I was born, so I tell my family – the offspring of my five wives – at a time of terror when the great Sweating Sickness swept into London, moving from the hovels of Southwark to the glories of Westminster Hall. All were culled: the great and the good, the noble and the bad, the high and the low. That was in the summer of 1502 when the Great Killer's father, Henry VII, reigned: lean-faced, pinch-mouthed Henry Tudor, the victor of Bosworth, had seven years left to live. I could tell you a few stories about him – oh, yes. He killed Richard the Usurper at Bosworth and had his torn, hacked body thrown into a horse trough at Leicester before marching on to London and marrying the Usurper's niece, Elizabeth of York. I once asked the present Queen, God bless her duckies, who killed the princes in the Tower? Was it their uncle, the Usurper Richard, or her grandfather Henry Tudor when he found them alive in the Tower? She shook her head and raised one bony finger to her lips.
'There are rooms in the Tower, Roger,' Queen Elizabeth whispered, 'which now have no doors or windows. They are bricked up, removed from all plans and maps. Men say that in one of these rooms lie the corpses of the two young princes.'
(I wondered if she believed she was telling the truth for I once met one of the princes, alive! But that's another story.)
Well, back to the beginning. I was born near St Botolph's Wharf which stands close to the river at the end of a rat-infested maze of alleyways. The first sound
I heard, and one which always takes me back, was the constant cawing of the ever-hungry gulls as they plundered the evil-smelling lay stalls near the black glassy Thames. My first memory was the fear of the Sweating Sickness. Beggars huddled in doorways; lepers, their heads covered by white sacks, heard of his approach and forgot their miseries. The traders in greasy aprons and dirty leggings shuddered and prayed that the sickness would pass them by. Their masters and self-styled betters thought they were safe as they sat at table, guzzling delicacy after delicacy – venison and turbot cooked in cream, washed down by black Neapolitan wine in jewel-encrusted goblets -but no one was safe.
The Sweating Sickness took my father; at least, that's what my mother said. Someone else claimed his weaving trade collapsed and he ran away to be a soldier in the Low Countries. Perhaps the sight of me frightened him! I was the ugliest of children and, remembering my fair-haired mother, must have owed my looks to Father. You see, I was born a month late, my head covered in bumps, one of my eyes slightly askew from the rough handling of the midwife's instruments. Oh, Lord, I was so ugly! People came up to my cot ready to smile and chuckle, they took one look and walked away mumbling condolences to my poor parents. As I grew older and learnt to stagger about, free of my swaddling clothes, the loud-mouthed traders along the wharves used to call out to my mother:
'Here, Mistress, here! A cup of wine for yourself and some fruit for your monkey!'
Well, when Father went, Mother moved on, back to her own family in the rich but boring town of Ipswich. She assumed widow's weeds though I often wondered if my father did flee, swift as a greyhound from the slips as Master Shakespeare would put it. (Oh, yes, I have patronised Will and given him what assistance I could in the writing and the staging of his plays.) Anyway, when I was seven, Mother became friendly with a local vintner and married him in the parish church – a lovely day.
Mother wore a gown of russet over a kirtle of fine worsted and I, in silk-satins, carried the bridal cup before her with a sprig of rosemary in it. I was later very sick after stealing some wine and gnawing voraciously at the almond-packed bridal cake.
My step-father was a kindly man – he must have been to tolerate me. He sent me off to the local grammar school where I learnt Maths, Astronomy, Latin, Greek, and read the Chronicles of Fabyan, as well as being lashed, nipped, pinched, caned and strapped along with the other boys. Nevertheless, I was good at my studies and, after Mass on Sundays, the master would give my mother such a glowing report that I would be rewarded with a silver plate of comfits. I would sit and solemnly eat these whilst plotting fresh mischief against my teacher.
One student who was not drawn into these pranks and feats of malice was my future master, Benjamin Daunbey: quiet, studious and bookish to a fault. One day I and the other imps of Hell turned against him, placing a pitcher upon a door and crowing with delight when its contents, rich brown horse's piss, soaked him to the skin. He wiped his face and came over to me.
'Did you enjoy that, Roger?' he asked softly. 'Did you really? Does it give you pleasure to see pain in the eyes of others?'
