I became a corpse collector. I worked with the gangs which patrolled the streets day and night, emptying the houses, collecting the cadavers of all those who had died of the sweating sickness. Godforsaken work! It hardened the heart and bit deep into the soul. The people I worked with were the scum of the earth who feared neither God nor man. Even now, years later, I cannot tell you the dreadful things I witnessed. Houses ransacked, corpses plundered. The dreadful death-bells tolling day and night; the great, yawning burial pits to the north of the city outside Charterhouse. The stories that not all the people taken there were dead are true. A living nightmare! A scene from the Apocalypse. My senses became dulled. I swear, where possible, I did good work. One sole thought kept me working: to raise enough money to be able to slip out of the city and go back to Ipswich.
Satan, however, didn't reign supreme in London. The Carthusians at the Charterhouse, God bless them, fulfilled their job as priests. They came out to bless the corpses and, three times a week, I erected an altar, at which a priest in black or purple vestments sang the Mass for the dead. One man in particular impressed me. John Houghton, the Carthusian priest, a thick-set, stubby-featured man. He would stand by the burial pit, keeping an eagle eye as we emptied the corpse carts, even as he chanted the psalms for the dead. He would allow no plundering, no mockery and was not above using a thick ash cudgel to enforce his orders amongst the rabble I worked with.
One morning, when the smoke was thick and curling, Houghton came too close to the edge of the ditch. He slipped, going down on the mud, into the common grave. The corpse collectors leaned on their shovels and laughed as the Prior, restricted by his grey robes, tried to climb back: the side of the bank was drenched with rainwater, so the more he scrambled, the worse it became. I ran across, leaned down and stretched out my hand. Take it, Father!' I ordered. Houghton's light-blue eyes held mine. Take it!' I repeated. ‘I will not let you go.'
The poor man was suspicious. He thought I was going to push him further down into the pit or, even worse, pull him up and crack his head with the spade. After all, he was in the company of those who feared neither God nor man.
'By the sacrament,' I whispered hoarsely, ‘I mean you no harm!' He grasped my hand. I pulled him out and helped him brush the dirt from his robes. ‘What's your name?' he asked. 'Roger Shallot, Father' Thank you, Master Shallot. I shall pray for you.'
And, shaking my hand, he walked round the pit to give my companions the rough edge of his tongue.
Ah well, the days passed. No jests or jokes here. One morning, I woke in old Quicksilver's house. I felt heavy-headed, my limbs sore to move: every step I took seemed to drench me in sweat. I staggered downstairs. I took a stoup of water and went out to join the gang where they gathered near the lych-gate of St Paul's. God knows how I worked that morning. By noon I was vomiting, my belly taut with pain. When I felt beneath my armpit, I touched the swelling buboes. Of course, the others knew: if I hadn't drawn a dirk which I had taken from one of them in a fight, they would have knocked me on the head and tossed me into the pit. They drove me off with curses and blows. I staggered away through the smoke, past the heaps and mounds of lime, and collapsed before the gateway of Charterhouse. I banged with all my might. I remember the door creaking open and Houghton crouching beside me. ‘I have the sickness, Father,' I gasped.
He dabbed my brow with a rag soaked in water. 'But, Roger, we can do nothing for you.'
'I don't want to die like a dog,' I gasped, and then fainted.
After that I can remember little. Brothers, their faces kind and concerned, bending over me. I chattered and screamed, slipping in and out of delirium. Scenes from my past plagued my soul: Mother, who should not have died so early, walking towards me, a basket of flowers in her hand. Benjamin behind his desk, wiping his fingers and shaking his head. Dr Agrippa, his face framed by shadows, smiling down at me with those soulless eyes. I could even smell that strange perfume he wore: sometimes fragrant, but at other times coarse, like an empty skillet left over a fire. And there were other dreams: being hunted by wolves in Paris, or being pursued by those dreadful leopards through the maze at the court of Francis I. Wolsey came, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his saturnine face creased in concern. ‘You should have become a priest, Roger,' he taunted. 'Like you, My Lord Cardinal?' I snapped back.
Wolsey’s face became angry and he swept away. Of course, there was always the Great Beast, the 'mouldwarp', the Prince of Blood, that devil incarnate: Henry VIII with his massive body, tree-trunk legs, hands on hips, his piggy eyes glaring at me, those fat, sensuous lips pursed into a grimace of disapproval.
