by Paul Doherty
'We are born killers,' he murmured. 'We have a love affair with death. And, if our Henry has his way, he will glut all our appetites for executions and the spilling of blood.'
We used our warrants and the swords of our entourage to force our way through, right up to the black-draped execution platform which stood on the brow of the hill ringed by yeomen of the guard. On the platform, arms folded, stood a red-masked executioner. Beside him his assistant, dressed from head to toe in black leather with a pair of antlers on his head, held the huge, two-headed axe near the execution block. A priest mumbled prayers whilst officials whispered to each other and gazed expectantly over the sea of faces around them.
At first quite a peaceful scene, but let old Shallot tell you: in later years (and, yes, it is another story), I had to place my head on that block, the axe was raised - and only a last-minute pardon saved me. I tell you, the waiting is worse than death itself. The great hunk of wood reeks of blood and all around you is the paraphernalia of violent death: a sheet to soak up the blood which spurts violently from the neck, the basket for the head, the elm-wood coffin for the torso, and the knife just in case they leave the odd sinew or muscle uncut. Quick it may be but it's still a terrible death. When Mary, Queen of Scots was decapitated, her eyelids kept fluttering and the lips moving for at least a minute after the head left the body. Mind you, matters were not helped by the executioner at Fotheringay not realising the Scottish queen was wearing a wig and letting the head drop and bounce like ball.
I had seen executions before but never anything so ceremonious as Buckingham's. Agrippa closed his eyes, I am sure he was asleep, whilst Benjamin, white-faced, stared under the platform. I followed his gaze and saw small, dark shapes moving about.
'Who are they?' I asked one of the guards.
'Dwarfs,' the fellow replied out of the corner of his mouth. 'They buy the right from the mayor. When the head is lopped off, the blood gushes out and seeps through the wood. They catch it in their rags and sell them as relics and mementos.' The man turned and spat over his shoulder. 'I understand there are always plenty of buyers.'
Our wait continued, the crowd growing restless. Pedlars moved amongst the throng selling sweetmeats, sliced apples and even ragged copies of Buckingham's so-called last confession'. Water tipplers with their stoups cursed and bawled for trade. Children cried and were hoisted up on their parents' shoulders. The great ones of the land, lords and ladies, both they and their horses covered in silken canopies, forced their way through for a clearer view. Everyone pushed and shoved and took their violence out on a cut-purse who was caught red-handed. He was nearly torn apart by the crowd until the sheriff's men hustled him away.
The sky darkened, great grey clouds sweeping up the Thames. People saw them as a divine omen, God's displeasure at Buckingham's death, and their curses against the Cardinal grew even more vocal when the cold rain soaked them to the skin.
The storm passed and, as the clouds broke, we heard a roar from the crowds near the Tower. A group of horsemen appeared, led by the sheriffs and mayor. They ringed a tall, auburn-haired man, his face as pale as the open-necked shirt he wore under a scarlet cloak. Agrippa whispered that this was Buckingham.
The horsemen approached the scaffold, dismounted, and Buckingham walked up the steps, cool and calm as if he was about to deliver a sermon rather than meet his maker. He knelt before the priest who sketched a hasty blessing, exchanged words with the sheriffs, then came and leaned over the scaffold above us. Yet, at the very moment he began speaking, a declamation of his innocence, a wind sprang up and wafted the words from his mouth.
Pressed in by people all around me, I looked along the line of yeomen. My attention was caught by a tall, swarthy-faced man, his hair black as night, nose beaked like an eagle. But what made him and his red-haired companion so singular were that both were garbed in black from head to toe.
My attention then turned to the young woman standing next to these two crows. She had the hood of her cloak pushed back, revealing jet-black hair, a high forehead and a strikingly beautiful face. She must have sensed my interest and glanced towards me - and I was smitten to the heart by those dark luminous eyes. She moved her cloak slightly and I saw that she was wearing a gown of amber silk. One jewelled hand came up and I glimpsed the pure white froth of lace at neck and sleeve and the glint of a small spray of diamonds pinned to her bodice and another on the wide band of amber velvet which bound her beautiful hair. She smiled (though that may have been my imagination), then turned to speak to a tall, fair-haired man with the rubicund face and portly features of a wealthy landowner. He had his arm around a pale-faced, dark-haired woman and, as the crowd shifted, I saw that she was leaning against him, swooning in terror at what was about to happen.
