Wonders Will Never Cease

by Robert Irwin

  The court found all four guilty of treasonable necromancy. Bolingbroke was hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, Margaret Jourdemayne was burnt at the stake and Southwell died in prison presumably from the effects of torture. Just as Eleanor’s rank had saved her from torture, so it also saved her from execution. She was condemned to do public penance walking in her shift through the streets of London, after which she was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. Looking back on the nurse’s story, Anthony now realises that she was talking about the beautiful and sinister Eleanor Cobham and her dismal fate, but really the nurse was thinking about his mother who was her mistress and of whom she was greatly afraid. But Anthony does not believe that his mother ever met Eleanor Cobham, for he reckons that his mother must have been still a girl in France when the Duchess was arrested.

  For a long time, he is silent in reverie. Then he recalls that there are things that he must say to Ripley, ‘You should keep away from my mother and it would be best if you never so much as spoke of her. Moreover you should know that if we are to be friends and allies, you must desist from telling absurd lies about me and my heroic adventures.’

  ‘But of course! It shall be entirely as you wish. For now I have no need to invent anything. All London knows how with only a broken sword in your hand you beat off four armed men.’

  Then Ripley returns to the subject of Anthony’s not wearing a sword. He insists that it is dangerous for Anthony to go about without one. And besides the wearing of a sword is a badge of his rank. Anthony replies negligently that he will see about buying one tomorrow but this is not good enough for Ripley, for he says that most of the swords that are produced these days are of inferior metal and hastily forged. They are not to be compared to the great swords of the previous century. Smithcraft was once a branch of alchemy, but only a small number of the present-day artisans are truly familiar with its secrets. However, Ripley does know one who is a master at the making of weapons and he will conduct Anthony to him tomorrow. Anthony’s sword must be forged and weighted in such a manner that it will perfectly suit its master.

  They meet at dawn the following morning outside the Hospital of St. Katharine by the Tower. Though it is still cool, Ripley is sweating. He has a sack slung over his shoulder.

  ‘I am going to take you into the antechamber of Hell and there you will think that you have died once more.’

  So it is that Ripley leads Anthony, Amyas and Hugh out in the direction of Wapping. The great muddy expanse of Smithfield is already filling up with cattle being brought in to be slaughtered. As the sun begins to rise Anthony thinks that it will be a pleasant day. But not in Wapping. There the pale sunshine is soon obscured by the smoke of burning sea-coal. As the darkness thickens a sense of foreboding comes over Anthony. Though sea-coal smoke has a nasty smell, it perhaps has the merit of partially concealing the stink of the buckets of excrement that are being brought into the place and the carts of quicklime going out to the countryside. Yet other smells compete and these come from soap boilers, tanneries, brew-houses and dye-houses. Occasional wisps of yellow sulphur float in the smog. The ground is slippery for its mud is mixed with tar deposits. Wapping is a little hugger-mugger village of workshops, cottages and lean-tos. Where there are spaces between the buildings, fullers’ cloths have been stretched out to dry on tenters, and there are tanks in which hides and oak bark are soaked in water, and there are also limepits. While most of the faces of those who go through the alleys are blackened with soot, those who work at the lime-pits wear white masks to protect themselves from the poisonous fumes. They all of them look like so many sullen devils from hell and they scream and shout like animals.

  Anthony and his guards cover their faces with their cloaks, but Ripley spreads out his arms exultantly for he loves to be in Wapping, since here in great profusion are all the ingredients of his craft: alum, sulphur, mercury, charcoal, salts and excrement.

  He waves his arms exultantly, ‘Filth! Filth! Everywhere is filthy! This is life. You can scrape it off the walls. From all these carcases and this rot comes life!’

