by Paul Doherty
‘Your secret's safe, Mistress Undershaft.' I tapped her shoulder lightly. There are good physicians in the city. They could hide that for you.'
Benjamin also took her hand, vowing what she had told us would remain a secret. He made her promise that, if she remembered anything untoward, she would tell us.
When we left the house, darkness had fallen. Benjamin linked his arm through mine and we walked back towards the Tower. 'What do you think, Roger?' 'I believe her, Master. But, there again, if she can lie once, she can He a second time.' 'But you don't think that?'
'No, Master, I don't. I still wonder about her husband. Was that really his corpse discovered at Smithfield? Or is he the villain? An ex-priest, a violent man by all accounts.'
Benjamin stopped and leaned against a garden wall, listening to a nightingale which was singing so beautifully in the trees above his head.
'All things are possible, Roger. However, let's remember the three men who have been killed. They are all fairly young, tough, probably violent. They wouldn't give up their lives lightly. Ergo, were they murdered by someone close to them?'
'Not necessarily, Master,' I replied. ‘Undershaft, if it was he, could have been drugged or knocked on the head before he was burnt. Remember, his body was bundled into a cage at the height of the plague. No one would care a whit: Horehound and Hellbane could have gone the same way. I still believe we should ask the sheriff to search for Undershaft. Remember, he was a priest, skilled in matters of the Chancery. The drawing up and sealing of letters would be easy for such a man. But God knows where those blessed seals came from.,.'
'Aye, that's the stumbling block,' Benjamin agreed. Those damn seals.' He came closer. ‘I asked Agrippa about that. He confirmed the King had made a search of all Chanceries. Nothing remains from the reign of a young boy who ruled only for a few months some forty years ago.'
‘Henry will now be dancing up and down in fury, or gnawing on the rushes at Windsor, threatening to have my head on a pole,' I added bitterly.
Benjamin grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. Don't worry, Roger, the game's not over yet.'
Well, it nearly was. My master was far too trusting. We went down another alleyway, intending to enter the Tower by the Lion Gate. It was a quiet night, well away from the taverns and cheap markets of Petty Wales where you can buy or sell anything until the early hours. I was trailing slightly behind Benjamin, kicking at anything in my path, and wondering if I should suggest that we take a journey abroad. After all, we could be in Dover within a day, and in France by the end of the week. I was about to suggest this when a crossbow bolt flew by my face and cracked the plaster in the house alongside. I stopped.
My master pulled me down just as another bolt came whirring through the night air. We crouched like two little schoolboys, staring into the darkness, straining our ears for any sound. It came from the riverside,' Benjamin whispered.
I could hear the lap of the water and the faint cries of a boatman, but nothing else. The assassin could be anywhere,' I whispered.
Through the darkness came a whistle, full and merry on the night air, as if some lad was sitting on the quayside, a fishing rod in his hands. I recognised the tune, a lilting song, sung in the London taverns, about a young girl and her love for a great lord. Well, I did what I could. I whistled back. Once again an arrow smacked into the plaster above our heads. "Who's there?' Benjamin called.
The whistling began again, but this time it was chilling. I could imagine the assassin walking up and down, soft-footed, notching another bolt into the groove. The plaster of the house was white, and that was what he was watching. If we moved, he would see our silhouettes from where he stood with his back to the river, cloaked by the night. "Whistle again,' Benjamin ordered.
I tried to but my mouth was dry, and all I could do was croak. All the old signs of Shallot's terror were beginning to manifest themselves: a tightening of the stomach, a loosening of the bowels, and this overwhelming urge to run.
'For the love of life, whistle that bloody tune!' Benjamin whispered.
This time, panic lent its aid. I wet my lips, recalled the tune, and whistled it back. I also made the mistake of moving, and a crossbow bolt streaked across my hair. If it had been a barber's knife, I would have lost some of my lustrous locks. 'Now!' Benjamin screamed. 'Charge!'
I had no choice but to follow him and, even as I did, I recognised my master's wisdom. We were now away from the wall and the assassin would have to retreat. We streaked like greyhounds towards the river, shouting and yelling so loudly that even a sentry on the walls of the Tower called out to ask what was the matter. We reached the quayside: to my right I heard the faint patter of retreating footsteps. There was nothing, only a few boats tied to their poles, bobbing in the full evening current. Benjamin stopped and crouched down to ease the cramp in his legs and snatch gulpfuls of air. Well, well, Roger.'
