by Paul Doherty
'Do we believe what?' Southgate answered angrily.
'In Arthur's sword and a miraculous chalice?'
'If the King does,' Mandeville replied, 'I do. We also believe, Master Shallot, in the need for good order, strong rule, peace, and no stupid, futile rebellions.'
His two strange secretaries slid into the room and, without a nicker of a glance at us, went to sit at another table.
Mandeville, his mouth full of bread, nodded towards them. 'You consider us ruthless, Shallot? Then think of Cosmas and Damien. Or, even worse, of their elder brother who tried to escape. Do you know what the Turks did? They stripped him naked, pegged him to the soil, tied a hollow pipe to his side and took a starving rat—' Mandeville slurped from his beer '—not one of your English sort. Those in Asia are two foot long from tip to tail. Anyway, they put this rat down the pipe with a fire at the open end. The rat could only go one way, burrowing its way out through the living flesh.'
I gagged and glanced at the two bald-pated twins: they didn't seem so terrible now but rather pathetic. I then stared at Mandeville and Southgate. Whatever they said, these were the real madmen. They had a passion for law and order which bordered on mania, living examples of Machiavelli's The Prince, for what Henry wanted, these men would do.
'Why do we have to go to Glastonbury?' I blurted out before my master could stop me.
Mandeville sneered as his strong teeth tore at the coarse rye bread.
'Master Shallot, you and your master have a growing reputation for quick eyes and subtle wits. Do you ever go hunting?'
'Not if I can help it!'
'You should do, Shallot. Especially with dogs, for that's what we are going to do in Somerset. Hunt down traitors and find what the King wants. We are the huntsmen and you are our dogs.'
I bit back a tart reply as my master tugged at my sleeve and we tactfully took our leave. Outside in the corridor I grabbed him by the elbow.
'I'm no man's dog, Master!'
Benjamin shook his head. 'Just leave it, Roger, leave it! We have other matters to tend to.' 'Such as?'
'Hopkins's sister, not to mention Tailor Taplow.'
'Master Shallot!'
We both spun round. Rachel Santerre stood there, looking as beautiful as a summer's dawn though her face was pale with dark rings round the eyes.
'Master Daunbey, Master Shallot.' She looked fearfully over her shoulder.
'Mistress, what's the matter?' I asked, watching that lovely bosom rise and fall in agitation.
'I don't know,' she stammered. 'But I am fearful. Buckingham's blood is on Sir John's hands, and Mandeville and Southgate frighten me. They are going to stick their noses into matters which do not concern them.'
We looked at her.
'You don't understand,' she whispered hoarsely. 'I live at Templecombe. God forgive me, I feel the ghosts there, the Templar knights.'
'Rachel! Rachel!'
The young woman cast one more despairing glance at us, shook her head and disappeared round the corner to answer her mother's plea.
Benjamin kicked at the rushes. 'Pray,' he muttered. 'Pray, Roger, that we return safe from Templecombe!'
(As if I needed such urging!)
We returned to our chamber for our cloaks and wallets though Benjamin appeared to dally. 'Master, we should go.'
'In a little while, Roger, I am waiting for someone.'
He became lost in one of his dour moods so I let him be and went to the window to stare out at a dairy maid carrying pitchers of milk between the barns and the kitchen. At last there was a knock on the door and a young man entered wearing a battered leather jacket and torn breeches. He bobbed his greasy head at Benjamin as if greeting some great lord.
'You have the address?' my master asked.
'Oh, aye, sir.'
In any other circumstances the young man's burr would have made me laugh. 'Well?'
'Hopkins's sister is a widow and has been for many a year,' the fellow replied. 'She lives in a small alleyway just past The Magpie and Crown off Watling Street.'
'Thank you.' Benjamin slipped the fellow a coin and closed the door behind him.
'Mistress Hopkins,' I asked, 'off Watling Street? What has she to do with this business, Master?'
'She may know something, a piece of tittle-tattle, which may help us.'
'So we are off to Watling Street?'
Benjamin smiled. 'And Newgate Prison.'
