by Paul Doherty
‘We are so alike, Roger,' he whispered. 'Rogues, but good men underneath.'
(Oh, the gift of self-deception! He'd then go on and list all those he'd once loved who'd failed him: Wolsey, Cromwell, Boleyn, Norris, Howard. Good Lord, my stomach would clench at the long list of men and women he'd used and discarded. Well, Henry's at Windsor for good now. The fat slob is buried there. I personally helped stuff his bloated corpse into the coffin. And it's true, like Pope Alexander VI’s, the corpse later blew up and exploded, though by then I was gone, riding for my life from black-garbed assassins. However, that's for the future because, though many don't know it, Henry VIII did not die in his sleep; he was murdered!)
However, on that summer evening so many years ago, my master and I were locked in our little garret, thinking we would have to wait for days before the King summoned us, when a messenger arrived. A royal huntsman, dressed in green velvet with a cap upon his head, adorned with a pheasant plume. (Oh yes, when Henry went hunting he dressed like Robin Hood, silly bugger!) This huntsman, a surly brown-faced fellow, said the King was in his chapel attending a Mass for his dogs. I thought I had misheard him, but as the fellow took us down the stairs and along the gallery, Benjamin grasped my sleeve and whispered that, whatever happened, I was not to laugh. The huntsman took us into the chapel of St George, a beautiful miniature jewel of a church. Its walls and richly decorated stalls were brightly caparisoned with the banners and pennants of the Knights of the Garter. The sanctuary was bathed in light. A priest stood on the altar, ready to say Mass. I glimpsed the back of the King where he sprawled in his throne-like chair, on his right the great Cardinal himself However, what caught my attention and took my breath away was that the stalls on either side of the sanctuary – two rows, about twenty-eight seats in all -were full, not with chaplains or the King's royal choir, but with bloody great mastiffs and hunting dogs. I just stopped and gaped! The buggers sat there more devout than many a priest, legs together, heads up, ears cocked. You think I joke? I tell you, I half-expected them to burst into the Te Deum.
The chief huntsman turned and glared at me. Benjamin grasped me by the arm and pushed me forward. We went to kneel on the steps before the sanctuary. The King turned to his right, glimpsed me kneeling behind him, snapped his fingers and the Mass began.
It was the strangest ceremony I have ever attended! A simple Low Mass, the priest from the chapel royal devoutly reciting it. The King sat as if he was God himself, whilst Wolsey… well, only the good Lord knows where his subtle mind was wandering. Nevertheless, it was those dogs which fascinated me. I couldn't take my eyes off them. They sat watching the priest as intently as if he were a rabbit hole. Naturally, during the epistle, a couple of them got down to wander off. The King stretched out his hand, clicked his fingers, and back they went. Now the Great Beast loved his dogs. Mind you, I have noticed that about bloodthirsty tyrants. Catherine de Medici was no different. She'd kill people in batches, only to sit on the floor and weep because her pet lap-dog's paw had been injured.
At last the Mass ended and the priest, before the final benediction, picked up an asperges rod and bucket and blessed each of the animals. I looked at the leader, a great mastiff, almost as big as the lion I had glimpsed in the royal menagerie. I am sure he almost bowed his head. The priest left the sanctuary. The Great Beast rose to his feet and walked along the stalls, patting each dog on its head. 'Lovely boys!' he whispered. 'Lovely, lovely lads!'
The dogs whimpered with pleasure. The King clapped his hands: they all climbed down and followed the huntsman out of the church as devoutly as a line of novices. The King turned his attention on us, indicating that we should come and kneel on the cushions in the sanctuary before him.
I glanced quickly at the Cardinal. He sat sprawled in the throne-like chair, a small purple silk skull-cap pushed on to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince; his features smooth and swarthy like an Italian: red sensuous lips, a slightly beaked nose and dark, lustrous eyes. He was dressed in scarlet trimmed with gold. He caught my eye, winked, and stared piously up at the crucifix in the apse of the church. He would not dare address us until the King had.
