'Madam.' Benjamin waited for Mistress Undershaft to compose herself. 'Before he died, did your husband act untoward? Did he mention anything? Was he worried about anything?'
'Andrew was a good man,' she replied tearfully. 'He did a dreadful job, though he always maintained that those he hanged or executed fully deserved their punishment. Every Sunday, when he went to Mass at St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower, he always prayed for the souls of those who'd suffered.' 'Precisely so, madam,' Benjamin replied, 'but did he-'
'My husband rarely talked about what he did, Master Daunbey,' she interrupted, a touch of steel in her voice. Unlike others of the Guild, he did not boast about how many he had killed, or how he had made such a person suffer by putting a knot in the wrong place. Nor did he refuse those burnt at Smithfield a bag of gunpowder round their necks to hasten their ends.'
(I just sat and shivered to hear this beautiful woman talk so matter-of-factly about her late husband's trade.) 'So you know nothing, madam?' 'Nothing at all.' 'And the night he died?'
'He had been at home a great deal,' Mistress Undershaft replied. 'The Tower was locked and closed. City government had been suspended, the courts had not sat, so he whiled away most of his time digging in the garden or playing with the children.' She pointed to the stool Agrippa was sitting on. 'He had once been apprenticed carpenter. He kept up his old trade whenever he could.' 'And the day he died?' Benjamin insisted.
(Now, my master was a kind man, the essence of courtesy to women, but his grim face and harsh tones showed his suspicions of Madam Undershaft.)
'He stayed in most of the day,' she continued, 'but he became restless. The children were shouting-' 'How many children do you have?' I interrupted.
'Four.' She smiled tearfully at me. "But they are not mine. Master…?' ‘Roger Shallot, madam,' I replied.
She leaned a little closer, her bosom heaving quickly. 'Andrew had been married before,' she explained. 'His wife died about five years ago. I became handfast to him three years later. Anyway,' she continued, glancing quickly at Benjamin's impatient face, 'Andrew left the house. He said he was going to drink at the Gallows tavern.' She plucked at the cuff of her dress. That was all,' she concluded. "Later the next day a bailiff came here and told me what had happened.'
"Madam.' I twisted my face into a most sympathetic grimace. ‘I had the unhappy coincidence of being at Smithfield when your husband's corpse was removed from the cage. I mean to cause you no distress, but it was dreadful’
Again that tearful smile of understanding. 'How do you know it was your husband?’ I added.
She stared at me, dry-eyed: she opened her mouth to speak but thought different.
'Madam’ Benjamin asked, ‘Was there any distinguishing mark?'
'Oh Lord have mercy!' she snapped. 'Of course not, sir! I recognised the sole of the boots and the iron guild chain he always wore round his wrist. But no, I could not take a solemn oath and say that he was my husband. Yet, if it wasn't, then I ask you, sir, where is Andrew Undershaft?' Tour husband was a wealthy man?' Benjamin asked.
'He was prudent, sir. His will left me this house, all his possessions, as well as some silver he had with Thurgood the goldsmith in Cheapside.' Her voice faltered.
'Madam,' I intervened. The tilers are busy on the roof, the house is freshly painted. Is this all your husband's legacy?' Mistress Undershaft made to object. ‘We are here on the King's business,' Agrippa declared flatly.
'Andrew was prudent,' she hastily replied. 'He had certain money salted away. However, Thurgood the goldsmith came to visit me two weeks after my husband's death. He said he had received gold and silver from a mysterious donor who wanted to ensure that I lacked for nothing.' 'And who is this kind person?' I asked tartly.
Mistress Undershaft glared at me. ‘I do not really know, sir, nor do I really care. My husband was murdered. Perhaps someone's conscience pricks them and this is their way of soothing it. I am a woman left to her own devices with the care of four young children. If Satan came up from Hell with a bag of silver, I'd take it. So ask Master Thurgood: I know nothing about it.'
Benjamin asked, 'Before the sickness broke out and the Tower was closed and sealed, did your husband ever mention anything untoward happening in the fortress?' 'Such as?'
Benjamin shrugged. 'Anything you can remember, madam.'
'He talked little about his work,' Madam Undershaft replied. 'He did not like the Tower, and Sir Edward Kemble in particular. He found him a harsh disciplinarian who loved the exercise of power. Andrew thought the Tower was a cold, narrow place. Unlike his companions in the Guild, he spent as little time there as possible.'
