by Paul Doherty
'Devil's bollocks!' I muttered back. 'It's the truth.' And, crossing my arms. I slipped into a wine-drenched sleep.
My awakening was not so graceful. The sun had not yet risen when royal huntsmen, cowled and hooded and carrying torches, burst into our chamber. Benjamin sprang from his bed, but one of them pressed a dagger against his cheek.
'Stay where you are, Master Daunbey,' he warned. ‘Your beloved Uncle sends a message. If it were not for you -' he pointed to where I hung, half-dazed, between the arms of two burly verderers – 'Master Shallot would swing from the highest gallows in the castle for his crime of lese-majesty.'
Do you know the bastard was right? I had committed misprision of treason by casting a public slur on the King's date of birth. However, in doing so (and the good Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to behold), my jest was to unlock the dreadful bloody puzzle which confronted Benjamin and myself.
However, at five o'clock in the morning, when I was cold, terrified, and my head still thick with wine fumes, I really didn't give a damn. I still believed I was going to hang. I thought of pleading. I opened my mouth as they thrust me out of the chamber, locking the door behind me, but one of the huntsmen smacked me in the teeth. I could see he was not open to reason, so I hung listless as they carted me downstairs, along empty galleries and into one of the castle's great stableyards. Nearby were the royal kennels, and the blood-curdling howls of the hunting dogs awoke strange fears in my soul. It was that eerie time between night and day. The sky was clear, but only a light-reddish hue indicated where the sun was about to rise. The huntsmen gathered round me like a group of leather-garbed devils. A few of them were grinning. One or two looked sadly at me, the rest worked like professional mercenaries: they had a task to do and they would do it. I was stripped of every article of clothing: that's the last I saw of my Italian silk shirt, fine Flemish hose and expensive linen undergarments. (Take Shallot's advice. Never sleep in your clothes. So, when the bastards come to collect you in the early hours, they can't steal your under-garments.)
I tried to object. A huntsman smacked me across the mouth with his leather gauntlet, so I shut up. I was doused under a pump; the cold water sent my heart fluttering and my wits racing. After that they brought a tub of grease, rancid and foul-smelling. I was daubed with this from head to toe. A pair of roughly fashioned sandals were thrust on my feet and I was covered from head to toe with deer-skin. I tried to make a run for it but they caught and held me fast, tying my ankles and wrists together. At last they were finished and stood back, admiring their handiwork.
'One of the strangest beasts I have ever seen,' a huntsman remarked.
'I wonder,' one of them commented, ‘how long it will be able to run for? Mind you-' he came closer and dabbed some more grease on my face – We can always mount his head beside a boar's!' The joking stopped as a massive figure swept through a doorway and strode across the cobbles. It was the Great Beast himself) dressed in his Robin Hood garb, lincoln green, with a silly bonnet which had a white swan's feather clasped to it on his head. He came closer and peered at me. 'Master Shallot, you should hang for what you said!' 'Some of us hang, some of us don't,' I replied cheerfully.
The King spread his lips in a grimace but the fury boiled in bis eyes.
Today we hunt: not the deer or the boar, but those who should know their place and keep a still tongue in their head. Open your mouth, Master Shallot.'
I did so and the King poked his gloved fingers in and seized my tongue. He dragged it out and pulled me closer.
‘When a deer is brought down,' he hissed, 'it's the prince's privilege to cut the tongue. Remember that, Shallot.'
I did what I always do when the fat Beast threatened me. I farted, loud and clear, like a bell tolling across the square, a long, fruitful blast of protest. The huntsmen sniggered. Henry snapped his fingers. 'Bring out the dogs!'
Two verderers went behind the high palings and brought out two of the great beasts I had seen in the chapel the night before. I thought they might recognise me, so I forced a smile, but the evil-looking bastards just growled, their forelips coming back to display white, snarling teeth.
'Let me introduce Death and Pestilence,' Henry taunted. They are also figures in the Apocalypse, Master Shallot. They are German hunting dogs, the best in the field.' He crouched down and stroked both of them. 'Once they sniff you and have your scent, they'll pursue you to the rim of the world. When the hunt begins you will start running. You can run for your life and these dogs will pursue you! Climb a tree and they'll sit at the bottom! Take off those deer-skins and the’ll still follow the grease on your body. Jump into a river and try washing it off: impossible. By the time you do, they will have caught you and pulled you down!' ‘What chance do I have?'
