The Relic Murders

by Paul Doherty

  'Selling relics.'

  'The Orb of Charlemagne?'

  I smiled ingratiatingly. 'Not that,' I replied. 'At least not yet.' 'Do you know about the Orb?' 'A little.'

  Charon's glass eye bored down at me. 'I should kill you,' he whispered. 'But you've powerful friends and I have bigger game to hunt. You may prove useful.' He drew himself up. 'So, this time a warning, as well as confiscation of all your goods.'

  He pointed to a pile of my possessions in the corner. I glimpsed my saddlebags, shirts, relics, even the small bag of coins I had hidden under the floorboard in my chamber at the Flickering Lamp.

  'I want to show you something. Bring him forward.'

  Hustled by two ruffians I followed Charon out. We entered a long gallery lit by torches with caverns off the walkway. To my right was the sewer water, black, glinting in the torchlight.

  'The stench is not so bad,' Charon said over his shoulder. 'Hardly any offal comes this way.' He shrugged. 'My sense of smell I lost with my nose but cleanliness is next to Godliness, Shallot! My ruffians here have directed the offal elsewhere.'

  We walked further down the causeway then Charon stopped. He took a torch from the wall and held it out over the black, slopping water. Something was floating in the water, lazily, like an otter in a stream.

  'Throw some food,' Charon ordered.

  One of his henchmen cast some bread into the water as well as on to the opposite ledge. The water swirled. I moaned in terror at the black, slimy rat which crept out of the sewer and on to the far side. Now, you gentle readers know what I think of rats! I have been pursued by leopards, wolves, and savage hunting dogs but nothing terrifies me more than a rat. This was not one of your little brown gentlemen but a long, black, slimy bastard, at least a yard in length from the tip of its tail to that quivering snout. He grasped the scraps and gnawed at them. Looking up, the rodent stared across at me, as coolly as a man would inspect some juicy meat pie. Charon led us on. The air grew colder. We turned into a cavern. A corpse lay in an iron gibbet on the floor. It was beginning to decay and the air was rich with the stench. Rats were already moving amongst the iron bars. There's only so much my poor mind can take. I closed my eyes and, God forgive me, swooned like a maid.

  Chapter 3

  I awoke in an alleyway. At first I didn't know who, or indeed where, I was. My hands and feet were tied. I struggled to my knees. My head throbbed and my side ached where someone had kicked me. A beggar came out of a doorway and stared pityingly.

  'Faugh!' His hand went to his nose.

  I looked down. I was naked and covered in thick, clammy mud from head to toe: I had been rolled in the contents of a midden heap.

  'Help me!' I wailed.

  'Piss off!' the beggar grated.

  I crawled along the alley. I felt so miserable I started to pray: desperately, I swore great oaths that I would never touch another drop of wine or even think of lifting a girl's petticoat.

  (You can see how low I must have fallen!)

  Even the beggars stayed away from me whilst a drunk kicked me with his boot. The ropes around my ankles and wrists were tied tightly, the cord biting into the skin. At last I crawled to the steps of a church. I fainted and, when I regained consciousness, my hands and feet were freed and I was staring into the kind eyes of a friar, his weather-beaten face, greasy, straggly moustache and beard framed by his cowl.

  'Help me!' I begged.

  'I can do no more,' the friar replied. 'I've cut your cords.' He lifted a battered, tin cup to my lips. The wine was watered but it tasted like nectar. He pointed to some sacking on the ground beside me. 'Put this on.' He got me to my feet, helped me put the sacking over my head, and fastened it round my middle with a piece of cord. He then gave me a staff and thrust a piece of bread into my other hand. 'God have mercy on you, Brother!'

  And he was gone. Ever since I have always had affection for the little brothers of St Francis. Even now, in my secret chamber, I have that piece of sacking. Moreover, on the walls of my chapel, despite the fact that my chaplain is of the reformed faith, I have had the words of St Francis boldly painted: 'GO OUT AND PREACH THE GOSPEL. PREACH! PREACH! PREACH! SOMETIMES YOU CAN EVEN USE WORDS!'

  After the friar left me, I realised I was in Grubb Street to the north of Cripplegate. The sky was already scored with the red gashes of sunrise. I slipped through a postern gate into the city and made my way along an alleyway near Mugwell Street, As I walked my confidence returned. My throat was parched, the bread had long disappeared, and my belly ached for food. I thought how splendid it would be to stretch out between crisp sheets with young Lucy.

