by Paul Doherty
'Some of it,' Benjamin replied.
'Well, according to legend,' Agrippa continued, addressing me, 'Mary Magdalene, after the Resurrection of Christ, allegedly fled Palestine and took ship to Marseilles. She was accompanied by Lazarus and others who had known Christ during his lifetime.
Well, to cut a long story short, the legend says that Mary Magdalene married and from her line sprang the Merovingians, the sacred, long-haired kings of France who fashioned the Orb.' Agrippa sipped from his goblet. 'So we now have a pretty little potage. The Emperor's men are in London led by their ambassador the Count of Egremont. He is assisted by those they call the Men of the Night, the Noctales.' 'And the French?' I asked.
'They're here too, not to mention the Pope's envoys, all vying to buy the Orb.' 'And the King?'
'Oh, he's loving every minute of it, like a young maid being courted. First he favours one side, and then another, simpering and pouting.'
(I could just imagine it. Henry liked to see himself as the warrior, the huntsman, the great lover. Well, if the truth be known, as a warrior he could just about swing a sword. And as a lover? Alas, let's put it this way, he wasn't well endowed. Rather small like a little pig. You don't believe me? Well, I'm a man who has slept with Anne Boleyn and what she told me, between giggles, is not worth repeating, particularly if there are ladies about. My little clerk shakes his head in disbelief. I rap him across the wrist with my ash cane. Go down to the muniment room in the Tower, says I, and search out the last letter poor Anne sent to Henry whilst she lay in the Tower. She makes no bones about it then. What I really want to say is that I sometimes suspect Henry would have loved to have been a woman. He certainly liked to be pursued. He liked to simper and be coy and - no, don't think it's the time to tell you about the occasion I found him dressed in one of Anne of Cleve's gowns!)
'But Henry will give it to the Germans?' Benjamin asked.
'Yes, yes, I think he will. He's just baiting France and the Papacy.'
'But it doesn't concern us, does it?' I asked.
'No, I don't think it will,' Agrippa replied slowly. 'The Orb will be removed from the Tower - it needs re-burnishing - and then passed over to Egremont to verify that it's no forgery.'
(A wise man, Egremont, I wouldn't have trusted Henry as far as I could spit.)
'But it doesn't concern us?' I repeated, fearful lest the Great Beast invited us into his lair.
'I've told you I don't think it will,' Agrippa replied. He drummed gloved fingers on the table. 'Yet the King is a fool, he is playing with fire. The orb is no bigger than a tennis ball. It could be replicated, it could be stolen. Every footpad and counterfeit-man in London will hear of it. They'll smack their lips, narrow their eyes and speculate on what a fortune they could make.' Agrippa tapped his knife against the wine glass, the sound tinkling through the room like a fairy bell. 'There'll be trouble,' he declared. 'The Orb of Charlemagne is unlucky. Harold insisted on carrying it, and he was killed at Hastings. Rufus treated it like a bauble and he was mysteriously shot by an arrow in the New Forest. Edward II gave it to his catamite Piers Gaveston as a present and both were murdered.' He scratched his chin, a faraway look in his eyes. 'And I remember Richard II, that golden-haired boy. You have seen the Wilton diptych showing Richard between two white harts? In his hand he carries the Orb of Charlemagne. He was deposed and murdered.'
'In which case,' I retorted, 'Henry must be glad to see the back of it!'
'Ah, no.' Agrippa sipped from the goblet. 'If the Orb falls into the wrong hands, which so the legend goes are those who do not have a pure heart -' he winked at me - 'and if it is not treated with respect, then its power is unleashed. But for those who treat it with awe and reverence, it brings its own rewards. Anyway—' He scraped back his chair. 'Time for sleep. Tomorrow, Benjamin, we're for Harwich: the King's ship will take us down to London.'
'Don't say you are tired, Doctor Agrippa,' I teased. 'No, Roger.' He got up, shifting back the chair. 'I just want to sleep, perchance to dream.'
‘Yes, that's where Will Shakespeare's Hamlet got it from!) 'Of what?' I asked.
'Of golden sands by blue seas. Of galleys laden with exotic perfumes. Well away from this cold Island and its vengeful King.'
