by Paul Doherty
'We should go back,' I replied. 'Let's take horse and ride to Ipswich.'
'That poses difficulties,' Benjamin replied. 'We have no real proof. No, the Poppletons would claim it was not their cup and there's very little evidence for their involvement in Lucy's murder. Moreover, Dearest Uncle and the King want us here.' He picked up his wine bowl. 'Let the evil ones fester for a while, Roger. Tonight, let's drink, celebrate your escape and toast the memories of Lucy and Castor!'
Drink we did and heard the chimes at midnight from the nearby church. Nevertheless, we were up early the next morning, long before the sun peeped its head above St Paul's Cathedral. However, when we arrived at the Tower, we found Justice was an even earlier riser. A royal commission had been set up on the green before the great Norman keep and already the executions were taking place. A long pole had been slung on two uprights which had been driven deep into the ground. From this six of Lord Charon's men were already dangling, whilst others were being tried in front of three Justices brought up especially from Westminster. I tell you this, in Henry's time, justice was short and brutal. 'Give him a fair trial and hang him!' was one of the old bastard's favourite aphorisms and he wasn't joking. There were no hand-wringing pleas for mercy. Henry was as swift and as merciless as a hawk swooping for the kill. On this occasion the process was no different: the trial consisted of little more than a barrage of questions to which the felons, all bloody-mouthed and black-eyed, mumbled some response. The Chief Justice then passed judgement, a black silk cap was placed on his head and the felons despatched to the gallows. The poor unfortunates were made to stand on a table whilst nooses were put round their necks, and then the table was kicked away and they were left to dangle.
On one side of the Justices, Lord Egremont, in a throne chair, watched with interest. Behind him stood the cowled and hooded Noctales. Egremont seemed to be enjoying himself but I glimpsed the distaste on Cornelius's face. Kempe was busy: he was the chief prosecution witness. He simply described the attack on Lord Charon's stronghold, the treasures they had found and. above all, 'the abduction of the King's most loyal servant Roger Shallot'. Can you believe that? Men being hanged because of old Roger!
'In the Empire,' Egremont spoke up, 'they'd be boiled like chickens in a cauldron or burnt at the stake.' He looked over his shoulder at Cornelius. 'But it's good to see a felon dance on air, is it not?'
The Noctale crossed himself and glanced away.
Do you know, my heart warmed to that hard-faced, enigmatic man. In a way he reminded me of Cecil and others I had worked with: ruthless but not bloodthirsty men. If someone had to die then let it be done quickly. No relish, no licking of the lips!
'There are some missing?' Benjamin replied.
'Yes, there are,' Kempe replied. He came across whilst the Justices waited for more of Charon's gang to be dragged out before them. 'The King is insisting that these all be dead by dusk. Some have been tortured. They know nothing about the Orb but they have admitted that Lord Charon's lieutenant is William Doddshall.'
'Doddshall?' I queried.
'More commonly known as Cerberus,' Kempe explained. He went to stand behind the Justices. 'Oh,' he called over his shoulder, 'Cerberus is on the rack.' He pointed across to the dungeon at the base of the Norman keep. 'He said he'll talk to no one but you, Shallot. You'd best see what the bastard wants before he dies.'
'And we have a meeting with you, Sir Thomas,' Benjamin called out.
Kempe glanced quickly at Egremont and then nodded.
Benjamin and I left the execution ground and walked over to the Keep. I would like to say it was pleasant to be back in the Tower but I've always hated the place. Benjamin and I had been there only a few months previously, seeking out the mysterious assassin who had created such bloody havoc amongst the Guild of Hangmen.
I wanted to flee. Nevertheless, I was intrigued that Cerberus wished to talk to me. We went down the steps and into a maze of corridors. A sentry took us into the torture room.