  'Penny for a beggar!' I cried outside a church. 'Penny for a poor man!'

  The early morning worshippers ignored me. I moved to the church of St Ursula and tried again.

  'Penny for a poor Christian!' I wailed. 'On pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I was taken prisoner by the Turks, and ransomed by the Holy Father himself.'

  Within an hour I had collected a shilling and, after a beef pie and two cups of wine at an alehouse, I was striding back along the alleyways towards the Flickering Lamp. Boscombe greeted me as if I was the prodigal son.

  'Master Shallot.' He put his arm round me and brought me into the taproom. 'Roger, my dear.' Boscombe wrinkled his nose. 'What's that smell?'

  I looked down and realised that though the kindly friar had removed some of the mud, most of it still remained. I immediately stripped and went to the pump in the yard and had the most thorough bath I've had for many a day. Boscombe provided me with new clothes, loaned me a shilling as well as half a roast chicken, some bread and a bottle of ale. Boscombe watched me eat. When I had finished, he beamed across the table.

  'No more trickery for you, Roger my boy,' he declared. 'The Lord Charon has paid visits before to deliver an invitation to his underworld. No one has ever returned. If he sees you begging on the streets again, your torso will be found in the Fleet and your head in the Thames.'

  'Master Boscombe.' I leaned back and patted my stomach. 'Your kindness I won't forget. As for Charon, the Lord be my witness, ‘I will repay him in kind.'

  'Shush!' Boscombe waved his hand, begging me to lower my voice.

  'However," I continued, 'discretion is the better part of valour and revenge is a dish best served cold.' Boscombe nodded. 'So, what do you suggest?'

  Boscombe shrugged. 'You are personable, Master Shallot, you have friends in high places. Why not go to them?' I shook my head.

  'I just couldn't do that. I've told you about the Poppletons and I'm convinced they would follow me. Although I am lower than a worm, I couldn't crawl to great Tom Wolsey to beg for his protection.'

  (Of course that was not true: I can beg with the best of them but the problem was that the sly bastard might not favour me. But years later, when old Tom Wolsey was in disgrace, dying in his bed at Leicester and the servants had fled, taking everything that could move with them, old Tom grasped my hand.

  'You should have come to me, Roger,' he whined, tears streaming down his face. 'All those times you were in danger, you should have come to old Tom Wolsey. I would have helped!'

  'If you'd served me,' I retorted, 'as I have served you, you wouldn't have to say that!'

  Wolsey let go of my hand and turned his face to the wall.

  'If I had served my God,' he murmured, 'as well as I have served my King, he would not leave me to die like this.' And die he did.)

  However, on that autumn day so long ago, Wolsey was my last refuge. Boscombe was staring at me, picking at his teeth.

  'You owe me money,' he grated. 'And I've a few possessions of yours.' He was referring to the few items I'd given him as surety. 'But you need money,' he continued. 'You should go to St Paul's and hire yourself out.'

  Boscombe was right, or so I thought at the time; I couldn't beg, my relics were all gone and I daren't go back to Ipswich. So I took his advice and decided to try my chances with the rest of the masterless men walking up and down the main aisle of St Pa
ul's Cathedral, waiting to be hired near the Si Quis door. But who would want to hire me? I had no letters or accreditation, no references from a previous employer. And what could I do? Bawl out that I had done special work for his Eminence Cardinal Wolsey? I walked round and round that bloody church till I was exhausted, before Fortune intervened.

  I was sitting with my back to Duke Humphrey's tomb when I saw a pair of laced shoes and, just above them, a cream satin petticoat under a blue satin dress. I looked up and smiled. The woman who was standing over me was plump and comely but, I could tell from one glance at those hot eyes and wet lips, she was a lecher born and bred. She had a false, sweet smile and looked me up and down as hungrily as a fox would a chicken.

  'I need a porter,' she simpered, 'to carry goods up and down the stairs.' She touched her back. 'I've had a touch of the rheums.'

  Well, I was hired. Her name was Beatrice Frumpleton, wife to some notable in the city with a fine house, all plaster and black timber on a red brick base, in Chancery Lane near Grays Inn. It was a busy household with scullions, maids, servants and retainers, all with one duty under God - to keep Mistress Beatrice Frumpleton in a good mood and to satisfy her every whim. The house was beautiful, with polished wainscoting, galleries, broad staircases, heavy oaken furniture with Bruges cloths and drapes hanging on the walls and cupboards stuffed full of fine pewter plate and silver.