In retrospect Agrippa was a prophet. Sometimes I wished I'd sailed to Italy and stayed there but, ah, the foolishness of youth! The next morning we woke well before dawn. Benjamin's bags were loaded on to sumpter ponies. He drew up letters, left me money and gave me hurried snippets of advice. And then we left in a cloud of dust, Agrippa's retainers fanning out before us, making fair speed to the port of Harwich. I won't describe the scene to you and make your gentle eyes weep. I embraced Benjamin and told him not to tarry long. I clasped Agrippa's hand, gave the most obscene gestures to the good doctor's retainers, and headed like an arrow to the nearest tavern to drown my sorrows.
Now I am not a hypocrite. I sat drinking and soon recovered my good spirits. Benjamin was an able, young man, well protected. He'd travel to Venice and then return, so whilst the cat's away ... Nevertheless, I hadn't forgotten my master's look when he forced me to take that oath. No London! No Miranda!
A group of sailors came in, lusty men. everyone a charlatan or swaggerer, so I spent the rest of the day carousing and quaffing with the best of them. I remember a young tavern wench, golden and ripe as an apple, and us bouncing like fleas on her bed at the back of the tavern. Golden times! We giggled and we kissed all night long. The next morning I rose, bent on mischief and of course I found it. Yet, on reflection, life is strange and full of the most deadly coincidences. If I hadn't stayed at that particular tavern, and if I hadn't left it at that hour . . . but, isn't that the mystery of life? Out of the frying pan and into the fire!
I'd collected my horse and was halfway across the market square when I glimpsed the relic-seller, dressed in a colourful motley of rags, laying out his wares on the steps of the market cross. He was tall, and singular looking; his skin burnt brown by the sun, with clear blue eyes and lank, black, greasy hair. Now, one thing about being a rogue (and it's old Shallot's rule) is that you can recognise a good man when you meet one, whilst you can sniff a kindred spirit half a mile away. He introduced himself as Nathaniel Ludgate, and his villainy was as thick as clotted cream. I told him to hold my horse's reins, then walked backwards into the tavern to get us each a pot of ale. I kept my eye on the rogue, a grand idea forming in my mind. He stood grinning at me and, when I returned with the ale, toasted me, his eyes dancing with mischief.
'You are interested in relics?'
'Oh yes,' I replied airily. 'I've even seen the Orb of Charlemagne.'
Well, you should have seen the fellow's face. Eyes popping, jaw slack.
'The Orb of Charlemagne!' he whispered. 'Men would kill for that. Indeed they have.' He scratched his black, pointed heard. 'But, there again, it can bring ill fortune.'
'Are they your work?' I taunted, pointing to the relics he had laid out.'
'No, no, sir.' His voice rose to a chant as he recognised a prospective customer. 'Genuine relics, sir, every one!' He described each one.
And what a bag of tipple!
Ringlets from Samson's head, before Delilah shaved it. A thorn from the crown which the Romans put on our Saviour's head. One of Mary Magdalene's perfume clasps. A feather from the wing of the Angel Gabriel. A wooden hammer once owned by St Joseph. A piece of iron, supposedly from the griddle on which St Lawrence had been burnt. Two pieces of the true cross. A napkin used by Our Lady. Pontius Pilate's wife's earring. A portion of Herod the Great's foreskin. Five pieces of the good thief's loincloth. A battered cup once owned by St Ursula. Strands of hair from each of the ten thousand virgins executed by the Romans in Germany.
'All collected by me,' Ludgate declared. 'I have travelled, sir, beyond the Golden Horn. I have seen the devil's wings over Arabia and faced many dangers collecting these. A priceless fortune blessed by the Holy Father!' He clapped me on the shoulder, all manly and honest, and looked me
straight in the eye. 'Take these to London,' he urged. 'Go to the tavern, the Flickering Lamp near Whitefriars. Boscombe, the taverner, will let you sell them in the surrounding alleys and streets. A good site, where the faithful stream by to the London churches.'
(Now you young people, children of the reformed faith, don't realise that in the days of relic-selling, a trader had to have a domicile before he could sell relics: taverners, in return for a fee, often provided this.)
I gestured at the collection. 'How much is it all worth?'
'Fifteen pounds sterling, good silver.' 'Twelve.' I replied. 'Thirteen,' he countered.
We spat and clasped hands and I returned home, one of the great relic-sellers of Europe.