'Did he know the dead man?' I asked. The clerk of stores, Philip Allardyce?'
'Andrew was there the morning he fell ill,' she replied. 'Allardyce came down to the Gallows tavern to break his fast. He complained of a thick head and pains in his body. My husband later visited him. He took him a small flask of wine but the fellow was already delirious. My husband recognised the symptoms. He never went back to the Tower again. Allardyce died and the Tower was sealed off.'
'Did he ever mention anything about the Princes?' I asked.
The woman's confused look and shake of her head showed she was no student of history.
'Did you know the other hangman who was murdered? Hellbane?' Benjamin quickly asked.
‘I heard rumours,' she replied. 'John Mallow, the chief hangman, sometimes visits me. He brings sweetmeats for the children – yet what can I say, sirs? I can speak for John Mallow: like my husband, he is an honourable man. But the others, with their dreadful names and secret pasts!' 'Secret pasts?’ I queried.
'Andrew believed the one who calls himself Toadflax was once a priest in Coventry who turned to black magic. Another, Wormwood, went to the Halls of Cambridge, from where he fled after committing some dreadful crime.' 'And they just told him this?' I asked.
'My husband liked his ale, Master Shallot, and so did they. In every guild they've had their parties and banquets. The last one was on the occasion of the King's birthday, the sixth of June. Apparently Sir Edward Kemble, according to ancient custom, allowed them to use chambers in the royal apartments. The hangmen brought their ladies, or should I say women of the town?' 'You were not there?' I asked innocently.
'Of course not!' she snapped. 'My husband told me about all the goings-on… when he returned,' she added primly.
‘Your husband was a carpenter?' I asked. ‘He was a literate man? He could write and keep accounts?'
'Oh, of course, sir.' She rose and went across to a chest standing beneath the crucifix. She opened it and brought back a ledger. 'He sometimes sold what he made in the markets. He kept scrupulous accounts.'
I opened the ledger and showed it to Benjamin. He stared at the beautiful copperplate handwriting and smiled.
'Madam,' my master rose and handed the ledger back. 'I thank you for your time in answering our questions honestly. You have nothing further to say?' 'No.'
She darted a smile at me: I quietly wondered whether it would be appropriate for me to visit her by myself.
My master continued. 'Naturally we must make further inquiries of Master Thurgood the goldsmith about this mysterious donor. Perhaps a letter from you?'
Mistress Undershaft nodded and left the room. I wanted to draw Benjamin into hushed conversation, but he shook his head. We waited silently until Mistress Undershaft returned and gave him a square of vellum neatly’ tied with a piece of silk ribbon. We made our farewells and left. We walked across the green and back up the alleyway leading to the Tower.
Half-way along, Benjamin stopped and undid the letter. The writing was not as elegant as her late husband's, yet Mistress Undershaft had a good hand for someone who, perhaps, had not been properly tutored. The letters were boldly formed: she simply informed the goldsmith that he should answer any questions the bearer might ask about her mysterious legacy. What did you think of her?' Benjamin asked. 'Shrewd,' Agrippa retorted.
'A good actress,' I added. I narrowed my eyes and stared further down the alleyway. 'I don't wish to be cruel, but on the one hand she mourns her husband, yet on the other there is something else. Is it possible that Master Undershaft is not dead? That he killed someone else to take his place and is continuing to send silver to his wife whilst he hides in the city and blackmails the King?
Benjamin nodded. 'It is true we have no proof that her husband was definitely killed. Undershaft was an educated man, skilled with his hands. He might find the art of forgery an easy accomplishment. His wife could well be party to it.' Benjamin tapped the parchment. 'But that still leaves as many questions as it answers. How was the letter delivered by Undershaft if the Tower was sealed?' 'An accomplice?' I asked.
"Possible,' Benjamin replied, 'but how would they communicate?'
'We have still to study Spurge's maps,' I replied. ‘Undershaft could still be alive and the villain of the piece. He might have written that letter before he left the Tower and given it to his accomplice to deliver when the fortress was closed and shuttered. He could then have arranged for the proclamations to be posted after falsifying his own death.'
