by Paul Doherty
I sat down next to him. 'What concerns me, Master, is the puzzle behind these deaths. We go to collect Throckle and he has committed suicide for no apparent reason. Then we are brought to London to investigate the assassination of a Florentine nobleman.'
'Throckle's death may be connected,' Benjamin replied guardedly. 'But it's the manner of Lord Francesco's dying which puzzles me. In such assassinations, the murderer and the victim are always close.' He looked at me. 'Roger, have you ever loaded an arquebus? Or had anything to do with any handgun?'
'No, they frighten me. All that powder and priming. I'd always be frightened that they might blow up in my face. Do you think then,' I asked, 'that Roderigo might have used one of those handguns he bought?'
Benjamin shook his head. 'No, Agrippa told me they had been checked.'
'So how did this assassin strike?'
'Well,' Benjamin replied. 'We have seen where Lord Francesco died. He was shot in the head facing the alleyway where his assassin lurked. Now an arquebus, whether a matchlock or the more sophisticated wheel-lock type from Italy, is heavy and cumbersome. It stands at least as high as your chest. How could anyone carry such a weapon through the middle of London and not be seen? And I find it difficult to accept that the assassin stood in an alleyway and coolly loaded his gun. It takes time to ready an arquebus for firing. Think what the assassin would have to do. He must carry a powder flask or horn. Keeping the gun upright, the butt firmly against the ground, he pours the powder down the barrel, covers it with a wad of paper and rams it firmly home. Then he rams the ball on top of the powder and wad. Now he must prime the gun - add a little powder to the pan. To fire it, he must ignite the powder in the pan with a slow match. He must raise the gun, load it and fire.’ Benjamin shook his head. 'I can't believe no one saw that. And, even if they didn't, how could an assassin run away carrying such a heavy weapon and not be seen?'
'But the bang was heard,' I reminded him. 'And the ball hit Lord Francesco's head." 'So?'
'So, perhaps the assassin wasn't in the alleyway. Perhaps he was somewhere else?'
'Impossible,' Benjamin replied. 'I stood where Agrippa said Lord Francesco's body fell, directly facing the alleyway. On either side of this stand shops and houses. No assassin could hide in one of these and go unnoticed. Moreover, if Agrippa is to be believed, the bang was heard from the alleyway.' Benjamin clambered to his feet, it's a mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. But come on, Roger, "dearest uncle" is awaiting us!'
Now I can't exactly describe what happened next - the details are vague. Benjamin clasped my hand to help me up. I half-rose, my boots slipped on the mud. I fell back, pulling Benjamin towards me. Thank God I did. I saved his life. I heard a bang and the whistle of the ball flying through the air where Benjamin's head had been.
'What?' my master shouted.
I pulled him down. 'Master!' I hissed, 'someone is trying to kill us!'
(God bless him, Benjamin Daunbey could be the most innocent of men!)
We lay sprawled on the grass. My stomach was churning and I just thanked God my breeches were brown.
'Roger, are you crying?' my master whispered.
'No, that's just sweat.'
I pressed my face against the cool grass and remembered how long it took to load a handgun. This prompted my heroism. I sprang to my feet, drew my dagger and, ignoring my master's protests, ran across that paddock like one of Arthur’s knights, shouting and screaming. The few sheep grazing there, being fattened for the kitchens, lifted their heads, gazed glassy-eyed and went back to their browsing. At last I reached the fence. The assassin must have stood here to fire his weapon, yet I found nothing - no footprints, no powder marks, not even the whiff of gunshot in the clear spring air. A smell of burning perhaps, but nothing else.
'Come on, Master!' I shouted, now standing legs apart like a Hector. 'I've driven the varlet off!'
Benjamin crossed the field in his long-strided walk. He, too, had unsheathed his dagger. My fear returned when I saw how pale his face was.
'Master,' I assured him-and myself, 'the bastard has gone.'
He may have just changed position,' Benjamin said nervously.
I immediately flung myself down. Benjamin went through the gates and stared at the row of trees on either side of the track leading back to the stables and the main palace buildings.
'I think we are safe, Roger.'