Now this was a strange place, or at least it was when I visited. It looked more like a hospital with its white-washed walls. The floor was clean and swept and flowers, arranged in baskets, stood on small shelves beneath the open windows. A child's toy hung on a string from a hook on the wall. The chief interrogator was a kindly, soft-spoken man with watery eyes and slack lips. He came and shook our hands, waved us in, pointing across to a table where there was wine and sweetmeats. Perhaps it was all the more dreadful because of that. Nevertheless, nothing could detract from the terror of Exeter's Daughter: a huge rack in the centre of the room like a large four-poster bed with rollers at the top and bottom. (It was called Exeter's Daughter because a Duke of Exeter had introduced the rack into England in the fifteenth century. Oh, for you students of History, the English were racking and renting long before then, but this rack was regarded as a work of art. It pulled your arms and legs out slowly. It gave the torturers a chance to relax, take some refreshment before turning the wheels again. I'm not being brutish. You read my journals yet to come. I've been on that bloody rack! My arms became half an inch longer than they should be, before that bastard, John Dudley Duke of Northumberland, changed his mind and had me pardoned.)
On that particular morning poor old Cerberus was Exeter's guest. He was stripped naked except for a loin cloth, his hands and feet lashed to the rollers, the poor man's body pulled as tight as a bishop's garter. He was unconscious when we came in, his ugly, ruddy face slack. The torturer tossed a bucket of water over him and held a piece of burnt cork beneath his nose. Cerberus began to shake and moan.
'No, no,' the master torturer whispered. 'Master Doddshall, you have a visitor; the man you asked to see, Roger Shallot.'
Cerberus turned his eyes. He tried to speak but his tongue was too large.
'For pity's sake,' I ordered. 'Slacken his legs and arms.' 'Anything to oblige,' the master torturer squeaked. 'And a cup of wine?' I asked.
The wheel was pulled back. Cerberus relaxed. I went up and forced the wine between his lips.
'You wanted to speak to me?' I asked.
'Damn you, Shallot!' he whispered, the blood bubbling on his lips.
'If you've brought me here to curse,' I replied. 'I won't stay long.*
'No, no,' Cerberus shook his head. 'But I'll speak alone.' 'I don't want to leave,' the master torturer spoke up. 'This is my chamber and my responsibility.' 'Leave!' Benjamin ordered.
'But... ?' the fellow stuttered. 'On the Lord Cardinal's orders!' Benjamin insisted. 'Oh well, if you put it like that,' the fellow replied. 'I am only too pleased.'
Everyone, the watching soldiers, the torturer's apprentices scrambled out of the room, and Benjamin followed, closing the door behind him.
I stood over Cerberus. 'We are alone.'
'I want to ask you a favour.'
I stared back, surprised. 'A favour, a boon?' I exclaimed. 'You cheeky bastard! It's not so long ago you were trying to have a rat nest in my stomach!'
'It's all the luck of the dice,' Cerberus replied. 'But, for what it's worth. Shallot, Charon did like you. He wouldn't have allowed the rat to dig deep, just a bite or two.'
'When you get to Hell,' I said, 'thank him for me.'
'I don't want to hang,' Cerberus replied.
'Neither do I but there's nothing I can do for you.'
'I have a horror of hanging,' Cerberus insisted. 'Do this favour for me. Please!'
'And in return?'
'I'll tell you what I know. Oh, one thing more, Master Shallot, send my parents a letter.' I just stared in disbelief.
'Please!' Cerberus insisted, 'To John and Christina Doddshall of the Silver Wyvern on the High Pavement in Nottingham. They think I am a clerk with a good benefice in a nobleman's household. Tell them I died of the plague or the sweating sickness, that I was honoured and loved. Oh, and one thing more.'
I closed my eyes.
'Before I die, I want a priest to shrive me. Promise me that!'
What could I do? The poor
bastard was going to die and, but for the love of God and the favour of my master Benjamin, I could have well ended up as a member of a gang like Charon's. I gave him my word.
'Now,' I began. 'The Orb of Charlemagne?'
'Lord Charon, may he rot in hell,' Cerberus replied, 'bought the Orb from the Schlachter.'
‘I have heard of that name before. Who is he?'
'No one knows,' Cerberus replied. 'He is one of London's most skilful assassins. If he accepts a task, he always carries it out himself: poison, the garrotte, the dagger, the sword.'
'Was he responsible for the deaths at Malevel?'
Cerberus closed his eyes. I gently pushed up his head and forced more of the coarse wine into his mouth. Cerberus blew on his lips, coughing as the wine stung his throat.
‘I heard what you said,' he gasped. 'It's possible but, how he could do it by himself is a mystery.'
'How did the Schlachter tell Charon he had the Orb?'