‘I agree,' Agrippa declared. Whilst the other hangman, Hellbane, could have been murdered because he knew something? Mistress Undershaft is not what she appears to be, I can see that: her grief is not as deep as it should be. No one identified that corpse as her husband's. We also learnt that Master Undershaft had little liking for Sir Edward Kemble. Moreover, if Undershaft is supposed to be dead, then that's the best disguise, if you are sending letters of blackmail against the King and leaving them at Westminster or elsewhere. But who the accomplice is and how they communicate is a mystery. And those seals, Roger, are no forgeries. In truth they once belonged to Edward the Fifth. If your theory is correct, how did Undershaft or his accomplice get their hands on them?' He looked up at the sky. ‘We must go,' he murmured. The King has gone hunting today, as he will tomorrow' He smiled grimly. 'But he expects to see you at supper tonight, Roger. Moreover, we still have business to do with Snakeroot, Wormwood and the rest.'
We walked back into Petty Wales. Agrippa led us directly to the Gallows tavern which, despite its grisly sign, was a clean, spacious ale-house. The taproom inside was high-vaulted. Bunches of herbs hung in baskets from the rafters, shedding the fragrance of a summer day through the ale fumes and rather greasy odours from the kitchen. The landlord apparently took the sign of his tavern very seriously: the place was decorated with blocks of wood from this gibbet or that. On one wall hung a rope which was supposedly used to kill the great imposter Perkin Warbeck. Above the fireplace a wooden box held – so the notice scrawled below proclaimed – part of the skin flayed from Richard Puddlicott who had tried to raid the King's treasury at Westminster Abbey. A cheerful though gruesome place: skulls had been painted on the floorboards, whilst the wooden pillar in the centre of the room was decorated with knives and daubed with red paint so it looked like a whipping post.
Do you know, over the years I have grown fascinated by human nature. Why do people find the most gruesome things in society so interesting? If I stood up in Cheapside and said I owned the skull of a dog, people would just pass by. However, if I said I was the proud owner of the skull of some bloody-handed murderer, who was also a chaplain in this or that church, everyone would gather round to stare: that's one thing I learnt from my relic-selling days. I sold more skulls, reputedly those of Barabbas or Pontius Pilate, than I did anything else!
Ah well, that's human nature and, little did I know it, my arrival at the Gallows tavern was an introduction to the deep, murderous passions which lurk in the human heart. The Guild of Hangmen were there, seated in a corner beneath a crudely drawn painting of a scaffold. I took one look and thought, oh aye nonny no, here goes Old Shallot again! They were all dressed in black, white shirts peeping beneath the leather jerkins and doublets. (I am always wary of people who dress in the most sombre colours, as if they are in love with death.) John Mallow, the chief hangman, was a grisly-looking soul: small and fat with wizened features, a scrawny beard, smiling mouth, with yellow-gapped teeth and eyes like two piss-holes in the snow. He was the most handsome of them all! Mallow, in turn, introduced his four so-called apprentices: Snakeroot, tall and thin with shift eyes and a slack mouth, a man who'd lurk behind the arras or in the shadows and listen to what you said. Horehound was a tippler; he had a fat, greasy face, greasy spiked hair, a body like a ball of fat with no neck or waist. His chin seemed to rest on his chest. Like me, he had a cast in one eye: not the sort of face to wish you well as you were turned off the ladder at Tyburn or Smithfield! Toadflax was different. He was tall, clean-shaven, bronze-faced. His dyed yellow hair framed his face like that of a girl; his eyes were strange. When he looked at you his mind was elsewhere, as if he lived in a dark world all of his own. Wormwood – well, if I had to choose one of them to go on a journey with, I would have selected him. He at least looked human, with sharp-etched features and cool grey eyes. A man who took meticulous care with his appearance. I wondered why such a man was working as a hangman. One thing I did notice (and I nudged Benjamin) was that Wormwood was writing what he claimed to be a sonnet. Although I couldn't make out the words, I could tell from the script that Wormwood was an educated man who could have secured a benefice in any great nobleman's Chancery.
They all made us welcome enough. Benjamin ordered fresh stoups of ale. Agrippa sat as if he was a shadow. I shivered a little, for Mallow and his four apprentices all concentrated on me. They studied Old Shallot from head to toe as if assessing how much I weighed, how broad my shroud would be, and how long it would take for me to choke on the end of a rope. (Perhaps that was my guilty conscience. During my long and convoluted life I have been condemned to death either in England or abroad at least eighteen times. Sorry, nineteen, I forgot that madcap bugger, the Prince of Muscovy. I've been, no less than eight times, on the scaffold with a rope round my neck.)