Naturally we had to obtain Doctor Agrippa's permission to leave but, within the hour, we were on a barge taking us upriver. It was a cold but beautiful day. The sun shone from blue skies, the water was glassy smooth and, on every side, I felt London press in: the green fields, the orchards, the cries of the boatmen and those of children playing with hoops along the river bank. Suddenly I felt homesick, even before I left, and quietly raged at the royal bastard's devious plans.
We landed at East Watergate and made our way up into Knight Rider Street. Our short walk through London soon cheered me up, especially the taverns - The Raven's Watch, The Bible and Swan, The Leg and Seven Stars - with drinkers outside, their flagons full of 'angel's food' or 'dragon's milk', whilst the air was sweet with the smell of soft raisin-filled saffron cakes baking in the cookshops.
It was mid-morning and many of the apprentices and stallholders were taking a short rest, albeit some of them were already as drunk as March hares: one group of apprentices outside The Death's Head on the corner of Old Fish Street were indulging in a strident belching contest. I kept a wary eye open for any of my old friends, in particular the goldsmith Waller, even as I was distracted by the sight of the apprentices throwing their caps in the air as they shouted for custom, pompous city officials in their fur-lined robes and, of course, those beauties of the night, the high-class courtesans in their satin dresses and flowery head veils. These arrogantly wandered along the streets raising plucked eyebrows at the young bucks and gallants resplendent in tight hose, padded doublets and incredibly large codpieces.
We then took a short cut through some alleyways. Here the street-walkers were not too sophisticated: outside her tenement a harlot stood, skirts raised, over a chafing dish of coals on which she had sprinkled brimstone and perfume so as to fumigate herself. Further along, an apothecary was trying to sell the customers of such women a cure for the clap made out of boar's grease, sulphur, bark and quicksilver, all thickened by heavy treacle.
My master, of course, ambled along like a child and I had to keep him away from the rufflers, those former soldiers looking for easy pickings, the mad Abraham men who danced naked pretending to be insane, the cappers who begged for money and attached horse-locks to the outstretched arms of people stupid enough to give it. Once attached, the cappers would not let their victims go until they handed their purses across.
The din became even louder as we turned into Trinity where a gang of felons was being driven about London in a cart wearing a scrawled notice around their neck listing their offence. These were hookers - rogues who carried a tall staff with a hook at the end which they pushed through windows to pluck down everything of value - best blankets, nightshirts or pots. (It was because of these men that the legends spread that goblins and elves stole such stuff.) Anyway a gang of these had been caught and the crowd now vented their fury by pelting them with rotten eggs whilst householders tipped chamber pots from upper stories. A young man was chained to the back of the cart for pretending to be a priest. His back was lacerated, the tips of his ears bloody where they had been cropped whilst a fool's cap, fastened to his head, listed his lies and deceptions.
At last we reached the alleyway just past The Magpie and Crown. A beggar lad showed us the house in a dank, narrow alleyway where Mistress Hopkins lived. It was a lean, high tenement, three or four stories high. The windows were all shuttered and what paint was left was peeling off in huge flakes. The door was ill-fitting yet surprisingly open, off the latch. I knocked loudly and shouted. Even then I had a premonition of danger, of menace. Old Shallot's signs:
a pricking at the back of the neck, a churning of the bowels, light sweat on the forehead and this incredible desire to run.
'Mistress Hopkins!' I bawled. 'Mistress Hopkins!'
The small passageway was shadowy and fetid and my words rang hollow. 'Mistress Hopkins!' I repeated.
Above us the old house creaked and groaned. Benjamin pushed me in and slammed the door behind us. We groped around in the darkness, found a fat tallow candle and I lit it with my tinder. Hands shaking, I walked deeper into the house, Benjamin behind me. We passed a small, ill-kept chamber, dusty rickety stairs, then entered a scullery or kitchen. This was a little cleaner. A battered pewter cup stood on the table and, at the other end, in a chair facing an ash-filled fire grate, sat a lady, head forward, shoulders hunched, her veil fallen over her face. The place stank of death.
I walked over, tipped the head back and bit back my scream. Mistress Hopkins, no beauty in life with her scrawny face and wispy hair, had been brutally killed: her eyes popped out of their sockets, her swollen tongue was clenched between gapped yellow stumps whilst her skin was blue-black, the breath throttled by the scarlet garrotte cord still tied round her neck. Benjamin lifted the old woman's hand.