He didn't have to commiserate with me. I was on my knees retching and coughing. I looked around, a postern-door in the Tower opened, and soldiers ran out towards us, carrying torches, swords drawn. 'Master Daunbey! Master Shallot!' I glanced up.
Vetch came forward. What's the matter? You were attacked?'
‘No!' I snarled, getting to my feet and helping my master up. ‘We always do this just before we retire to bed!'
Pushing our way through the soldiers, we made our way into the Tower. I was convinced it was time for old Roger to leave. As I settled on to my pallet-bed, I firmly resolved that, the first thing I would do the next morning, would be to persuade my master to join me.
Chapter 10
‘No, Roger, I will not.' Benjamin sat on his bed in our chamber in the Wakefield Tower and shook his head angrily.
We had spent most of the morning sharing a wineskin I had filched from the Tower kitchens, and discussing who the assassin could be. Now tired, our wits dulled, our heads thick, Benjamin and I just sat in our comfortable quarters and wondered what to do next. Benjamin had been so morose, ‘I’d tentatively put it to him that perhaps we should spend a few months beyond the seas.
'Roger,' he exclaimed, 'that would be betrayal of beloved Uncle's trust!'
'Damn him!' I cried. 'Master, in the last few months I have been hounded from Ipswich by the Poppletons, almost poisoned by Quicksilver, nearly died of the sweating sickness, pushed into a wolf-pen, and now someone is shooting arrows at me. Not to mention,' I continued bitterly, 'my desperate run through Windsor Forest which, if the King gets his hands on me, I am doomed to repeat!'
'How far would we get?' Benjamin retorted. ‘Don't you think the same thought has occurred to dearest Uncle? The ports would be watched. We would be arrested and back in the Tower, not as guests, but as prisoners. Moreover, if we journey abroad, how will we live? When could we come back? Moreover,' he added bitterly, 'you know the King's mind. He might start wondering who really is behind these blackmailing letters and demands for gold.' 'He wouldn't blame us!' I cried.
Benjamin glanced at me: I knew he was right. In his present mood, the Great Beast would be only too willing to point the finger. 'Ah well,' I sighed. "What do we do next?'
Benjamin stared round the chamber. We are well looked after,' he remarked. 'Let's wait here and think. Our enemies are bound to make a mistake.'
I reluctantly agreed: after all, Kemble was a perfect host.
Now, you young men who know the Tower might think it was all gloomy, wet, mildewed walls, draughty cells, narrow cold passageways and creaking doors. Oh, there's plenty of that, but our rooms in the Wakefield were spacious, well-lit by windows, all filled with glass and protected by shutters. Tapestries hung on the wall, we had soft beds, tables, chairs, a large aumbry for our clothes, as well as chests and coffers. In many ways it was a home from home, except for the problems which faced us. Cooks and servitors brought us wine and food, and Kemble issued an open invitation to dine with him or in the garrison refectory. However, for the next few days we kept to ourselves. Benjamin paced up and down. He slept, muttered to himself,
or studied Thomas More's History of Richard the Third.
In any other circumstances I would have gone wandering into the city looking for mischief, but I was frightened. Benjamin kept to his studies: he borrowed parchment, quills and inkhorn from the Tower stores, and began to scribble furiously. On the morning of our third day he finished. I came back from my usual walk on the Tower Green, where everyone could see me, to find him sitting on the bed, studying what he had written.
What if,' he began, 'the young Edward the Fifth did survive? Or his younger brother, or both? They kept their seals and now work in the Tower garrison as humble soldiers or servitors?' He took one look at my face and grinned. 'It was just an idea,' he declared. He swung his legs off the bed. This is the problem, Roger. Forty years ago, the two sons of Edward the Fourth, his eldest boy, also named Edward, and Richard Duke of York, were locked up in the Tower by their Uncle Richard. They disappeared. They could have been murdered, or they could have escaped. We know that, for most of Henry the Seventh's reign, the King's peace of mind was plagued by pretenders who claimed to be the lost Princes. Even our present King has had to face conspiracies from the secret Brotherhood of the White Rose.'