  Now, you know these great mansions, they are a law unto themselves: a strict hierarchy rules amongst the servants and strangers are distrusted. I learnt that Beatrice's husband was someone important in the courts but, for the rest, I was left alone although I received the odd pitying glance from some of the male servants. I soon discovered why! Mistress Frumpleton made her husband a cuckold a thousand times over. He was out at the crack of dawn and only returned well after dusk. During the day, certain 'kinsmen' came to visit; they were always entertained in the private chambers, and when they had left Mistress Frumpleton's face was always pinker than before.

  To be honest, I don't think even a stallion could have satisfied her. And, yes, you've guessed, my time came! It was during the afternoon, about a week after I had arrived. There was a fair outside St Bartholomew's and the servants had been allowed to attend, all except me. This latter-day Messalina, this Cleopatra of the Thames, not satisfied with me moving provisions and other stuffs around the house, now invited me to her chamber.

  I found the, room darkened, the windows shuttered and the drapes pulled. A single lamp burned at the side of the four-poster bed upon which Mistress Frumpleton lay as naked as the day she was born. Well, you've heard the expression, 'in for a penny, in for a pound' and I had to do my devoir. Soon we were bouncing about, she squealing, legs and arms flailing, when suddenly the door opened and one of her young kinsmen came into the room. Beatrice sprang from the bed as speedily as a roebuck startled from a thicket. She pushed the young kinsman out of the room, locked the door and turned to me.

  'Get dressed!' she hissed.

  And, while I did, so did she.

  Outside, the 'young kinsman', Oliver or whatever his name was, was hammering and banging. Beatrice threw open the door. The young man, probably aping some Spanish masque he had seen, came in dramatically, with sword and dagger drawn. I picked up a bedpan and waited to defend my virtue. The young man, his spotty face full of hauteur, danced towards me but he was even more lily-livered than 1.1 lifted the bedpan and he danced back. Beatrice loved every minute of it, wailing and crying, clasping her hands - you'd think she was the fair Lucretia waiting to be raped by an entire legion of perfidious Tarquins. I was getting tired of this, and was looking eagerly towards one of the windows when the door was pushed open again. Oh dear! Oh Lord! In strode Beatrice's husband, home early for the first time ever.

  In retrospect, I believe that our Messalina intended that! She wanted to show her husband what a cuckold he was and I was to be the sacrificial lamb: her subtle story was to save 'young kinsman'.

  Oh, the perfidy of women! Oh, their duplicity! Oh, their wanton fickleness! Oh, tigresses' hearts wrapped in a human hide! Oh, how I love each and every one of them!

  'What is this?' Old Greybeard intoned. 'Wife, what goes on here?'

  The young man quickly sheathed sword and dagger. I lowered the bedpan. Beatrice winked at me, then threw herself on her knees before her husband, clasping his legs.

  'Oh, husband!' she wailed.

  Now, you young people, listen - for even I, with all my skill in lying, couldn't better this.

  'Oh, husband!' she wailed, eyes rolling heavenwards, 'Oh, light of my life!'

  'Yes, yes, yes,' Old Greybeard replied testily. 'Who are these young men?'

  I breathed a sigh of relief: at least the silly, old dodderer hadn't recognised me as one of his household.

  Burning Beatrice realised this as well.

  'Oh, husband,' she intoned again, stretching one hand out to me. 'This young man came here seeking sanctuary from this one,' she pointed to the 'young kinsman', 'who followed in hot pursuit intent on has blood.' She breathed in. 'I was at my orisons when this young man,' again, pointing to me, 'burst in and sought my protection from this young blood bent on vengeance.'

  Well, I couldn't believe it! For sheer brevity of wit, for skilful subtleness of mind, she could not be bettered! Both I and the

  'young kinsman' just looked at each other open-mouthed. 'Is that true?' Old Greybeard demanded. We both nodded.

  'Then get you gone!' he declared, pointing dramatically to the door. 'Go different ways or I'll call the watch. Settle your quarrels elsewhere.'

  We fled like two rabbits freed from a trap and, by late afternoon, I was back, leaning against Duke Humphrey's tomb in St Paul's, waiting to be hired.

