by Paul Doherty
Once I was back in the manor it was days of wine and roses. The news spread and soon I had a constant stream of visitors to the hall: some came just to touch the spear, others to receive a cure. Now, as any doctor will tell you, believe that you are going to be cured and you are well over halfway to good health. I did a roaring trade! (Oh yes, Goliath's foreskin, hairs from Balaam's ass and a cracked mirror once used by Delilah.) My little chest of coins grew. I basked in the approval of my neighbours. But ah, foolish man, Just when my greatness was ripening it was nipped in the bud by a savage cold frost Late one afternoon the Poppleton brothers arrived at my door, with a group of their henchmen, servile as worms, bowing and scraping, friendly eyed, their mouths stuffed with flattery. We took sweetmeats and white wine in the parlour. They complimented me on my growing fame and then Edmund, the elder weasel, leaned forward, a bag of silver clinking in his hand.
'Dearest Roger.' Tears brimmed in his eyes. 'Mother is unwell, a fever; would you, for love of us, bring the spear to cure her?'
I should have sensed a trap but the clinking of silver was music to my ears. Moreover, you can fake a relic but very rarely a real fever so I agreed. We journeyed back across the valley to the house of the Great Mouth. For once she was silent, lying like some great bloated toad against the bolsters, her black hair damp with sweat, her fat, pasty face shimmering like a lump of lard under the sun. She had a fever. Now I had brought the phial with me and asked the Poppletons for a cup of watered white wine. Edmund and Robert hurried off together and they brought it back in a heavily embossed pewter cup with a broad bowl, thick-stemmed on a heavily bejewelled base. I sought a diversion asking for a napkin and poured the powder in. Edmund then took the cup and gave it to his mother. At my insistence she sipped and sipped, then I laid the spear by her side.
Now, I certainly didn't want to shelter in the house of my enemies all night. I declared I would stay until dusk when they would see a change in their mother's complexion. The brothers left and I wandered round the chamber. There were a few little gee-gaws, a ring, a cross, which all disappeared into my sack. I had sensed a change in the Poppletons' attitudes: their veneer of politeness was now punctuated by sneers and malicious looks. I doubted if I would get my silver so I also took the cup. Lying sprawled on the bed, the Great Mouth was becoming calmer, her breathing light, her skin cool to the touch so, when I heard the village bells chiming across the fields for Vespers, I took my spear and made to leave. The Poppletons, still servile, surprisingly paid me my silver. I passed Lucy in the gallery, winked and blew her a silent kiss. I collected my horse and rode like the wind back to the manor.
In retrospect, I admit, I was a tittle-brain. I should not have been deceived by those glass-faced flatterers, those vipers, those malt worms, those diseases in human form.
I was awoken just before dawn by a pounding on the door. I woke thick-headed, my mouth still sweet with the taste of wine. Lucy, accompanied by my bailiff John Appleyard, a good, honest man, stood in the gallery. 'In heaven's name!' I exclaimed. 'Roger, you must flee!' Lucy pushed me back into the room. 'Roger, you must flee or you'll hang!' 'In heaven's name, woman!' 'Mistress Poppleton is dead! Her sons are now claiming you poisoned her!' 'She had a fever!'
'Aye, and you made it worse!' she exclaimed. 'No one but you gave her anything to eat or drink. A physician was called and has already shrieked poison.' She grasped my shoulders and shook me. 'Roger, they'll take and hang you!'
'She speaks the truth,' Appleyard declared. 'They'll know Lucy is gone by now and they'll not wait for the sheriff. Master Roger, you know the Poppletons! An axe in your head or an arrow in your back and they all take the oath that you were trying to flee.' 'But I hardly touched the woman!' I cried.
'They say you are a thief, that you stole objects as well as the cup in which you put the poison.'
I closed my eyes. Oh, what a terrible pit I had fallen into. I had stolen and, in my heart, I knew Appleyard was correct. I dressed quickly. I took my war-belt and stuffed my panniers with whatever coins I could lay my hands on. I filled another saddlebag with my relics, a change of clothing and all that I had borrowed from the Poppleton household. I took the fastest horse from my stable, told Appleyard to look after the manor and gave Lucy a juicy kiss. I then fled, even as Appleyard cried that he could see dust along the trackway as the Poppletons approached.