'He sent us a message,' Cerberus replied. 'Told us to meet him in a copse to the north of the hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem. Only Charon and myself were to go. He named his price: two thousand pounds in gold. Charon and I were to come just after dark as the hospital bell rang for Compline. There was to be no trickery or he'd take our lives as well as the money.' Cerberus closed his eyes.
I thought he had lost consciousness but then he stirred and looked up at me.
'This was about two or three nights ago. Charon was curious about the deaths at Malevel. After all, that was our handiwork, the murder of the old lady, the stripping of the manor. Anyway, he brought the gold in barrels on a sumpter pony. We stood at the edge of the copse and, when the Compline bell sounded we entered the trees. On a log lying in the centre of the clearing was a small wine tun. We went across and took the lid off: the Orb was inside. We took it, left the gold and rode back into London.'
'And you never saw the Schlachter?'
Cerberus gasped and shook his head.
'No one ever does. Lord Charon had hired him before.' He grinned. 'Certain rivals who had to disappear when Charon could prove he was elsewhere.'
'How would you hire him?' I asked. 'There must be a way?'
'Isn't it strange?' Cerberus gasped. 'Very few people claim to know the Schlachter yet it's remarkable how many people use his services. If you want to hire an assassin in London,' he continued, 'you make it known in ale-houses or amongst the market sellers in St Paul's churchyard. However, for the Schlachter, go to Scribes' Corner, a small alcove just within the door of St Paul's. Seek out a clerk called Richard Notley. He's a lean-faced knave. Tell him you wish to hire a slaughterer and say where you reside. The Schlachter will make himself known.'
'And the Orb?' I asked.
'Lord Charon sold it to the Papal Envoys. It was over and done with in a matter of hours. Charon thought it was most amusing.'
'Did he know it was a replica?' I asked.
'Neither he nor I gave a pig's turd!' Cerberus scoffed. 'The Italians paid good silver and gold. Charon was content.' He licked his chapped lips. 'That's all I know. Shallot,' he gasped. 'As God is my witness. Now, be a gentle boy, pour the rest of that wine between my lips and, if you don't keep your word, damn you to hell!'
I fed him the wine and left. I took Benjamin aside and briefly described what Cerberus had told me. Benjamin immediately ordered a friar to be sent for and told the torturers to desist from any further questioning.
We went out and sat on a bench at the top of the steps whilst, across the green, the remaining members of Charon's gang were summarily despatched. A ghoulsome sight: four gallows, their long poles forming a square. I saw what Henry's troops did when they crushed the Northern rebellion under Robert Aske. There were corpses hanging on every gibbet and on every tree along the Great North Road. But, on Tower Green, with the sun growing strong and birds whirling against the blue sky, it was macabre to see this square of hanged men. Most hung silent, only a few still twitched and jerked in their death throes. At last Cerberus was dragged out: he was carried across on a door and laid before the judges. They asked him how he was to plead. He told them to go to Hell so they sentenced him to hang but Benjamin intervened.
'Master Cerberus,' he began. 'Master Cerberus was most cooperative in telling us about these outlaws' depredations. He is not to hang. His head is to be severed from his body.'
Isn't life strange? Cerberus cackled with laughter when he heard this and began to bless my name as if I had given him a king's pardon. Kempe and the judges objected but Benjamin was obdurate.
'He is not to hang!'
A squabble would have broken out but Egremont got to his feet, clapping his gloved hands. He said something to one of his retainers. The man ran across and brought back a small log from a pile heaped at the far end of the green.
'If he is not to hang,' Egremont declared, 'justice will still be done.'
He rapped out another order. Two of his liveried servants rolled
Cerberus off the door and positioned him so his neck lay against the log. Egremont took off his cloak, drew his sword and positioned himself carefully. He brought the sword up and, in one clean sweep, took Cerberus's head sheer off at the neck.
Of course, I had walked away, hand to my mouth. I don't like the sight of blood, even if it's not my own. By the time I returned, archers from the garrison had placed Cerberus's body and severed head on the door and were taking them away to be buried in a lime pit in a desolate part of the Tower.
Egremont looked like a man who has done a good day's work. He accepted Kempe's offer of refreshment but first walked round the scaffold, carefully inspecting the corpses as if he was suspicious that one of them might still be alive. Eventually he conferred with Kempe, then Benjamin, Cornelius and myself followed them across the green and up into the great hail.
