by Paul Doherty
In any other circumstances I would have gone wandering into the city looking for mischief, but I was frightened. Benjamin kept to his studies: he borrowed parchment, quills and inkhorn from the Tower stores, and began to scribble furiously. On the morning of our third day he finished. I came back from my usual walk on the Tower Green, where everyone could see me, to find him sitting on the bed, studying what he had written.
What if,' he began, 'the young Edward the Fifth did survive? Or his younger brother, or both? They kept their seals and now work in the Tower garrison as humble soldiers or servitors?' He took one look at my face and grinned. 'It was just an idea,' he declared. He swung his legs off the bed. This is the problem, Roger. Forty years ago, the two sons of Edward the Fourth, his eldest boy, also named Edward, and Richard Duke of York, were locked up in the Tower by their Uncle Richard. They disappeared. They could have been murdered, or they could have escaped. We know that, for most of Henry the Seventh's reign, the King's peace of mind was plagued by pretenders who claimed to be the lost Princes. Even our present King has had to face conspiracies from the secret Brotherhood of the White Rose.'
Benjamin walked to the window and looked down at the soldiers practising their archery on the Tower Green. 'Now, I think both Princes are probably dead. However, their seals, which should have been broken and defaced, are being used to blackmail Henry. The sequence of events is as follows, correct me if I am wrong. On the sixth of June last, the Guild of Hangmen celebrated the King's birthday in a banquet which turned into an orgy. The hangmen were dressed in their official garb. It's possible that one of them saw something in the Tower which put the whole company at risk. Time passes: the sweating sickness breaks out in London, but the garrison only suffers one casualty, Philip Allardyce, clerk of the stores. He falls ill and is looked after by the crone Ragusa. We know he was ill from the testimony of witnesses. The old woman claimed he died: his sheeted corpse was taken to the death-cart at the Lion Gate, where a bailiff also pronounced him dead.'
'Aye, that road is closed,' I agreed. We know Allardyce was ill and died. He can't possibly be the villain in the city'
The sweating sickness begins to rage,' Benjamin continued. ‘Kemble sealed the Tower as if it was under siege. He and his two principal officers stay here, as do Mallow and his guild. No one is allowed to enter or leave. Then the first blackmailing letter arrives. It was left in Kemble's chamber, so the writer must be someone in the Tower. However, he must also have an accomplice in the city who can issue those proclamations and demand the money be left near St Paul's. We also think the same villain is behind the death of the hangman Andrew Undershaft, whose blackened corpse was found in a cage at Smithfield. Agreed?'
‘Yes, Master.'
'And what else, Roger?'
The sweating sickness passes and the Tower is opened. Another hangman is murdered, knocked on the head and drowned in a sack in the Thames, whilst a further blackmail letter is left on the Abbot's seat at Westminster. We, unhappy two,' I continued bitterly, ‘have the miserable task of taking the gold to where the blackmailer wants it at St Paul's. By subtle trickery, the villain seizes this and also taunts us. Once again we know it could not have been anyone from the Tower as, for most of that particular day, the Tower was locked and sealed. Nevertheless, we come back here, Horehound is horribly murdered. We are none the wiser, except that we know someone in the Tower, and another outside, are working in partnership.' I paused.
Benjamin walked back to his bed and sat down, head in hands. ‘I was with Kemble when you were thrown into the wolf-pit,' he said, 'and we were both with the officers when Horehound was killed.'
'So?' I asked. 'Are you saying the malefactor must be amongst the hangmen?'
‘I think so,' he replied, and smiled at me. 'I am also beginning to wonder if you are correct, Roger. Is Andrew Undershaft really dead?'
'One thing does bother me,' I replied. 'Granted, the hangmen have been slaughtered because one of them saw something untoward, but why kill them in such barbarous and grisly ways? It's as if the killer is imitating every type of execution: burning in a cage, drowning in a sack, or being pressed to death under a heavy door. There's a malicious relish here,' I declared. 'As if the assassin is determined to kill the hangmen in the most barbaric way possible.'
'For revenge?' Benjamin asked.