  Then suddenly Ripley vanishes. Anthony and his guards halt and nervously try to make out where they are. Then Ripley calls to them to follow him and through the murk they can make out that he is standing in a doorway and behind him there are roaring flames. So it is that they enter Pykenham’s smithy. Ripley and Pykenham embrace for they recognise each other as masters of their respective crafts. Then Pykenham, a swarthy great man with abundant dark curly hair, gazes at Anthony in wonder. It may be that he has never stood so close to a person of rank before. Ripley explains their business and emphasises that they are prepared to pay a high price for a sword of exceptional quality. At Ripley’s request, Anthony has brought along what remains of his broken blade and, when he shows it to Pykenham, the smith roars with laughter to see its poor craftsmanship. He explains that though it has a tolerable sharp edge, the main part of the blade is brittle and that this is the product of too much cold hammering and then too little care has been taken in annealing, or slowly cooling and heating the blade many times. The forging of that sword has been rushed. Now Anthony and his companions will see how the job should be done.

  This lengthy business begins with a billet, or steel bar, which Pykenham heats before he hammers it into shape on an anvil and then, as the blade takes shape, he fullers a central ridge to give it strength. The smith is also careful to weight the blade towards what will become the hilt. Now comes the difficult part as the blade is repeatedly heated and then cooled to remove the stresses arising from the first stage of its manufacture. The quenching in cold water hardens the blade, but it is then tempered to achieve flexibility and durability.

  At first the smith’s visitors are fascinated by what they see, but as the blade is repeatedly moved from hearth to cooling tank in order to be heated and then very slowly cooled, they become a little bored and they start to talk amongst themselves. The bodyguards inspect the weaponry stacked in a corner waiting for collection by other customers.

  ‘This will be a sword fit for a hero,’ says Ripley to Anthony and he produces a flask from his bag and takes a swig from it before continuing, ‘I am going to make you the most famous knight in Christendom.’

  Anthony scowls. ‘I am my own man.’

  But Ripley smiles, ‘I tell you no. I tell you that you are in my power and the King wants it so. But be of good cheer for I have nothing but your success at heart.’ Then, it seems he recalls something, for he looks worried. He asks Anthony, ‘After your recovery from your wounds, have you noticed anything strange?’

  Now it is Anthony’s turn to worry.

  ‘No. What strange thing should I have noticed?’

  ‘Ah, nothing. If you are not aware of anything different, then all is well. It is a marvel how you have recovered. I say to you again, well done, Lord Scales!’And then Ripley diverts the conversation to the preparations that must be made for the Queen’s coronation in London and the welcome that should be given to noble guests coming from Burgundy and Luxemburg. Ripley chatters away and takes frequent swigs from a flask he has produced from out of his sack. Anthony, however is eager to be away. The smithy seems to him like a dark and fiery chamber of Hell and the great mass of smelly humanity that crowds through the alleys of Wapping has filled him with fear. What if the denizens of this region, barely human in appearance and behaviour, should rebel against their stinking and impoverished lot and rise up to kill their masters?

  Some fifteen years ago there was such an uprising, though it began not in Wapping but among a filthy horde of rustics, discharged soldiers, mutinous retainers from Kent under the leadership of a man calling himself Jack Cade. This riffraff raged through the streets of London, looting and burning. They forced the imprisonment in the Tower of the King’s Treasurer, Lord Say and then had him brought out before justices and stood over those justices while they brought the charge of treason against him. Then he was allowed to make confession before being beheaded. Cade had the hea
d impaled on a spear and the noble lord’s body dragged through the city. In the days that followed many more heads of the gentry and aldermen were placed on spikes. Prisons were opened, women were raped and books were burnt. Finally the people of London rose up against the anarchy. Cade fled, but was caught. He was beheaded and his body was quartered before being drawn about the streets on a hurdle with his head resting on the rest of his body, a lesson for all in the streets to see. The great lords returned to the city. Still Anthony and his kind are not loved.

  It is so hot in this place. There is a whistling in his ears that almost drowns out the clang of Pykenham’s hammer. What is the real reason for bringing him here? Why could he not purchase a sword in the normal fashion? If only Ripley’s skull moss had not placed him in the alchemist’s debt. But then it occurs to Anthony that the attack on him may not have been an attempt to kill him, but only to wound him, so placing him in Ripley’s debt. But such fancies are absurd and Ripley only wishes him well. He must think only sane thoughts. But this is difficult, for it now seems to him that he has two brains residing in his head, each of them engaged in its own thinking. The one brain is bold, the other is cowardly. But no sooner has he thought this than he thinks that this cannot be so. Yet why should it not be so? Ripley had asked him if, since his recovery, he had noticed anything strange. What strange thing should he be afraid to see?

