by Paul Doherty
(No, don't laugh. I know we live in the age of reason and commonsense but in my time I have seen the most incredible rebellions: people marching behind a piece of cloth or those who believe that pieces of the true cross will protect them from arrows or bullets. Isn't it wonderful what people will believe when they want to?)
'You are not saying,' I scoffed, 'that Buckingham obtained these relics?'
'Yes and no,' Agrippa replied. 'After Buckingham's insults, Wolsey's legion of spies went to work. The Cardinal concocted a story that Buckingham was plotting against the King and wished to gain possession of these sacred relics to rally forces to him.'
'Oh, that's ridiculous!' Benjamin interrupted. 'I understand that centuries ago Arthur's corpse was discovered at Glastonbury but, according to legend, Excalibur was tossed into a lake, whilst the whereabouts of the Grail is still a mystery.'
'Oh, but Wolsey has proof,' Agrippa replied. 'His agents arrested a Benedictine monk, Nicholas Hopkins, who is now lodged in the Tower. This Hopkins is from Glastonbury. He is also chaplain at the Santerre manor of Templecombe in Somerset.
'Hopkins claims he knows where both the Grail and the Sword are and that he offered them to Buckingham.
'According to Hopkins, the Duke planned to use them to lead a revolt, depose and execute Henry, and take the throne himself.'
'And Buckingham believed this junk was holy?' I laughed. 'Fell for the ramblings of some mouldy monk!'
'What about the Santerres?' Benjamin asked. 'Were they involved?'
'No. They are merely tenants of Buckingham. The good Duke went to Templecombe to meet Hopkins and tried to draw Sir John Santerre into the conspiracy. Santerre refused, which is just as well for Wolsey's agents had infiltrated both this household and Buckingham's retinue. The good Duke,' Agrippa concluded, 'certainly had an interest in the relics: he sent messages to his agent in London that once he obtained them he would lead a revolt.' 'There's more, isn't there?' asked Benjamin.
Agrippa rubbed his face with his hands. 'Yes. The Grail and the Sword are being sought by others.' 'Who?' my master asked. 'The Templars,' Agrippa snapped. 'Who?' I asked.
The Templars,' he continued, 'were a military order formed in the twelfth century to defend the Holy Land. They acquired vast possessions in England and France -castles, land and manors. They also obtained secret knowledge and possessed all the great holy relics, such as the shroud in which Christ's body was wrapped, the Mandylion which cleaned his face on the way to Calvary, and, if legend is to be believed, the Grail and the Sword Excalibur.' 'So,' Benjamin asked, 'what have they to do with us?'
(Oh, my master was so innocent. I almost guessed what was coming next.)
'His Grace the King and my Lord Cardinal want you to go to Somerset, find the Grail and Excalibur, and if possible root out these Templars.' 'They still exist?' I asked.
'Oh, yes.' Agrippa rubbed the side of his face. 'I didn't finish my story. On Friday, the thirteenth of October 1307, the Templars were seized throughout Christendom, tortured and put to death on charges of idolatry, sodomy and black magic. Most of them died at the stake or on the gallows but a few escaped and organised themselves into secret conventicles. These Templars are determined that the Grail and the Sword should not fall into Henry's hands for they see him as the incarnation of evil.' (Very perceptive, I thought.) Agrippa cleared his throat. 'There is evidence that some of the Yorkists were members of this secret order. Hopkins certainly was, and Buckingham may be.' 'And our noble King believes all this?'
Agrippa made a face. 'Hopkins confessed, Wolsey informed the King, and Stafford did little to help his cause. He was arrested at London Bridge and taken to the Tower. He would neither deny nor confirm Wolsey's allegations.'
The doctor steepled his fingers together. 'Buckingham had also been stupid enough, in the privacy of his own home, to make certain treasonable remarks to his own sister, the Lady Fitzwalter.'
Benjamin smiled thinly and I realised how clever the Cardinal had been: Henry had seduced Buckingham's sister and the Duke had been furious that the King should treat her like some common trollop. Wolsey would have struck – summoning the hapless woman before the Privy Council, placing her on oath and making her confess to words which he could so easily twist. 'Then what happened?' asked Benjamin.
'Buckingham was tried at Westminster Hall before a panel of his peers, led by the Duke of Norfolk. The sentence was a foregone conclusion: he was to be drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution there to be hanged, cut down alive, his private parts to be hacked off and cast in the fire, his bowels burnt before his eyes, his head smitten off and his body to be quartered and divided at the King's will.' 'Surely Henry will show mercy?'
'Queen Catherine went down on her knees and begged for the Duke's life. The King took to his bed for three days suffering from a fever, but the only mercy he will show is that Buckingham must lose his head. The rest of the indignities have been cancelled. He will die in two days.'