He was not angry. His eyes were curious: clear, childlike in their innocence. I just stammered and turned away. The master came in, cloak billowing like bat wings around him. He seized Benjamin by the nape of the neck, roaring at him while he got his switch of birch down, ready to give the unfortunate a severe lashing. Benjamin did not utter a word but went like a lamb to the slaughter. I felt sorry then, and didn't know why. My motto has always been: 'Do unto yourself what should be done to your neighbour.' I have rarely been brave and always believed that volunteers never live to pay day. Perhaps it was the meek way Benjamin walked, the cowardly silence of my comrades…
I stepped forward.
'Master,' I declared, 'Benjamin Daunbey is not to blame!'
'Then who is?' the beast roared back.
I licked my lips nervously and held out my hand.
'He is!' I said, turning to the smallest of my coven. 'He placed the pitcher over the door!'
Benjamin was saved, someone else got a beating, and I congratulated myself on my own innate cunning. Well, I went from bad to worse. At night I would not go to bed. In the morning I would not get up. I did not wash my hands or study my hornbook; instead I ran wild. My mother, sickening from a strange humour, just gazed speechlessly at me, hollow-eyed, whilst my step-father's hands beat the air like the wings of some tired, feckless bird. I mocked their advice like the arrogant young fool I was. My backside became hardened to the master's cane and I began to play truant in the fields and apple-laden orchards outside the town. Once the master cornered me, asking where I had been.
'Master,' I replied, 'I have been milking the ducks.'
He grabbed me by the ear but I hit him hard under the chin and ran off like a whippet. I didn't go home – well, not to see my parents. I stole some money, packed a linen cloth full of food, and it was down to London where the streets are paved with gold. London I loved with its narrow alleyways, teeming Cheapside, many taverns, and, of course, well-stocked brothels. I will skirt over my many adventures but, eventually, I joined the household of old Mother Nightbird who ran one of the costliest brothels near the Bishop of Winchester's inn at Stewside close to the bridge in Southwark. I found out more about women in a month than some men would in a dozen lifetimes. I became a bully-boy, one of the roaring lads who drank deeply, and paraded the streets in a shirt of fine cambric linen, multi-coloured hose, high-stepping riding boots and a monstrous codpiece. I swaggered about, armed with hammer and dirk which I prayed I would never use.
I fell in with bad company, one especially, a lank-haired, cunning-eyed weasel of a man called Jack Hogg. We took to breaking into houses, taking the costly silks and precious objects back to Mother Nightbird who would always find a seller. Naturally, it was not long before we were caught. Two nights in Newgate and up before the Justices at the Guildhall. We were condemned to hang but the principal justice of the bench recognised me. I knew a little about him and made it obvious that if his sexual exploits were not to be part of my last confession, I should be given a second chance. Hogg died, swinging at Elms. I was given the opportunity of either joining him or enlisting in the King's Army now being gathered in the fields north of Cripplegate to march against the Scots.
Strange, isn't it, that even then the great mysteries of Flodden Field came south, like a mist, and changed my life? I didn't know it then. All I knew was that while King Henry VIII was in France, James IV of Scotland had sent his herald RougeCroix south with an insulting challenge to battle. Henry's Queen, the sallow-faced, lanky Catherine of Aragon, pining for her husband and longing to provide him with a lusty heir, accepted the challenge and sent insolent-eyed Surrey north with a huge army. Now old Surrey was a bastard. He drank so much the gout stopped him walking and he rode like a farmer in a cart, his orders being taken by outriders and scouts. A vicious man, Surrey, but a good general. You know, as a young man, he and his father Jack, the 'Jockey of Norfolk', fought for the Usurper Richard at Bosworth. Old Norfolk was killed and Surrey taken prisoner before Henry Tudor.
'You fought against your King!' the Welshman shouted.
Surrey pointed to a fence post.
'If Parliament crowned that fence King, I'd fight for it!' he bellowed back.
The Tudor prince seemed to relish this. Surrey went to the Tower for a while but was soon released because of his qualities as a general. He kept good discipline on that march to Flodden: he built a huge cart which carried a thirty-foot-high gallows, loudly declaring that if anyone committed a breach of camp discipline he would dance at the end of it.
