by Paul Doherty
'What about my bread and wine?' I asked.
The bailiff rose and clapped me on the shoulder. 'You can break fast with me.'
And he led me and the other helper across to the Bishop's Mitre tavern which overlooked Smithfield. We ate outside, squatting with our backs to the tavern wall because the landlord would not let us in. The bailiff kept his word. We had bread, wine, even some strips of greasy bacon. Now, I have eaten at the banquets and feasts from one end of Europe to another. I have sat beside dark-eyed, black-hearted Catherine de Medici and supped from golden chalices: I have picked at the best food the French royal kitchens could provide. (Mind you, I was careful. Catherine's main hobby was poisoning.) Nevertheless, I tell you this, nothing equalled that beggar's banquet outside the Bishop's Mitre in Smithfield so many, many years ago.
I thought the bailiff had done with us, but he came back and threw a waxen seal bearing the arms of the city into each of our hands.
'If you want a job,' he rasped, join the death-carts. It doesn't pay much, but at least you won't starve.'
Of course I accepted. I picked myself up and looked across the great common where those horrid blackened remains were being hoisted into a cart. I thought that was the end of the matter. In truth, the murder of Andrew Undershaft was simply a pointer of things to come.
Chapter 3
I became a corpse collector. I worked with the gangs which patrolled the streets day and night, emptying the houses, collecting the cadavers of all those who had died of the sweating sickness. Godforsaken work! It hardened the heart and bit deep into the soul. The people I worked with were the scum of the earth who feared neither God nor man. Even now, years later, I cannot tell you the dreadful things I witnessed. Houses ransacked, corpses plundered. The dreadful death-bells tolling day and night; the great, yawning burial pits to the north of the city outside Charterhouse. The stories that not all the people taken there were dead are true. A living nightmare! A scene from the Apocalypse. My senses became dulled. I swear, where possible, I did good work. One sole thought kept me working: to raise enough money to be able to slip out of the city and go back to Ipswich.
Satan, however, didn't reign supreme in London. The Carthusians at the Charterhouse, God bless them, fulfilled their job as priests. They came out to bless the corpses and, three times a week, I erected an altar, at which a priest in black or purple vestments sang the Mass for the dead. One man in particular impressed me. John Houghton, the Carthusian priest, a thick-set, stubby-featured man. He would stand by the burial pit, keeping an eagle eye as we emptied the corpse carts, even as he chanted the psalms for the dead. He would allow no plundering, no mockery and was not above using a thick ash cudgel to enforce his orders amongst the rabble I worked with.
One morning, when the smoke was thick and curling, Houghton came too close to the edge of the ditch. He slipped, going down on the mud, into the common grave. The corpse collectors leaned on their shovels and laughed as the Prior, restricted by his grey robes, tried to climb back: the side of the bank was drenched with rainwater, so the more he scrambled, the worse it became. I ran across, leaned down and stretched out my hand.
Take it, Father!' I ordered.
Houghton's light-blue eyes held mine.
Take it!' I repeated. ‘I will not let you go.'
The poor man was suspicious. He thought I was going to push him further down into the pit or, even worse, pull him up and crack his head with the spade. After all, he was in the company of those who feared neither God nor man.
'By the sacrament,' I whispered hoarsely, ‘I mean you no harm!'
He grasped my hand. I pulled him out and helped him brush the dirt from his robes. ‘What's your name?' he asked. 'Roger Shallot, Father'
Thank you, Master Shallot. I shall pray for you.'
And, shaking my hand, he walked round the pit to give my companions the rough edge of his tongue.
Ah well, the days passed. No jests or jokes here. One morning, I woke in old Quicksilver's house. I felt heavy-headed, my limbs sore to move: every step I took seemed to drench me in sweat. I staggered downstairs. I took a stoup of water and went out to join the gang where they gathered near the lych-gate of St Paul's. God knows how I worked that morning. By noon I was vomiting, my belly taut with pain. When I felt beneath my armpit, I touched the swelling buboes. Of course, the others knew: if I hadn't drawn a dirk which I had taken from one of them in a fight, they would have knocked me on the head and tossed me into the pit. They drove me off with curses and blows. I staggered away through the smoke, past the heaps and mounds of lime, and collapsed before the gateway of Charterhouse. I banged with all my might. I remember the door creaking open and Houghton crouching beside me.