  I had no luck that day and Boscombe's generosity was wearing thin when, late the following morning, Dame Fortune gave her wheel another twirl. (Although, in retrospect, she was given some assistance this time.) I was leaning against a tomb making lascivious eyes at a young serving maid when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I glanced up: the man standing over me was tall, noble-faced, strong-jawed with an aquiline nose; his grey eyes were gentle, the brow under the balding head furrowed and concerned. He was dressed soberly but his fur robe was of good-quality cloth whilst the gold rings on his fingers were not gewgaws from some tinker's tray.

  'Master Shallot.' He extended a hand, I scrambled to my feet and shook it. He introduced himself. 'Sir Hubert Berkeley, goldsmith. I've a shop in Goldsmith Row between Bread Street and Friday Street.'

  'My congratulations,' I replied.

  He smiled, took his gold-topped cane, which had been resting against a pillar, and leaned on it.

  'I know you, sir: you're servant and equerry to Benjamin Daunbey, nephew of the great cardinal. I'm his banker.'

  My face split into a broad smile.

  'Sir Hubert, of course!'

  In fact I hardly knew the fellow though my nimble mind was turning like a Catherine wheel. I kept my money banked with the goldsmiths in Ipswich and it didn't stay there for very long, but Benjamin was a cautious soul. I also remembered that Berkeley was a royal goldsmith, a powerful man.

  'I heard you were here, what is the matter?' he asked, head cocked slightly to one side.

  (Do you know, I liked the man: he had nobility of character. In my secret chapel, because I am still of the Catholic faith, I have his name listed in my Book of the Dead because, in the end, I failed him, or I think I did, and brought about his dreadful death . . . but that was all in the future. After all, if hindsight was wisdom, we'd all be Masters of Philosophy.)

  'You are not in trouble, are you?' he insisted.

  'Well!' I jumped from foot to foot and stared round at the other men and women waiting to be hired. 'A little dispute in Ipswich whilst my master's abroad in Italy ... !'

  'And you are too proud to beg?'

  'Yes, Sir Hubert, I am too proud to beg.'

  'You are a rascal, Shallot.' Berkeley came closer: he pressed a silver piec
e into my hand. 'You are a rascal born and bred but, so Master Daunbey has told me, a good man in a fight and you are of the court. I've been searching for an honest bullyboy like you!'

  I swallowed hard. I wished my master wouldn't boast about me. (You know old Shallot! Oh, I'll fight all right but so will a mouse when it's cornered!)

  'I'm a bachelor,' Berkeley continued. 'I live with my maids and servants, apprentices and journeymen.'76

  'Why do you need a bullyboy?'

  Berkeley's eyes slid away. I felt a faint tingle along my spine. 'Secret business.' His voice dropped to a whisper. 'King's business, Shallot: that's why I'm hiring you.' He pointed to my hand. 'You can keep that coin for friendship's sake. I'll need you for a month. You'll receive two of those every week.'

  An hour later, having sent a message to Boscombe, I was in Sir Hubert Berkeley's house. There is nothing like silver to calm the fears in my cowardly soul. I've never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth and, at the time, I thought Berkeley was the nearest thing to divine intervention. (I only wish I had listened to him more carefully when he hired me.) The goldsmith had a truly spacious house and shop which stood in its own grounds. The base was of red brick, the other three storeys a mixture of white-and-red plaster and black-oaked timbers with a tiled roof and new-fangled chimney pots. Every window had paned, mullioned glass. The floor of each room was covered in red tiles whilst dark wooden wainscoting, the panels carved in the linen fashion, covered two-thirds of every wall. Soft carpets deadened the sound, and gaily coloured tapestries from the looms of the Low Countries gladdened the eye. Window sills and ledges were filled with baskets of flowers whilst the furniture had obviously been fashioned by the best carpenters in London.

  Berkeley was a scholar, a collector of books and the lord of a very harmonious household. There was no distinction between those who served and the master. We all sat at the same table in Sir Hubert's long hall and ate the same appetising food and drank the same good wines. Every man, woman and child had their own bed and chest. I was given a clean-swept garret at the top of the house, and was as happy as a little pig in its sty as I became immersed in the routine of the household. Up before dawn, morning prayers, Mass at a nearby church and then work right through to sunset. Of course we were allowed to break our fast and we dined at noon on a light collation. Once dusk fell the shop was closed and we all gathered round the table for the evening meal.