by Paul Doherty
Benjamin leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes whilst Agrippa diverted the conversation to the gossip and petty scandals of the court.
We arrived at Richmond just before dusk. A strange place even though it was relatively new, being rebuilt by the Great Mister, Fat Harry's father in 1490, Richmond was really a series of towers and halls built round a number of courtyards, each containing small orchards or gardens. The walls were covered with trellises of roses, red and white mixed together, to remind everyone that the Tudors united what was best in both the houses of York and Lancaster. The brickwork was ornamented with carvings and strange markings, gargoyles and statues, and each tower was capped by a large onion-shaped cupola. From the highest of these flew the banners of England and the pennants of Wolsey, proclaiming that both the King and his principal minister were now in residence.
Agrippa handed us over to a servant and we were taken to a rather narrow chamber in one of the towers, bleakly furnished with a bed and a few sticks of furniture. A battered painting hung on the wall depicting Noah's departure from the Ark. Benjamin looked around and smiled.
'My good uncle,' he announced sarcastically, 'appears to have the same high opinion of us as always.'
We unpacked our saddle bags then wandered along the corridors, a routine I always insisted on whenever we arrived in any strange place. One of Shallot's golden rules: when you find yourself somewhere strange or new, immediately find the quickest way out for you may well need it. (Only on one occasion did I forget this axiom. A young noblewoman was entertaining me in her bedchamber. I was that interested in seeing her gold-clocked stockings and scarlet garters, I forgot to check the window. When her brother returned unexpectedly, I found myself trapped. I don't recommend standing in a musty wardrobe for three hours whilst furry black rats scurry across your naked feet then return for a swift hungry nibble. Ah well, that's another story!)
We arrived at the buttery where a one-eyed cook refused us food so I knocked a brazier over and, when his back was turned, slipped the spit boy a penny and stole a nicely roasted capon and a loaf of bread. We were in one of the gardens eating our ill-gotten gains when Agrippa hurried up to us.
'Come! Come!' he ordered and, hardly stopping, hurried on, Benjamin and I behind him, greedily finishing our stolen meal. Agrippa took us out of the palace into an overgrown garden which, I realised, also served as a small cemetery. At the back, near the wall, stood a dilapidated charnel house, a small chamber where the corpses of servants who died in the palace would be taken out of the communal coffin and stitched into a cheap canvas sheet.
Agrippa thrust the door open, muttering to himself as he took a tinder and lit a candle. On a low stone slab in the centre of the room lay the corpse of a man, dressed in cheap brown fustian, now soaked and slimed with river water. His boots had been removed and several toes jutted through ragged stockings. He had died young, with a full head of auburn hair, but his face was disgusting and almost unrecognisable: the skin had turned black, tongue protruding out of one side of his mouth, eyes rolled back in their sockets. There were bite marks on his cheeks, probably caused by pike and other river fish. However, what really caught our attention was a cord wrapped tightly round his throat, the little rod the garrotter had used to tighten it still caught in its clever knot. I took one look, turned away and vomited up most of the capon. 'Who is it?' my master whispered.
'John Warnham,' Agrippa replied. 'Calcraft was killed in the same way.'
Benjamin, who seemed to have a stomach made of steel, knelt down and carefully examined the scarlet cord. 'It's like piping,' he commented. 'From someone's cloak.'
He peered at the knot. I watched him, trying not to glimpse that grotesque, blackened face. Benjamin got up, wiping the dust from his knees, went out and stood in the darkening garden. Agrippa and I followed. 'When was he found?'
'Early this morning in one of the carp ponds down near the river.' 'How long has he been dead?' 'He disappeared about two days ago.'
'Whoever did that,' Benjamin replied, 'was proficient with the garrotte.' He gently touched his own throat and half-smiled at me. 'Beware of the garrotte, Roger, the most skilled assassin, and it could be a mere child, could have his cord round your neck and choke out your life's breath within seconds. Did you know that?'
(At the time I didn't, and shook my head. But now I do! In one of my journals I'll tell you about bribing the Black Eunuch who was master of the harem in Constantinople. A terrible place with its marble walls, golden cups, scented gardens and silent death. The Turks do not believe in public executions. Instead they have a group of deaf mutes nicknamed 'The Gardeners', who carry scarlet cords. If a man or woman displeases the Sultan, the sign is given, 'The Gardeners' appear and strangulation takes place within seconds.
