by Paul Doherty
'And the day he was killed?' I asked.
'We were to meet here one evening. He never came. The next morning they fished his body from the Thames. Someone had knocked him on the head but had not bothered to steal a penny from his purse or the rings from his fingers. He'd been put into a sack with weights and tossed into the Thames.' She paused as the landlord brought across the wine which she grasped and drank greedily. 'All I could think was that someone had wanted revenge. What does the Bible say, sir? Eye for eye, tooth for tooth?'
'I don't think so,' Benjamin retorted. 'I think Hellbane was killed because of what he knew.'
My master grasped her hand. 'Marisa, did he ever remark on anything strange happening in the Tower?’
'He hated the place,' she whispered, turning her cup. 'He claimed that, at night, ghosts walked. He heard strange sounds and cries... But no, he didn't mention anything in particular.'
'And he drank with the rest of the hangmen?' Benjamin asked.
'Oh yes, and sometimes they drank deeply. I joined them. The last occasion was the sixth of June, the King's birthday. It's the ancient custom for the constable to host a banquet for the Guild of Hangmen in the royal apartments.' She smiled thinly. 'A macabre affair, Masters. Mallow, Hellbane and the rest, all dressed in their hangmen's costumes, black leather jerkins, belts, swords; they even wore their masks and hoods. I and the other girls were quite frightened.
'And what happened?' I asked, curious at the thought of hangmen sitting at a table, masked and cowled, feasting and drinking.
Well, Sir Edward's a good man and the wine flowed. Afterwards, well, we played Hangmen's Bluff The men hid and their girl friends, we had to search for them.' She sipped from the cup. ‘You can imagine, sirs, the squealing, the kissing, the slapping and tickling! The galleries and corridors were dark, and each of the men masked!'
Was Undershaft there? Mallow's lieutenant?' I asked.
'Oh yes, but he was by himself. The others called him a spoilsport so he took part for a while and then went home.' She smiled to herself. We did drink deeply that night.'
'Did Hellbane say anything?' I asked, an idea forming in my mind. 'Did anything untoward happen during those festivities?'
Marisa tossed her head and rubbed her face. 'I can't remember much. Sir Edward Kemble and his officers were there. The wine flowed like water. Undershaft left early, I remember that. Others were lying in corridors or galleries, drunk as sots. That's all I know'
Benjamin handed the silver over and we made to leave.
'Sirs!' she called.
We went back to the table. She stared up at us and said, 'Hellbane thought Undershaft's death was curious: the man didn't have an enemy in the world. He kept to his woman and children.' She paused. ‘You might be right, for all I know; both he and poor Hellbane could have been party to some dreadful secret but what it was, I don't know'
I leaned across the table, kissed her cheek, and pressed a coin of my own into her hands. ‘I am sorry I was rude,' I whispered.
‘You must come back to the Monkshood some time,' she smiled. And, for a while, her eyes softened as her soul reappeared.
We left the tavern and walked back through the streets towards the Tower.
'What do you think this secret is?' Benjamin asked.
'I disagree with Marisa,' I replied. 'But what happens, . Master, if, during those festivities on the King's birthday, the hangmen did see or learn something mysterious? Perhaps they don't even realise it?'
'And?' Benjamin asked.
"Well, they were all masked and hooded,' I replied. 'Perhaps one of them stumbled on something. In their disguise and the poor light, the holder of this mystery decided it was best if they all die, just to ensure he kills the right one.'
'But, if that's the case, my dear Roger, the hangmen who did stumble on that secret would realise they were being pursued and act accordingly.'
I couldn't answer that.
"Let's visit Mistress Undershaft,' Benjamin declared.
We found the good widow woman sitting in a parlour embroidering a piece of linen. In the rooms above, we could hear the maid shooing the children into bed. Mistress Undershaft was welcoming enough, offering us ale and bread, but Benjamin refused. We sat opposite, watching as she continued to thread the needle for the cloth.
"You have great skill, Mistress,' Benjamin remarked.
"My mother taught me,' she replied smilingly. 'But you are not here to praise my needlework, sirs.'
'No, Mistress, we are still puzzled by the strange bequest to you.'
