by Paul Doherty
I spent the night before my intended execution listening to Capote's raucous songs. The fellow said he didn't give a fig about life so why should he fear death? He was still brazening it out the next morning when the Provost and his bodyguard of twelve mounted Serjeants and ten archers came to collect us. We were roped, hustled up the steps of the dungeon and into the freezing courtyard. The scarlet execution cart was waiting for us, the skulls of hanged men decorating each side. The Provost barked an order and the red-hooded executioner turned, wished us good morning, flicked his whip and urged the cart through the gates of the prison and on to the winding track down to Montfaucon.
We made a brief stop at the Convent of Les Filles de Dieu near the port of St Severin. Here the good sisters comforted us on our last journey with a manchet of bread and a cup of wine.
I chewed the bread and took the wine in one long gulp to control my trembling for I did not wish to disgrace myself. Capote was as raucous as ever, eyeing the sisters, cracking jokes with the executioner, telling the good prioress to have a second cup ready for the journey back. The provost then ordered us forward, the Serjeants going ahead, spurring a lane through the mob gathering to watch us die. I glimpsed Broussac, one hand down the bodice of some whore, the other holding a wine cup. He grinned and toasted me silently. I glared back at the bastard. If he had kept his mouth shut I would still be eating rancid meat and plotting my own way out of Paris.
At last we reached the gibbet and, if you should wish to see a vision of Hell before death, go to Montfaucon. A hideous place! A flat, oblong mound fifteen feet high, about thirty feet wide and forty feet long, it stands like some horrible pimple outside Paris on the road to Saint Denis. On three sides of this mound there is a colonnade on a raised platform comprising sixteen evenly spaced square pillars of unhewn stone, each thirty-two feet high, linked together at the top by heavy beams with ropes and chains hanging from them at short intervals. You could hang a small village there. In the centre of the platform gapes an immense lime pit covered by a grating which is used for the disposal of the hanged after they have been gibbeted. (Did you know in summer the gallants take their doxies out there for a picnic? Imagine, wine and pastries under the swinging corpses of the damned!)
When I arrived, Montfaucon seemed to have been busy. At least fifteen crow-pecked corpses, slimed by their own decay, swung from the end of creaking ropes. By now my courage had failed and I had to be helped up the steep, wooden steps, the executioner's assistants whispering that if I made a good show they would make sure I would choke for no more than ten minutes. Behind me the cart creaked away and the executioners busied themselves with the ropes. I glimpsed Capote beside me, now quiet. The thick hempen cords were slung round our necks; a dusty-robed priest appeared as if from nowhere to recite in a precise voice the last prayer for the dying. The provost came to the edge of the scaffold, unrolled a parchment and read the sentences of death. The noose was tightened and I was pushed up a ladder.
'Don't be nervous,' the executioner grinned. 'At least you don't have to go down it again!'
I gazed out wildly over the crowds.
'Not now,' I whispered. 'Surely, not now!'
The ladder was turned, I heard a voice cry out: 'Not that one!'
But I was already choking as the noose tightened around my throat. I heard a terrible pounding in my ears, my heart thudding like a drum, my stomach lurching as I swung on the end of the rope. I turned and twisted. Capote was also dancing in the air. I couldn't breathe, the pain in the back of my head was so intense, then suddenly blackness.
I revived as I felt myself go hurtling through the air and crashed down on to the wooden planks of the scaffold. The noose round my neck was loosened, I retched and vomited. Beside me crouched the provost, looking concerned.
'You are still with us, Master Shallot?'
I retched again, on to his robe, a suitable thanks to the hard-faced bastard. He squirmed in distaste.
'A pardon, Shallot.' He thrust the small scroll under my nose. 'Someone still loves you!'
The provost made a sign. Two of the archers picked me up under the armpits and hustled me down the steps of the scaffold. I glanced at Capote, still dangling, choking out his life. I saw a sea of faces and heard the boos and catcalls of the crowd, cheated of their sport. A serjeant-at-arms, wearing the royal arms of France on his tabard, gestured to the archers to hoist me into the saddle of a horse whose reins he held.