'When you came here, you said the killing was beginning, that Henry will be The Mouldwarp?' I prompted him. Agrippa looked at me chillingly and I remembered his diagnosis, many years earlier, of how sick the King's mind had turned.
'Can't you see, Roger,' he whispered, 'if Henry can kill the greatest peer in his realm, who will be safe? Already the courts of Europe have lodged their protests. The King of France has openly derided the Cardinal, claiming the butcher's dog has pulled down the fairest buck in Christendom.'
Of course, Agrippa was right. Henry was mad as a March hare: he was obsessed with plots against him and would brook no opposition. By the time he died, he was said to be responsible for at least sixty thousand executions. I can well believe it! I was with the fat bastard as he grew old. I'll never forget those puffy white cheeks and mad, pig-like eyes. The open ulcer on his leg which smelt like a sewer and the syphilis in his brain which turned him into a devil incarnate…
Benjamin rose and refilled our cups. 'So the killing has begun?' he murmured. 'Buckingham will die and dear Uncle needs us.'
Agrippa folded his hands in his lap. Once again he underwent one of those remarkable character changes – no longer the sombre prophet but the amiable priest seeking counsel and help.
'You are right, Master Benjamin,' he said lightly, 'Buckingham will die and there's nothing we can do to prevent it. But, of course, there is also Master Nicholas Hopkins's confession. Your uncle needs you in London. He has given express orders that we are all to witness Buckingham's execution.*
(Oh, Lord, I thought, here we go again, blood and gore and poor Shallot in the middle of it!) 'And then what?' Benjamin asked sharply.
'We are to continue the interrogation of Master Hopkins and find out more about his mysterious revelations.' 'But you said the man was mad?'
'Oh, he undoubtedly is but that doesn't necessarily make his confession false.'
'Do you think Buckingham was involved in treason?' I asked.
Agrippa shook his head. 'No. But you see, Master Shallot, the problem has two sides. Buckingham is going to die and that is the end of that matter. Hopkins, however, was a bearer of messages. He must have received instructions. But from whom?'
'And Uncle is determined,' Benjamin concluded flatly, 'to seek out the truth?'
'Truth, Master Benjamin? What is the truth? Pilate asked me the same question and I could not answer him then.' Agrippa smiled as if we shared a joke and ran the edge of his cloak through his fingers.
'Enough,' he murmured. 'We must leave for London now.'
Chapter 2
Benjamin reluctantly agreed to our leaving immediately and brushed aside my objections. I went to my chamber feeling like a school boy being forced back to his studies and angrily began to throw clothing and other necessities into saddle bags. Benjamin slipped quietly into my room and stood with his back to the closed door.
'Roger, I am sorry but we have no choice. You remember the oath we took, to be the Cardinal's men during peace and war?' He waved a hand airily. 'Everyt
hing we have comes from him.'
'If the Duke of Buckingham can lose both his life and possessions,' I shouted, 'then what about the other fleas who do not live so high on the hog?'
Benjamin shrugged. 'We can only live each day as it comes.'
'Aye, and if the Cardinal has his way we'll have few days left to us!'
We finished packing; ostlers brought round saddled horses and sumpter ponies. Benjamin left strict instructions with Barker the steward and, by late-afternoon, we were galloping south. I remember it well. The sun died that day and winter came rushing in. Who says the seasons are not harbingers of what is to come?
Agrippa was now quiet, or rather talking to himself in a strange tongue I couldn't understand, whilst his entourage, the nicest group of gallow's birds you'd chance to encounter, kept to themselves. We stopped that night at a priory. Agrippa was still bad company, wrestling with his own problems. Only once did he pause, gaze round the deserted refectory and announce: 'There's more to it, you know.' 'What do you mean?' asked Benjamin.
Agrippa shook his head. 'There's more to it,' he repeated. 'Oh, how this world is given to lying!'
(You'll find that phrase too in old Will Shakespeare's plays.)
The weather continued to worsen but, early on the morning of our second day out of Ipswich, we left Waltham Abbey and reached the Mile End Road which wound through different hamlets into East Smithfield. The crowds on the road increased. Not just the usual tinkers and pedlars with their handcarts or wandering hedge-priests looking for a quick penny and a soft bed (I love to see my chaplain twitch!), but common folk, surging down to Tower Hill to watch one of the great ones spill his blood.
We turned north into Hog Street, past the church of St Mary Grace where we glimpsed the high grey turrets of the Tower, and into the dense crowd milling round Tower Hill. Believe me, all of London had turned out. There was not a place to be found between the Tower and Bridge Street.
I have often wondered why people like to view executions. What fun is there in seeing a man lose his head or his balls? I asked this of Agrippa.
'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 told the bastard to piss off and do his worst!)