Nevertheless, I remained merry-faced. For a while we discussed the sweating sickness, though the conversation was desultory. Mallow and his apprentices seemed highly nervous of Dr Agrippa, and even more so when Benjamin introduced himself as the Cardinal's nephew. I could understand their fear. Hangmen always have a shadowy past. They hide just beneath the skirts of the law and take cold comfort in the fact that, if they are its servants, they are safe. Mallow abruptly made that point.
‘We have done nothing wrong, sirs.' He sipped from his tankard.
'No one has said you have,' Benjamin coolly replied. 'But, as St Augustine says, "Quis custodiet custodes?" "Who will guard the guards?"' He beat his tankard gently on the table. ‘What we do have are villains threatening His Grace the rung.'
‘We know nothing of that,' Wormwood whispered, his voice no more than a hiss, 'though we heard tittle-tattle about the letters.' 'And the deaths of Hellbane and Undershaft?'
'Again innocent,' Toadflax sneered. 'Master Daunbey.' The hangman leaned forward, I noticed how ink-stained his fingers were. ‘We, too, are officers of the Crown. We execute the villains of London. One in three go to the scaffold screaming their innocence: around the hanging tree, their friends and relatives shake their fists and spit at us!' 'Anyone in particular?' I asked innocently.
Toadflax drew his head back, studying me from under heavy-lidded eyes. If he could, he would have spat at me.
Mallow, sniffing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, called for more ale before continuing. ‘Undershaft and Hellbane were young, powerful men. They would not have given up their lives easily.'
'Hellbane was fished from the Thames,' I replied. 'It's easy to knock a man on the head, put weights on a sack and tip him into the water.'
'If that's the case,' Mallow snapped, 'the list of suspects is endless.'
'Indeed,' Wormwood whispered, 'it could happen to any of us.'
'So, you know nothing?' Benjamin asked, pushing back his stool as if to rise. That is the answer we shall give His Grace the Cardinal.' ‘No.' Mallow shrugged. ‘No quarrel between you, within the guild?'
"None whatsoever. Master Daunbey,' Mallow pleaded, ‘it is true that one of us here could have killed Hellbane, but why? True, we have heard of those proclamations pinned on the doors of churches in Westminster and Cheapside, as well as the death of poor Andrew. But, sir, we were in the Tower when all this happened, kept as close and secure as any prisoner.'
Tell me,' I asked, 'this clerk of the stores, Allardyce: did you know him well?' Mallow looked at his companions and pulled a face. 'Describe him to me,' I ordered.
‘He was tall, about your height,' the hangman replied. 'Long black curly hair, moustache and beard, thick and luxuriant which he liked to oil. He was a happy-go-lucky fellow with no known family and friends. He told us he came from Dover: his task was to keep careful account of the foodstuffs and fodder stored in the Tower. Allardyce would record what came in, how it was distributed. He would also advise the constable or Master Vetch what further supplies were needed.' 'And he fell sick?' I insisted.
'We'd all heard about the sweating sickness, but Allardyce just laughed at it. One day he came down here to break his fast. He said he felt unwell. He was shivering, the sweat coursing down his face like water. He went back to the Tower. Sir Edward Kemble was of a mind to throw him out-' 'How do you know that?' I interrupted.
Mallow pointed to Snakeroot. 'He's well named.' He grinned. "He slides along galleries and corridors and listens through half-open doors.'
Snakeroot pulled a face. ‘I heard Kemble roaring at Allardyce,' he said, 'telling him he should not have come to his chamber. The Tower has a small infirmary, nothing more than a bare cell. Kemble ordered him to go there.' 'Where is this?' I asked.
'Near Bowyer Tower, overlooking the river. There's an old woman, slightly madcap, who calls herself Ragusa. She has some knowledge of physic and looks after those of the garrison who fall ill.' He grinned. 'Sometimes, for a coin, she’ll help those lads out who haven't got a woman.' 'And did you see Allardyce there?' I asked.
'Oh, for the love of God!' Horehound snapped petulantly.
'I went to visit him.' Mallow spoke up. The infirmary's a small, two-storey building. Allardyce was on the upper floor. I went up and left a small jug of wine. The door was open. Allardyce was lying on the bed. He looked like a soaked rag.'
Benjamin drained his tankard and put it down on the table. "You have nothing to say?' he said again.
They chorused their denials once more, so we thanked them and walked out of the tavern. 'A fine collection, eh, Roger?' Agrippa teased.