Anyway I went north to meet my destiny. The dust of our great baggage train, stirred up by wheels, feet and hooves, hung above our forest of lances, almost obscuring the late summer's sun which struck bright sparks from halberd, sword and shield. In the front, old Surrey in his cart, his yellow hair now white, his ageing body held straight in its cuirass of steel. Behind him, my goodself among the bowmen in deerskin jacket and iron helmet.
Most of us were pressed men: gaol birds, night hawks, roaring boys. I have never seen so many evil-looking villains together in one place. We were armed with white bows six feet long, cunningly made from yew, ash or elm and strung with hemp, flax or silk. We had deep quivers full of cloth-yard arrows of oak, tipped with burnished steel and ringed with feathers of goose and swan. During the day the air was thick with the hum of flies and sour with the stench of marching men. At night we froze or shivered in our rough bothies of hay and wood and we cursed the Scots, Surrey and our hard-mouthed captains who urged us on.
We reached the Scottish Marches and crossed into a land rich in fish, wildfowl, deer, dark woods and great flocks of sheep grazing on bottle-green pastures which ringed shimmering lochs. (I won't keep you long.) Old Surrey met James at Flodden Field on Thursday, 8 September. We deployed our cavalry, massed in squadrons of shining helms and hauberks. I remember the creaking harness of our great war horses, the bannered lances and emblazoned shields. James, of course, wanted a set piece battle but Surrey's reply was sharp and caustic.
'I have brought you to the ring, dance if you can!'
The bloody dance began on Friday morning with the Scots massing on Flodden Ridge. All day we stood to arms. I was terrified. We saw thick smoke as the Scots burnt their camp refuse and a stormy wind blew the smoke down on us. James used this haze as a screen to launch his attack two hours before sunset. First, a steady flow of lowered spears down the slope which soon became a landslide of barefoot men across the rain-soaked grass. Thankfully, I was on the wings for the centre became a bloody slaughter house. The Scottish squadrons floundered in the marshy ground, mowed down by arrows which dropped upon them like rattling rain until the grassy slope became russet and strewn with quilled bodies. The screaming and the shouting was too much for me, especially as a squadron of Scottish cavalry, maddened to fury, charged our position. I suddenly remembered valour has its own day, dropped my bow and fled. I hid beneath a wagon until the slaughter had finished and came out with the rest of the English Army to claim a great victory.
God, it was a shambles! Scots dead carpeted the entire field. We heard that James IV was killed. Indeed, Catherine of Aragon sent the corpse's bloody surcoat to her husband in France as proof of her great victory. She should never have done that! Bluff King Hal saw himself as a new Agamemnon and did not relish his wife reaping victories whilst he charged like an ass around Tournai. Men say Catherine of Aragon lost her husband because of the dark eyes and sweet duckies of Anne Boleyn. I know different. Catherine lost Henry when she won the victory at Flodden Field – but that was in the future, mine as well as hers. Little did I know, as we marched back to London, how the ghosts of Flodden Field would follow me south.
The army was disbanded and, after tasting the delights of London, I decided to return to Ipswich. I came home, a Hector from the wars. I even nicked my face with a knife to give myself a martial air. This brought me many a meal and rich frothing tankards of ale but they all tasted sour for my mother was dead. She had gone the previous summer – silently, as in life, without much fuss. I went to the cemetery, through the old wicket gate, down to where she would sleep for all eternity beneath the overhanging sombre yew trees. I knelt by her grave and, on one of those rare occasions in my life, let the hot tears run scalding down my cheeks as I begged for her forgiveness and cursed my own villainy.
My step-father was a mere wisp of what he had been, broken in spirit, shuffling and stumbling round his house like a ghost. He told me the truth: how mother had been ill of some abscess in her stomach which had bled, turning malignant, but there had been hope. Hope, he sighed, his eyes pink-rimmed, the tears pouring down his sagging cheeks; hope which died when the physician, John Scawsby, arrived on the scene. Now Scawsby was a well-known doctor and a man of repute. In fact, he was a charlatan, responsible for more deaths than the town's headsman. He had concocted some rare potions and strange elixirs for my mother but the situation had worsened and within weeks she was dead. A wise woman, a herbalist who dressed her corpse, said the malignancy had not killed her but Scawsby's elixirs had. My stepfather could do nothing but I lurked in the taprooms of Ipswich, plotting my revenge.