I rode like some bat spat out of hell. I stopped at night to rest my horse and ease the ache in my bones. On the following morning, despite my master's strictures, I entered London. Oh, it was good to be back in the melting pot, in that great cauldron which bubbles all day and every night with excitement and knavery. I kept well away from the beaten path and, in those early hours, I crossed the city into the stinking alleyways and maze of warrens around Whitefriars.
Now. I am not going to give you a treatise on coincidences. In the end, I suppose, everything is woven together. During my flight into London, I'd recalled the advice of Ludgate the relic-seller so I searched out the tavern he'd mentioned. The Flickering Lamp was a shabby, two-storeyed place, though the taproom was spacious with a small garden beyond. Boscombe was not the usual greasy, fat-gutted taverner. He was tall, wiry as a whippet, his face tanned and weather-beaten. He must have been well past his fortieth year but his smiling eyes and mouth made him look younger. When I met him he was dressed as an arch-deacon and, seeing my surprise, he explained how he often entertained the customers by dressing up in various disguises. I told him about Ludgate, explaining that I had relics to sell and needed to hire a chamber so I might sell them in the streets around. He shook his head.
'I've three chambers upstairs,' he replied, his voice rather guttural. 'But I don't let them out: not even the scullions and tapsters sleep here.' He studied me closely. 'Anyway, what do you know about relics? I mean real ones?' 'I have heard of the Orb of Charlemagne,' I replied.
He narrowed his eyes. 'Aye, and I've heard about the true cross. Who told you about the Orb?'
'My master,' I retorted, deciding to name drop. 'Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to Cardinal Wolsey.'
'I couldn't care if he was nephew to the Great Cham!' He raised one hand in mock benediction, a sign of dismissal. I picked up my saddlebags and walked to the door. 'Shallot?’ I turned. Boscombe was smiling.
'On second thoughts, I'll rent you the chamber. But keep it clean and no fighting!'
I spent that first day at the Flickering Lamp lying on my back staring up at the rafters, trying to discover what had happened: going back to that chamber where the Great Mouth had lain sweating on her bed. Had she been poisoned before I arrived? I shook my head. No, her two brats would be very careful. They'd have all the servants and cooks ready to take the oath that the only thing to have passed Mistress Poppleton's lips was the cup of watered wine I gave her. The woman had been poisoned, I was sure of that. But how? By her sons? But for what reason? I wished Benjamin was back but, there again, crying over spilt milk is not one of my failings. My busy mind turned like a ferret in a rabbit warren as to how I could sell my relics.
Now, I had been down on my luck in London before. The last time was when the sweating sickness had raged like some storm around the streets, but now all was quiet. Of course I could have gone to court but the Poppletons would be searching for me there so, the next morning, I took my bag of relics, bought a tray off a journeyman and began to wander the streets selling my wares. Now, you young people, don't misunderstand me. I enjoyed what I did and I loved London. Oh, it was good to be back with the foists and the naps, the prigs and the dummerers, the counterfeit-men, the cranks, the roaring lads and bully boys; the swaggering thieves, the bucks in buckram, the punks in taffeta, the whores in their garish wigs and colourful dresses. I tell you this, such rogues do not live long but they live well and I rarely got to bed before dawn. I have a silver tongue and, provided I keep my face shaved and clean, I can look as honest as a nun at prayer. Soon I began to make a profit but then things turned sour like milk left out in the sun.
'What have we here?' I swaggered in, a silver piece between my fingers. 'Master taverner, a leg of chicken and a capon. Ale by the quart!'