The Great Beast proved to be in fine fettle. He was dressed in a lincoln-green jerkin brocaded with silver, matching hose, soft leather boots with an ermine-lined cloak draped over his shoulders. Because he was in church, his head was bare; the only place Henry did not wear those bejewelled bonnets he was so fond of. Oh, but it was his face! Do you know, I have seen Holbein's painting, fat and square with those piggy, slanted eyes. Henry always reminded me more of a Tartar than an Englishman, yet you have to give the devil his due: he had a presence. If Henry had been married to the right woman; if he'd listened to honest men like Tom More instead of the crawlies which swarmed round his court, he could have been a great prince. If you ignored the eyes, his face had a nobility all of its own. A broad brow, powerful jaw, and those lips always clenched; when they opened to speak, everyone's heart skipped a beat. He glanced down at Benjamin and proffered his hand, his fingers shimmered with light from the precious jewels clustered there. Benjamin edged forward and kissed them, then Henry turned to me. I came forward. He patted me on the head as if I was one of his dogs, and Great Wolsey tittered at the joke.
We will talk in here.' The King spoke in a hoarse whisper. He glanced sideways at Wolsey. This is the one place I know there are no peepholes in the walls.' His eyes slid to Benjamin. 'Master Daunbey, our good Doctor Agrippa has told you everything?'
We have seen the letter, Your Grace. We also know about the proclamations the traitor has posted against you.'
Henry shuffled his feet, the fury blazed in his eyes. Traitor it is!' he rasped. 'And, as God be my witness, I want him seized, taken to Tower Hill, half-hanged, cut down, his body ripped open, his innards plucked out and burnt before his eyes.' Henry leaned back in his chair, breathing noisily.
What have you discovered, beloved Nephew?’ Wolsey tactfully intervened.
'Beloved Uncle,' Benjamin replied, kneeling back on his heels, 'nothing but a riddle. The first letter was delivered when the Tower was sealed. Moreover, that same place was locked, and everyone confined within, when the gold was supposed to have been collected from St Paul's and those two other proclamations appeared.' ‘I know that,' Henry snarled.
We think,' Benjamin continued hurriedly, 'that there are two, not one traitor involved. One inside the Tower, one without.' Who?' Henry rasped. ‘Your Grace, we do not know'
‘Your Grace, we do not know. Your Grace, we do not know,' Henry mimicked. He stretched out his boot and kicked me on the shoulder. 'And you, Shallot, with your cunning face and twisted eye?' 'I am Your Grace's most humble servant.'
'Oh piss off!' Henry snorted. 'Everyone's my humble servant – ' his voice was shot through with self pity -'until I need help and assistance.'
'Are the deaths amongst the hangmen connected with this villainy?' Wolsey asked.
'Beloved Uncle, we do not know. We can't even prove that it was Undershaft's corpse taken from the cage.'
'Do you suspect anyone?' the King asked, leaning forward.
Benjamin shook his head. ‘But, Your Grace,' he added hurriedly, and glanced quickly at his uncle, 'these letters and proclamations are issued in the name of a long-dead prince, Edward V.'
Henry bared his lips, reminding me of a mastiff. The very mention of the Yorkists could send him into a paroxysm of rage. 'Continue, beloved Nephew,' Wolsey said smoothly.
'Surely the Crown and its spies at the House of Secrets must know something about the fate of these two Princes?'
We have combed the records.' Wolsey stopped speaking and looked round the darkening church.
‘Your Grace, the door is sealed.' Agrippa, standing at the back, shouted from the darkness. 'No one can hear.'
The Cardinal leaned forward. "Then listen well, Nephew. I shall tell you about those two princes. They were last seen in the summer of 1484, then they disappeared. The King's illus
trious father, after his great victory against the usurper Richard the Third at the battle of Bosworth, came into London and lodged at the Tower. He announced his betrothal to the Prince's sister, Elizabeth, our noble King's illustrious mother: at her insistence, he organised a most thorough search of the Tower and its precincts.'
'Who was constable under Richard the Third?' Benjamin asked.
'Sir Robert Brackenbury,' Wolsey replied. ‘But he, too, was killed at the battle of Bosworth and could not be questioned. Now the search organised by the King's father found nothing. The most industrious of his spies, both here and abroad, could elicit little more.' Wolsey paused. He glanced at the King but Henry had his eyes closed. ‘Now, our King's illustrious father and his good wife spent twenty-four years of his reign wondering what had happened to those two Princes. Matters were not helped by a succession of pretenders, the most serious being the Flemish boy Perkin Warbeck. He claimed to be the younger prince Richard. As you know, for a while Warbeck nourished. He was supported by both France and Scotland, who accepted his explanation that he had escaped from the Tower whilst his brother had been murdered. Now Warbeck was captured and executed.'