'Not too cold,' he murmured. 'She probably died within the hour'.
'Why?' I asked. 'Why an old lady?'
Benjamin covered the woman's face with a cloth and sat at the table. 'Someone,' he declared, 'knew we were coming. But that was no great secret. After all, I hired a servant at Richmond to discover where Mistress Hopkins lived.' He rubbed his chin. 'I suppose it's useless asking him. He could have let others know where we were going without realising it. No,' he sighed, 'someone knew we were coming. Someone who knows the mind of priests. A monk, especially a recluse like Hopkins, would have few friends and would scarcely confide in his brothers at Glastonbury. So perhaps he discussed matters with his sister?'
Benjamin tapped the table top. 'The sensible conclusion is that our secret assassin decided to remove the danger just in case.' He waved a hand round the silent, smelly room. 'And I suspect it was someone powerful, perhaps the secret Templar my uncle is hunting. After all, Mistress Hopkins would scarcely open the door to anyone. There is little sign of a struggle so I conclude our murderer arrived as a welcome visitor.' Benjamin pointed at the pewter cup. 'Mistress Hopkins probably served him wine.' He looked under the table and picked up another cup. 'She even joined him. The assassin would assure her all was well, slip behind her chair, then fasten the garrotte string round her neck.'
'He may have also been searching for some of Hopkins's papers?' I added. 'Perhaps something the mad monk entrusted to his sister?'
We inspected the rooms on the lower floor. Their contents were pathetic though the assassin had made his presence felt; two battered coffers had been prised open, tawdry jewellery cast aside along with scraps of parchment and a thumb-marked Book of Hours, but none of these proved of any value. We went upstairs and searched amongst her paltry possessions in those dusty, shadowy chambers. 'Nothing,' Benjamin murmured.
'Perhaps there was nothing to begin with,' I replied. 'Perhaps Mistress Hopkins was murdered simply because of what she might know.'
We left the house and walked up Budge Row into Cheapside. We forced our way through the bustling market which was packed from one end to the other with stalls, carts, horses and people of every station; the poor in their rags, the rich in their costly silks. A group of powerful noblemen pressed their way through, preceded by men-at-arms three abreast, mounted on great destriers and hoisting gilded spears. The standard bearers followed, banners of bright red and yellow depicting strange devices: black griffins, scarlet dragons and silver stags.
We continued on past the stink and stench of the Shambles where the lowing of the cattle waiting to be slaughtered jangled our nerves and hurt our ears. At last we reached Newgate, that loathsome pit of hell, the city prison built around the gatehouse of the old city wall. We went through Dick Whittington's archway and banged on the metal-studded door for access.
A greasy tub of lard with filthy hair and a red, unshaven face introduced himself as the keeper and became almost fawning when Benjamin informed him who he was.
The keeper wiped dirty fingers on a stained leather jacket and jangled a huge bunch of keys.
'Come, come, my lords!' he murmured, bowing and scraping before us. He smiled ingratiatingly. 'After all, Master Taplow hasn't much time left, he's to die at two this afternoon.
He led us across the antechamber to show us a tar-drenched jacket lined with sulphur which hung from a hook on the wall. The gaoler stopped and gazed at it admiringly.
'Master Taplow's winding sheet,' the evil sod murmured as if he was examining a painting by da Vinci or Raphael.
'He'll wear that!' I exclaimed.
'Of course,' the keeper replied. 'It will be slipped round him and he'll burn all the quicker.'
'Why not just hang the poor sod?' I muttered.
'Oh, no.' The gaoler stepped back, eyes widening. 'Oh, no, we can't have that! The law is the law. Taplow is a common traitor and the law says he should burn.'
(Do you know, I am a wicked old man, I love soft tits and a good cup of claret. I must have lived, oh, well over ninety-five years, but when I eventually meet God I want to ask him a question which has haunted me all my life. Why do we human beings love to kill each other? And why do we do it in the cruellest possible ways? Excuse me, I must lift my cane and give my chaplain a good thwack across the knuckles. 'You'll not go to heaven and meet God,' the snivelling little hypocrite mumbles. 'Yes, I will, I'll tell St Peter a joke and, when he's busy laughing, I'll nick his keys.' Lack a day, I digress!)