A figure came out of the shadows. He was dressed in white from head to toe: white hose, white boots, white doublet, white coat, a band of white silk around his neck. However, if his clothes were strange, his face could only be described as hideous. One eye was missing, and a small glass ball took its place: the other contained as much malice and evil as you'd ever see in a thousand eyes. The skin of his long face was tawny, his bloodless lips were pitted with a strange blue dye whilst, instead of a nose, he had a silver cone held on by straps tied at the back of his head. His black hair, receding on his scalp which was also pitted with blue, hung in coils to his shoulders. He carried no weapons, only a silver topstick which he tapped on the wooden floorboards as he walked. I abruptly realised that many of the strangers at the tables around me were part of his retinue. I had not seen any of them before. These weren't cranks and counterfeit-men but killers; mean-eyed, narrow-mouthed and armed to the teeth with swords and daggers, some even had large horse pistols in their belts. They fanned out around me. I realised this was not a social visit. A dagger pricked the nape of my neck. 'On your knees before the Lord Charon.' 'Who in hell's name is he?' I snarled. 'He is Lord of the Underworld.' I turned. 'And you?'
'I,' a red-haired, dog-faced man replied, 'am his faithful Cerberus.' 'Oh yes,' I sneered. 'And I'm Lucrezia Borgia.'
A kick to my legs sent me o'n my knees. My head was yanked back and I was forced to stare up into Charon's hideous face. Memories stirred, stories about a vagabond king, a Prince of Thieves who controlled the rogues and riffraff of London. He took his name from the Greek ferryman of the underworld who had a snarling dog called Cerberus. Charon had supposedly been a gunsmith, a master of the King's ordnance, until, at some siege on the Scottish March, powder had blown up in his face. Such a man now stared down at me. I couldn't decide which was the more horrible: the good eye glittering with malice or the ball of glass that gave him the look of a living corpse.
'Welcome to my court.' Charon's lips hardly moved. 'Who gave you licence to trade in the city? To harvest the fields of my manor? To reap where you have not sown?' 'Piss off!' I shouted back. 'Boscombe allowed me!'
(I am a born coward but one with a hot temper. I don't like being threatened. I wish I had just given my true nature full rein, grasped the ruffian's ankles, kissed his feet and slobbered for mercy. I might have been spared that knock on the head which sent me unconscious and the horrible nightmare which followed.)
I returned to consciousness in a cavern lit by cresset torches and rushlights. The smell was strange, savoury roasting meat mixed with the more pungent, iron smell of dirty water. I picked myself up and saw that Charon was sitting on a throne-like chair, his feet resting on a gold-fringed, velvet footstool. On either side of the cavern his companions lounged at trestle tables covered with silver and pewter plates. Rugs of pure wool, at least three inches thick, covered parts of the floor. Tapestries of different colours and bearing various insignia, especially the letters 'I.M.', covered the walls. Behind Charon's chair I glimpsed chests, locked and padlocked, but one was open, a small moneybox filled to the brim with silver coins. Cerberus swaggered over. He pushed a cup of wine into my hands. 'Drink!' he growled. 'All of the Lord Charon's guests drink.' 'Where am I?' Cerberus pulled a bodkin from his belt and jabbed it in my arm. I screamed with pain. 'Drink!' he ordered.
I did so: it was the best claret I had supped since I had left Ipswich.
'Do you know where you are?' Charon leaned forward. 'Master Shallot, do you know where you are?' 'Judging by the company, somewhere in hell.'
Charon snapped his fingers and the bodkin went in my arm again. I tried to grasp Cerberus but he danced away, then came back and stung me again. I crouched back on my heels, nursing my arm. 'Please,' I pleaded, 'I have done no wrong.'
Immediately all the ruffians grasped their own arms, swaying backwards and forwards. 'Please,' they mimicked, ‘I have done no wrong.'
I kept a still tongue. My belly was beginning to bubble and cold sweat made itself felt.
'You are in the sewers of London,' Charon spoke up. He gestured airily at the vaulted roof. 'The Romans built these.' He got to his feet again, clapping his hands gently. 'I want to show you something, Shallot.' He tapped me on the nose. ‘I should really cut your throat or place you face down in some filthy sewer. Or, even better, show you what happens to those who cross me. But you are Shallot, aren't you? Friend of Benjamin Daunbey, nephew to the great cardinal. What are you doing in London?' 'Selling relics.' 'The Orb of Charlemagne?' I smiled ingratiatingly. 'Not that,' I replied. 'At least not yet.' 'Do you know about the Orb?' 'A little.'