Benjamin walked to the window and looked down at the soldiers practising their archery on the Tower Green. 'Now, I think both Princes are probably dead. However, their seals, which should have been broken and defaced, are being used to blackmail Henry. The sequence of events is as follows, correct me if I am wrong. On the sixth of June last, the Guild of Hangmen celebrated the King's birthday in a banquet which turned into an orgy. The hangmen were dressed in their official garb. It's possible that one of them saw something in the Tower which put the whole company at risk. Time passes: the sweating sickness breaks out in London, but the garrison only suffers one casualty, Philip Allardyce, clerk of the stores. He falls ill and is looked after by the crone Ragusa. We know he was ill from the testimony of witnesses. The old woman claimed he died: his sheeted corpse was taken to the death-cart at the Lion Gate, where a bailiff also pronounced him dead.'
'Aye, that road is closed,' I agreed. We know Allardyce was ill and died. He can't possibly be the villain in the city'
The sweating sickness begins to rage,' Benjamin continued. ‘Kemble sealed the Tower as if it was under siege. He and his two principal officers stay here, as do Mallow and his guild. No one is allowed to enter or leave. Then the first blackmailing letter arrives. It was left in Kemble's chamber, so the writer must be someone in the Tower. However, he must also have an accomplice in the city who can issue those proclamations and demand the money be left near St Paul's. We also think the same villain is behind the death of the hangman Andrew Undershaft, whose blackened corpse was found in a cage at Smithfield. Agreed?' ‘Yes, Master.' 'And what else, Roger?'
The sweating sickness passes and the Tower is opened. Another hangman is murdered, knocked on the head and drowned in a sack in the Thames, whilst a further blackmail letter is left on the Abbot's seat at Westminster. We, unhappy two,' I continued bitterly, ‘have the miserable task of taking the gold to where the blackmailer wants it at St Paul's. By subtle trickery, the villain seizes this and also taunts us. Once again we know it could not have been anyone from the Tower as, for most of that particular day, the Tower was locked and sealed. Nevertheless, we come back here, Horehound is horribly murdered. We are none the wiser, except that we know someone in the Tower, and another outside, are working in partnership.' I paused.
Benjamin walked back to his bed and sat down, head in hands. ‘I was with Kemble when you were thrown into the wolf-pit,' he said, 'and we were both with the officers when Horehound was killed.'
'So?' I asked. 'Are you saying the malefactor must be amongst the hangmen?'
‘I think so,' he replied, and smiled at me. 'I am also beginning to wonder if you are correct, Roger. Is Andrew Undershaft really dead?'
'One thing does bother me,' I replied. 'Granted, the hangmen have been slaughtered because one of them saw something untoward, but why kill them in such barbarous and grisly ways? It's as if the killer is imitating every type of execution: burning in a cage, drowning in a sack, or being pressed to death under a heavy door. There's a malicious relish here,' I declared. 'As if the assassin is determined to kill the hangmen in the most barbaric way possible.' 'For revenge?' Benjamin asked.
'Possibly,' I replied. We should have another word with Master Mallow.' 'As the King wants a word with you!'
I spun round. Agrippa stood in the doorway, his black, broad-brimmed hat clutched in his hands. 'You've come from Windsor?' Benjamin asked.
'Aye.' Agrippa walked across and sat down on a stool, staring at us with those strange eyes. Tell us the worst,' I moaned.
"The King is furious. He's talking of treason, dereliction of duty by faithful servants. Do you remember the captain of the guard in St Paul's churchyard? What was his name?' 'Ramasden,' I replied.
Well, Ramasden's no more. He was hanged on the common gallows outside Windsor. The King is threatening to do the same to you, Master Roger. What's worse -' Agrippa pulled a small scroll from beneath his cloak and handed it to me – 'yesterday morning this was handed to one of the royal justices as he left Westminster Hall.'
I gazed down at the elegant writing. To the King5 and the red silk ribbon like a circle of blood around the scroll. 'Not another letter!' Benjamin exclaimed.
I undid the ribbon. The letter was shorter than the first but couched in the same arrogant, impudent tones. 'From Edward V, King of England, etc., etc., To one Henry Tudor, calling himself King…'
The date given was two days earlier at the Tower. The threat was the same: the writer accused Henry of trying to trap him, and therefore imposed a fine of one thousand gold coins. This time the money was to be left at the foot of the gallows at Tyburn.