Hell's teeth, I can hardly remember the rest! A bumpy, shaky ride back across Paris. I thought I was being taken to the prison but instead found myself outside the door of Le Coq d'Or. The serjeant-at-arms, hidden behind the guard of his conical helmet, dragged me down and pushed me into a chamber where a candle glowed in the darkness. I smelt the sour odour of sweaty robes and noticed a brazier of gleaming charcoal had been rolled in. I was shoved down on the bed, the soldier left and the slattern bustled in with a small manchet loaf and a goblet of wine. She watched me eat for a while, mumbled something and left. I nearly choked on the bread; my neck and throat seemed to be ringed by a cruel vice. Stars danced before my eyes and I kept shaking with fear at my latest brush with death. Surely you understand? One minute dangling on the end of a rope; the next a reprieve, a bumpy ride through Paris, followed by the sweetest bread and most fragrant wine I had tasted for months.
[Ever since Montfaucon I have always dreaded executions. I mean, sometimes, as Lord of the Manor, I have to order one but my court is well known for its leniency. Of course, I pay the price. At night my fields are more alive with poachers than rabbits. I will grant the most hardened criminal a reprieve rather than see him hang. The chaplain is nodding his little, bald head. Of course, the idiot now understands the reason for my mercy. He probably thought I had a soft heart. Well, he learns something every day, including why I can never bear anything tight round my throat. Even the touch of smoothest silk reawakens the horrors of my journey to Montfaucon.]
Anyway, back to Le Coq d'Or where I lay on the truckle bed and drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke Benjamin was leaning over me, his eyes bright in a face more pallid than usual.
'Roger, I have returned.'
'Of course, you have, you bloody idiot! Just in time!' I snarled. 'Where in Hell's name have you been?'
Chapter 10
Benjamin sat on the stool next to my bed and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked paler and thinner.
'I'm sorry, Roger,' he mumbled. 'It's a long story. I went to Kelso in Scotland.' He looked away, lost in his memories. 'A lonely monastery surrounded by a sea of dark purple heather and deserted, haunted moors. A grey-slated, dark-stoned building.' He smiled thinly. 'Oh, I was safe enough. Agrippa gave me a safe conduct and the Lord d'Aubigny arranged for moss troopers to guard my every step.'
'What did you find?' I asked crossly.
Benjamin rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand. 'Nothing,' he replied. 'Nothing at all. Many Scots fled to Kelso after Flodden, but you know something, Roger? No one could remember a single event from those stormy days.' He furrowed his brow. 'Even stranger, the prior, the sub-prior, all the officials of that monastery, had been changed. Some had died in rather mysterious circumstances, others been sent abroad on this task or the other. The rest,' he shrugged, 'were as silent as the grave. Only one old lay brother, a hoary old man, mumbled about the abbey being the dark pit for the evil deeds of the Great Ones of the land.'
He sighed. 'Then I came south to Royston but Queen Margaret and her party had already returned to London to collect all their possessions so I followed in hot pursuit. I visited the Lord Cardinal at the Palace of Sheen. He already knew about our mission to Nottingham being successful and welcomed my visit to Kelso and your journey to Paris.' Benjamin took a deep breath. 'Then I fell ill. At first I thought it was some ague but it proved to the Sweating Sickness. Uncle sent me to St Bartholomew's and Agrippa brought an old lady who fed me on a concoction of crushed moss mixed with the leavings of sour milk. The fever broke bu
t I was weak.' He patted me gently on the shoulder. 'The Lord Cardinal sent an envoy but the fellow was ambushed, apparently killed by robbers outside Dover.'
'I don't think so,' I tartly retorted. 'He was killed by assassins just like the bastards nearly murdered me at Le Coq d'Or!'
'What do you mean?' Benjamin asked.
I told him my story in sharp, succinct phrases. Benjamin listened carefully.
'I'm sorry,' he apologised. 'I have been in Paris a week. The landlord here swears he knew nothing of you.'
'He's a liar!' I interrupted.
'He may well be. Anyway, I went to the Provost of Paris. I invoked all the Lord Cardinal's power to organise a search for you. Actually, the pardon was issued last night.' He grimaced. 'But you know officials.'
'Yes, I do!' I snarled. 'Only too well. The bastards had me hanged!'