'A motley group of moult worms,' I growled. ‘I don't like hangmen and that group in particular. Master, they are far too close, their answers are too smooth, well prepared. And, don't forget,' I added, 'that many of them had the education to write those letters, and enough accomplices in the city to assist their nefarious work. Perhaps everyone of them is guilty, and they all conspired to kill Undershaft and Hellbane because they objected.'
I glimpsed the doubt in Benjamin's eyes. 'Though I confess, Master, where they got the seals from and how they were able to communicate when the Tower was locked and sealed is a mystery.'
'Which brings us back to Spurge's maps,' Benjamin said.
He was about to walk on but paused. 'Roger, why did you ask about the clerk of the stores?'
I pulled a face. 'Master, I just wondered. Is it possible that Allardyce did not really die, but that his sickness and death was a sham? He leaves the Tower to act on behalf of his accomplice within?'
Benjamin smiled. We'll go back to the Tower. Roger, seek out this old woman Ragusa: have a look at the sick room. Agrippa and I will seek out Master Spurge and demand to see his maps and charts.'
When we reached the royal apartments in the Tower, Agrippa and Benjamin went down to see Spurge. I wandered across the green, past the great Norman keep. A soldier, lounging in the sunshine mending his harness, pointed out the way: I entered a deserted yard, the cobblestones cracked and overgrown with weeds. At the far end stood a small, red-brick building which had been built beside the wall. I went across, pushed open the door, and peered through the gloom.
'Have you come to be milked?' a voice crackled out of the darkness.
An old woman came forward, peering at me. By my own witness I am no beauty, but neither was she. Her hair, a dirty white, hung straggling down to bowed shoulders, her face was deathly pale. She had little black eyes and a thin slit of a mouth under a hooked nose. If I had been asked to name a witch in London, I'd have chosen Ragusa. She was dressed from head to toe in a dark, dirt-stained smock. I tried not to wrinkle my nose at the sour smell, which came either from her or the shabby little room in which she lived. She laughed at me and went back in. I heard a tinder spark as she lit a squat tallow candle. The room looked better in the dark. The rushes on the floor were soiled and looked as if they hadn't been changed for months. Tawdry rags hung on the walls, and in one corner was a cot-bed with a battered trunk beside it which served as a table. There were a few sticks of furniture, and shelves lined the wall, each bearing pots, jugs and small cups, all neatly labelled. The old woman followed my gaze.
'Is it physic you need, Master?’ She whined, looking at me from head to toe. ‘Physic of the mind or the body?'
‘No, just some answers, Mother,' I replied.
'Questions cost money too.' Her face cracked in a smile. I twirled the silver coin before her eyes. She went to grab it but I pulled it away.
'What is it you want?'
The clerk, Allardyce,' I said. ‘You tended him when he was ill?
That's right, but there was little I could do for him. He came here on the Tuesday, he was dead by Thursday. Drenched in sweat, buboes in his armpits and groin.' Her thin, bony fingers clawed the air. There's no cure for that. I just gave him valerian drops to make him sleep and ease his pain.' 'And you are sure it was he?'
The old woman cackled. ‘Why shouldn't it be? Who'd pretend to have the sweating sickness, take valerian, and then offer to die? Are you witless, man?' 'But it was Allardyce?' I asked. 'Of course!' she snapped. 'And you saw him die?'
'Of course I did! I found him in the chamber upstairs.' She pointed to a flight of rickety stairs in the far corner. 'I heard a crash and went upstairs. He was half on, half off the bed, eyes open, blood drooling out of the corner of his mouth. The stench was terrible. I sent for Sir Edward Kemble.' 'And did he come?' I asked.
'Oh no, not that chicken-heart. He climbed half-way up the stairs, took one look at the chamber, and told me to throw a sheet over the man. I did. The following morning two of the soldiers took his sheeted corpse down to the death-cart at the Lion Gate. He was dead as a nail!'
I was about to turn when she caught my sleeve. 'You promised payment. The Tower has many mysteries, Master, but that poor clerk's death was not one.'
'Such as?' I asked, coming back, closing the door behind me. I dropped the silver coin into her hands and tapped my fingers against the dagger in my belt.
'Don't threaten me, Master.' She stepped back. ‘I am Ragusa, at least seventy summers old. I have seen all the great lords come tripping through here: Edward the Fourth of blessed memory, his brother Richard of York, the Duke of Buckingham, the present King's father. All come and gone like shadows in the sun.' "You saw the young Princes?' I asked curiously.
