni owned it. Tall and blond-haired, they worshipped Epona the horse goddess and sacrificed prisoners by hanging them from oak trees.'
Benjamin had turned his back and was walking away to collect his cloak.
'The Romans killed them all,' Agrippa continued absent-mindedly. 'Slit their throats, men, women and children, and piled their bodies into a pyre. You could see the flames and smoke from miles around. Nothing changes,' he murmured. 'Nothing changes.'
What answer could I make? 1 have mentioned Agrippa before in my journals. He claims to have lived since the time of Christ. You know the story? A Roman officer, he insulted Christ on his way to trial, telling him to hurry. Jesus turned and said, 'Yes, I will hurry but you, you shall wait for me until my return.'
I don't know whether the story is true or not, but Agrippa was ageless. He was a lord of the mysteries and Grand Master of the Secret Order of the Templars as well as a prophet. He had whispered to me that fat Henry was the Mouldwarp, the Dark Prince prophesied by Merlin, who would lead the kingdom astray and drench its green grass in torrents of blood.
I know you don't believe me, yet Agrippa was a strange man. When old Henry died, rotten with syphilis, Agrippa pushed the dead king's fat belly into the coffin so tightly it burst. He left the English court and I never saw him again until many years later and, believe it or not, he hadn't aged a day. He dressed always in black. I never saw Agrippa sweat or heard him complain of the heat or the cold. My chaplain used to snigger at my stories. He doesn't laugh now. One day, quite recently, some seventy years after the events I've described, my clerk saw a man dressed all in black, staring up at the manor house. Oh, he became all excited. After all, my manor is closely guarded by retainers as well as great Irish wolfhounds. He came running along the gallery quivering with excitement. However, when I went to look, the man had gone. I asked my chaplain to describe him and, when he did, I recognized Doctor Agrippa.
Oh yes, I am closely guarded! The Sultan in Constantinople has threatened to send his 'gardeners' after me, silent mutes, skilled assassins. And why? All because old Shallot stole the juiciest plum from his grandfather's harem. The Luciferi of France have a debt to settle with me as do the Holy Inquisition in Toledo. (Holy! The most murderous, treacherous, black-hearted gang of thugs I ever had the pleasure to meet!) The 'Secretissimi' of Venice would like to collect my tongue and ears and, of course, there's the 'Eight' of Florence. Ah, I have said it again. Florence! I really must go back to my story.
On that brilliant spring day, Agrippa stood commenting on those skeletons whilst Benjamin and I collected our possessions and led him back to the manor house. We both knew the halycon days were over. Of course, Agrippa refused to be drawn. We were to be at Eltham Palace by the
evening of the following day, our purses full, our saddlebags packed.
'Oh,' he grinned. 'And "dearest uncle" said you're to bring your swords and daggers.'
Well, that was enough for me. At supper I drank like a fish to quell my queasy stomach and stop my bowels churning. No, don't take me wrong. Old Shallot's not a coward. I simply have this well-developed sense of self-preservation. So when danger threatens I always run away from it as soon, and as quickly, as possible.
'What does he want now?' I wailed.
Agrippa had left the supper table; he had gone outside to stare at the evening sky. (Or, at least, that's what he told us! I think he went to talk to the dark angel who was his guardian.) Benjamin remained as pensive as he had been since Agrippa's arrival.
'I don't know, Roger," he muttered. 'But Agrippa has mentioned that a dreadful murder has occurred in London and "dearest uncle" wants us there immediately.'
'But he's at Eltham Palace!' I cried.
'We have to go there. And, if "dear uncle" is not in residence, go on to the palace at Westminster.'
I groaned and sat back in the quilted high-backed chair and glared at the remains of the pheasant I had gorged myself on.
"Who's been murdered?' I asked spitefully. 'The king?'
Benjamin smiled. 'Someone close to the king. Time will tell.'
(Too bloody straight, it did! Having, in the next few weeks, been chased by Turkish corsairs, murderous secret police, poisonous snakes and professional assassins, I can honestly say, time will sodding tell! Yet that's for the future. I hurry on.)
We left our manor early the following morning. In the nearby village we met up with Agrippa's small troop of mercenaries. They were garbed in black and red, Wolsey's colours, with the gold monogram ‘I.C., for 'Thomas
Cardinalis', on their cloaks and the small standards they carried. You wouldn't think they were cardinal's men! Better-looking cadavers can be seen hanging from the scaffold at Smithfield, and that's after they have been there a week! They were the biggest bunch of rascals, guttersnipes and taffeta punks who ever graced the word Christian. I always felt completely at home with them. They came swaggering out of the tavern and embraced me like a long-lost brother. I immediately felt for my wallet to make sure it hadn't been cut and screamed at them to keep away from my saddlebags. Of course, I had to pay a few debts. They were better cheaters at dice than me. I laughingly protested how I had forgotten all about it, whilst quietly vowing to recoup my losses at the first opportunity. I still have the dice I stole from them - Fulham dice, neatly brushed on one side so you know which way they are going to fall. (My chaplain throws his quill down and jumps up and down on his quilted cushion.
'You've cheated me! You've cheated me!' he screams.
Too bloody straight I did! I can't give the money back because I've spent it. Let that be a lesson to him, never, ever gamble - especially with me.)
We travelled all that day. The countryside was beautiful, ripening like a grape under the sun. The hedgerows were shiny green, the corn pushing its way through. The meadow grass was long and lush for the fat-bellied cattle that grazed it. Yet now and again we saw derelict farms, dying villages and fields no longer ploughed but turned into arable for the fat, short-tailed sheep to grace. Early on our second morning out of Ipswich, Benjamin reined in on the brow of a hill. He stared down at the fields spread out before us.