I studied Scawsby most closely: his great black-and-white-timbered mansion which stood on the edge of town; his stables full of plump-haunched horses; his silken sarcenet robes; his ostentatious wealth and sloe-eyed, honey-mouthed, tight-waisted young wife. One day I struck, plunging for Scawsby as sure and as certain as a hawk on its prey. Scawsby used to like to dine at the Golden Turk, a great tavern which fronts the cobbled market square in Ipswich. He was a lean, sour-faced, avaricious man who liked to gobble his food and slurp his wines. He had not read his Chaucer or remembered the Pardoner's words, 'Avarice is the root of all evil', and I played on this. I dressed in my finest: a shirt of sheer lawn with embroidered bands at neck and cuffs, a doublet of rich red samite, dark velvet hose and a cloak of pure red wool. I also borrowed from my step-father a costly bracelet encrusted with precious stones very similar to one Scawsby wore.
At noon on the appointed day, I entered the Golden Turk, and espied Scawsby and a friend sitting beneath the open window conversing deeply, as men full of their own self-importance are wont to do. I went over, my clean-shaven face wreathed in a smile of flattery, and with kind words and honeyed phrases gazed round-eyed at the great physician Scawsby. My flattery soon won a place in his heart and at his table and, raising my hand, I ordered the taverner to bring his best, the costliest wine and the most succulent meat of roasted capon. I played Scawsby like a trout, sitting open-mouthed before stories of his great medical triumphs. At last, when our cups were empty and our bellies full, I admired the bracelet on his wrist. I compared it to the one I wore, cursing how the clasp had broken and saying I wished a goldsmith would fit mine with a similar lock to his. Of course, Scawsby seized the bait. I placed ten pounds of silver on the table as guarantee while I borrowed his bracelet to take to a nearby goldsmith so he could copy from it when he mended mine. I also gave a ring as surety and, pleading I had no horse, asked if I could borrow his from the stable. The old fool promptly agreed and off I went, begging him to stay until I returned.
I mounted his horse and rode like the devil to Scawsby's great mansion on the road out of town. His hot-lipped, full-bosomed wife was at home and I explained my errand: her husband wished for three hundred pounds in silver to be given to me so I could take it back to him in town. Of course, the saucy wench demurred so I plucked out her husband's bracelet which I said was his guarantee of my good faith, as well as pointing out the horse which a groom was now taking round to the stable. After that it was as easy as kicking a pig's bladder. I was taken up to her privy chamber, and given the money in clinking sacks whilst all the time I flattered and teased her. To cut a long but merry story short, I soon had her in her shift and we indulged in the most riotous romp on the great four-poster bed. After that, a cup of claret and back to the Golden Turk where Doctor Scawsby was even deeper in his cups. I returned his bracelet, took back my pledge and walked out of the tavern a much richer and more contented man.
I had extracted my revenge and what could the old fool say? If he issued a bill of indictment against me he would become a laughing stock – which, of course, he did when I passed the story round the taverns and ale houses of Ipswich. I didn't give a damn. I still grieved for my mother and felt the anger boiling in my heart at Scawsby's ineptitude and my own neglect of her. I thought of my mother more often then; her brown, friendly face, her eyes soft as the breeze on the most beautiful summer day. Why is it, I wonder, that the women I have loved I always lose?
Naturally, I went back to my evil ways. I spent my ill-gotten gains and turned to poaching. I had forgotten Scawsby and I made the mistake of thinking he had forgotten me. In March 1515 I was out on one of my nocturnal excursions, helping myself to good fresh meat during the lambing season. I was stopped just after midnight by the bailiff of the local squire who asked to see what I was carrying under my cloak. In spite of my indignant reply he found a young lamb. He accused me of stealing and ignored my explanation that I had found it wandering by itself and was now looking for its mother. I was thrown in gaol and appeared before the local magistrates. I thought I would just be fined but in the gallery I saw Sir John Scawsby's evil mug and a similar face sitting behind the great bench in the Sessions House. Oh, God, I prayed and whimpered.