Chapter 2
I found it strange to be back at the manor by myself. However, the stewards and bailiffs were honest hard-working fellows, and the school had been closed down, so I spent all my time and energy preparing my great relics. London was forbidden to me so I took out our old vellum map and gazed greedily at Ely, Norwich and the other prosperous wool towns where people might be parted easily from their money. I searched amongst Benjamin's library, found a treatise on relics and avidly studied every word. The jewel in my collection was the spearhead I'd found so fortuitously when Benjamin had burnt my medicines. The steel was still good and, with a special polish of herbs, I began to clean it carefully. Finally, it lay on the table, glowing grey steel, the eagle of Rome and the letters 4S P Q R' firmly etched upon it. God knows where it came from! It probably wasn't a fighting spear but some ceremonial shaft carried by the soldiers in their religious ceremonies.
I went out to the forest and found a suitable piece of ash, which I stripped, dried and rubbed with charcoal to make it look more ancient than it was. A few dabs of blood and I had the spear with which the centurions pierced our Saviour's side. The blood, I reasoned, wasn't the Lord's but that of some martyr who had hidden it until I, Roger Shallot, relic-seller and buyer to His
Holiness in Rome, found it through my own intuition and Divine favour. So, I was ready for the market, but was the market ready for me?
After five days' hard work, I strolled down to the White Harte tavern in the village, the miraculous spear and a few other relics in my bag. I took a seat in the taproom near the window where I could watch the door. (I trust that you young men will act on my advice. If you go into a tavern or ale-house, you never know when you will have to leave, sometimes it's quicker than you imagine, so, always sit near the window or door. If trouble breaks out, you can flee like the wind.) The place was full. I noticed Edmund Poppleton, the Great Mouth's son, holding forth on the price of corn. As I stared at his greasy face, with its scrawny moustache and beard, and his beer gut like a barrel, I wondered why men such as he have to collect riches they don't really need whilst the poor go hungry to bed? I sat sneering at him over my ale: like a coney he rose to the lure.
'Master Shallot, Master Shallot!' His face creased into a smile. 'You are being rather discreet, sitting there so doleful, cradling a tankard.'
'I have no choice,' I replied. 'I always do this when listening to someone speak. It's so fascinating
He narrowed his eyes, too shrewd to ask why I found it so fascinating.
'Your master,' he cooed, 'is off to Italy?'
'Yes,' I lied. 'Gone to see the Holy Father on the business of his dear uncle, His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey, as well as to make a report on other matters that might disturb His Holiness.'
Poppleton flinched and I knew the rumours were correct. The Great Mouth and her sons had been flirting with the new doctrines of Luther. Now the Poppletons hated me and I hated them. You may recall from my previous memoirs how I tricked them when they dared to call my master a catamite. They hadn't forgotten and, full of malice, could never resist baiting me.
'And you saw your dear master leave?'
I saw my chance. 'No, no.' I shook my head. 'Not just that, something much more important.'
The noise in the taproom stilled.
'I went to Harwich with my master to receive special gifts: artifacts and relics that my master and I discovered when we visited Florence.' I shrugged. 'Well, not really discovered. They were more gifts from His Eminence Cardinal de Medici.'
'Piddle poo!' Poppleton scoffed. 'Master Shallot, you are well known for your tales and your trickery. What relics are these? Goliath's foreskin?'
I sat back. I hadn't thought of that one and mentally added it to my list. Poppleton now had the attention of all the customers. I looked round and saw that young Lucy Witherspoon was not present. I was sad as I'd hoped to impress her.
'Relics!' Poppleton scoffed. 'You have no relics, Master Shallot!'
That was my signal. I undid the neck of the sack and took out the spear shaft.
'Look,' I said, standing up, deliberately turning so the polished steel caught the sunlight; this gave it a spiritual aura as it shimmered and reflected the light. The appearance of the spear brought 'oohs' and 'aahs' from everyone. Turning sideways I pointed the spear at Poppleton, every inch the Roman soldier.
'This is the spear,' I intoned, 'the centurion used on Calvary when he pierced the Lord's side. This is the blood of a martyr who buried it until Roger Shallot was given it as a gift in Florence!'
'Pig's trotters!' Poppleton taunted.
Giggling broke out. I stared round and saw old Doctor Littlejohn sitting there, tankard grasped in his hand, staring blearily at me. The old fool styled himself an antiquarian. He had been a schoolmaster and knew some Latin. I thrust the spear under his nose.
'Master Littlejohn, what do you think?'