'Shallot! Shallot!' he taunted. ‘What are you doing here?'
I tossed and turned; then, late one afternoon, the nightmares ceased. I woke up. I felt weak but the fever had gone. John Houghton was staring down at me whilst, behind him, the infirmarians clapped their hands as if they were witnessing a miracle. Houghton sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled as he ran his fingers down my face.
‘You are a most fortunate man, Roger Shallot,' he declared. There are not many who are snatched from the jaws of death.' 'Hell spat me back, Father,' I joked.
He smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me. ‘You have talked,' he murmured. 'Oh, Roger, how you have talked: about His Grace the King, Cardinal Wolsey, and His Eminence's nephew, Benjamin Daunbey. What on earth were you doing working amongst the corpse collectors of London?' ‘You have heard of the prodigal son, Father?'
Houghton smiled and left, after giving strict instructions to the infirmarian to let me rest.
Of course, I have the constitution of an ox, so I rapidly recovered. The good Brothers regarded me as a sign from God and fed me every delicacy their kitchens could provide: succulent chicken, rich strong broths, eggs mixed with milk, as well as potions and powders which would certainly not be found amongst Dr Quicksilver's collection. My strength quickly returned. I was surprised to find that it had been three weeks since that terrible morning I had collapsed outside the priory gate.
‘You are most fortunate,' Houghton declared one morning when he came to visit me. "There are not many who survive the sweating sickness: now you have, you will never suffer again.' 'And the city?' I asked.
The fever's dying: the King's rule is being enforced. My Lord Cardinal has brought in mercenaries from the garrisons at Dover and Sandwich, whilst the executioners are doing a roaring trade.' He took my hand and patted it, those shrewd, saintly eyes full of merriment. It is well you came here, Roger. Yet if half of what you said is true…' Houghton shook his head in mock anger. ‘You are a veritable rogue, born and bred. For the rest, stay here, be our guest.'
And so I did. (I wish my bloody chaplain would stop sniggering! That was one of the holiest parts of my life!) I joined the good Brothers in their refectory and in their choir-stalls. I chanted the divine office at dawn and heard Mass at midday. I helped in the garden whilst the infirmarian and the Brothers were quite astounded by my knowledge of physic. (No, don't scoff, no one died.) I must admit I was curious that I had survived, but Bruno the infirmarian said it was the age of miracles – or something else.
‘Perhaps you didn't want to die?' he grinned. 'Perhaps the will rather than the humours of the body determine one's fate?'
Do you know, I even considered becoming a lay brother! However, one day I was sent out to a small village to the north of Charterhouse to buy some provisions. All the way there I kept my eyes down, chanting a psalm, but on the way back I grew thirsty and called in at a tavern. Well, I met a wench with golden hair and nut-brown skin, lips full and red and eyes full of mischief. Well, you know old Shallot: I can resist anything but temptation. Two cups of canary and I found myself in a hay barn, the young girl giggling beside me. Oh, too true, the spirit is definitely willing but my flesh was extremely weak! I remember that day in particular because, when I arrived back – minus a few items of clothing; I'd left my cowl and hood in the hay barn – Prior Houghton was waiting for me.
'Roger, you have visitors.'
And, grasping me by the arm, he took me out into the garden. Benjamin, flanked by Dr Agrippa, was sitting on a turf seat watching the carp in the stewpond snap at flies. My master fell on my neck, clasped me to him, squeezing me tightly, then he stood back, his eyes full of tears.
'Roger, I thought you were dead! We searched high and low'
'It's not time for Roger's death,' Agrippa murmured. He took off his black, broad-brimmed hat and gazed up at me, his cherubic face creased into the most benevolent smile. He looked like someone's favourite uncle, except for the black leather he wore from head to toe and those gauntlets which covered the secret red crosses on the palm of each hand.
'Roger will live for a long time,' Agrippa added. The Fates will not cut his life too short.' He got up and glanced at Prior Houghton who was watching us curiously. The devil takes care of his own, Roger.'
Agrippa grasped my hand: as he did so, the colour of his eyes changed. I don't know whether it was some shadow or trick of the light; suddenly they became like black pebbles and his face became white and drawn. He gripped my hand a little longer than he should have and my heart sank. Agrippa was warning me that we were about to enter the lair of the Great Beast.