‘Not before he confessed to being a Fleming of low birth,' Henry snarled.
‘Precisely,' Wolsey continued, ‘but the mystery still remains. Some say the Princes were murdered by their uncle, Richard the Usurper. Others that they escaped.'
'Is there any truth in the latter theory?' Benjamin asked.
‘We do know,' Wolsey replied, 'that in January 1485, Sir James Tyrrell, one of Richard's henchmen, took three thousand pounds abroad. Some people say that this huge fortune was because Richard allowed his nephew to go abroad to live a life of wealthy but relative anonymity.' Wolsey shrugged his shoulders. ‘But, there again, there are other stories that, on the morning of Bosworth, the usurper Richard was seen in his tent conversing with a young, silver-haired boy whom many thought to be one of the Princes.' 'So they could be alive?' Benjamin asked.
Tom More doesn't believe that,' Henry declared, squirming in his chair. "He learnt a different story from Cardinal Morton, my father's principal minister. According to him, the three thousand pounds Sir James Tyrrell received in January 1485 was a reward for smothering both Princes in their beds.'
Wolsey took up the story. 'Sir Thomas More believes that the usurper Richard sent his agent John Greene with orders to the constable to kill the Princes. Brackenbury refused, so Richard dispatched Sir James Tyrrell together with two assassins, Dighton and Greene, into the Tower, where they smothered the Princes and buried them in a secret place.' Wolsey smiled bleakly. (He had little love for Sir Thomas More!) There's no evidence for such a story,' he continued. 'Sir James Tyrrell was arrested by the King's father in 1502 for conspiring with Yorkists abroad. Some say he confessed to the murder of the Princes, but that is more fanciful thinking than fact.'
The Tower grounds have been searched,' Henry declared. 'No remains were ever found.'
What about those servants who waited on the Princes?' Benjamin asked.
'All are long dead.' Wolsey replied. 'And they could tell the King's spies nothing…'
They are dead! The Princes are dead! They are dead!' Henry pounded his fists on the arm of the chair. He glared at the crucifix as if he expected confirmation from God Himself.
'My Lord King.' Wolsey turned and bowed. 'I fully agree with you, but where do those seals come from? If the Princes were killed, those seals would have been destroyed. If the Princes escaped, they might well have taken them with them.'
Henry glared at his first minister, his face mottled with fury.
‘Your Grace,' Wolsey whispered, I am as desperate as you are for this villainy to be unmasked.' 'Show them the second letter,' the King growled.
The Cardinal put his hand into his silken robes and drew out a roll of parchment which he handed to Benjamin, who studied it and, ignoring the King's hiss of anger, passed it to me. The letter was couched in the same kind of language as before: the writing beautifully elegant, the bottom of the letter bore two seals. It purported to be from Edward V, King of England: it called Henry a "usurper, fulminating against his perfidy. Imperious in its demand that two thousand pounds be left in front of St Paul's Cross on 28 August, the feast of St Augustine. It closed with the arrogant phrase, 'Given at our palace at the Tower during August in the fortieth year of our reign.' Will you pay? I asked. The words came out in a rush.
Henry leaned down. ‘Pay, little Shallot! You, my little pickle onion! My little dropping! You, a stain on my court! You will take the two thousand pounds at noon on that day, but you shall arrest the villain responsible.'
The threat seemed to sweeten Henry's mood. He smiled brilliantly at Wolsey, kicked me once again and rose to his feet. He patted his stomach.
"Did you like my Mass, Shallot? Asking God's blessing on my hunting dogs?’ He patted my head. Tomorrow you shall hunt with us, but tonight we will feast.'
He swept out of the chapel. Wolsey stopped to sketch a blessing in the air above his nephew's head. He followed in a billow of scarlet silk gowns. Agrippa opened the door for them, grinned at us, then slammed it behind him. ‘I’ll kill him!' I whispered, getting to my feet. 'Benjamin, he treats me like a dog.' "Roger! Roger!' Benjamin slipped his arm through mine as we walked down the church.