'Very little,' the Beast replied. "But if you can come back here to this stable, dressed within those skins, you will win your life and a purse of gold.' The cruel bastard wagged a finger in front of my face. 'You are not to take those skins off nor seize a horse, nor attempt to ride in any cart.'
My heart sank. Of course, as the Great Beast had been talking, I had been pondering all the possibilities. The easiest would have been to lurk by some trackway and steal a mount. Henry's words dashed these hopes, as did his warning that I could not remove the skins. After all, it would have been pleasant to put them on some wandering friar and scuttle back to Windsor whilst some fat priest raced for his life. Instead I had to stand and shiver as the sun began to rise. Henry and his select band of courtiers, the usual gang of sycophants, saddled and horsed, drinking their cups of hot posset. They looked me up and down as if I was some prize buck or barnyard fox.
At last the bastards were ready. Two mounted huntsmen put a cloth sack over my head and, holding me between then, left the castle, skirted the small town and took me into a wide, sweeping meadow still wet with the morning dew. At the far end of this stood the edged of the great forest where Henry loved to hunt.
'Run for your life, Master Shallot.' One of the verderers pulled the sacking from my head and pointed towards it. The King has agreed to give you an hour's start. You'll hear the horn and the baying of the dogs.'
I looked at the man's companion: he was one of those evil, narrow-eyed caitiffs. I glanced up at the huntsman and saw kindness in the rugged, sunburnt face.
"What can I do?' I whispered. This is against the law and all usages.'.
The fellow shook his head. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last to take part in a death hunt.' "What can I do?' I begged.
The man leaned down from his saddle. This is the royal forest,' he whispered, 'only the King's law rules here. The last poor creature hanged himself. Whatever you do, don't let the hounds catch you. They'll tear you to pieces.' He squeezed my shoulder. 'Run!' he added. 'Run like the wind! Don't try and hide. Those hounds have your scent and they'll never forget!'
He turned his horse and, followed by his companion, galloped away. There was I, poor old Shallot, dressed in deer-skin, frightened as a fawn, trembling from head to foot. I stared up, the sky was a deep blue and the sun was beginning to strengthen. A beautiful summer's morning. I could hear the wood pigeons cooing and the chatter of grasshoppers. It was the sort of day you'd take a lovely lass out for a walk in the meadow, with a jug of white wine, two cups, and sit on the bank of some stream and tickle the lazy trout. But not for Shallot! Oh no, I was about to die! I did what I always do in such straitened circumstances. I collapsed to my knees and blubbered. I prayed earnestly to God's own mother, reminding her that, though I was a sinner, I was more sinned against than sinning. (Another phrase I have given to Will Shakespeare.)
And then I was off, running like a hare through the grass, aiming true as an arrow towards that dark fringe of trees. The wine fumes cleared from my brain and my sharp wits began to assert themselves. (Oh, just a minute, I can see my little clerk begin to snigger. There's nothing the little bumsqueak likes to hear about better than his old master having to run for his life. 111 jus
t give the little mouse-dropping a rap across his knuckles with my cane. Good, that will teach him to respect his betters.)
I reached the trees, stopped, and looked along the trackway which snaked through the forest. I was tempted to plunge into the undergrowth, but that would have been foolish. The brambles and weeds would ensnare my ankles, lash my legs, impede my progress and the dogs would be on me. I ran on, cursing and muttering, deeper and deeper into the dark forest. I splashed across streams, through dark quiet glades, desperately seeking some place to hide, anything to escape the death which would soon be pursuing me. Yet this was a royal forest, Henry's hunting preserve: there would be no villages, no lonely farms, or occasional woodcutter's hovel, or charcoal-burner's hut. I was alone. On and on I ran, my heart beating fast, my legs beginning to grow weak. I reached one glade and was half-way across when the horseman emerged from the trees. I looked at him and fell to my knees. I thought I'd died and gone to Hell. The rider was dressed completely in black. His warhorse was of the same dark hue, eyeballs rolling, sharpened hooves scraping at the moss-covered ground. The rider was a vision from Hell. A black mask covered his face. On his head, the long horns of a great stag rose up on either side like branches curling towards the sky. 'Go no further!' he shouted.