I clambered to my feet. My hands were trembling so much as I realized how stupid I'd been that I could not sheathe my dagger. After all the assassin may have had two handguns, both loaded and primed. Or, supposing there had been two assassins? My legs felt like jelly, so I crouched down again. I snatched a clump of grass and held it against my hot cheeks.
'Roger, are you all right?'
I got to my feet.
'Master, who could the bastard be?'
'Someone who is trying either to frighten us or kill us.'
Benjamin smiled and clasped my hand. 'But, Roger, you are a brave man. Tell no one what happened.' He grasped me by the elbow and hurried me back to the palace.
Now, once fear has gripped old Roger, there's no shaking it off. I have been shot at, stabbed, hacked, fed poison, despatched to the gallows, knelt to receive the headsman's blow and, on four occasions, nearly drowned. Each time I have escaped. Agrippa says I either have the devil's own luck or God's special protection. I say this to show I am not a coward. I just have this deep urge for self-preservation. Greater, perhaps, than that of any man on the face of this earth.
I was still shaking when we returned to our chamber. Benjamin had forgotten the incident. He began wondering when Uncle would send for us. I was more fearful, or more cunning. Whenever I leave a room, I always throw something on the bed, a napkin or an item of clothing. This time what I had left had been disturbed. I grabbed Benjamin's arm.
'Master, wait!'
I went across to my cot bed and pulled back the blankets. I almost swooned as I saw the great, ugly dagger blade which someone had pushed up under the mattress at the very point where, half-drunk or too tired to care, I would have flung myself down.
Chapter 4
I can honestly declare that most chamberlains are arrogant jackanapes. But there was never a more welcome sight than the one who knocked on our door, carrying a flagon of wine and two cups as a gift from Cardinal Wolsey to his dearest nephew. I grabbed the jug, filled a goblet to the brim and gulped the wine down. I refilled my cup and huddled in a corner from where I glared at my master.
The bastards!' I whispered. 'We haven't even left for Florence yet and some turd in taffeta is trying to kill us! Shot at! Daggers in the mattress!'
Benjamin ignored me. He pulled out the dagger blade and carefully searched the rest of the room. All the time I sat cursing and gulping the wine. I could do nothing else. I was terrified. Benjamin, at last, calmed me down.
'Think, Roger,' he whispered, crouching next to me. 'Think carefully. If the assassin wanted to kill us, he could have done so. I suspect we are being warned off and, surely, no one warns off Shallot?'
I thought differently. Benjamin was to be killed near the brook. I was to come back, distraught, perhaps drunk, and throw myself down on my bed. I was certain of one thing: somebody amongst the Albrizzis wanted us dead. I kept growling but at last the logic of Benjamin's words did calm my fears. I reluctantly stripped, washed, shaved and donned my best raiment (the chamberlain had informed us that the cardinal had insisted on this). We heard trumpet blasts from the great garden below, a sign that the sun was setting and the banquet was about to begin. Benjamin and I joined the other revellers streaming through the palace out into the royal garden on the other side of the great hall.
Once again Henry the great killer, the fat bastard, was indulging his love of masques and revels. The prince of unbounding stomach had ordered the garden, which stretched down to the lake, to be ringed by cresset torches. On the brow of a small hill was a summer house as massive as any hall. The exterior was concealed by interwoven b
owers, branches and clusters of white hazel nuts. The interior was hung with cloths, its ceiling decorated with ivy leaves, the floor ankle-deep in fresh, green rushes sprinkled with herbs. This magnificent chamber was lit by capped cresset torches and row upon row of beeswax candles on tables which had been arranged in the shape of a horseshoe. Chamberlains with their white wands of office carefully studied their scrolls and the order of seating. Naturally, Benjamin and I were placed at the bottom. Other courtiers and officers grouped round higher tables whilst the table on the gold carpeted dais was reserved for the beast himself, his Satanic Eminence, Wolsey, and the Florentine visitors. At the back of this high table, concealed by a huge banner in red, blue and gold depicting the royal arms of England, was a small door through which cooks, scullions and servants trotted to serve the various dishes to the guests. Men-at-arms, swords drawn, stood in the shadows.
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 l
ord 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 plaudits 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.