Benjamin bit his lip. 'I agree with you, Roger, but your troubles began with that piece of red silk. It was the signal for your murder. Undoubtedly the demon who dogs our footsteps has agents in Paris.'
'That may well be so,' I answered, 'but Moodie gave me the cloth, so he must be the assassin.'
[Ah, there goes my chaplain again, jumping up and down on his stool. 'I told you! I told you!' he cries. I just tell him to shut up and give him a sharp rap across the knuckles. The little turd doesn't know what he's talking about.]
'Tell me,' Benjamin continued, 'you say the silk had a fragrance. Did you recognise it? Was it like this?'
He undid the neck of a small pouch and held it under my nose. I sniffed. It was the same fragrance I had noticed around Madame Eglantine's gift. 'Yes. What is it?'
Benjamin smiled and spilled the faded white rose petals which fell soft as snowflakes to the floor.
'Les Blancs Sangliers!' I murmured. 'Moodie must be one of them. He killed Selkirk, Ruthven and Irvine, though God knows why or how.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'No, it's more subtle than that.' He looked at me quizzically. 'What are you smiling at, Roger?' The anxiety drained from his face. 'You know something, don't you?'
I grinned.
' "The truth Now Stands In the Sacred Hands of the place which owns Dionysius' bones!" '
'You know what it means?' Benjamin whispered.
'Oh, yes, and it's not far from where we're sitting. Dionysius is not some Greek god!' I cried, forgetting the bruise which racked my neck and the heavy fatigue which still held my limbs in a vice-like grip. 'He's St Denis, the Roman martyr beheaded on Montmartre Hill, who carried his head, so legend says, to where the Abbey of St Denis now stands.'
Benjamin got up, kicking over the stool behind him in his excitement.
'Of course!' he breathed. 'Dionysius is Latin for Denis. The monks there must have Selkirk's secret!'
I swung my legs off the bed. 'Yes, we'll find it there in a battered casket.'
Benjamin looked at me suspiciously. 'Why didn't you go to St Denis yourself?'
I rubbed the weal where the rope had chafed my neck. 'Oh, yes,' I replied sarcastically. 'An English beggar dressed in tatters swaggers up to the abbey gates, asks for a casket to be handed over, and the monks cheerfully comply.'
Benjamin grinned. 'They will now!' He tossed a bundle of clean clothes at me. 'These will not make you a courtier, Roger, but at least you won't be a beggar!'
'I'm tired,' I moaned. 'My neck still hurts. I want food, wine, proof that I'm still alive.'
Benjamin crouched down beside me, his long, dark face drawn with anxiety. 'Roger,' he insisted, 'we must hurry. Time is important. No doubt the murderer already tracks our footsteps, and we must resolve this mystery before Queen Margaret leaves for Scotland. We have to go to St Denis, find Selkirk's secret and return to England as soon as possible.'
I nodded glumly.
Benjamin brought a fresh cup of wine and a bowl of greasy soup. I ate, gulping like a dog, and then changed my clothes. The evil turd of a landlord, a vacuous smile on his slack face, came up to enquire after my health. I grinned wickedly back and told Benjamin to wait for me in the street outside. I made my preparations and joined him as quickly as I could. We walked up the beaten trackway, slipping and cursing on the icy ground underfoot. Behind me, the candle I had so carefully placed in the dry straw in the garret of Le Coq d'Or kindled into life and the flames turned the evil tavern into a blazing inferno. Oh, yes, revenge is never so sweet as when it's deserved.
Although I had escaped from Montfaucon, the ice cold day soon curbed my elation. The city was still held fast by winter and the journey was cruel and hard. I ached from head to toe and the wound in my throat, inflamed by the cold, created a circle of pain around my neck and shoulders.
We passed the gallows, the corpses of the less fortunate now freezing hard at the end of their ropes, then through the gateway of the city and towards the Abbey of St Denis. God knows, it's an awesome, inspiring place; soaring gables of stone, grinning gargoyles, huge windows full of coloured glass, towers which pierce the sky and fretted stonework with a carving on every cornice, turret and pillar. St Denis is the royal mausoleum of France where the white alabaster tombs of the kings lie in quiet hope of Christ's Second Coming. A strange place, cold and sombre. The abbey is a veritable city in itself; its granges, buildings and outhouses sprawl across the countryside, circled by a huge curtain wall which is guarded by soldiers wearing the livery of the royal household. Of course, alone I would have been turned away. Benjamin, however, with his fluent grasp of French and armed with the personal recommendation of the Lord Cardinal of England, soon gained admittance. An austere prior welcomed us into his chamber and listened carefully to Benjamin's request.