'As I am,' she replied. She lay the piece of cloth in her lap and stretched one hand out towards the fire, half listening to the sounds above. 'I have told you, sirs, the bequest was made to goldsmith Thurgood. Who am I to object? There's no crime in that.'
I caught the lilt in her voice and asked if she was born in London. She shook her head.
'No, my family are from Lincoln, they're clothmakers. I met Andrew there some years ago, before we came to London.'
'Was he always a hangman?' I asked.
She blushed and her hands shook. ‘He was a priest,' she replied quietly. "Yes, sir, a defrocked priest. He killed a man in his own church and fled. I came with him to London. For a while he did some labouring before taking up his post as an apprentice hangman and joining the guild.' She shrugged. The rest you know.'
'But the children?' I remarked.
'Andrew was one of those priests who did not follow canon law,' she answered. 'He had his woman, she gave birth to children. Go round the churches of England, Master Shallot. It's none too strange. That's how he killed a man,' she continued. 'Andrew was a good priest. He worked hard for his parishioners. He was a carpenter by trade and sold what he made so his children were not a burden on the parish. His wife died. Two years later he met me. One day, a parishioner accosted him in the nave of the church and called Andrew filthy names. Knives were drawn. For a while Andrew took sanctuary. I gathered up his possessions and children and fled south’
'And you know of no reason why someone should kill your husband so barbarously?' Benjamin asked.
'I have told you, sir. Andrew was a private man. He kept to himself. He did not talk much about his trade. Sometimes he drank with the guild.'
'And the festivities on the night of the King's birthday?' I asked. ‘Your husband attended?'
‘Yes, but he left early.'
'Did he remark on anything untoward?'
She shook her head. ‘Nothing, except to say that his comrades were as drunk as pigs and were lewd with their women.' She picked up the embroidery and jabbed at it with her needle. 'I tell you, sirs, I have nothing to say. I cannot help you. If I...' She stopped speaking as a little girl burst into the room chased by a boy, his fingers covered in ash.
'Simon! Judith!' Mistress Undershaft stared down at the children. 'What on earth are you doing?' She grabbed the little girl, and her nightdress came loose exposing one thin white shoulder.
'It's Simon,' the girl squeaked, pointing at her brother. "He's trying to draw on my shoulder.' She pointed to the dirty charcoal mark in the shape of a ‘W. The boy stood, hands by his side, looking fearfully at his mother.
'Simon, you should not have done that!' Mistress Undershaft, highly agitated, began pushing him towards the door.
'But Simon says you've got one,' the little girl replied. ‘You have a letter on your shoulder.'
Mistress Undershaft fairly pushed them out of the room into the arms of the waiting maid. She slammed the door behind them, leaning against it, her face white as chalk, eyes closed, that lovely bosom heaving as if she had run a mile. I got up and walked towards her.
"You heard?' she whispered without opening her eyes.
'Aye, Mistress, I did. Is it true? Does your shoulder bear the brand of a whore?'
She nodded, walked back, and slumped into the chair. Her shoulders began to shake as she wept.
'I have told you the truth,' she said between sobs. 'Both Andrew and I came
from Lincoln. He was a priest, his woman died, and then he met me. He was kind and generous-hearted. He told me he could not live a life of celibacy. Yes, I was a whore,' she continued softly. 'I was born and raised as a seamstress, but times became hard.' She swallowed, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
That's what the quarrel was about, wasn't it?' Benjamin asked. 'When your husband killed that man in his church?'
‘Yes, it was about me,' she replied. Then Andrew took sanctuary.' She raised her face. ‘You know the law, Master Daunbey: either you surrender yourself to the royal justices, in which case Andrew would have certainly hanged, or you are given forty days to leave the kingdom. The friends and relatives of the man he killed would make sure he never left the city alive. So I organised everything. I didn't love Andrew but, there again, no man had ever stood up for me as he did. I smuggled him and his family out of Lincoln.'
'And the money left at Thurgood's?' I asked. That's yours, isn't it?'