'Who are they?' I nudged Benjamin who, like Agrippa, seemed to be asleep on his feet.
He shook his head but Agrippa followed my gaze.
'The fair-haired fellow is Sir John Santerre, Lord of the Manor of Templecombe in Somerset. The fainting lady is probably his wife.'
'And the young beauty?' I asked.
'Santerre's daughter, Rachel.'
'Why are they here?' I whispered.
They are come to London to account and purge their innocence. Sir John and his family must, at the King's orders, witness Buckingham's death.'
'Why?'
'Never mind, you'll find out.'
Agrippa's face hardened as he shifted his gaze to the black-garbed men around the Santerres.
'Before you ask, Master Shallot, the man as dark as Satan is Sir Edmund Mandeville, his red-haired companion Master Geoffrey Southgate, and somewhere near them must be their two sinister clerks, Cosmas and Damien.'
Now even my master looked uneasy.
'Who the bloody hell are they?' I whispered hoarsely. 'What do they mean to you, Master?'
'They are the "Agentes in Rebus",' Agrippa continued.
My blood ran cold. I had heard of these unpleasant fellows, merciless bastards, the Cardinal's professional spies and assassins. You see, Benjamin and I were Wolsey's emissaries, given this task or that, but the 'Agentes in Rebus', literally the 'Doers of Things', were the Cardinal's own special spies.
Even in my hanging around the court I had heard of Mandeville who worked like a spider, spinning webs to catch the King's enemies. And, if he didn't find the conclusive evidence, he just made it up. His agents could pop up anywhere, disguised as they wished: a pedlar, a mountebank, even one of the Moon People who wander the road in their gaudy painted wagons. Now every King has his spy service: the French have the 'Luciferi', or 'Lightbearers'; the Ottoman Turks 'The Gardeners'; the Doge of Venice 'The Secretissimi' and Henry of England his 'Agentes in Rebus*. They were founded by Cardinal Morton, chief minister to the King's father, and still flourish to this very day, the most secret servants of the crown. Sometimes they can live for years as your servant, mistress, even your brother or sister. But when the time comes, if your head has to roll, they will produce the evidence.
'Were they involved in this affair?' I whispered.
Agrippa waved his hand at me. 'Yes, yes.' He stopped whispering as Buckingham stepped back from the executioner and suddenly did a very strange thing. He came across, leaned over the wooden balustrade and looked directly at me, then Agrippa, and finally Benjamin. His eyes were tearful but clear and bright.
'I am innocent,' he hoarsely whispered. I only caught his words faintly. 'Before the hour is out, I shall meet my maker face to face, but I am innocent!' He pointed directly at Agrippa. 'Remember that!'
Somewhere a single drum began to beat. The yeoman began to push the crowd back, allowing us a better view of what was to happen. Buckingham once more knelt at the feet of the priest. The executioner then knelt to him, asking the Duke for the usual pardon as well as the customary fee. (I can never understand that! How can someone say they are sorry, then cut your bloody head off and, at the same time, ask to be paid for it? Many years later, when I was taken to the block, I t
old the bastard to piss off and do his worst!)
At last Buckingham knelt down before the block. A servant bound his hair up but the Duke shook his head when a blindfold was offered. He bowed and slightly turned his head, his hands spread out, moving them once like a stricken bird before it falls. The drum beat grew louder, the two-headed axe rose in a brilliant arc and fell with a thud which sounded like a clap of thunder. A bright spurt of blood shot up. The crowd, hitherto deathly silent, gave a collective sigh at the blood letting and the dwarfs beneath the scaffold became busy. The executioner held up Buckingham's head and came to the edge of the scaffold.
'So die all traitors!' he shouted.
I looked away. Benjamin had his back turned.
'So die all traitors!' the executioner repeated.
'Oh, piss off!' a voice shouted.
'You've got the wrong bloody head,' another bellowed. 'It should be the butcher's son's!'
Raucous jeers mounted as the scaffold began to be pelted with rotten fruit and offal. Soldiers began to move in and the crowd broke up.
