by Paul Doherty
‘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 hand 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.
We turned on to Paternoster Row and went up St Paul's Alley which led straight into the cathedral. As we passed, I studied the famous wall paintings of the Dance of Death: grotesque, macabre skeletons leaping and cavorting as they led hundreds into the great dark pit of Hell. I simply mention it because it has gone now. The Duke of Somerset pulled it down. We went into the cathedral along the nave, Paul's Walk, where men of the city strode, showed themselves, gossiped and did a little business. The choirboys were out in force, looking for anyone silly enough to wear spurs, for they had the right to demand 'spur' money as a fee. At the west end of the nave, about two dozen scribes sat at small tables scribbling letters and legal documents. Benjamin made his escort stop and stared at these industrious scribblers.
‘I wonder,' he whispered, 'if our blackmailer uses them?'
‘No, Master.' I pointed round. 'Just look at the rogues and rapscallions gathered here. Servants for hire, ragged-arsed lawyers looking for clients. If the scribe didn't betray their hirer, these would.'
Benjamin agreed. We went up to the sanctuary dominated by the gorgeously carved and decorated tomb of St Erconwald. A busy-looking cleric, hopping from foot to foot, was waiting for us there. He beckoned us quickly into the sacristy where a liveried thug introduced himself as John Ramasden. A captain of the guard of the King's palace at Whitehall, Ramasden was dressed in chainmail, a heavy warbelt slung round his waist. A hard-faced, lean, mean-eyed, fighting man. He ignored our introductions and came swiftly to the point.
'My orders are simple,' he barked. ‘When the cathedral bell tolls the Angelus, you are to go into St Paul's churchyard, carrying the gold. You are to place the gold on the steps of St Paul's Cross.' 'And then what?' I asked.
Ramasden pushed his face close; his blood-filled eyes reminded me of the King's.
‘I don't give a rat's turd what happens!' he replied: then he grinned. (He had one good tooth in his mouth and his breath was foul.) 'Some villain will try to pick up the sacks. I and my men will seize him and any accomplices, then it's heigh ho down to the Tower. Until then,' he pulled a face, 'we wait!'
And wait we did: the minutes seemed to last for hours. Benjamin, lost in his own thoughts, crouched on a stool, cradling the gold. Every so often he would look at me, shake his head and mutter.
‘But how could it be done? How on earth, Roger, could it be done?’
To be truthful, even my sharp wits were dulled. I jumped as the bells began to toll. Ramasden hustled us out by a side door into the vast expanse of St Paul's churchyard. Now, those of you who have been there, know the area is a small town in itself It stopped being used as a cemetery years ago, and became a shabby market where all the thieves congregated to share their ill-gotten gains. They're protected by some stupid city ordinance which stipulates no lawman or sheriff's officer can enter there in pursuit.
On that particular day, business was brisk. The air stank with a variety of smells: sweaty bodies, stale food being cooked over open fires, perfumes from the whores, whilst our ears were dinned by the clack of tongues and shouts of traders. A few people looked askance at Ramasden. However, he was wearing the royal livery, so no one dared accost him as we threaded our way past the battered stalls to where St Paul's Cross soared high above the graveyard. Now the cross was where heralds came to report news of great victories; the birth of a prince; to announce the sentencing of some great noble, or to give a lurid description of his death by disembowelling on Tower Hill. Around the cross were the bookstalls and pamphleteers whose clerks would sit and listen to such information and, within hours, be writing some broadsheet to sell in the streets outside. Above us the bell kept tolling as I anxiously searched the crowd, seeking a face I could recognise. At last, the chimes began. Benjamin and I counted aloud. Ten, eleven!'
And then, like the knell of death, the final one. Benjamin quickly moved forward and placed the gold on the steps of the cross. I was wondering how long it would stay: with every rogue in London milling about, any sack left unattended would disappear in a twinkling of an eye. I watched one sharp-eyed caitiff come from behind a stall and edge towards the sack. I started as a woman screamed. The sweating sickness! The sweating sickness!'