'Possibly,' I replied. We should have another word with Master Mallow.'
'As the King wants a word with you!'
I spun round. Agrippa stood in the doorway, his black, broad-brimmed hat clutched in his hands.
'You've come from Windsor?' Benjamin asked.
'Aye.' Agrippa walked across and sat down on a stool, staring at us with those strange eyes.
Tell us the worst,' I moaned.
"The King is furious. He's talking of treason, dereliction of duty by faithful servants. Do you remember the captain of the guard in St Paul's churchyard? What was his name?'
'Ramasden,' I replied.
Well, Ramasden's no more. He was hanged on the common gallows outside Windsor. The King is threatening to do the same to you, Master Roger. What's worse -' Agrippa pulled a small scroll from beneath his cloak and handed it to me - 'yesterday morning this was handed to one of the royal justices as he left Westminster Hall.'
I gazed down at the elegant writing. To the King5 and the red silk ribbon like a circle of blood around the scroll.
'Not another letter!' Benjamin exclaimed.
I undid the ribbon. The letter was shorter than the first but couched in the same arrogant, impudent tones.
'From Edward V, King of England, etc., etc., To one Henry Tudor, calling himself King...'
The date given was two days earlier at the Tower. The threat was the same: the writer accused Henry of trying to trap him, and therefore imposed a fine of one thousand gold coins. This time the money was to be left at the foot of the gallows at Tyburn.
'On your allegiance to Us,' the letter concluded, 'do not attempt to obstruct or impede our rightful collection of these taxes.'
The monies are to be left there at Michaelmas,' Agrippa explained.
I looked up. Two weeks hence.' I threw the letter at Benjamin. ‘Master, what can we do?' I went and sat next to him on the bed and gazed bleakly at Agrippa. 'What's the King so frightened of?' I shouted. 'Why doesn't he just refuse to pay the gold and tell the villain to go hang?'
Agrippa shook his head like a benevolent schoolmaster facing a dim-witted pupil.
‘You don't understand, do you? In his father's reign a kitchen boy pretended to be a Yorkist prince. A mere kitchen boy, Roger! Yet he won the support of powerful princes abroad. He invaded from Ireland. Henry's father met him at East Stoke in Nottinghamshire, and nearly lost the battle to a kitchen boy who could produce very little proof of his scurrilous claims! A few years later, Perkin Warbeck, the son of a Flemish weaver, came forward and claimed to be one of the younger Princes, Richard of York. And, for almost ten years, harassed the King's father to the point of distraction. Even now Henry is busy watching anyone with Yorkist blood in him.'
Agrippa beat his hat against his knee. 'Can you imagine, Roger? Must I keep repeating it? What would happen if such letters, signed and sealed by a Yorkist prince, began appearing all over London? Letters bearing the royal seal, proclaiming Henry as a usurper and alleging that the burdens the country is facing are because of his father's usurpation? Henry would spend tens of thousands raising troops and crushing revolts. No, this villainy must be stopped, the perpetrators captured and hanged immediately.'
'And is that all you can say?' I yelled back.
He spread his hands. 'I can only say what I know'
'Listen.' Benjamin, who had been studying the manuscript carefully, rolled it up and handed it back to me. 'My good doctor, whatever this villain says, I believe the two Princes in the Tower are dead. The constable, Sir Robert Brackenbury, who looked after them, was killed at Bosworth. Sir James Tyrrell, who may have had a hand in their murder, is also gon
e. However, Sir Thomas More, in his History of Richard the Third, alleges two common malefactors were involved in the Princes' murders, Dighton and Greene. Does anyone know of their whereabouts?'
'My Lord Cardinal has already thought of that,' Agrippa answered. 'Careful search has been made amongst the public records. Dighton was a northerner, he may have been executed in Durham but we have no real proof. Greene was a Londoner, a young man, a rogue. After Bosworth, a hunt was mounted for him. All we have is a description: lean, narrow-faced, with a terrible scar on his right wrist.' Agrippa sighed and got to his feet. 'But that's all I know. Now I have to report back to Windsor. You have the letter and the King's instructions. I wish you well.'