‘Mind you,' I scoffed, He's frightened, isn't he? Terrified of the Yorkist ghosts? Do you think it could be a plot?' I added. ‘Remember, Master, years ago, the Brotherhood of the White Rose? Yorkists plotting against the Tudors?'
Benjamin pulled a face. Time has passed, Roger. The House of York is a withered root. No flower, no fruit grows there. The fate of the two Princes,' he added quietly, stopping to admire a tapestry hanging on the wall just above the door, 'that is of interest, but only because of those seals. Where a king is, so are the insignia of office. However, what we are hunting here, Roger, is a blackmailer and a murderer, and a very clever one at that. But come, the trumpets will bray and Uncle wishes to see us at supper.'
We scurried back to our chambers. Like good little boys, we changed and went down to the hall or, should I say, one of the halls in the inner keep. A magnificent occasion. The room was lit by so many candles you'd think it was daytime: their flames dazzled the gold and silver plate stacked high on shelves and chests around the room. Pure woollen carpets with silk fringes covered the floor. The best Flemish tapestries hung on the walls. Silver and gilt vases full of blooming red roses filled the air with their perfume. (Another sign of Henry's madness. He was so determined to stamp out the White Rose of York, every bloody building had red roses carved in the ceilings or walls. Henry had six craftsmen skilled in carving them. Mind you, one of the funny things about the Great Beast's palaces were his changing wives. He would be carried away in such a flood of affection, he'd insist that the initials of himself and his current queen be placed everywhere. He had six queens! So many he became tired of changing initials. I thought it was particularly amusing that his last queen, sharp-faced Catherine Parr, had the same name as his first. If he had chosen a line of queens with the same name, he would have saved himself a lot of money.)
The supper party that night was not one of Henry's great banquets but a small, intimate affair. The King, of course, had his table on a dais, with a large, throne-like chair in the centre, under a white silk canopy adorned with red roses. Wolsey and some of his cronies sat alongside him. Benjamin and I sat at one of the two tables just below this. Nonetheless, Henry liked his feasting and this occasion was as glorious as any. The plate was of heavy gold or silver, the tablecloths white satin. The meats – venison, boar, swan – were all professionally cooked in tasty, rich sauces, and followed by delicious confectionery, cakes, custards and trifles, whilst the wine flowed like water.
I confess I was in a foul mood. I don't like being treated like a dog. I was also still trembling after my escape from that wolf, so I drank deeply. After Henry's interminable banquets, there was always singing, dancing and c
ard-playing. Sometimes the King liked to regale us all with stories. On that particular night he had the past in his mind. He talked tearfully of his mother and even spoke eloquently of his own father. He patted the hand of his dumpy wife Catherine and recalled his elder brother Arthur who had died so young. The fat Beast lolled in his chair, playing with the gold tassels on the arm.
'So long ago,' he crowed self-pityingly. 'So many shadows, so many regrets.'
A chilling silence greeted his words. A few guests looked sly-eyed at poor Catherine of Aragon, who'd failed to produce a living son.
'Fourteen years,' the beast went on. 'Since my glorious father's death and my accession.'
'Yet many more to come,' a brown-nosed flatterer cried out. 'Sire, you are only in your thirty-first year!'
The King's fat face creased into a smile. He nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging the plaudits of his flattering courtiers. "The sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of your father's reign.' Norris, one of the King's oldest cronies, was shouting, dramatically extolling the date of the Great Beast's birth.
Now the good Lord knows what got into me: wherever the Great Beast was concerned, I always put a foot wrong. Perhaps his treatment of me in the chapel had violated Shallot's one and only virtue: I don't like being bullied.
'Aye,' I cried, my belly full of wine, the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year. Six, six, six; the sign of the Great Beast in the Book of the Apocalypse!'
The banqueting chamber fell so quiet, you could have heard a fly fart. Henry glowered down the hall. My master put his face in his hands; even Wolsey raised his napkin to his mouth and gazed fearfully at me.
The King lifted a hand. "Music, let the dancing begin: tomorrow we hunt!' He glared murderously at me: the Great Beast was about to strike.
Chapter 7
I went to bed as drunk as a bishop. All I could recall was Benjamin taking me upstairs, laying me down on the bed and looking nervously at me. ‘Roger!' he hissed. 'What on earth made you say that?'