'Aye, poor boys. Oh, they were well looked after, but they were shut up in Wakefield Tower. I saw them playing on the green when their uncle seized the Crown. The elder one fell ill with an abscess in his jaw. I visited him and gave the lad tincture of cloves.' "But they were in good health?'
'As rude and robust as you are, Master.' She shrugged. Then one day they disappeared: that was the end of the matter.'
Do you know other mysteries?’ I asked. Tell me, Mother, if all the gates and doorways in the Tower were locked and sealed, could anyone leave or enter?’
'A witch might,' she taunted. 'She might fly over the walls on her broomstick.'
"Witches are burnt at Smithfield, madam.' – 'Aye and so are hangmen.' Her wizened face took on a sly, secretive look. 'Oh, we know what this is all about. Sir Edward Kemble's terror when he opened that letter was known by us all.'
I plucked another silver coin from my purse. 'Mother, can you help?’
She knocked the coin from my hand, her hands were so swollen and rheumatic. She scrabbled on the floor for it then stood up. ‘No, I can't help. But if things change, you'll be the first to know.' I turned, my hand on the latch.
They say there is a secret passageway,' she added. Down near the menagerie, under the pits there.' She lifted her stiff; vein-streaked hands. 'But I have told you enough!' she snapped.
I left the old harridan and walked back, following the line of the wall. I went through a small door into an area which overlooked the moat, squeezed between the outer and inner walls. This contained the royal menagerie. A stinking, fetid place, with cages built along the walls holding a mangy lion and a leopard, mad of eye, ribs showing through its coat, pacing up and down. There was a pelican as well as a big, fat brown bear manacled by chains to the wall: the beast hardly bothered to lift its head as I came in to the enclosure. The area was deserted. The keepers, or whoever was paid to look after them, probably drifted away to clear their heads of the smell and bask in the warm afternoon sunshine. On the far side of the enclosure I glimpsed the brick rim of a pit, surrounded by a carpet of sand. I walked across to this, my feet crunching on pebble-covered ground. I gingerly looked over the pit. It must have been about ten feet deep and stank like a cesspool.
At first I thought it was empty, but then a grey bundle which I thought was a collection of rags stirred, and an old, bleary-eyed wolf, tongue lolling between his jaws, looked up at me. I'd seen more vigour in a corpse. I walked round the pit. Although the wolf was old it had a terrible madness all of its own. Moreover, its thick, heavy-furred shoulders, long lean body, drooping brushed tail, erect head and pointed face brought back nightmares from Paris. I walked away, back to look at the Hon which had hardly stirred but lay on its side fast asleep. A clink, as if someone had thrown a coin on to the gravel, made me start. ‘Who's there?' I called.
No answer. I was about to leave, putting more trust in Master Spurge's maps than my own curiosity when, again, there was a clink. Now, old Shallot has been in many dangerous places before. Someone was here, either hiding in one of the outhouses, or where the fodder and hay was stored. I glanced around and wondered if someone had come along the parapet. My flesh chilled. If someone was waiting for me here, how would they know ‘I’d come? I was sure no one had followed me from Ragusa's hovel. Had someone been listening at the door? I walked slowly back to where the sound had come from. Lying on the sand was a pure silver coin of far better quality than the one I had given the old hag. Now, you know old Shallot: even now my coat of arms includes a jackdaw, because if something glitters, I always look. I snatched up the coin, thick and freshly minted. I saw another one, and hurried to do the same. There was a third just near the rim of the pit and, like a fool, I fell into the trap. The oldest coney-catching device in London: put something precious on the floor and it will always attract the greedy eye and fingers.
I hurried to the rim of the pit. I bent down to pick it up and, as I did so and was half rising, a blow in the small of my back pitched me forward. Now old Shallot is quick of wit with even faster legs, but that blow sent me staggering. I tried to stop myself. I was heading towards the pit, then I was over and falling, my hands flailing the air. I would have gone to the bottom if my fingers had not grasped and held the thick hempen rope which hung there. I hung on for dear life, gibbering with fright. I glanced down. The old wolf hadn't stirred but just stared up curiously. I am sure that, if it could, it would have jumped up and licked my legs. I grasped the rope even tighter, and noticed there was another rope also hanging a few feet away, probably used to lower foodstuffs into the pit. I tried to grab it, hoping I could swing myself up, when I heard a terrible chilling howl. There was another wolf hidden in the cavern running off the pit.