'Come on, Agrippa!' Benjamin hissed.
The magician shook himself and looked around.
'Yes, yes, it's time we went.'
We forced our way down Tower Hill following the wall until we entered the fortress by the Water Gate. (Ah, my chaplain interrupts. Yes, yes, my little sweet is correct. Later generations call this 'Traitors' Gate' - and what a procession went through it! Anne Boleyn, defiant to the last; Thomas More cracking jokes; John Fisher praying; Catherine Howard jeering at Henry's sexual prowess. Oh, by the way, she was right, it wasn't much! I danced between the sheets with young Kate and we roared with laughter at Henry's antics. She was killed and I went to the block but that's another story.)
Inside the Tower soldiers and yeomen were now standing down, having manned the walls and gathered behind the sally ports just in case there was a riot. Led by Agrippa, we wound down between the different towers until we reached the Wakefield - what the popular voice now calls the 'Bloody Tower'.
'Come!' Agrippa ordered.
We opened an iron-studded door at the basement of the Bloody Tower and walked into a windowless chamber lit only by smoking cressets wedged between the bricks. At first I couldn't see clearly and all I could hear was the murmur of voices and the creaking of ropes, but then my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. I heard my master gasp and, peering through the gloom, made out the sweat-soaked, half-naked figures of the torturers, grouped round the 'Duke of Exeter's Daughter', a popular name for the rack ever since the Duke of Exeter introduced it into England as a means of loosening tongues and getting to the truth - as politicians so aptly put it.
The poor man stretched there was naked except for a loin cloth. I glimpsed wispy white hair and a thin, emaciated figure stretched out on this bed of pain, a foot and a hand being tied at each corner. The torturers manned a wheel and, when they turned this, the bed stretched, cracking bone, muscle and sinew.
Agrippa, hidden in the shadows, beckoned the master torturer across. The fellow, greasy-haired and with a straggly beard, lumbered over like some great bear. His naked torso glistening with sweat, his threadbare hose pushed into boots were similarly soaked. Nevertheless, he was a man who obviously loved his job for he smiled cheerily through his tangle of beard.
'No news yet, Master.'
'Nothing new?' Agrippa asked.
'Only what he said before.'
'How long will he last?' Agrippa asked, still keeping well 4n the shadows whilst Benjamin and I stared fearfully at this dreadful scene. Believe me, if you wish to see hell on earth then watch a man being racked till his arms and legs pop out of their sockets, the torso grows longer and the privy parts become ruptured. Once I was forced to watch the torture of Nicholas Owen, the poor Jesuit lay brother who built the priest's hole in my house and others up and down the kingdom. A crafty, subtle carpenter was poor Owen. He was racked until his body fell apart; they had to hold it together with steel plates so that they could take him out and hang him. Lord, what a cruel world we live in! I fainted at the torture inflicted on Owen but, when I saw Master Hopkins, I stood like a rabbit terrified by a stoat.
'Do you think,' Agrippa asked quietly, 'Master Hopkins knows anything?'
'Yes and no,' the torturer replied. 'But he won't tell us. He is near death, Master. There's not much time left now.'
Agrippa led us back into the daylight.
'Stay here!' he ordered.
He went up the main steps of the Bloody Tower and came back with a bundle of clothes in his hand, afterwards re-entering the torture chamber. Benjamin and I stood like two school boys dismissed from their classroom. 'What now, Master?' I asked.
'Hush!' he whispered. 'All we are being shown, Roger, are the opening scenes. I am sure sweetest Uncle will tell us the plot of the play.' He waved a hand at the door to the torture chamber. 'I cannot abide such cruelty! Hopkins may well be a traitor but there's no need for this.'
The grass was still wet after the rainstorm so he led me across to a wooden bench next to a small paved square.
'Do you know, Roger,' he muttered when we took our seats, 'common law in England forbids such torture?'
(Well, I could have burst out laughing, and still do at the memory, for Fat Henry, the evil bastard, believed in torturing everyone. When he wanted to send his second queen to the scaffold, the musician Mark Smeaton was tortured until he confessed to adultery with her, being promised a swift death if he implicated poor Anne.)
I looked at the square pavement beside me and noticed a small dull stain in the centre.