'Forty years ago,' he explained, 'this land was all ploughed.'
He pointed further down the track to where a gang of landless men were making their way up from a village.
'Such sights are becoming common,' he continued. 'The rich throw the poor off the land and bring in sheep, so they can sell the wool abroad.' He grasped the reins of his horse. 'Roger, as we go past them, distribute some alms. This will all end in tears.*
'It will end in blood.' Agrippa murmured. 'There've already been armed revolts in the West Country! The storm clouds are beginning to gather.'
'Hasn't the king read his history?' Benjamin asked, moving his horse forward.
Agrippa's black-gauntleted hand shot out and grasped Benjamin's arm.
'Don't mention the past,' he whispered. 'When you meet the king, don't talk about his father or his youth. His Grace wishes to forget.'
And on that enigmatic note Agrippa led us on. I stayed behind to give pennies to the grey-faced, rag-tattered, motley collection of men. Their horny fingers, dirty and calloused, grasped the coins, but they spat at me as I rode on.
At first we thought we'd take the main road into London but, at a crossroads, Agrippa turned slightly west, going through the village of Epping to the small hamlet of Wodeforde, a tiny, sleepy place dominated by the great parish church of St Mary's. Agrippa explained that, once a bustling village, Wodeforde had never recovered from the great pestilence two hundred years previously.
'Why are we here?' I asked, staring curiously at the small tenements and thatched cottages we passed.
'We have come to collect someone.'
'Who?'
'Edward Throckle,' Agrippa replied. 'Who?'
'He was once physician to the old king and, for the first years of his reign, to King Henry himself. The king wants Throckle in London.'
Benjamin reined his horse in. 'But you said the king didn't want to be reminded of the past?'
Agrippa pulled his own mount back and smiled.
'No, no, this is different. Henry has, how can I say, delicate ailments.' He smiled. 'The veins on his leg have broken and turned into an ulcerating sore.'
'Aren't there doctors in London?' 1 asked.
'Well, there are other matters. A little bit more delicate.'
'You mean he's got the clap?' I asked.
Agrippa scowled at me, indicating with his hand that I lower my voice. No one really cared - Wolsey's retainers had espied a comely milkmaid and were busy whistling and making obscene gestures at her.
'More than the clap,' Agrippa said. 'You have heard of the French disease?'
I glanced quickly at Benjamin. Henry VIII’s Nemesis had struck! Years earlier the king had taken the wife of one of his courtiers. This nobleman had even played pander for the king, allowing Henry access to his wife's silken sheets. However, what Henry didn't know (but the courtier did) was that this beautiful woman had the French contagion, a dreadful disease which first appeared amongst French troops marauding in southern Italy. This pestilence revealed itself in open sores on the genitals, turning them blue then black until they rotted off. A more subtle kind entered the blood, vilified the humours and turned the brain soft with madness.
'And Henry thinks Throckle can cure this?'
Agrippa shrugged. 'He trusts Throckle. On my way here I called in and left him YVolsey's invitation. The old man had better be ready!'
We passed through Wodeforde, following the track which wound through the dense forest of Epping. As we came to a crossroads Agrippa stopped before the gate leading up to a spacious, three-storeyed, black and white, red-tiled house. This mansion was built in a truly ornate style, with black shining beams, gleaming white plaster and a most fantastical chimney stack erected on one side of the house. Agrippa, Benjamin and I dismounted and walked up the garden path. On either side flowers grew in glorious profusion, turning the air heavy with their scent; there were marigolds, primroses, columbines, violets, roses, carnations and gilly-flowers.
Agrippa rapped on the door, but the house was silent. He knocked again.
'Aren't there any servants?' Benjamin asked.
'He was like his master, the old king.' Agrippa grinned. 'If Throckle can save a penny, he will!'
This time he pounded on the door but, again, no answer. Agrippa pulled down the latch and pushed the door open. Inside the stone-flagged passageway the smell was not so sweet. It was stale and rather fetid, and there was something else - not wood smoke but as if a bonfire had been lit and all sorts of rubbish burnt. We went through the downstairs rooms - a small solar, scullery and kitchen - but these were deserted. I went
up the stairs along the gallery. I saw a door off the latch. I pushed this open and went into Throckle's bedchamber. The smell of burning was stronger here. The great canopied fireplace was full of feathery ash. The windows were shuttered. I took my tinder, fumbled and lit a candle. I went across, opened the shutters, turned round and almost dropped the candle with fright. Near the bed stood a huge bath and in it sprawled an old man, both hands under the red-stained water. Above him buzzed a cluster of flies. Now I have seen many a corpse in my day but that one was truly ghastly. The shaven dome, the sunken cheeks, the bloody, red-gummed mouth and half-open eyes and that body ... dirty white, just lying in the water.
I put the candle down on a table and called for Benjamin. He and Agrippa came pounding up the stairs and stared in horror at the disgusting sight.
'Come on!' Benjamin urged. 'Let's get him out!'
He went behind the bath and gripped the man under his arms. I closed my eyes, dipped my hands into that horrid water and pulled the man up by his scrawny ankles. We laid him on the carpet. I remember it was thick, soft and splattered with blood. I got to my feet and walked away, hand to my mouth, trying to control the urge to retch and vomit.
'Murdered?' I asked over my shoulder.
'I doubt it,' Benjamin replied. 'Look, Roger.'
I reluctantly went back and stared down. The palms of the old man's hands were now turned upwards. Great gashes severed the veins on each wrist.
'He died the Roman way,' Agrippa muttered.
'What do you mean?' I asked.
Agrippa walked back to the bath. He dipped his hand into the blood-caked water and, not flinching, fished around and brought out a long, thin Italian stiletto. He tossed this on to the carpet.