Her screams were drowned by a deafening explosion, as if someone had fired a cannon. Everyone scattered. Benjamin and I dropped our guard and, when we looked back, the bags were gone. I ran to the cross, up the steps and gazed over the crowd. Of course, everybody was running: either terrified that an infected person was near, eager to get away from the explosion, or determined either to guard their possessions or plunder someone else's. The scene was total chaos. Men and women fighting each other, stalls knocked over, knives being drawn, bottles hurled, children crying, women screaming, men cursing and shoving at each other. I glimpsed Ramasden, his sword drawn, beating people away from the cross.
The sacks have gone, Roger!' Benjamin shouted. And God knows who took them!' "But how?' I screamed back.
Benjamin sat on the bottom step, head in hands. It seemed to be the only thing to do, so I joined him.
‘I never thought of that.' Benjamin raised his head, staring at the chaos around him. 'What are all Londoners frightened of, Roger? The sweating sickness and fire.' He got to his feet. ‘We are wasting our time here!'
He went across and spoke to Ramasden, then beckoned to me to follow him back into the cathedral which was also deserted. ‘I am not a prophet,' my master remarked, squatting at the base of the pillar. "But I wager a tun of wine, Roger, that Ramasden comes and tells us there is no one ill of the sweating sickness, whilst the explosion came from a trail of gunpowder carefully laid in some enclosed space.'
Benjamin was correct. Ramasden followed us into the cathedral, swearing and cursing fit to burst.
The bastards!' he screamed, walking up and down in front of us. The misbegotten turds!'
'Are you talking about your men?' I asked. 'Who allowed the villain to escape?’
Ramasden ceased his pacing. He came over and kicked me on the sole of my boot.
'No, sir, I am not. I'm talking of the stupid drunk, sweating like a pig, who fell into a swoon just inside the churchyard. A silly woman believed a beggar who examined the man and said he was infected.' 'And the explosion?' Benjamin asked.
'A trail of powder,' Ramasden replied. ‘I.aid in a gulley which ran into one of the derelict tombs.' He shook his head. 'Nothing but a magnificent fart.' He hawked and spat on the church floor. "Didn't you see him?' Ramasden stared accusingly at us. He squatted down and poked me in the chest. ‘How
do I know you didn't take it yourself?' If you poke me again…!' I shouted.
'If you poke me again,' Benjamin repeated, ‘I’ll see you in the Tower, sir!' My master got to his feet, dragging me with him, and stared coolly at Ramasden. The gold has been taken by a subtle device and the rogue will be long gone. I shall report as much to my uncle the Cardinal.'
Ramasden stepped back, muttering apologies. Benjamin ignored him. He plucked at my sleeve and almost hurried me out of the cathedral, down past Paternoster Row to a small tavern built alongside Blackfriars Wall. "Now's not the time for eating and drinking!' I moaned. There is little more we can do’ Benjamin replied.
‘We could search for that beggar who raised the alarm, or make inquiries about who laid the gunpowder.'
Benjamin smiled. Hoger, do you think anyone in St Paul's churchyard saw what happened and, if they did, would any of those wolvesheads tell us the truth? We could spend hours making fools of ourselves.'
"But it must be someone from the Tower,' I said. 'Gunpowder is stored there.'
'Aye,' Benjamin sighed. "But it can also be bought, stolen, or even made. What we have to do, Roger, is discover whether Kemble, Vetch, Spurge, Mallow, or any one of those hangmen, were absent from the Tower this morning.' 'And if they are not?’
Then, dear Roger, we are truly in a pig's mess. Uncle will be furious. The King's rage…'
He paused as a servant brought us a tankard of ale and a platter of stew and vegetables. The King's rage can only be imagined!'
I dropped my horn spoon and gripped my belly. Once the news reached Windsor, the Great Beast would be bellowing. Herne the Hunter had publicly promised that I would bring the King safely through his present troubles. Now he was two thousand pounds poorer and the rumours of this blackmail were spreading further. I picked up my horn spoon again. Then it's back to the Tower, Master.'
'Oh no. We first have to check on Mistress Under-shaft's new-found wealth.'