The little grease-ball of a gaoler waddled off, taking us along passages and galleries as black as midnight, down steps coated with slime and human dirt where rats swarmed thick as fleas on a mangy dog. The smell was nauseous, the cobbled floor ankle-deep in slops. At last we came to the Corridor of the Damned, the cells housing those waiting to be executed.
'Hello there, my beauties!' A smiling, mad face pressed itself against the grille. 'Don't feel sorry for me,' the madman shouted. 'All Tyburn is is a wry neck and wet breeches!'
The gaoler spat a stream of yellow phlegm and the mad face disappeared. At last we stopped at a door. The gaoler opened it, took a cresset torch from the passageway and pushed it into a small crevice in the cell wall. The dungeon pit flared into life as the door slammed behind us. It stank like a midden and the straw underfoot had lain so long it was a black, oozy mess. A heap of rags in the corner suddenly stirred and came to life and Taplow, loaded with chains, got to his feet. He had dark hair and his plump body was covered in filth. He grinned at us through the darkness.
'Welcome to my palace, sirs. And who are you? Those who like to see a man before he dies? Do you like to ask me how I feel? What I am thinking?' He peered closer at us. 'No, you're not that sort.'
'We are from the Lord Cardinal,' Benjamin announced. 'No, no,' he added quickly. 'We bring no pardon. But, who knows,' he added desperately, 'perhaps a mercy, a bag of gunpowder tied round the neck. Master Taplow,' he continued softly, 'later this day you will be burnt at Smithfield, convicted of treason.'
Taplow crouched down. 'Aye,' he muttered, 'a bad end to a good tailor.'
Benjamin crouched down with him. I just leaned against the wall, trying to control my panic for I hate prisons, Newgate in particular. (Oh, yes, and before you ask, I have been there many a time. If you want to see hell on earth go to the condemned hole the night before execution day. The singing, the crying and the screaming -I thought I had already been killed and gone to hell! Ah, the cruelty of the world!)
'Master Taplow,' Benjamin continued, 'you were involved with the monk Hopkins, acting as his courier?'
The tailor licked his lips. 'Aye, that's the truth. Will you tell that gaoler to give me some wine?'
'Of course.'
'Ah, well.' Taplow scratched his head. 'Yes, I was Hopkins's courier. I took messages t
o the Lord Buckingham, pretending I was delivering suits or looking for trade at his London house.'
'Did Buckingham ever reply?'
'No, he did not.'
'What else did you do?'
Taplow edged closer. God forgive me, he looked like a mud-coloured frog crouching there in the half-light. I had to cover my nose against the terrible stench and just wished my master would finish the business.
'What else did you do?' Benjamin asked again.
'Different errands for Hopkins. Leaving messages here and there, but nothing in particular.'
'Why did you do it?' Benjamin gazed at the man. 'Why should a tailor become involved with some mad, treasonable monk? Especially a man like you, Taplow, who accepts the reformed doctrines of Luther?'
Taplow's eyes fell away.
'Once I was a Catholic,' he stuttered, 'till my wife died. Hopkins was the only priest who cared.'
I stirred, forgetting the discomfort in the cell, as I caught my master's suspicions. Something was wrong here. Taplow was filthy, but looked well fed and, for a man facing a horrible death, too calm and serene.
'Did you take messages to anyone else?'
He shook his head. Benjamin stretched across and grasped the man's hand.
'Master Taplow,' he whispered, 'there is very little I can do for you except make sure the gaoler gives you your wine, pray for your speedy death and that in Purgatory Christ will have mercy on your soul.'
'Aye,' Taplow whispered. 'Let my Purgatory be short.' Then he went back to lie down in the corner of the cell.
We hammered on the door for the gaoler and returned to the main gates of the prison where Benjamin left a coin and instructed the sadistic bastard to do what he could for poor Taplow. Then we left, through the old city gates, skirting its wall as we hastened along alleyways and runnels down to the river quayside at East Watergate. Benjamin hardly spoke but kept muttering to himself. Only when I ordered the boatman to take us to Syon did my master break free of his reverie.