  At last Pykenham is ready to weld the hilt, cross-guard and pommel onto the blade. The cross-guard has hook-shaped quillons, so that Anthony may reverse his sword and use one of those hooks to trip his enemy. Then, after getting Anthony to heft the sword and feel its weight, Pykenham passes it to an apprentice who has to grind the blade with abrasives, polish it and give it a final sharpening. But all is not yet over, for Ripley insists that certain runes must be etched onto the hilt. When Anthony asks what is the meaning of the runes, Ripley laughs and says that it does not matter at all what they mean. Who knows? It is only important that there should be runes on this sword. He thinks that the sword should have a name and suggests Galatine.

  So now Anthony has a sword, but on their way back to London, his hands are shaking so much that he cannot carry it and indeed he finds it difficult to walk and he clings to Ripley for support. Anthony’s dread is like a cloud all around which mingles with the filthy air of the kilns and dye-houses. Surely the runes on the sword blade carry some evil omen. He fears that Ripley’s management of his life will end in nothing good. He is afraid of the labouring poor with their blackened faces. Surely his party will be set upon and killed before they are out of the village of Wapping? And even if they do come out of this hideous place alive, will not the redhead and his gang make another attempt on his life? And, even if this does not happen, he still dreads the combat that is to come with the Bastard of Burgundy, for the Bastard has a mighty reputation as a warrior. Anthony fears to die once more.

  He is unable to suppress his trembling after he has returned to what should be the safety of the Woodville townhouse. His mother feels his brow and spends a long time looking at his face.

  Finally she says, ‘Though the fever has left your body, it still lingers in your head. I can see that some frightened thing is sitting in your brain and looking out at me through your eyes.’

  ‘Do you have a medicine for this?’Anthony wants to know.

  ‘It may be that a story will drive out the sickness. Certain stories are known to have curative powers, but it is difficult… It will take me some time to fashion the story and when it is done and I am ready to tell it, you will have to enter the story I am telling and that will not be pleasant for you. My poor boy, exorcisms are always painful.’

  It was a long time before the story was ready and indeed it was not told until the eve of Elizabeth’s coronation. In the meantime, the true story of the making of Galatine was one thing. But Ripley’s agents and intelligencers put about quite a different story which Anthony only learns of a few weeks later. According to the fiction, Anthony, in need of a new and better sword, a sword fit for a hero, did not have one forged for him. Instead he rode down to Guildford where he had heard that there was a professional treasure hunter called James Garnet. Anthony had learned from the famous cleric and alchemist, George Ripley that this man once had a map marked where the ten lost treasures of England were buried, though tomb robbers had reached most of these places before Garnet and left little in the way of spoils for him. Nevertheless, the map eventually led him to a place near Ravenser where he and his three accomplices dug for gold and they indeed found gold aplenty laid out beside an armed and helmeted man who lay in the rotting remains of a long wooden boat. They helped themselves to what they could carry and returned to Guildford drunk with the joy of their sudden wealth.

  Or so they supposed, but Ripley told Anthony that their wealth brought them little joy, for soon afterwards one of them died of quartan fever. Then the other two fell out over how the first man’s share of the spoils should be divided and they fought over this. One died instantly and the other died more slowly of his wounds. Garnet still lived, but he became a haunted man and a recluse, fearful lest some fever that had arisen like a vapour from the grave at Ravenser might infect him, or that thieves, knowing of the wealth he had recently acquired, might assault and torture him in order to learn where he had hidden his treasure, or perhaps the curse might strike in some other quite unexpected way. And so it did, for at dawn one morning King Henry’s officers arrived at Garnet’s house and demanded that all that Garnet and his associates had taken from the tomb should be surrendered to them, since it had been deemed to be treasure trove. Garnet had taken on a lawyer to contest the royal right to all this gold, for in English common law treasure trove only applies to treasures that have been hidden with animus revocandi, that is the intention to recover later what had been hidden, whereas the treasure that Garnet had found had obviously been buried with some great man in the expectation that it would comfort him in his grave for all eternity. But the lawsuit was expensive, Garnet had no influential patron and the matter was still unresolved when Edward replaced Henry on the throne.