Prior John Houghton became uncomfortable. He kept glancing sideways at Agrippa, even as he told Benjamin about my miraculous recovery. After that, the Prior left us, saying he would send out a lay brother with some white wine and pastries. I stayed, telling Benjamin everything that had happened. (Or, at least, what I thought he should know.) I accepted his teasing of my sudden conversion as a member of the Carthusian Order. For a while we just sat and chatted, sipping the wine and enjoying the fragrance of the flowers and the steady hum of the honey-hunting bees. Now and again, the bells of Charterhouse would toll, calling the Brothers to service, and I realised I could not stay there for ever. 'How did you find me?' I asked.
'Well, I went to Swaffham -' Benjamin pulled a face – 'and I guessed the rest. After that, with the good doctor's help, I searched the city. One of the corpse collectors recognised your description so I came here.' His face became sad. 'Roger, I have been searching for you for two weeks. I thought you were dead!'
'I was robbed!' I wailed. ‘I had no money, whilst the Poppletons were waiting for me in Ipswich.'
'Roger, Roger.' Benjamin leaned forward. The Cardinal has sent a letter to the Sheriff of Norfolk instructing the Poppletons to offer you no harm.' He smiled mirthlessly. They're so terrified they are running backwards and forwards to the jakes again!'
'And, if your dearest uncle had intervened,' I answered tartly, 'that means he needs us.'
'Dearest Uncle does need us,' Benjamin declared, putting his cup down. ‘We are to go to the Tower, Roger, then on to meet the King at Windsor.'
I stared round that peaceful, perfume-filled garden. 'I can't stay here,' I murmured, ‘but I don't want to go to Windsor.'
Benjamin opened his wallet: he drew out a writ, sealed with the Cardinal's own signet. I read it quickly. I had no choice: Benjamin Daunbey, the Cardinal's beloved nephew, and his manservant Roger Shallot, on their allegiance to the King, were to go in all haste to the royal castle of Windsor. I threw the letter back. On reflection the death-cart, the sweating sickness and those terrible burial pits didn't seem so dreadful! If Wolsey wanted me, then I was about to enter the House of Shadows! Murder and treachery would be my guides. I quickly packed my belongings and bade a fond farewell to Prior Houghton and his kindly brothers. I never saw Houghton again. Years later, when Fat Henry broke with Rome over dark-eyed Boleyn, Houghton, true to his own soul, refused to take the Oath of Supremacy. I was out of the country at the time, the unwilling guest of the Spanish Inquisition (splendid gentlemen!). I returned to learn that Houghton and some of his Brothers had been hanged over their own gatehouse: I sat in the darkness and wept. He was a good man. He deserved a better death…
Agrippa, Benjamin and I left, keeping well away from the city. We walked by Gray's Inn, skirting the Temple and Whitefriars to a barge waiting to take us up-river to the Tower. The oarsmen were all the good doctor's henchmen, a bigger group of flea-bags you never hope to meet. Cut-throats, rascals, scum of the earth! As usual they greeted me like a long-lost brother. I was glad of the rapturous welcome because, as we walked the hot, musty streets, both Agrippa and Benjamin had become strangely silent. Even when I told them about Quicksilver: raving against his perfidy, threatening to hunt him down, they just shook their heads, lost in their own thoughts. At first I thought they were frightened but, as the barge moved mid-stream, Agrippa's rascals pulling at the oars, the good doctor stirred. He pointed to each bank.
'How time goes!' he muttered softly. 'You know, Roger, I remember Claudius's legions trying to ford this river, when London was nothing more than mud-flats and wide stretches of moorland.'
I looked at him strangely. Now and again Agrippa would make these slips and talk about events which had happened hundreds of years ago as if they had occurred that morning.
They paid for it, mind you,' he continued. The river ran red with blood. The mud-banks further down were piled high with corpses, like faggots in a woodshed.' He put on his hat again and looked at me from under his brows. 'It will be scarlet once again!’ he declared, and pointed to the poles jutting out from London Bridge where the rooks and ravens fought over the severed heads of traitors. 'A time will come when all the horrors will appear.' 'Might it now?' Benjamin observed drily. ‘Why, what's the matter?' I asked. 'Show him, Dr Agrippa.'