Sometimes it can be on a mere whim. On one occasion a Vizier, one of the Sultan's principal officers, decided to get rid of his entire harem. All the girls were strangled, put in sacks loaded with stones and dumped in the Bosphorus. One afternoon, whilst escaping from the Sultan's palace, I had to leave the boat in which I was fleeing and swam down, deep amongst the shallows of the Bosphorus. Now, you mightn't believe this, but the sea bed was dotted with sacks, with their grisly burdens, tied at the neck, standing upright under the force of the currents. Can you imagine it? A sea of dead girls within a sea? I see my little chaplain snigger. He thinks I am making it up. Far from it. I can swim like a fish, and often had to, and if he doesn't believe me, I'll take him down to the nearest pond and show him how! Ah, well, that's quietened him and, true, I do digress.)
'Warnham was one of the Cardinal's agents?' Benjamin asked. Agrippa nodded. 'As was Calcraft,' he added.
'But why murder them?' Agrippa continued as if talking to himself. 'What is the use of killing agents?' 'They must have known something,' I replied.
Agrippa shook his head. 'No. I think we have already gleaned the information we need. Buckingham is dead, Hopkins too.' He pulled a face. 'Ah, well, only time will tell.' He waddled off and we went back to our chambers.
For the next few days we were left to our own devices. Oh, we glimpsed Wolsey from afar in his scarlet silken robes and, now and again, whilst feasting in the hall at a series of sumptuous banquets. The Great Beast made his presence felt.
King Henry looked a little older but still enormous with his bright gold hair and beard and those blue, agate-hard eyes which seemed to take in everything. He dressed in a brilliant array of jewel-encrusted jerkins, silver hose and high-heeled, ribbon-rosed shoes which made him look even loftier than those around him. The Great Killer always liked to enjoy himself and, whatever dangers threatened, lost himself in a round of festivities.
Some idiot must have told him more stories about King Arthur for this seemed to tickle his fancy and on our third evening at Richmond he staged a marvellous masque. We, along with other guests (the Cardinal had still not acknowledged his nephew), were led into a vast hall lit by hundreds of pure wax candles. Around the walls the rich scarlets, yellows and golds of Venetian tapestries sparkled in the light, whilst at the far end of this cavernous chamber loomed a vision all in green. It was a fairy castle, its high battlements crowned with towers and its walls pierced with crenellations. Carpenters and artists had laboured for two weeks to build this Chateau Vert or Green Castle, covering the wooden frame with green paper, foil and verdigris paint. The effect was quite remarkable: the green castle shimmered in the candle-lit hall like some spectre in a vision.
Well, you have the drift of what was happening. Eight lovely women representing Beauty and Honour, etc, had to defend the castle against eight nobles, led, of course, by the stupid fat beast himself. These eight lords, who had taken the names of Love, Youth, Loyalty and so on pelted the defenders of the Chateau Vert with flowers and were showered with rose-water and sweetmeats in return. Everyone took it seriously. I could hardly stop laughing to see the great ones of the land engaged in such childish games.
My master sat still, rather quiet and with
drawn, pondering on what Agrippa had told him. I was more interested in the food; mutton in beer, duck in orange sauce, pastries and sweet cubes of jellied milk, as well as the cups of claret and chilled wine. I drank as if there was no tomorrow.
One thing I did notice during the masque and another similar farce when we all trooped out to Shooters Hill to see Fat Henry clothed in Lincoln green play Robin Hood, was The Great Killer's new love: a dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl who moved with a languorous grace and whom the King was for ever singling out for marks of special affection.
That was the first time I saw Anne Boleyn. She wasn't beautiful, not in the classical sense, but exuded a sexual power which drew men's gazes like a magnet. Beside her, the short, dumpy Spanish queen, Catherine of Aragon, resembled a chamber pot next to a beautiful vase.
Poor old Catherine! The bearer of so many children, only one of whom survived: the little, red-haired, pinched-faced girl Mary, who followed her mother everywhere. Good Lord, the things we do to our children! Mary grew up hating her father and, like her mother, spent her entire life pining for a living child. I know she did. When she died she gave me her prayer book. I still have it. One part of it, the prayer of a mother asking to be delivered of a healthy child, was so tear-stained the ink had run.
