We both slept badly that night: on two occasions I woke when Benjamin cried out in his sleep. He was as anxious as I was about our journey to Glastonbury and the next morning we went down to the palace refectory feeling heavy-eyed and sluggish. A surly servitor thrust poorly baked bread and watery beer at us and we sat, lost in our own thoughts, until the door was flung open and Mandeville and Southgate entered. They looked as fresh as maids in May. (You take it from old Shallot, the wicked have little difficulty in sleeping!) They slid on to the bench opposite us, making pleasantries about how cold the weather had become and that we should soon be on the road for Somerset.
'Do you believe all this?' I abruptly asked them the same question I had of Benjamin. '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 to 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.
'Strange, Roger,' he remarked. 'Here we are. We have just witnessed an old lady's strangling and a silly tailor imprisoned in squalor who, in a few hours' time, will be burnt horribly to death. Death seems everywhere,' he continued, 'and red-handed murder is a constant visitor in our lives.'
I sat and let him brood. Indeed, looking back over the years, I have become surprised, not that people murder each other but that, given our love of bloodshed, they don't do it more often. Anyway, I just tapped my boot against the bottom of the boat and looked over the river, busy with huge dung barges emptying their putrid waste in midstream. Benjamin stayed lost in his own thoughts but I caught his unease. Old Wolsey loved to lead people by the nose, in particular his nephew and myself, and relished his little games of sending us unarmed into darkened chambers full of assassins. (Just wait until I've finished this story and you'll see what I mean!)
At last we reached the great Convent of Syon, its gleaming white stone crenellations peeping above a green fringe of trees. We disembarked and made our way up a gravel path, through the gatehouse and into the guest room. The white-garbed nuns fluttered around us excitedly, pleased to welcome visitors to their famous house. A beautiful place Syon, with its cool galleries and passageways, high-ceilinged chambers and pleasant gardens. Mind you, this was no ordinary convent. The nuns were some of the best doctors in Europe and saved many a person from death but old Henry put paid to them, flattening the convent and pillaging its treasures. The great bastard!
A lovely house Syon, whose occupants tended the sick and brought about many a cure. Mind you, they could do nothing for Johanna, the love light of Benjamin's life. I have mentioned her before: the daughter of a powerful merchant, seduced and abandoned by a great nobleman whom Benjamin later killed in a duel. Johanna, however, had become witless, her beautiful hair streaming down about a pallid face, her mouth slack, her eyes vacuous.
Whenever Benjamin was in London he always visited her. He would sit and hold her, rocking her gently to and fro as if she was a child whilst she, muttering gibberish, rubbed salt into his wound by believing he was the nobleman come back to claim her. The meetings were always heart-wrenching. I could never stand and watch so would walk away to wink and flirt with the young novices. At last Benjamin would drag himself away and Johanna, screaming for her lost love, would be taken away by the gentle sisters. This time was no different and my master left Syon with the tears streaming down his face. As usual he grasped my hand.
'Roger,' he urged, 'if anything should happen to me, swear you will protect Johanna!'
And, as usual, I would swear such an oath. Oh, don't worry, I kept it! Years later when The Great Bastard pulled down the monasteries and emptied the convents I took Johanna into my own home. Indeed, I have made her immortal: my old friend Will Shakespeare wrote a play about a Danish prince called Hamlet who moons about the stage wondering whether he should kill his murderous mother. I don't like it and I told Will that he should reduce it to one act with Hamlet throttling the silly bitch immediately! But, you know old Will Shakespeare. Shy and quiet, he hid his face behind his hands and laughed.
Nevertheless, I helped him out with one scene where this Danish prince sends his betrothed Ophelia mad. (May I say, having watched the play, I'm not surprised.) Anyway poor Ophelia emerges as a tragic woman who drowns herself in a river, flowers in her hand, hair spread out like a veil around her. Well, Ophelia was really Johanna and the river is the Thames. I always think it was a nice touch.
We walked back to the quayside, Benjamin still disconsolate.
'Can't anything be done?' I asked. I searched round for a crumb of comfort. 'Master,' I added rather hastily, 'some people spend their Purgatory after death but individuals like Taplow or poor Johanna go through Purgatory here on earth.'