Agrippa fished in his pouch and drew out a small scroll of white parchment. 'Read that, Roger.'
I undid the scarlet ribbon and stared curiously at the blue-green writing inscribed in an elegant hand. The first words made me laugh.
To Henry Tudor calling himself King. I, Edward, by the grace of God King of England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales, do denounce thee as a traitor, a usurper and the son of a usurper, who seized my father's Crown and Sceptre.' I looked up. 'What is this?' I exclaimed. 'Read on.'
‘Now we know,' the letter continued, 'and it is a matter of public knowledge how your usurpation has been punished by God. What you possess will not be passed on to a son. We deem this punishment enough. We are content to bide our time and wait for God's intervention. However, until then, our royal estate must be maintained. What you hold, you do as steward for us. I therefore demand that a thousand gold crowns be deposited just within the west door of St Paul's Cathedral. This gold is to be left at the hour of Nones on the feast of St Dominic. If not, a proclamation publicising your shame will be nailed to St Paul's Cross on the feast of St Clare. Heed ye this warning! Given at the Tower under our seal on the feast of St Martha, the twenty-ninth of July 1523.' I tossed the letter back at Agrippa. ‘London is full of madcaps and such tomfoolery’ I declared.
'Look at the foot of the letter,' Agrippa insisted, passing the parchment back.
I did so and gaped. Now, as you may know, when a letter is signed and sealed by the King, it carries two seals. First his own, the signet, often in green wax; then it is passed to the Chancellor who impresses the Great Seal of the Kingdom in red. This letter was no different, except that the seals were not those of Henry VIII but of Edward V. This is impossible,' I whispered. They are forgeries.'
Agrippa shook his head. ‘No, they are not. The vellum is the most expensive that can be bought in London. The ink is that used in the Royal Chancery, as is the wax. Those seals are no forgeries.'
'But Edward the Fifth died,' I declared. 'He perished in the Tower some forty years ago.'
Benjamin looked across at the river. He stared at a great, low-slung, Venetian galley as it came out from the quayside, its oars dipping and rising as it began to make its way down to the open sea. Around it, bum boats and wherries still bobbed, as the fishermen and poor people of London tried desperately to sell to this stately galley before it left.
'It should be nonsense,' Benjamin declared slowly. 'On April the ninth, 1483, Edward the Fourth died here on the Thames whilst fishing.' He smiled and shrugged. 'Well, at least he collapsed and was taken back to one of his palaces, where he died. Now he left two sons: Edward, eleven years old, and Richard aged seven. The protectorate went to their uncle, Richard, Duke of York but, as you know, Richard usurped the throne and imprisoned his nephews in the Tower, from where they later disappeared. Two years later, in August 1485, Richard the Third was defeated and killed at Market Bosworth by the present King's father. Now all the evidence indicates that the two boy Princes were either poisoned or killed: their bodies were buried in the Tower or tied with sacks, loaded with stones, and dumped into the Thames.' Benjamin tapped the letter with his fingers. 'According to this, however, young Prince Edward survived. He possesses his own seals and is now threatening our King.'
'But it's blackmail,' I said slowly. 'Idle threats to obtain gold.'
'It may well be,' Agrippa replied, 'but listen awhile, Roger.' He leaned forward to emphasise his points. ‘First, Edward is supposed to have died forty years ago. True?' I nodded.
'Secondly, when a king dies – and remember, Richard the Third didn't even allow Edward to be crowned – his seals are collected together and smashed. Richard the Third would certainly make sure those of his imprisoned nephew, the few that were made, would be thrown into a fire. If he didn't, Henry Tudor, our present King's father, certainly would.'
'So, where did these two seals come from?' I asked. 'Couldn't they have been removed from some letter or proclamation?'
Agrippa shook his head. 'No, they are freshly affixed. According to the lettering and insignia they are no forgery.' 'But how are they dangerous?'
Agrippa smiled and shook his head. 'Roger, Roger, examine the letter carefully. Our present King, Henry the Eighth, God bless him, is the son of a usurper. He will not tolerate anyone with Yorkist blood in their veins.'