'Many people come here,' he replied quietly in perfect English. 'They bring gifts and treasures which they commit to our care. Some return, some do not.' He spread his hands. 'They place their trust in us.' He looked sharply at Benjamin. 'You swear that Selkirk is dead?'
'I do, Father Prior.'
'And his secret is one which may threaten the English throne?'
'Perhaps,' Benjamin replied. 'But it has been responsible for the deaths of at least three good men and may cause the deaths of others, including our own.'
The prior moved uneasily behind his desk. He pointed to the Bible chained to a great lectern beside him. 'Swear that!' he rasped. 'Swear what you say is true, with your hand on the Gospels!'
Benjamin obeyed. One hand placed on the great, jewel-embossed cover and the other held high, he proclaimed in solemn tones that God be his witness, what he said was the truth. Once he had finished the prior nodded and his granite face broke into a thin smile. He rang a small hand bell. A young monk entered to whom the prior whispered hoarse instructions. I heard the name 'Selkirk' and a possible date. The young monk nodded and padded softly away, returning soon afterwards with a small, battered leather coffer sealed with the waxen crest of the Abbey of St Denis. The prior broke this and lifted the lid. He felt around inside, his long fingers picking up scraps of parchment. He looked despairingly at Benjamin.
'You say Selkirk was mad?' 'Yes, Father Prior.'
'Then this may be his last insane joke. There's nothing here but innumerable scraps of parchment. Now my conscience is settled, you may take it.'
We left St Denis as darkness fell and made our way to a tavern outside one of the gateways of Paris on the main road to Calais, a warm comfortable place which had escaped the ravages of famine which still afflicted the city. Benjamin hired a chamber as well as fresh horses for the morning. He also ordered a meal of succulent roast capon cooked in rich sauces and freshly baked loaves of pure wheat rather than the coarse rye bread I had eaten the previous months. I gorged myself to the gills although Benjamin ordered me to be temperate with the wine. Afterwards, we sat in the ingle-nook of the great fireplace watching the roaring flames turn the pine logs to a white smouldering ash. Benjamin opened Selkirk's casket and for a while sifted amongst the pieces of parchment. One was singular: a dirty yellow piece, jagged at the top and bottom; only the heading was
discernible, a quotation in Latin from one of St Paul's epistles. It simply said: 'Through a glass darkly'. The rest were a jumble of hieroglyphics and strange signs. There were some complete manuscripts but these were nothing more than a collection of royal warrants written personally by King James and sealed under his signet ring, granting tasks or favours to his 'beloved physician, Andrew Selkirk'. Benjamin studied some of these and so did I but we could discover nothing amiss. My master placed the documents back in the casket.
'Let us refresh our memories,' he said. 'Selkirk was King James's physician. He went with the King to Flodden where James was defeated and killed. Selkirk fled to Paris, left his so-called secret at St Denis and went to Le Coq d'Or where he was arrested and taken to England.' He stared at me. 'You would agree with that?'
'Yes, Master.'
'Now, in Scotland, James's widow Margaret, the mother of one infant, is pregnant again when she hears the news of her husband's defeat and death. By King James's will, she is made Regent but forfeits that position by marrying the Earl of Angus. She also loses the confidence of her nobles and is forced to flee to England, leaving her two boys behind. The Scottish nobles set up a Regency Council with control of Margaret's baby sons, one of whom, Alexander, Duke of Ross, dies soon after his mother's sudden departure for England. Am I correct Roger?'
'A number of matters,' I replied, 'must also be remembered. First, before James went to Flodden, he had so-called visions which warned him against his loose morals and of the dangers of invading England. Secondly, why should Margaret suddenly marry the Earl of Angus and then, within such a short time, desert him; indeed, even hate him? Thirdly, why did she shelter in England away from her kingdom and her sons? We heard from the Lord d'Aubigny that the Scottish Council is more than prepared to welcome Queen Margaret back with open arms.'