I made an obscene gesture as the door closed behind him. 'Shall we go to France?' I asked.
Benjamin sniffed the air. 'Isn't Dr Agrippa's perfume strange?' he muttered. 'Some say it is pleasant but others claim it's foul.'
The same goes for a hanging!' I snapped. 'It's pleasant if you're watching, or so they say, but dreadful to experience.'
Benjamin got to his feet, picking up his doublet. 'All paths are closed,' he declared, 'except one which you, Roger, have opened.' He smiled down at me. 'Let's ask Master Mallow a few questions.' He picked up the scroll Agrippa had brought and pushed it into one of the saddlebags hanging from a peg on the wall. We've some time yet.'
We left Wakefield Tower. It was strange to be surrounded by the daily retinue of the garrison: soldiers cleaned their equipment whilst children chattered and played in the sun: a cartload of provisions trundled towards the kitchens; masons banged and sang on the scaffolding. Benjamin made inquiries and discovered the hangmen had been busy carrying out executions and would be at the Gallows tavern. We went there but found it empty. Benjamin ordered ale, the landlord assuring us that, before the hour was out, Mallow and his apprentices would arrive. We sat sipping morosely at our ale until they did, coming through the doorway like a collection of demons. This was the first time I had seen them dressed in their official garb: black, high-heeled boots, long leather jackets of the same colour, hoods with a half-mask over their faces. They looked sinister and, as they walked across towards us, I realised how difficult it would be to tell one from the other in some darkened gallery or half-lit room. They greeted us cheerfully enough, pulling back their cowls, taking off the face masks, wiping the sweat from their faces as they shouted for ale.
'A good day's work?' I asked.
They acted like labourers coming in from the fields rather than executioners who had just been dispatching men on the gallows.
'Good?' Mallow queried. 'Of course, it's good, Shallot. London is a safer place. This morning we hanged nine river pirates near Wapping: that's why we were all there.'
'A bad time for river pirates,' I observed.
Mallow smirked and sipped at his tankard. 'Less of the sarcasm, Shallot. Now the sweating sickness is over, the justices of gaol delivery have been busy at the Fleet, Newgate and Marshalsea, so now we are going to be very busy over the next few weeks. Well -' he put the tankard down - "what can we do for you? As you can see, we are all alive and kicking.'
'Unlike the river pirates,' Wormwood quipped. They are just kicking!'
'It's about the murders of Hellbane, Horehound and Undershaft,' I began.
'We've told you all we know,' Snakeroot sneered.
Tell me,' Benjamin asked, ‘How does the Guild of Hangmen function? I mean, who decides which executions will be carried out?'
That's my decision,' Mallow replied. 'I work with the under-sheriffs. Naturally, sometimes we are busier than others. After the quarter sessions or commissions of gaol delivery, execution days are fixed either at Tyburn, in St Paul's churchyard, Smithfield, or at any of the crossroads leading into the city. There is a roster of duties.'
‘Yet today you have all been busy?' I inquired.
'As I have said, the plague is now over. Commissioners of gaol delivery sit at Westminster and the Guildhall, whilst the King's ships have been busy in the Thames estuary. River pirates have been caught and have now been hanged, either at Wapping or along the riverbanks.'
'So,' Benjamin asked, 'are you ever threatened by friends, relatives, or members of the gangs?'
Mallow grinned and sipped from his tankard. 'Now that's strange,' he declared. 'Oh, yes, sometimes. However, Master Daunbey, we are masked and hooded, whilst most felons and cut-throats see capture, imprisonment and execution as an occupational hazard. Amongst the outlaws and wolvesheads there is only one law: don't be caught.' He shrugged. 'And if you are, you pay the price. Why, where are these questions leading to?'
‘We believe that the murders of members of your guild are definitely linked to the blackmailing letters being sent to the King. Now,' Benjamin paused to collect his thoughts, 'God knows the reason, though I suspect it might be connected to the events which occurred in the Tower on the night of the King's birthday.'
'What do you mean?' Wormwood snapped.