(I was always like that, ever ready to give a tactful word of comfort.) Benjamin gripped my wrist and nodded but, just as we were about to step into the boat, he clapped his hands together. 'Purgatory,' he muttered. 'Yes, Master?'
He glanced at me strangely. 'When is Taplow about to die?' I looked up at the sun. 'Two hours past noon. Why?'
Benjamin pulled me into the boat. 'Then come quickly. We must see him. We have to see him die.'
We arrived too late. Smithfield Common was packed. The horse fair had been abandoned, the stalls cleared and the shops deserted. All of London had poured on to the great open waste, heads craned towards the stake on the brow of a small hill just next to a three-armed gibbet. The crowd was thick as hairs on a dog and we were unable to force our way through. As I have said, all of London was there, bodies reeking of sweat beneath rags, serge and silk, minds and hearts intent on watching a man being burnt to death. We peered over their heads.
Taplow, standing on a high stool, was already tied to the stake, his arms and legs tightly pinioned, head and face partially covered by a white fool's hood. Already small heaps of green faggots were laid about the stool, with dry weeds on top as high as the victim's groin. The masked executioners walked round as if they were involved in some artistic endeavour, positioning the faggots for the best effect. The crowd, held back by serried ranks of soldiers, was already growing restless and shouts of 'Get on with it!', 'Let the poor sod die!', rang out, followed by the usual volleys of refuse. 'We must get closer,' Benjamin muttered. 'Why, Master?' I begged. 'A man is going to die.'
I stood on tiptoe. 'It's too late. The torch has already been put to the kindling.'
I watched the executioner light the faggots but apparently the kindling was too green and the fire didn't catch. Benjamin looked in desperation at the gatehouse of St Bartholomew's Priory: the balcony was already full of important, well-dressed people who had brought their children for a day out; they had also brought sugared apples, dishes of marzipan and jugs of wine to make their enjoyment complete.
Benjamin pulled one of Wolsey's warrants from his pouch, one of those old letters written by the Cardinal so Benjamin could gain access to any place he wanted. My master seized me by the arm and pulled me over. The captain of the guard outside St Bartholomew's let us through and we went under the darkened archway and up some steps into the chamber which led out on to the balcony. Once again Benjamin used his warrant, pushing his way through the grumbling spectators until we had a good view of both the execution scene and Smithfield Common. The catcalls from the crowd had now intensified at the executioners' bungling of their job.
(Believe me, it's a terrible way to die! Once, whilst in Venice, the Inquisition caught me, tried and condemned me to burn in the great piazza before St Mark's. I was actually tied to the stake and the kindling lit but, once again, fortune intervened. However, that's another story!)
Anyway, looking back over the years I can imagine what that poor bastard at Smithfield felt. The Inquisition were effective, his executioners were fools. Torches were again put to the kindling but the fire only teased the victim's feet and ankles. The poor fellow screamed. 'Oh, Christ, son of David!'
As he did, the crowd fell silent. Benjamin just stared fascinated and I studied him rather than the condemned man for, as I have remarked before, Benjamin had a horror of public executions. 'Why are we here, Master?' I whispered. 'Shut up, Roger!' he hissed.
The flames were now strong enough to reach the two bags of gunpowder tied to the man's neck. There was a loud explosion and the flames roared fiercer. The victim's head was thrust back and the fool's cap fell off. The fire was now an intense sheet of flame. Taplow's lips continued to move though his throat was so scorched he could not make a sound. The fire now reached his face, blackening his mouth, swelling the tongue, pushing the lips back to the gums. His limbs began to disintegrate into a bubbling mass of fat, water and blood.
'Christ have mercy on him!' Benjamin muttered. 'I just wish I could have seen his face clearly for one last time.'
The execution stake was now hidden beneath its wall of flame. I stared out over the crowd. They looked like some great beast with gaping mouth and hungry eyes, then I caught a movement over near the great elms at the far side of the common. (The branches of these trees were often used as makeshift gibbets.) I saw a red-haired man jump down from one of the branches as if he, too, was sickening of the scene and was preparing to leave. I glimpsed the black robes and wondered why Southgate would be so interested in such a grisly execution. I asked the same of Benjamin as we walked out of a postern gale of St Bartholomew's back towards the river, but my master was only half-listening.
'I can't tell you the reason,' he murmured. 'Not yet, Roger. Not while we're trapped in this tangle of lies!'