'What is this, Master?'
Benjamin shuffled his feet. 'This is where princes die, Roger,' he murmured. 'When the person is too important to be a spectacle for the mob, a scaffold's set up here and the head lopped off.'
Strange, isn't it? There was I sitting next to the place where Anne Boleyn, who hired her own executioner from Calais, later put her neck on the block, as did poor Catherine Howard who spent the night before her death practising her poise for the execution stroke. Here died poor Tom More, old Fisher, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury and her three sons. Ah, well!
Benjamin was lost in his own thoughts so I gazed round, half-wondering what might happen to us, when a cart entered the inner bailey bearing a plain wooden coffin. The two waggoners were cursing and laughing between themselves.
'What do you carry, friends?' I asked. The men smiled at each other, got down and hobbled the horses.
'Half the Earl of Stafford!' one of them quipped. He saw the look of stupefaction on my face. 'Well, the head's on London Bridge!' the fellow continued. 'And the rest—' He gestured towards the small, grey stone church of St Peter ad Vincula, the Tower chapel. 'The rest will go beneath the stones like all the others.'
He turned away as an officer and a group of soldiers hurried up to carry the loose-lidded coffin out of the cart and along the gravel path into the darkening chapel. A strange place, St Peter's! All the corpses of men and women executed on Tower Hill or Tower Green lie buried there. Now few people know this but, beneath the chapel, runs a secret passageway or gallery and, years later, I had to hide there. What a dreadful sight! The floor under the chapel awash with headless bodies, all dressed in the glittering rags in which they died. The coffins were simple and soon fell apart so I crawled across the skeletons of Lord Hastings, Anne Boleyn, the de la Poles, Catherine Howard and Thomas Cromwell. (A cunning bastard! I was one of those who arrested him after he had dinner in the Tower.)
Can you imagine it? Wedged between the foundations and the floor of the chapel, a sea of headless corpses? Good Lord, even today at the very thought of it I awake sweating, bawling for a cup of claret, Phoebe's fat buttocks and the plump tits of young Margot. No wonder they say the Tower is infested with ghosts!
I tell you, one time I was there at night, secretly visiting young Elizabeth when her sister Bloody Mary had imprisoned her. The gates were locked and I was shut inside so hid behind a rose
bush which grows alongside the chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. At one o'clock in the morning I awoke, the hairs on my neck prickling. Deep fear seized me, freezing my heart and twisting my bowels. Looking up I saw a faint bluish glow at one of the chapel windows and heard strange music. I tell you this and I don't lie! I, Roger Shallot, who have seen the will o' the wisps glow above the marsh and witnessed the terrors that stalk the lonely moors, scaled the walls of St Peter ad Vincula and stared through the window. There, in ghostly procession, a long line of figures, including all those who had died at the Tower, swept in stately procession towards the high altar. Oh Lord, I half-fainted in fear. And if you don't believe me, go there, just sit in that chapel for half an hour, and you'll feel the ghosts gather round you.
Mind you, on that distant autumn's day I was more terrified of the living and wondered what the mysterious Agrippa was involving us in. We must have sat there for a full hour, subdued and rather morose, until the doctor suddenly reappeared, coming up the steps dressed in the garb of a priest.
"Hopkins has told me everything,' he murmured, sitting down between us like a benevolent uncle.
'What do you mean, sir?' snapped Benjamin. 'And why are you dressed like that?'
'Well, I heard his last confession.'
Benjamin stood up in surprise. 'Sir, you tricked the man! What is revealed in confession is sacred, and you are no priest!'
Agrippa smiled benignly. 'Who said I wasn't a priest, Benjamin?' He looked at my master squarely. 'And I am not interested in Master Hopkins's sins but in the information he provided. I know Canon Law, that's not covered by the seal of confession.'
Benjamin blew out his cheeks and sat down. 'In which case, what did Master Hopkins reveal?'
'Well,' Agrippa stretched out his short legs, 'according to Hopkins, the Grail and the Sword Excalibur still lie in Glastonbury.'
'Where?' I asked.
'Ah!' Agrippa smacked his lips. 'Do you have a wineskin, Shallot?' 'Yes, but it's empty.'