'If I knew, ‘I’d tell you,' Benjamin declared. 'Nevertheless,' he continued, ‘Undershaft, Horehound and Hellbane were all slain with a malicious relish. Each of them suffered execution as laid down by the law. Undershaft was burnt in a cage. Hellbane drowned in a sack, and Horehound pressed to death. We believe the assassin has a grudge against all of your company.'
'But, as we have said -' Snakeroot's shifty eyes gazed Wearily at us, his mouth slack and dribbling '- the villains of London leave us alone.'
Think!' Benjamin urged them. Think! Have there been any executions, carried out by all of you, where vengeance was promised?'
Benjamin's words hung like a hangman's noose over this sinister group of men. They had walked into the tavern the roaring, bully boys, used to exercising the power of life and death. Now they were being confronted with the prospect of their own executions, and macabre ones at that.
(Oh, I see my little clerk is tapping his quill. A sign he wishes to ask a question. 'Have you ever been an executioner?' he squeaks. I am tempted to rap him over the knuckles with my ash cane for his impertinence: the answer is no! In all my adventures, despite all the extremities I have been pushed to, I have never taken a life unless I have had to. There, he can shut his mouth and 111 continue.)
Think!' Benjamin repeated.
The Sakker Gang!' Toadflax spoke up, running his hands through his yellow hair.
'Of course!' Mallow breathed. The Sakkers!'
‘Who are they?' Benjamin asked.
'A Kentish gang,' Mallow replied slowly. 'A father and five sons. They owned a tavern on the London to Canterbury road. They used to prey on pilgrims. The sheriff of Kent and the local law officers could do nothing against them. They robbed, plundered, raped and ravished. At first no one suspected them. They owned a tavern near St Thomas's watering-hole. Pilgrims would stop there. The Sakkers wined and dined them, carefully scrutinising their intended victims. The following morning, after the pilgrims had left, the Sakkers would take a short cut through the forest and ambush them: heavily armed pilgrims they left alone. They preyed on those little groups: families, merchants alone with their wives. Sometimes they would just rob. However, if they thought there was danger of being identified, they would kill with a cold ruthlessness.'
'And no one suspected them?' Benjamin asked.
'Well, no. As I have said, it was a father and five sons. The eldest, Robert, would stay in the tavern and pretend that his father and brothers were with him. They'd amassed quite a fortune. One day a merchant stayed at the tavern, months earlier one of his comrades had been attacked and killed. Now this merchant had given his friend a bracelet, a midsummer present which he saw on the wrist of one of the Sakkers. The merchant immediately returned to London and laid this information before the sheriffs. The gang was caught by Theophilus Pelleter.'
‘Who?' I interrupted, intrigued by such a strange name.
Theophilus Pelleter. One of the under-sheriffs,' Mallow replied. 'He lives with his daughter in Catte Street.' His eyes softened
. 'A good man, straight and true. I understand that when the plague visited the city, Pelleter stayed at his post and did what he could.'
I stared across the tavern where a cat, a rat caught between his jaws, padded out from the kitchen and disappeared into the stableyard.
'Anyway,' Mallow continued, 'Pelleter laid a trap. The entire gang was rounded up and appeared before King's Bench where, because of their crimes, the judges ruled that their tavern be levelled to the ground. They were to be hanged on special gibbets constructed on the site.'
'And did they all die?' Benjamin asked.
That's when the threats were made!' Wormwood snapped. The father and only four of his sons were captured. The eldest, Robert, escaped. Apparently, the night Pelleter and his men ringed the tavern, Robert was away. He returned to find his father and brothers captured.'
'So, why didn't he swear vengeance against the under-sheriff?'
Mallow looked shamefacedly away. The rest of his guild shuffled their feet and stared into their cups. 'Well?' I asked.
Mallow looked up. To answer your question, the under-sheriff and the other law officers were responsible for taking the gang back to the tavern and making sure lawful execution was carried out.'
‘Yes, yes, I can understand that,' Benjamin replied.
'Before the tavern was razed,' Mallow continued, ‘We er...'