'On your allegiance to Us,' the letter concluded, 'do not attempt to obstruct or impede our rightful collection of these taxes.'
The monies are to be left there at Michaelmas,' Agrippa explained.
I looked up. Two weeks hence.' I threw the letter at Benjamin. ‘Master, what can we do?' I went and sat next to him on the bed and gazed bleakly at Agrippa. 'What's the King so frightened of?' I shouted. 'Why doesn't he just refuse to pay the gold and tell the villain to go hang?'
Agrippa shook his head like a benevolent schoolmaster facing a dim-witted pupil.
‘You don't understand, do you? In his father's reign a kitchen boy pretended to be a Yorkist prince. A mere kitchen boy, Roger! Yet he won the support of powerful princes abroad. He invaded from Ireland. Henry's father met him at East Stoke in Nottinghamshire, and nearly lost the battle to a kitchen boy who could produce very little proof of his scurrilous claims! A few years later, Perkin Warbeck, the son of a Flemish weaver, came forward and claimed to be one of the younger Princes, Richard of York. And, for almost ten years, harassed the King's father to the point of distraction. Even now Henry is busy watching anyone with Yorkist blood in him.'
Agrippa beat his hat against his knee. 'Can you imagine, Roger? Must I keep repeating it? What would happen if such letters, signed and sealed by a Yorkist prince, began appearing all over London? Letters bearing the royal seal, proclaiming Henry as a usurper and alleging that the burdens the country is facing are because of his father's usurpation? Henry would spend tens of thousands raising troops and crushing revolts. No, this villainy must be stopped, the perpetrators captured and hanged immediately.' 'And is that all you can say?' I yelled back. He spread his hands. 'I can only say what I know'
'Listen.' Benjamin, who had been studying the manuscript carefully, rolled it up and handed it back to me. 'My good doctor, whatever this villain says, I believe the two Princes in the Tower are dead. The constable, Sir Robert Brackenbury, who looked after them, was killed at Bosworth. Sir James Tyrrell, who may have had a hand in their murder, is also gone. However, Sir Thomas More, in his History of Richard the Third, alleges two common malefactors were involved in the Princes' murders, Dighton and Gree
ne. Does anyone know of their whereabouts?'
'My Lord Cardinal has already thought of that,' Agrippa answered. 'Careful search has been made amongst the public records. Dighton was a northerner, he may have been executed in Durham but we have no real proof. Greene was a Londoner, a young man, a rogue. After Bosworth, a hunt was mounted for him. All we have is a description: lean, narrow-faced, with a terrible scar on his right wrist.' Agrippa sighed and got to his feet. 'But that's all I know. Now I have to report back to Windsor. You have the letter and the King's instructions. I wish you well.'
I made an obscene gesture as the door closed behind him. 'Shall we go to France?' I asked.
Benjamin sniffed the air. 'Isn't Dr Agrippa's perfume strange?' he muttered. 'Some say it is pleasant but others claim it's foul.'
The same goes for a hanging!' I snapped. 'It's pleasant if you're watching, or so they say, but dreadful to experience.' Benjamin got to his feet, picking up his doublet. 'All paths are closed,' he declared, 'except one which you, Roger, have opened.' He smiled down at me. 'Let's ask Master Mallow a few questions.' He picked up the scroll Agrippa had brought and pushed it into one of the saddlebags hanging from a peg on the wall. We've some time yet.'
We left Wakefield Tower. It was strange to be surrounded by the daily retinue of the garrison: soldiers cleaned their equipment whilst children chattered and played in the sun: a cartload of provisions trundled towards the kitchens; masons banged and sang on the scaffolding. Benjamin made inquiries and discovered the hangmen had been busy carrying out executions and would be at the Gallows tavern. We went there but found it empty. Benjamin ordered ale, the landlord assuring us that, before the hour was out, Mallow and his apprentices would arrive. We sat sipping morosely at our ale until they did, coming through the doorway like a collection of demons. This was the first time I had seen them dressed in their official garb: black, high-heeled boots, long leather jackets of the same colour, hoods with a half-mask over their faces. They looked sinister and, as they walked across towards us, I realised how difficult it would be to tell one from the other in some darkened gallery or half-lit room. They greeted us cheerfully enough, pulling back their cowls, taking off the face masks, wiping the sweat from their faces as they shouted for ale. 'A good day's work?' I asked.