1 didn't intend to,' I whimpered back, staring up at this macabre vision.
‘I am Herne the Hunter,' the figure went on, his voice low and hollow. What are you doing running in my forest?'
'I am going to bloody die!' I screamed back. That Great Beast of a King is hunting me!'
I measured the distance between him and myself. I fleetingly wondered if I could try and unhorse him: spectre or no spectre, that horse was real enough. I could be at the nearest port before Henry found out. The huntsman seemed to read my mind; a crossbow appeared beneath the cloak and an arrow whistled over my head. ‘No further!'
I sat back on my heels. ‘Help me!' I whimpered.
The rider threw a sack down on the ground and, turning his horse's head, galloped back along the forest track. I let him go then, half crying, half laughing, crawling towards the sack. I undid the cord. As I did so, something scratched my arm. I plunged my hand in and drew out a long bow, the wood of polished yew with a strong handgrip and a quiver carrying six goose-feathered arrows. I also drew out a mask and, fastened to the boiled leather on either side, antler horns. There was also some biscuits coated with sugar and a small flask of wine. Now you know old Shallot: never look a gift horse in the mouth! My prayers had been answered, even if my benefactor was Herne the Hunter.
For a while I just stared at what the sack contained. I then wolfed down the biscuits, emptied the wine flask and wondered what I should do. Help had arrived, but why like this? Why Herne the Hunter? I recalled the legends about this mythical figure, supposedly the ghost of a huntsman unjustly hanged from a great oak in Windsor Forest hundreds of years before. He was supposed to still haunt there, with demon hounds and devil riders.
I drew in my breath, great sucking gasps, calming my heart, clearing my mind. Of course, the Great Beast was as superstitious as any old gypsy woman, and I knew what my anonymous benefactor intended. I had been given wine and food to build my strength, a mask bearing antler horns, a long bow and a quiver of arrows. I was no longer to be Roger Shallot but Herne the Hunter.
I made sure there was no wine left in the flask. I pushed that back into the sack, together with the woollen cloth which had contained the biscuits, and hurled the whole lot among the bushes. I heard the long wailing blast of a hunting horn and, on the breeze, the strident, whining howl of the dogs. The hunt was about to begin, but who was to be the hunter?
I ran on, confident ‘I’d escape. I splashed across a small brook and climbed a bank; my legs and hands were caked with mud. The King had instructed me not to remove the deer-skin, but he had not told me what I could put on it. I jumped back in the stream and, scooping up handfuls of mud, began to coat myself from head to toe. By the time I had finished, I did look like some woodland demon sprinting through the trees. Behind me the deep bellows of the dogs grew nearer. As they did, Shallot the coward was replaced by Shallot the cunning.
There was a break in the forest. I scampered up a steep hill and squatted in the bushes at the top. At last the two great hell-hounds came like arrows through the trees. They stopped at the foot of the hill, casting around for my scent. I was pleased to see the mud had at least confused them. Now, despite my poor eye, I was a consummate archer. I came to the brow of the hill, notched an arrow, and drew it back. I tested the wind against my cheek. The breeze was light, hardly noticeable. Now I love animals, and dogs and horses are my favourites, but those two great mastiffs Death and Pestilence were set to tear me limb from limb. I drew in a deep breath and let the arrow fly. Down it sped, catching one of the hounds deep in the throat. The dog jumped up and fell on its side. The other gave a howl of rage and charged up towards me. Another arrow was notched. I no longer felt afraid. My only regret was that it wasn't Henry but some poor dog coining towards me. Again I loosed, but the dog was moving too fast and the arrow skimmed above his head. Other members of the pack were now breaking through the trees. I seized another arrow, took aim, and hit the animal full in its slavering jaw. It swerved, crashed, the slid back down the hill. The other hounds, sensing that something had gone wrong, milled about at the bottom. Their keeper gazed fearfully up at the apparition at the top of the hill.