  Since Garnet still lived in fear that other nasty things might happen to him, he at first refused to allow Lord Scales to enter his house, but when he heard that Anthony was a friend of Ripley, the King’s well-beloved alchemist, he did timorously open the door. Garnet had some difficulty in understanding what it is that this great lord desired, for Anthony did not want any treasure – that is, he did not want any gold or silver. The noble and pious Anthony had no interest at all in the perishable vanity of wealth. No, he wanted something that would outlive him, which is fame, and to become a famous knight he needed a sword that would be worthy of him, a sword which had been forged by Weland the Smith or one of the other great artificers of old, for the swords of nowadays are hardly more than cutlery compared to the swords wielded by the heroes of antiquity. Anthony wanted to give Garnet money so that he might guide him to the grave of some dead hero whose sword Anthony would then possess.

  Of course, Garnet was in bad need of money. Even so he was reluctant. He did know of a place not far from Guildford where there was a little mound which might be an ancient grave. He could lead Anthony there, but then he would leave him and he could lend Anthony a spade and other tools but his lordship would have to do the digging, and this would have to be at night since the local people do not like to see such places disturbed, for they are afraid that the old graves are guarded by draugs as Garnet himself was, even though he did not actually know what a draug might be.

  So they rode towards a stretch of woodland a few miles outside Pyrford and Garnet guided Anthony to a barrow on the edge of the trees and left him with equipment hired out to him: two lanterns, a spade, a pickaxe and a trowel. Then, as the sun was setting, Garnet hurried away. Anthony waited until it was properly dark before he began to dig. Happily his military exercises, and in particular his practice at the repeated plunging of a sword into a mound of wet clay and pulling it out again, had giv
en him the right kind of muscles for this labour. Apart from the light of his lanterns, he noticed that a half circle of rotting tree trunks was covered in a sort of fungus that glowed with a luminous green light. He could hear Black Saladin shifting restlessly. Otherwise at first he had only owls and nightjars for company. Then, after little more than an hour of digging, he turned round and saw that he was being watched by a skinny boy who was sitting propped up against one of the decayed tree trunks.

  ‘I saw the light from your lantern and I thought that I would come over to see who you might be and what your business is,’ said the boy.

  Anthony explained that he was digging there in the hope of finding a sword buried somewhere in this mound of earth and he offered to pay the boy well, if only he would assist in the digging.

  But the boy replied, ‘Begging your honour’s pardon, I will not. It is a fearful labour and, if I were you, I would be afraid of the draug.’

  ‘Then be off with you,’ said Anthony impatiently.

  But the boy did not move and he asked, ‘Are you not afraid of the draug?’

  Anthony, who now needed to rest a while, sat down but kept his distance from the boy as he became aware that there was a faint smell about him.

  ‘What is a draug that I should be afraid of it?’ he asked and this was the answer, ‘Draugs are servants of the dead. They watch over them and guard the things which rightfully belong to them. You ask what is a draug, whereas what you should be asking is what is a man? I will tell you. A man is not just his body, for who he is also encompasses those things that are closest to him, his shirt, his helmet, his sword, his drinking cup and, it may be, his horse. All these things may be part of his body and therefore infused with his soul and that is why your ancestors were buried with their arms and armour. It is well known that draugs do not like to see a dead man dismembered. And now I will tell you why you should be afraid of a draug. A draug sleeps in the mouldy grave bed with his appointed corpse, but if anyone comes to disturb the grave, then the draug awakes and issues out to defend it. Once he is out in the open then he can swell to an enormous size and he becomes so heavy that his usual way of defending his corpse is to lie down upon the grave’s attacker. He rests on the man’s chest like a heavy nightmare that cannot be dispelled and so the man’s ribs crack and he is crushed to death.’