The old fellow put on his spectacles. He took the spear shaft and held it gingerly in his hands. He examined the steel and even he, who looked as if he lived half-asleep, became visibly excited as he glimpsed the eagle and the letters S.P.Q.R. He touched the steel reverentially.
'I cannot say,' he declared, 'whether this is the actual spear used on Calvary but it is definitely very ancient and was once used in the armies of Rome.'
Well, that shut old Poppleton up for a start. Everyone crowded round. Offers were made but I just shook my head. Like the coy young maid, you show your customer your garters but that's as far as you go. Time was on my side: rumour and greed would grow and the gold would come pouring in once this spear, this most holy relic, was accepted. It would only be a matter of time before I got round to Goliath's foreskin.
‘If it's a relic,' Poppleton declared, shouldering his way through the crowd, his lips coated with a white foam of ale. 'If it's so holy, it should be able to perform miracles.'
'That's right!' another cried. 'Miracles! We want a miracle. Shallot!'
My stomach curdled: I hadn't thought of that. 'A cure!' another cried. 'Perhaps it can cure my leg!' 'The only thing that cure your leg,' someone cried out, 'is to stop drinking ale and work a little harder!'
I tried to hide my apprehension. With all my subtle planning, I hadn't thought of such a challenge. Poppleton was sneering at me.
'Come, come, Master Shallot,' he taunted. 'A little miracle is not too much to ask.'
'There's Lucy,' Tom the taverner shouted from where he stood beside the barrels.
'Lucy?' I shouted as a diversion. 'What's wrong with her?'
'She's upstairs in a chamber, sick with a fever,' Tom replied, coming forward.
'Oh yes, that's right.' Poppleton planted himself squarely in front of me. 'The wench hasn't been to clean for days.'
His greasy smile widened. 'I believe Lucy has given you her favour?' He was cooing like a stupid wood pigeon. 'Surely, Master Shallot, it's not too much to ask that you use this great relic to cure the love of your life?'
'Let me see her,' I declared.
I put the spear back in the sack and followed Tom up the rickety, wooden stairs to a small garret at the top of the tavern built just under the eaves. Oh, Lord help me, but Lucy looked dreadful. She lay asleep on the soiled sheets but her face and hair were soaked with sweat. She tossed a
nd turned, murmuring to herself and my heart skipped a beat as she muttered my name. I felt her brow, it was hot as a steaming pot.
'Out late she was,' Tom declared. 'Out late then came back with a chill, coughing and sneezing fit to burst,' he told the rest crowding the stairwell behind him.
'Cure her,' Poppleton whispered. 'Lay the sacred spear upon her!'
I wetted dry lips, my mind racing like a rat down a hole. I wished I had my medicines then I remembered something.
'Listen,' I said. 'I will lay the relic upon her but not yet.'
Poppleton lowered his head and began to snigger. There were groans and moans from the stairwell.
'Tonight,' I continued, 'I shall return. This room is to be cleaned. Vicar Doggerel should bless and make it ready for this great relic. At seven o'clock tonight I shall return.'
Poppleton's head came up. 'No trickery, Shallot!'
'Of course not,' I whispered back. 'Only divine intervention.'
'We'll see,' he snarled.
I was glad to be out of that tavern. I rode swiftly back to the manor house, went upstairs and, from a secret casement in my chamber, pulled out a locked coffer. I opened it and stared at all the things truly precious to me; a lock of my mother's hair; a ring Benjamin had given me: a love letter which I never had the courage to despatch. Above all, a small phial, the real diamond amongst all my cures; a powerful potion I won at hazard from a Turkish physician in a tavern off the Ropery. God knows what was in it. The Turk had told me it was the scrapings of dried milk fermented in a soup of moss, a veritable elixir for any fever. I opened the phial, shook the white, chalky substance into my hand. I then locked the coffer, recited an Ave Maria, and fortified myself with two cups of malmsey.
Once dusk fell I returned to the White Harte. Now the whole village had turned out. Poppleton and his younger brother were waiting for me in the taproom. They looked the same, two cheeks of the same hairy arse. Tom the taverner took me upstairs. Lucy still lay tossing and turning, angry spots of fever high in her cheeks. However, the chamber had been swept and cleaned and the poor girl now lay between crisp, clean linen sheets. Vicar Doggerel the village parson, (to whom I'd sold cow dung as a cure for his baldness) was also present. He had a stole around his neck and an Asperges bucket and rod in his hands.