She nodded. 'I was a very good seamstress, Master Shallot, but I was an even better whore. The great and rich of Lincoln sought my favours. I kept my monies hidden. Andrew was proud and refused to touch my money. When he died, I simply drew it out of my secret lace and took it down to Thurgood's. I dressed and acted as a man. I didn't think anyone would show much interest.' She sighed, put the embroidery down on the chair and walked over to make sure the door was closed. She came back and stood over us. 'I could tell the day you first came that you were suspicious that I was not the grieving widow.' She crouched down before me, the skin of her beautiful face tight and glistening with sweat, those beautiful eyes begging and pleading with me. 'God be my witness, I did not love Andrew Undershaft. He was a good man, but he knew what I was. Now he is dead. I don't know why, God rest his soul. However, for the first time in my life, Master Shallot, I am free of the past. I am a woman of good standing in my community. I have a house, I have children, I have my trade as a seamstress and monies with the goldsmith. I can start again .. .' She paused.'... If I am allowed to.'
I stroked her hair, took her hand and made her stand. I kissed her on each cheek.
‘Your secret's safe, Mistress Undershaft.' I tapped her shoulder lightly. There are good physicians in the city. They could hide that for you.'
Benjamin also took her hand, vowing what she had told us would remain a secret. He made her promise that, if she remembered anything untoward, she would tell us.
When we left the house, darkness had fallen. Benjamin linked his arm through mine and we walked back towards the Tower.
'What do you think, Roger?'
'I believe her, Master. But, there again, if she can lie once, she can He a second time.' 'But you don't think that?'
'No, Master, I don't. I still wonder about her husband. Was that really his corpse discovered at Smithfield? Or is he the villain? An ex-priest, a violent man by all accounts.'
Benjamin stopped and leaned against a garden wall, listening to a nightingale which was singing so beautifully in the trees above his head.
'All things are possible, Roger. However, let's remember the three men who have been killed. They are all fairly young, tough, probably violent. They wouldn't give up their lives lightly. Ergo, were they murdered by someone close to them?'
'Not necessarily, Master,' I replied. ‘Undershaft, if it was he, could have been drugged or knocked on the head before he was burnt. Remember, his body was bundled into a cage at the height of the plague. No one would care a whit: Horehound and Hellbane could have gone the same way. I still believe we should ask the sheriff to search for Undershaft. Remember, he was a priest, skilled in matters of the Chancery. The drawing up and sealing of letters would be easy for such a man. But God knows where those blessed seals came from .,.'
'Aye, that's the stumbling block,' Benjamin agreed. Those damn seals.' He came closer. ‘I asked Agrippa about that. He confirmed the King had made a search of all Chanceries. Nothing remains from the reign of a young boy who ruled only for a few months some forty years ago.'
‘Henry will now be dancing up and down in fury, or gnawing on the rushes at Windsor, threatening to have my head on a pole,' I added bitterly.
Benjamin grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. Don't worry, Roger, the game's not over yet.'
Well, it nearly was. My master was far too trusting. We went down another alleyway, intending to enter the Tower by the Lion Gate. It was a quiet night, well away from the taverns and cheap markets of Petty Wales where you can buy or sell anything until the early hours. I was trailing slightly behind Benjamin, kicking at anything in my path, and wondering if I should suggest that we take a journey abroad. After all, we could be in Dover within a day, and in France by the end of the week. I was about to suggest this when a crossbow bolt flew by my face and cracked the plaster in the house alongside. I stopped.
My master pulled me down just as another bolt came whirring through the night air. We crouched like two little schoolboys, staring into the darkness, straining our ears for any sound.
It came from the riverside,' Benjamin whispered.
I could hear the lap of the water and the faint cries of a boatman, but nothing else.
The assassin could be anywhere,' I whispered.
Through the darkness came a whistle, full and merry on the night air, as if some lad was sitting on the quayside, a fishing rod in his hands. I recognised the tune, a lilting song, sung in the London taverns, about a young girl and her love for a great lord. Well, I did what I could. I whistled back. Once again an arrow smacked into the plaster above our heads.
"Who's there?' Benjamin called.
The whistling began again, but this time it was chilling. I could imagine the assassin walking up and down, soft-footed, notching another bolt into the groove. The plaster of the house was white, and that was what he was watching. If we moved, he would see our silhouettes from where he stood with his back to the river, cloaked by the night.