(Agrippa was right. In his reign, Henry VIII systematically, through a series of judicial executions, wiped out anyone who had Yorkist blood or a better claim to the throne than he. Edmund Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, was one, whilst the de la Pole family, except for Cardinal Reginald who fled abroad, all saw the inside of the Tower. On this matter, Henry was as mad as a March hare.)
Agrippa thrust the seals of the proclamation under my nose. 'Can you imagine, Roger, what happened when Henry saw this? He ranted for days. No one dared go near him. Not even Benjamin's dearest uncle. Henry was like an enraged bull: smashing furniture, issuing threats, cursing and kicking anyone who came near him.'
Oh yes, I thought, that's the Great Beast! He's all sweetness and smiles when he is getting his own way. Yet, once he's threatened and thwarted, he's more dangerous than a madman out of Bedlam. (When he grew older, and the ulcer on his leg began to weep pus, and his great fat, gout-ridden body was wracked by pain, you could find yourself in the shadow of the axe just by sneezing in his presence.) 'But the King didn't believe it?' I asked.
'Oh yes, he did,' Benjamin replied. 'Remember, Roger, Edward and his brother Richard may have disappeared, but no one truly knows what happened to them. Even a hint, a faint suspicion that they might still be alive would send Henry into a paroxysm of rage. Moreover, the writer touched a raw nerve. The King is as superstitious as any country yokel. He really does believe that he has no son because of Divine displeasure.' ‘But the people wouldn't believe it,' I retorted. Wouldn't they?' Agrippa asked.
He was about to continue, but the oarsmen shouted as they lifted the oars. We were now approaching London Bridge, being swept through the narrow arches by the gushing water. A chilling but exciting experience. I have made that journey many a time. Once the oars go up and the boat is left to the fury of the water, your heart drops and your stomach lurches.
Once we were into calmer waters, Agrippa continued. 'Can you imagine what would happen if such a proclamation was posted in a London now plagued by the sweating sickness? People would begin to wonder and gossip. And the whisper would turn to chatter and, as it does, fable would become fact: the King must be cursed.'
I leaned against the side of the boat and stared into the water. Agrippa spoke the truth. I had seen the sickness in London. I had experienced all the pain and the horror. I'd witnessed the hysteria and knew the anger bubbling beneath the surface. The people would want an answer, and Henry VIII would become their scapegoat. 'Did he send the gold?' I asked.
'Of course not,' Agrippa replied. 'Instead he ringed St Paul's with troops and had the great cross in the churchyard heavily guarded by archers and men-at-arms.' 'And?' I asked.
'Oh, no proclamation was posted there. The villain behind this was too astute. Instead the proclamation appeared on the door of St Mary Le Bow, another on the cross outside Westminster Abbey. Both carried the seal of Edward V. Both proclaimed Henry to be a usurper, deriding his lack of a son and the sickness raging in London as a sign of God's displeasure. The proclamations were torn down but the whispering has begun.' Agrippa hawked and spat into the river. 'And now another letter has arrived. This time the demand is for two thousand in gold as a punishment. The money is to be delivered in six days' time, on the feast of St Augustine, the twenty-eighth of August: two leather bags in a steel coffer are to be placed near St Paul's Cross as the cathedral bells toll for the midday Angelus.' 'And the letter was dispatched from the Tower?' ‘Yes,' Benjamin replied. 'It's almost as if, for the last forty years, this forgotten prince has been sheltering in some secret room in the Tower-' 'But you say arrived?' I interrupted. 'Arrived where?'
The first one was delivered to the constable of the Tower, Sir Edward Kemble. The second was left in the Abbot's stall in Westminster Abbey.'
'Which explains why we are going to the Tower now?' I asked.
'Ah.' Agrippa pulled his black cloak around him as if the river breeze was cold.
(That's one thing I noticed about Agrippa. He never liked the sunlight. Like some dark spider, he preferred the shadows. I never saw him eat or drink. Oh, he'd raise a cup to his lips, as he did in the garden at Charterhouse, but nothing ever seemed to pass his lips. He always seemed cold, too.) Agrippa pointed to a sandbank in the river on which stood a massive, three-branched gibbet bearing the rotting corpses of river pirates.
The Tower is full of curiosities,' he murmured. 'A month ago the chief executioner's deputy, Andrew Undershaft, was, somehow, put in a cage at Smithfield and roasted alive over a roaring fire.'