Mind you, they have all gone now. I sit here and reflect on Fat Henry prancing around pretending to be Robin Hood. As the years passed, he killed all those round him before being murdered himself. Yes, murdered. I confess to it now, I wasn't involved but I knew about it. His council served him white arsenic which created a fire ball in his belly. He lay for days on a stinking bed, with blood-streaked eyes and parchment-coloured complexion, unable to swallow. His skin began to peel off, the gross fat in his belly turned to liquid whilst his stomach and bowels dripped blood. When he died, foaming at the mouth, his tongue was so big it completely filled his mouth and kept it a-gape. They had to hoist his rotting corpse into the coffin, stuffing it in like you would a rotten bale of straw into a sack. Ah, how the glories of the world disappear.
After a few days of kicking our heels round Richmond, the court began to settle down. We became more conscious of the Santerres as well as of the sombre presence of the Agentes. The latter slipped like shadows along the passageways and I formed a secret dread of Sir Edmund Mandeville. He looked as dark as Lucifer, some beautiful angel fallen from grace. He was good-looking in an arrogant, Mediterranean way: olive skin, jet-black hair, neatly clipped beard and moustache, though his hps had a strange twist to them and his eyes were ever mocking. He looked like a man who didn't believe in himself, let alone anything else.
Geoffrey Southgate, his lieutenant, appeared more cheerful with a shock of red hair, beetling eyebrows and pallid skin. The fellow had a slight lisp and rather affected movements but was the dagger to his master's foil.
We met them all in the Fountain Court a few days after arriving at Richmond. Benjamin was reading some manuscript he had borrowed from the library whilst I sat, bored to death, wondering what mischief I could get up to.
The first to approach us were the Santerres. Sir John was a bluff yet shrewd landowner who knew which side of the table to sit. He was the sort of fellow who would buy you a drink in a tavern, regaling you with some funny story, yet whom you would be a fool to trust. His eyes reminded me of the King's, ice blue and piggy in aspect. Lady Beatrice, his wife, now she had regained her composure bore the remnants of great beauty though her pallid-skinned face had a spoilt, rather sensuous cast. She was for ever leaning on her husband's arm as if she was determined he would never wander far from her clutches. Rachel, their daughter, was ravishingly beautiful. She wore a simple veil of murrey covering her hair and a modest blue dress made from pure wool, gilt-edged at the neck and cuffs.
The Santerres came into the Fountain Court as if they were simply wandering round the palace. My master closed the book he was reading and shrewdly watched them approach. 'I wondered when they would come,' he whispered. 'Why?'
'We are too humble to introduce ourselves,' he hissed, 'so they have to come to us. After all, if Agrippa is to be believed, we will be travelling back with them. So, Roger, to your feet and behave yourself.'
We rose as the Santerres swept grandly towards us; the introductions were made, hands clasped or kissed. Sir John stepped back, clearing his throat.
'I am given to understand,' he boomed, his accent burred by a rustic twang, 'that you will be returning with us to Somerset. This business!' He flung his hands up in the air. 'Lackaday! Lackaday! What can I say?'
Aye, I thought, what can you? A man looking for the main chance was Sir John. I could just imagine poor Buckingham's confidences being betrayed by him. 'You saw the good Duke die,' I blurted out.
'Good?' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Buckingham was a traitor to his King. A Judas in Henry's court. Why say you differently?'
'The man's dead,' I replied quickly. 'And his soul's before God. Why should we speak ill of him now?' Santerre rubbed his eyes and looked at me warily.
'Aye, aye,' he whispered. 'He was a good lord but he went poaching in the wrong fields.'
'Master Shallot is noble to defend the Duke.' Rachel Santerre spoke, her voice soft and low.
I glanced at her and my heart leapt. She had raised her face and it was truly beautiful: her skin was like shot silk, pure gold. I would have loved to touch her cheek or gently caress that long, slender neck. I looked for humour, perhaps sarcasm, but her dark eyes were clear and those lips, slightly parted, bore no trace of sneer. I blushed, bowed and showed a leg. 'Mistress, you are too kind.'