"Whistle again,' Benjamin ordered.
I tried to but my mouth was dry, and all I could do was croak. All the old signs of Shallot's terror were beginning to manifest themselves: a tightening of the stomach, a loosening of the bowels, and this overwhelming urge to run.
'For the love of life, whistle that bloody tune!' Benjamin whispered.
This time, panic lent its aid. I wet my lips, recalled the tune, and whistled it back. I also made the mistake of moving, and a crossbow bolt streaked across my hair. If it had been a barber's knife, I would have lost some of my lustrous locks.
'Now!' Benjamin screamed. 'Charge!'
I had no choice but to follow him and, even as I did, I recognised my master's wisdom. We were now away from the wall and the assassin would have to retreat. We streaked like greyhounds towards the river, shouting and yelling so loudly that even a sentry on the walls of the Tower called out to ask what was the matter. We reached the quayside: to my right I heard the faint patter of retreating footsteps. There was nothing, only a few boats tied to their poles, bobbing in the full evening current. Benjamin stopped and crouched down to ease the cramp in his legs and snatch gulpfuls of air.
Well, well, Roger.'
He didn't have to commiserate with me. I was on my knees retching and coughing. I looked around, a postern-door in the Tower opened, and soldiers ran out towards us, carrying torches, swords drawn.
'Master Daunbey! Master Shallot!'
I glanced up.
Vetch came forward. What's the matter? You were attacked?'
‘No!' I snarled, getting to my feet and helping my master up. ‘We always do this just before we retire to bed!'
Pushing our way through the soldiers, we made our way into the Tower. I was convinced it was time for old Roger to leave. As I settled on to my pallet-bed, I firmly resolved that, the first thing I would do the next morning, would be to persuade my master to join me.
Chapter 10
‘No, Roger, I will not.' Benjamin sat on his bed in our chamber in the Wakefield Tower and shook his head angril
y.
We had spent most of the morning sharing a wineskin I had filched from the Tower kitchens, and discussing who the assassin could be. Now tired, our wits dulled, our heads thick, Benjamin and I just sat in our comfortable quarters and wondered what to do next. Benjamin had been so morose, ‘I’d tentatively put it to him that perhaps we should spend a few months beyond the seas.
'Roger,' he exclaimed, 'that would be betrayal of beloved Uncle's trust!'
'Damn him!' I cried. 'Master, in the last few months I have been hounded from Ipswich by the Poppletons, almost poisoned by Quicksilver, nearly died of the sweating sickness, pushed into a wolf-pen, and now someone is shooting arrows at me. Not to mention,' I continued bitterly, 'my desperate run through Windsor Forest which, if the King gets his hands on me, I am doomed to repeat!'
'How far would we get?' Benjamin retorted. ‘Don't you think the same thought has occurred to dearest Uncle? The ports would be watched. We would be arrested and back in the Tower, not as guests, but as prisoners. Moreover, if we journey abroad, how will we live? When could we come back? Moreover,' he added bitterly, 'you know the King's mind. He might start wondering who really is behind these blackmailing letters and demands for gold.' 'He wouldn't blame us!' I cried.
Benjamin glanced at me: I knew he was right. In his present mood, the Great Beast would be only too willing to point the finger.
'Ah well,' I sighed. "What do we do next?'
Benjamin stared round the chamber. We are well looked after,' he remarked. 'Let's wait here and think. Our enemies are bound to make a mistake.'
I reluctantly agreed: after all, Kemble was a perfect host.
Now, you young men who know the Tower might think it was all gloomy, wet, mildewed walls, draughty cells, narrow cold passageways and creaking doors. Oh, there's plenty of that, but our rooms in the Wakefield were spacious, well-lit by windows, all filled with glass and protected by shutters. Tapestries hung on the wall, we had soft beds, tables, chairs, a large aumbry for our clothes, as well as chests and coffers. In many ways it was a home from home, except for the problems which faced us. Cooks and servitors brought us wine and food, and Kemble issued an open invitation to dine with him or in the garrison refectory. However, for the next few days we kept to ourselves. Benjamin paced up and down. He slept, muttered to himself, or studied Thomas More's History of Richard the Third.