‘I was there,' I exclaimed. Well, I saw his blackened corpse and helped remove it from the cage… What's that got to do with these letters?'
'Perhaps nothing,' Benjamin replied. 'Undershaft died in Smithfield, God knows how. He was seen, the previous day, drinking in a tavern near Cock Lane, and then he disappeared. How anyone could take a burly man such as him, put him in a cage and roast him to death is a mystery. Now the city authorities thought it was revenge carried out by the friends or relatives of a man Undershaft may have executed. However, ten days ago, another member of the Guild of Executioners, Hellbane, was fished from the Thames. According to the surgeon who examined the corpse, Hellbane had been alive when he had been put in the sack. No mark or wound was found upon his corpse, but weights had been attached to his feet. You see, Roger, that's the mystery; two members of the Guild of Executioners suffered judicial murder. They were not knifed or clubbed to death. They were both killed in a way prescribed by law for certain felons. Undershaft died the death of a poisoner; Hellbane suffered the fate of a patricide, someone who has killed his father.' 'And they were innocent?' Benjamin shrugged. 'As far as we know.'
I gazed at the lonely gibbet. 'Hellbane,' I said. 'What sort of name is that?'
The city executioners are a rare breed.' Benjamin explained. 'Surprisingly, Roger, despite all the barbarism, very few people want their job. They are marked men, hated and reviled by London's underworld. However, they do a job that has to be done, and business is always brisk.'
(Oh, God bless my master for his truthful heart. During the Great Beast's reign the scaffold and gibbets were never empty. I know of one executioner, an axeman, who became so sickened by the dreadful sentences he had to carry out that he became quite mad and tried to cut his own head off. Poor fellow, he died in chains in Bedlam.)
'Anyway,' Benjamin continued, 'the city hangmen are patronised by the King himself.' 'Like is always attracted to like,' I remarked.
They meet in a tavern called the Gallows, in the shadow of the Tower. They have their own guild. They wear a chain round their wrists and hold meetings in the nave of St Peter ad Vincula.'
(Now, there's a dreadful place. Under St Peter ad Vincula, the Tower chapel, lies the headless corpses of all Henry's victims; all those who died on the execution block or perished in some desolate dungeon.) 'So,' I insisted. Two hangmen have been murdered. They are not the most popular of men.'
'Somehow,' Benjamin replied, 'My Lord Cardinal believes the murders of these two hangmen and the blackmail letters to the King are connected.' He paused as the boat swung in towards the quayside. 'You see, Roger, no one really knows what happened to the Princes in the Tower. They might have been poisoned, strangled or starved.'
The Cardinal,' Agrippa explained, has studied the fate of these princes closely. He has also spoken to Sir Thomas More who is writing a study of King Richard the Third's life. Now More believes that the Guild of Hangmen must have known what happened to the two Princes.'
‘You mean a secret passed on from one generation to another?' I asked.
'Precisely,' Benjamin replied. 'John Mallow, the chief hangman, has sworn a great oath that no such secret exists, but, "dearest Uncle" is not convinced. He believes that if the Princes were killed and their bodies removed, someone from the Guild of Hangmen must have been involved.' 'But this is just dearest Uncle's feeling?' I asked.
Benjamin sighed and put his hands together. 'Well, if this villain writing the blackmailing letters is a charlatan, the only way the King could silence him, or so dearest Uncle reasons, is by finding out what really happened to the Princes and proclaiming this to the city and the kingdom. Henry would give his eye-teeth just to find their corpses.'
'And so this same charlatan,' I added, 'is murdering the hangmen just in case one of them has inherited the secret and could reveal the truth?'
'Exactly,' Benjamin replied, peering over his shoulder at the approaching quayside. 'And how many are in the Guild of Hangmen?' I asked. There should be seven,' Benjamin replied. 'John Mallow, he's old and about to retire. Andrew Undershaft, lately deceased. Hellbane, who's also been called to his maker, and four other assistants: Snakeroot, Horehound, Toadflax and Wormwood. And, before you ask your question, Roger, the chief hangman's apprentices are never called by their real names.' He smiled thinly. This is to protect them; sometimes they change their minds and decide to take up another profession.'
I looked up at the jutting towers and turrets of the Tower. 'If I had my way, Master,' I grumbled, 'I'd do the same.'