'A satisfactory morning's work,' Kempe announced as he sat at the top of the great table waving us to the benches on either side. 'But the last man,' he continued, 'the one who didn't want to hang: what did he have to say to you? What did he confess?'
My master's boot tapped my leg.
'Nothing much,' I replied.
'Come, come.' Egremont beat his wine cup against the table.
'Did he mention the Orb?' Cornelius snapped.
'He said that the outlaws and wolfsheads had heard about the theft but nothing else.'
Cornelius's eyes slid away. He knew that I was lying.
'Surely,' my master intervened. 'Surely, Lord Egremont, you, too, have made careful searches?'
'Oh yes, we have.' Lord Egremont took his gloves off and played with the small, leather tassel on one of them. 'Rumours spring as thick as weeds.' His voice took on a harsh tone.
'Such as?' I asked.
Egremont didn't even look at me.
'Rumours that the Orb is in the hands of the French or the Papal Envoys. His Imperial Highness Charles V will not be pleased.'
'My Lord Theodosius, your command of the English tongue is admirable,' Benjamin commented.
'I studied in the Halls of Cambridge,' Egremont replied. 'The quadrivium, the trivium, logic and metaphysics.'
'And you, Master Cornelius?' I asked.
'For a while I lived in England,' Cornelius retorted. 'Many years ago I was apprenticed to a cloth merchant, a Hanse at the Steelyard.'
'What has this got to do with the Orb of Charlemagne?' Egremont snapped.
'Nothing,' Benjamin murmured.
'In which case—' Egremont got up and, smacking his gloves against his thigh, he bowed to Sir Thomas and Benjamin and strode from the room.
Cornelius followed as silently as a shadow. Kempe watched them go.
'Are you skilled in tongues?' Benjamin asked him.
Sir Thomas narrowed his eyes. 'In French, Italian,' he replied.
'And German?' Benjamin asked.
'Yes.'
'And you have worked in the Empire?'
Sir Thomas became uneasy. He opened his mouth to reply and looked longingly at t
he door, as if he wished to be gone.
'These matters are not your business,' he snapped. 'But to answer you bluntly, yes, I have been a royal envoy to Lubeck and yes, Master Daunbey, before you ask, I have met Lord Egremont and Cornelius on a number of occasions. However, I believe I have got something to show you.' And Kempe strode from the hall.
'Why these questions?' I asked.
'What,' Benjamin whispered, 'if this is all one plot, Roger? An alliance between Egremont and Kempe, with Cornelius party to it, to steal from both the Emperor and our King and so become rich on the profits?'
Chapter 11
We sat and murmured about the possibilities. What proof did we have that this mysterious assassin, the Schlachter existed? Or, even if we did, that he was involved in the theft of the Orb? Our discussion was cut short by a soldier who came in and shouted that Sir Thomas was ready for us. He led us out of the hall and across to Wakefield Tower. Kempe was waiting for us in a chamber on the second storey. He locked the door behind us, opened a chest and, taking out the Orb, held it up. Benjamin almost snatched it from his hands. He ordered me to light a candle and then held the amethyst against the flame. I crouched down and peered as the jewels became brighter. I saw the cross but no figure of the Saviour hanging on it.
'It is a replica?' Benjamin asked.
'Oh yes,' Kempe replied.
Benjamin weighed it in his hands.
4 And fashioned by poor Berkeley?'
'Of course.'
Benjamin handed it back. The chest was closed. We were about to leave when we heard hurried footsteps and a pounding on the door. Doctor Agrippa swept into the room. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and gave a mocking bow.
'I come direct from the court. What news?'
'You've seen for yourself,' Kempe retorted. "The wolfsheads are hanged but the Orb of Charlemagne is still missing.'
Agrippa shrugged. He pulled two small warrants out of his jerkin and handed them to Benjamin and myself. My letter was quite simple: it bore the King's personal signature and seal and informed me that the royal ship Peppercorn was due to leave the Thames in ten days time. It was sailing to explore and navigate the waters down the West Coast of Africa: both Benjamin and myself were appointed as officers. Oh, I could have wept! I could have sat upon the ground and howled. I hate water. I don't like the sea and I certainly didn't like the prospect of going on a sea voyage and never returning. Benjamin read his, folded it neatly and slipped it into his wallet.