‘I have the sickness, Father,' I gasped.
He dabbed my brow with a rag soaked in water. 'But, Roger, we can do nothing for you.'
'I don't want to die like a dog,' I gasped, and then fainted.
After that I can remember little. Brothers, their faces kind and concerned, bending over me. I chattered and screamed, slipping in and out of delirium. Scenes from my past plagued my soul: Mother, who should not have died so early, walking towards me, a basket of flowers in her hand. Benjamin behind his desk, wiping his fingers and shaking his head. Dr Agrippa, his face framed by shadows, smiling down at me with those soulless eyes. I could even smell that strange perfume he wore: sometimes fragrant, but at other times coarse, like an empty skillet left over a fire. And there were other dreams: being hunted by wolves in Paris, or being pursued by those dreadful leopards through the maze at the court of Francis I. Wolsey came, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his saturnine face creased in concern.
‘You should have become a priest, Roger,' he taunted.
'Like you, My Lord Cardinal?' I snapped back.
Wolsey’s face became angry and he swept away. Of course, there was always the Great Beast, the 'mouldwarp', the Prince of Blood, that devil incarnate: Henry VIII with his massive body, tree-trunk legs, hands on hips, his piggy eyes glaring at me, those fat, sensuous lips pursed into a grimace of disapproval.
'Shallot! Shallot!' he taunted. ‘What are you doing here?'
I tossed and turned; then, late one afternoon, the nightmares ceased. I woke up. I felt weak but the fever had gone. John Houghton was staring down at me whilst, behind him, the infirmarians clapped their hands as if they were witnessing a miracle. Houghton sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled as he ran his fingers down my face.
‘You are a most fortunate man, Roger Shallot,' he declared. There are not many who are snatched from the jaws of death.'
'Hell spat me back, Father,' I joked.
He smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me. ‘You have talked,' he murmured. 'Oh, Roger, how you have talked: about His Grace the King, Cardinal Wolsey, and His Eminence's nephew, Benjamin Daunbey. What on earth were you doing working amongst the corpse collectors of London?'
‘You have heard of the prodigal son, Father?'
Houghton smiled and left, after giving strict instructions to the infirmarian to let me rest.
Of course, I have the constitution of an ox, so I rapidly recovered. The good Brothers regarded me as a sign from God and fed me every delicacy their kitchens could provide: succulent chicken, rich strong broths, eggs mixed with milk, as well as potions and powders which would certainly not be found amongst Dr Quicksilver's collection. My strength quickly returned. I was surprised to find that it had been three weeks since that terrible morning I had collapsed outside the priory gate.
‘You are most fortunate,' Houghton declared one morning when he came to visit me. "There are not many who survive the sweating sickness: now you have, you will never suffer again.'
'And the city?' I asked.
The fever's dying: the King's rule is being enforced. My Lord Cardinal has brought in mercenaries from the garrisons at Dover and Sandwich, whilst the executioners are doing a roaring trade.' He took my hand and patted it, those shrewd, saintly eye
s full of merriment. It is well you came here, Roger. Yet if half of what you said is true ...' Houghton shook his head in mock anger. ‘You are a veritable rogue, born and bred. For the rest, stay here, be our guest.'
And so I did. (I wish my bloody chaplain would stop sniggering! That was one of the holiest parts of my life!) I joined the good Brothers in their refectory and in their choir-stalls. I chanted the divine office at dawn and heard Mass at midday. I helped in the garden whilst the infirmarian and the Brothers were quite astounded by my knowledge of physic. (No, don't scoff, no one died.) I must admit I was curious that I had survived, but Bruno the infirmarian said it was the age of miracles — or something else.
‘Perhaps you didn't want to die?' he grinned. 'Perhaps the will rather than the humours of the body determine one's fate?'