Benjamin nudged me for he knew me. My brains were in my codpiece and, when it came to beautiful women, discretion was cast to the winds – and a lot more if I could help it!
'Come, Rachel,' Lady Beatrice snapped. 'Your father and I have other business.' 'You mean my step-father,' she said quietly.
Now I smiled at her. I could see a little of Lady Beatrice in Rachel, but I had wondered how a red-faced, wart-covered farmer like Sir John could sire such a beauty. 'I am your father,' he firmly replied.
Lady Beatrice caught her husband's wrist and looked at Benjamin. She'd dismissed me with a contemptuous flicker of her eyelids, of course. Old Shallot was used to that.
'Sir John is my second husband,' she explained. 'Rachel's father died when she was a child.'
'In which case, Mother,' Rachel replied, 'I was a child for a long time. Father has only been cold in his grave for five years.'
Oh, oh, I thought, here's a pretty tableau for there's nothing more interesting than a family quarrel. I stared once more at Rachel, revelling in the beautiful lines of her face, and my wicked heart jumped with pleasure. If the mother disliked me, perhaps I had some hope with the daughter? (I see my little clerk sniggering. He thinks I wanted to bed her there and then. No, no, that's not the way of old Shallot. Well, not really, I just wanted to be with her. Gaze at her, become lost in those lovely dark eyes. Not all of us have minds like sewers!)
Looking back I think a family quarrel would have broken out then, but the door leading to the Fountain Court opened and Sir Edmund Mandeville and Geoffrey Southgate emerged, followed by two bald-headed individuals who looked as similar as peas in a pod. Sir John swung round to look at them and his face paled. 'Come,' he whispered. 'We have business to do.'
They walked off, Lady Beatrice still leaning heavily on his arm. Rachel turned her face slightly and I am sure she was smiling.
Mandeville and Southgate made to pass us by as they had previously. I stood watching, fascinated by the two characters trailing behind them: they were twins and reminded me of eunuchs with their fat, doughy faces, cod-like mouths and heads shaven as bald as pigeon's eggs.
Suddenly Mandeville turned, came towards us and bowed. (By the way, have you noticed that? How the most sinister of characters are often the most courteous?)
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot. I see the Santerres have introduced themselves, and perhaps it is time we all got to know each other a l
ittle better.' He followed my gaze. I was still watching his bald-headed retainers. 'Oh, may I introduce Geoffrey Southgate and my two clerks, Cosmas and Damien?' The eunuchs bowed. 'Are they twins?' I asked. 'Of course,' Southgate languidly replied.
The two eunuchs, as I called them, now watched me; they had eyes like a frog's, glassy and soulless. I couldn't see a speck of hair on face or head. 'Can't they speak?' my master asked. Mandeville half-turned. 'Cosmas, open your mouth!'
I couldn't believe it. At Mandeville's order, both these nightmare creatures opened their mouths. I saw the red rag of flesh where each tongue should have been and glanced away in disgust. My master, God bless him, just peered closer.
'What happened?' he asked, like some family physician making a diagnosis.
'Oh, they were born in England,' Mandeville replied. 'They were with their parents on a carrack in the Middle Sea when it was taken by Turkish corsairs. Cosmas and Damien, as I now call them, were taken to Constantinople, castrated and made mute eunuchs.' He patted one of them affectionately on his bald pate as one would tap the head of a good hunting dog. 'But they are well educated.'
He looked squarely at me but I knew he was studying both of us. Benjamin may have mystified him but I caught the sardonic glint in his eyes as he dismissed me for a rogue. He suddenly stared over his shoulder at the door as if expecting someone else to join us, then took a step closer. Southgate also leaned forward as if they were two school masters admonishing students.
"The Agentes welcome you,' Mandeville whispered, his voice becoming steely. 'We trapped Buckingham. We can weed out these Templars and discover what His Grace the Cardinal needs, but he is insistent that you join us.'
I stared at their hard faces and, despite Rachel Santerre's charms, the prospect of a journey to Glastonbury in the company of this eerie foursome lost any remaining attraction. They both stepped back, bowed and walked out of the court.
Benjamin watched them go. ‘I wonder what all that was about?' he murmured. 'I just wish dear Uncle would reveal his mind to us.' 'Sirs!' a voice called. 'I heard you talking.'