‘I am Herne the Hunter!' I bellowed, my voice sounding muffled behind the mask.
The hunter dropped his whip and stared up at me. I notched another arrow to my bow and took the bastard full in the shoulder. After that, I sprang up, did a strange dance, and disappeared behind the bushes. Well, what more could I say? Of course, the hunt was finished. The leading hounds were dead. One huntsman was wounded. I now began to double back, thoroughly enjoying myself. Near the forest edge I glimpsed the soaring battlements of Windsor Castle.
I doffed the mask, hid the bow and quiver-arrows in the undergrowth, washed off the mud in a nearby stream and walked, cool as any courtier, back through the village. I ignored the astonished looks of traders and hawkers as I strolled back to the castle. Oh, how my blood sang and the fire burned in my belly! Chamberlains and servitors looked at me as if they had seen a ghost. I found my way back to the stable-yard and imperiously demanded a cup of sack and a dish of stewed meat. I sat down with my back to an outhouse wall and ate and drank my full in the warm sunlight.
The hours passed. I grew a little cold. There was no sign of the hunt returning, so I seized a cloak and began to wander the palace. Rumours of my escape had already swept the royal household and, although the day before, people would have seized me and escorted me to the nearest horse-trough, now they left me alone. I returned to the tower, but the staircase to Benjamin's room was still heavily guarded. I decided not to exert my newfound authority, but at least I knew that my mysterious benefactor in the forest could not have been Benjamin. I went on to the kitchens, bullied some more meat and drink from a terrified cook, and roamed the palace once more.
That particular day was important to me, not just because I had escaped Henry's wrath: it was also closely entwined with the bloody murders which puzzled Benjamin and myself. I must have been in the main keep, going along a wooden gallery, when I glimpsed a large framed picture at the end, mounted against the wooden panelling. It depicted the Great Beast's mother, Elizabeth of York. I went along and stared up at her beautiful, thin, ivory-white face, her famous golden hair tightly bound under a jewelled cap. Behind her, in the background, were pictures of her family: these were fairly indistinct, as the painting had gone dark with age and was covered with dust. (It just goes to show you the manners of the old Beast! He never cared for his father or his mother. When his commissioners under Cromwell began to destroy the abbeys and churches, Henry actually dug up his great-grandmother, leaving her coffin to be abused and rifled by any passing villain. Years later I intervened, and begged Elizabeth to have the r
emains properly coffined and reinterred.)
I pulled up a stool and climbed up to clear away the dust for, in the background, playing in a field, were two young boys: Elizabeth's two brothers, the Princes in the Tower. I thought the picture might give me some clue, then the stool slipped and I fell against the wooden panelling. My nailing hand must have caught some secret lever, the panelling moved inwards, acting as a secret door. I looked around. No one was present so I went in. I jammed the stool between the door and the lintel lest it close and seal me in for ever.
Inside was a small, musty chamber. Straining my eyes, I could make out a table, a chair and, in the far corner, a small truckle-bed. I stretched my hand out across the table. I grasped a thick, squat candle and, beside it, a tinder with flint. After a great deal of difficulty, I lit the candle and the chamber flared into light. God knows what I expected, but all I found was an earthernware pot, a few rags on the bed, a stained pewter jug and the remains of a cup which had apparently fallen from the table. Nevertheless, the chamber looked as if it had been occupied, though not recently. I blew the candle out, left the chamber, and quietly resealed the panelling.
I was about to continue my wandering when I heard the faint sound of a hunting horn. I scurried back to the stable-yard, taking up position at the very spot where the King had last threatened me. I breathed in deeply to calm my thudding heart as the King and his cronies, spattered with mud and rather subdued, swept into the yard. Henry slid down from his horse and ordered the wounded verderer to the castle infirmary, and the corpses of his two great mastiffs to be laid out in the castle chapel. The Great Beast swaggered towards me; his cronies, faces tense, eyes watchful, crowded behind him. 'So, Shallot, you escape yet again?' ‘Yes, your Grace.' 'And how?' The Beast thrust his face towards me.
I acted all coy and frightened, opening my mouth to reply, then closing it with a sigh.