Do you know, I even considered becoming a lay brother! However, one day I was sent out to a small village to the north of Charterhouse to buy some provisions. All the way there I kept my eyes down, chanting a psalm, but on the way back I grew thirsty and called in at a tavern. Well, I met a wench with golden hair and nut-brown skin, lips full and red and eyes full of mischief. Well, you know old Shallot: I can resist anything but temptation. Two cups of canary and I found myself in a hay barn, the young girl giggling beside me. Oh, too true, the spirit is definitely willing but my flesh was extremely weak! I remember that day in particular because, when I arrived back - minus a few items of clothing; I'd left my cowl and hood in the hay barn - Prior Houghton was waiting for me.
'Roger, you have visitors.'
And, grasping me by the arm, he took me out into the garden. Benjamin, flanked by Dr Agrippa, was sitting on a turf seat watching the carp in the stewpond snap at flies. My master fell on my neck, clasped me to him, squeezing me tightly, then he stood back, his eyes full of tears.
'Roger, I thought you were dead! We searched high and low'
'It's not time for Roger's death,' Agrippa murmured. He took off his black, broad-brimmed hat and gazed up at me, his cherubic face creased into the most benevolent smile. He looked like someone's favourite uncle, except for the black leather he wore from head to toe and those gauntlets which covered the secret red crosses on the palm of each hand.
'Roger will live for a long time,' Agrippa added. The Fates will not cut his life too short.' He got up and glanced at Prior Houghton who was watching us curiously. The devil takes care of his own, Roger.'
Agrippa grasped my hand: as he did so, the colour of his eyes changed. I don't know whether it was some shadow or trick of the light; suddenly they became like black pebbles and his face became white and drawn. He gripped my hand a little longer than he should have and my heart sank. Agrippa was warning me that we were about to enter the lair of the Great Beast.
Prior John Houghton became uncomfortable. He kept glancing sideways at Agrippa, even as he told Benjamin about my miraculous recovery. After that, the Prior left us, saying he would send out a lay brother with some white wine and pastries. I stayed, telling Benjamin everything that had happened. (Or, at least, what I thought he should know.) I accepted his teasing of my sudden conversion as a member of the Carthusian Order. For a while we just sat and chatted, sipping the wine and enjoying the fragrance of the flowers and the steady hum of the honey-hunting bees. Now and again, the bells of Charterhouse would toll, calling the Brothers to service, and I realised I could not stay there for ever. 'How did you find me?' I asked.
'Well, I went to Swaffham -' Benjamin pulled a face — 'and I guessed the rest. After that, with the good doctor's help, I searched the city. One of the corpse collectors recognised your description so I came here.' His face became sad. 'Roger, I have been searching for you for two weeks. I thought you were dead!'
'I was robbed!' I wailed. ‘I had no money, whilst the Poppletons were waiting for me in Ipswich.'
'Roger, Roger.' Benjamin leaned forward. The Cardinal has sent a letter to the Sheriff of Norfolk instructing the Poppletons to offer you no harm.' He smiled mirthlessly. They're so terrified they are running backwards and forwards to the jakes again!'
'And, if your dearest uncle had intervened,' I answered tartly, 'that means he needs us.'
'Dearest Uncle does need us,' Benjamin declared, putting his cup down. ‘We are to go to the Tower, Roger, then on to meet the King at Windsor.'
I stared round that peaceful, perfume-filled garden. 'I can't stay here,' I murmured, ‘but I don't want to go to Windsor.'
Benjamin opened his wallet: he drew out a writ, sealed with the Cardinal's own signet. I read it quickly. I had no choice: Benjamin Daunbey, the Cardinal's beloved nephew, and his manservant Roger Shallot, on their allegiance to the King, were to go in all haste to the royal castle of Windsor. I threw the letter back. On reflection the death-cart, the sweating sickness and those terrible burial pits didn't seem so dreadful! If Wolsey wanted me, then I was about to enter the House of Shadows! Murder and treachery would be my guides.