Charon's glass eye bored down at me. 'I should kill you,' he whispered. 'But you've powerful friends and I have bigger game to hunt. You may prove useful.' He drew himself up. 'So, this time a warning, as well as confiscation of all your goods.'
He pointed to a pile of my possessions in the corner. I glimpsed my saddlebags, shirts, relics, even the small bag of coins I had hidden under the floorboard in my chamber at the Flickering Lamp. 'I want to show you something. Bring him forward.'
Hustled by two ruffians I followed Charon out. We entered a long gallery lit by torches with caverns off the walkway. To my right was the sewer water, black, glinting in the torchlight.
'The stench is not so bad,' Charon said over his shoulder. 'Hardly any offal comes this way.' He shrugged. 'My sense of smell I lost with my nose but cleanliness is next to Godliness, Shallot! My ruffians here have directed the offal elsewhere.'
We walked further down the causeway then Charon stopped. He took a torch from the wall and held it out over the black, slopping water. Something was floating in the water, lazily, like an otter in a stream. 'Throw some food,' Charon ordered.
One of his henchmen cast some bread into the water as well as on to the opposite ledge. The water swirled. I moaned in terror at the black, slimy rat which crept out of the sewer and on to the far side. Now, you gentle readers know what I think of rats! I have been pursued by leopards, wolves, and savage hunting dogs but nothing terrifies me more than a rat. This was not one of your little brown gentlemen but a long, black, slimy bastard, at least a yard in length from the tip of its tail to that quivering snout. He grasped the scraps and gnawed at them. Looking up, the rodent stared across at me, as coolly as a man would inspect some juicy meat pie. Charon led us on. The air grew colder. We turned into a cavern. A corpse lay in an iron gibbet on the floor. It was beginning to decay and the air was rich with the stench. Rats were already moving amongst the iron bars. There's only so much my poor mind can take. I closed my eyes and, God forgive me, swooned like a maid.
Chapter 3
I awoke in an alleyway. At first I didn't know who, or indeed where, I was. My hands and feet were tied. I struggled to my knees. My head throbbed and my side ached where someone had kicked me. A beggar came out of a doorway and stared pityingly. 'Faugh!' His hand went to his nose.
I looked down. I was naked and covered in thick, clammy mud from head to toe: I had been rolled in the contents of a midden heap. 'Help me!' I wailed. 'Piss off!' the beggar grated.
I crawled along the alley. I felt so miserable I started to pray: desperately, I swore great oaths that I would never touch another drop of wine or even think of lifting a girl's petticoat. (You can see how low I must have fallen!)
Even the beggars stayed away from me whilst a drunk kicked me with his boot. The ropes around my ank
les and wrists were tied tightly, the cord biting into the skin. At last I crawled to the steps of a church. I fainted and, when I regained consciousness, my hands and feet were freed and I was staring into the kind eyes of a friar, his weather-beaten face, greasy, straggly moustache and beard framed by his cowl. 'Help me!' I begged.
'I can do no more,' the friar replied. 'I've cut your cords.' He lifted a battered, tin cup to my lips. The wine was watered but it tasted like nectar. He pointed to some sacking on the ground beside me. 'Put this on.' He got me to my feet, helped me put the sacking over my head, and fastened it round my middle with a piece of cord. He then gave me a staff and thrust a piece of bread into my other hand. 'God have mercy on you, Brother!'
And he was gone. Ever since I have always had affection for the little brothers of St Francis. Even now, in my secret chamber, I have that piece of sacking. Moreover, on the walls of my chapel, despite the fact that my chaplain is of the reformed faith, I have had the words of St Francis boldly painted: 'GO OUT AND PREACH THE GOSPEL. PREACH! PREACH! PREACH! SOMETIMES YOU CAN EVEN USE WORDS!'
After the friar left me, I realised I was in Grubb Street to the north of Cripplegate. The sky was already scored with the red gashes of sunrise. I slipped through a postern gate into the city and made my way along an alleyway near Mugwell Street, As I walked my confidence returned. My throat was parched, the bread had long disappeared, and my belly ached for food. I thought how splendid it would be to stretch out between crisp sheets with young Lucy.