I quickly packed my belongings and bade a fond farewell to Prior Houghton and his kindly brothers. I never saw Houghton again. Years later, when Fat Henry broke with Rome over dark-eyed Boleyn, Houghton, true to his own soul, refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. I was out of the country at the time, the unwilling guest of the Spanish Inquisition (splendid gentlemen!). I returned to learn that Houghton and some of his Brothers had been hanged over their own gatehouse: I sat in the darkness and wept. He was a good man. He deserved a better death ...
Agrippa, Benjamin and I left, keeping well away from the city. We walked by Gray's Inn, skirting the Temple and Whitefriars to a barge waiting to take us up-river to the Tower. The oarsmen were all the good doctor's henchmen, a bigger group of flea-bags you never hope to meet. Cut-throats, rascals, scum of the earth! As usual they greeted me like a long-lost brother. I was glad of the rapturous welcome because, as we walked the hot, musty streets, both Agrippa and Benjamin had become strangely silent. Even when I told them about Quicksilver: raving against his perfidy, threatening to hunt him down, they just shook their heads, lost in their own thoughts. At first I thought they were frightened but, as the barge moved mid-stream, Agrippa's rascals pulling at the oars, the good doctor stirred. He pointed to each bank.
'How time goes!' he muttered softly. 'You know, Roger, I remember Claudius's legions trying to ford this river, when London was nothing more than mud-flats and wide stretches of moorland.'
I looked at him strangely. Now and again Agrippa would make these slips and talk about events which had happened hundreds of years ago as if they had occurred that morning.
They paid for it, mind you,' he continued. The river ran red with blood. The mud-banks further down were piled high with corpses, like faggots in a woodshed.' He put on his hat again and looked at me from under his brows. 'It will be scarlet once again!’ he declared, and pointed to the poles jutting out from London Bridge where the rooks and ravens fought over the severed heads of traitors. 'A time will come when all the horrors will appear.'
'Might it now?' Benjamin observed drily.
‘Why, what's the matter?' I asked.
'Show him, Dr Agrippa.'
Agrippa fished in his pouch and drew out a small scroll of white parchment. 'Read that, Roger.'
I undid the scarlet ribbon and stared curiously at the blue-green writing inscribed in an elegant hand. The first words made me laugh.
To Henry Tudor calling himself King. I, Edward, by the grace of God King of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, do denounce thee as a traitor, a usurper and the son of a usurper, who seized my father's Crown and Sceptre.'
I looked up. 'What is this?' I exclaimed. 'Read on.'
‘Now we know,' the letter continued, 'and it is a matter of public knowledge how your usurpation has been punished by God. What you possess will not be passed on to a son. We deem this punishment enough. We are content to bide our time and wait for God's intervention. However, until then, our royal estate must be maintained. What you hold, you do as steward for us. I there
fore demand that a thousand gold crowns be deposited just within the west door of St Paul's Cathedral. This gold is to be left at the hour of Nones on the feast of St Dominic. If not, a proclamation publicising your shame will be nailed to St Paul's Cross on the feast of St Clare. Heed ye this warning! Given at the Tower under our seal on the feast of St Martha, the twenty-ninth of July 1523.'
I tossed the letter back at Agrippa. ‘London is full of madcaps and such tomfoolery’ I declared.
'Look at the foot of the letter,' Agrippa insisted, passing the parchment back.
I did so and gaped. Now, as you may know, when a letter is signed and sealed by the King, it carries two seals. First his own, the signet, often in green wax; then it is passed to the Chancellor who impresses the Great Seal of the Kingdom in red. This letter was no different, except that the seals were not those of Henry VIII but of Edward V.
This is impossible,' I whispered. They are forgeries.'
Agrippa shook his head. ‘No, they are not. The vellum is the most expensive that can be bought in London. The ink is that used in the Royal Chancery, as is the wax. Those seals are no forgeries.'
'But Edward the Fifth died,' I declared. 'He perished in the Tower some forty years ago.'
Benjamin looked across at the river. He stared at a great, low-slung, Venetian galley as it came out from the quayside, its oars dipping and rising as it began to make its way down to the open sea. Around it, bum boats and wherries still bobbed, as the fishermen and poor people of London tried desperately to sell to this stately galley before it left.