Scawsby's brother was the principal justice and the full force of the law came to bear on me. I was declared guilty and almost fainted when he placed the black cap on his head and ordered me to be hanged. Lord, I screamed, but Justice Scawsby just glared back, his skull-like face an impassive mask of hatred.
'You are to be hanged!' he roared. He grinned evilly and looked round the court. 'Unless someone here can stand maintenance for you?'
Of course, his words were greeted with a deadly hush. My step-father was now sickly, doddering and senile; and who would bail old Shallot and risk the massed fury of the Scawsbys? I gulped and gagged as if the rough hempen necktie was already round my throat. Suddenly the Clerk to the Justices, a tall stooped figure dressed in a dark russet gown, rose and addressed the bench.
'I will, My Lord!' he announced. 'I will place my bond 'as surety for Shallot!'
Old Scawsby nearly exploded with apoplexy, so surprised he fixed the bond much lower than his own malice should have allowed: a hundred pounds, to be redeemed by the following Martinmas. I gripped the iron rail and stared in utter disbelief at my saviour: his long solemn face, hooked nose and calm grey eyes. Benjamin Daunbey had saved me from a hanging.
It's hard to define our relationship. Master and servant, close bosom friends, rivals and allies… do you know, after seventy years I still can't describe it. All I remember was that I was saved and walked free from the Sessions House. Other felons, not so lucky as I, were put in the stocks, tied to the triangle for a whipping or placed in the pillory, their ears nailed to the block until they either tore themself free or plucked up enough courage to cut them off.
In time I moved house, joining Benjamin in his narrow, dark tenement in Pig Pen Alley behind the butchers' shambles near Ipswich Market – a pleasant enough place inside with its low-ceilinged rooms, buttery, kitchen, small hall and white-washed chambers above. Behind it, however, Benjamin cultivated a paradise of a garden, laid out in rectangular plots, each protected by a low hedge of lavender. Some contained herbs – balm and basil, hyssop, calamine and wormwood – others flowers: marigolds, violets, lilies of the valley. There were stunted apple and pear trees as well as pot herbs growing along the wall to season the meat in winter. Benjamin, taciturn at the best of times, always used this garden as the setting in which to share his deepest thoughts. My master never explained why he intervened to save my life so I never asked him. One day he just sat in the garden and declared: 'Roger, you can be my servant, my apprentice. You have broken so many laws, you are probably more of an expert on justice than I am. However,' he wagged one bony finger at me, 'if you appear before Scawsby again, you will undoubtedly hang!'
I never did but Scawsby had not seen the last of me. Benjamin intrigued me, though he never discussed his early life.
'A closed book, Roger.' He smiled.
'Why haven't you married?' I asked. 'Don't you like women?'
'Passing fancies, my dear Roger,' he replied, and remained assiduous in his pursuit of his duties, even persuading me to join the choir at the local church, my bass an excellent foil to his tenor. I lustily bawled out the hymns whilst watching the heaving breasts of our female companions. Since then I've always had a soft spot for choirs.
At first, life was plain sailing. I kept my head down, doing the occasional errand, staying away from those areas where the powerful Scawsby family had a measure of influence. I feared for my master but one thing I had forgotten though Scawsby knew it well: Benjamin was a nephew of the great Lord Cardinal Thomas Wolsey, Bluff Hal's principal minister. Now the Lord Cardinal was a hard man, not known for his generosity. A butcher's son from Ipswich, he had not forgotten his obscure beginnings but was equally determined that none of his relatives should remind him of them. When the rest of his large family came begging for favours, they were whipped off like a pack of hounds but Benjamin, the son of his favourite aunt, was cossetted and protected. My Lord Cardinal was determined that if he could be saved from the shambles of Ipswich and rise to be a royal favourite, Archbishop of York, Lord Chancellor and a Cardinal of the Roman Church, so could Benjamin.
Well, we all know about Wolsey. I was there when he died, in the Cathedral House at Lincoln, his great, fat fingers scrabbling at the bed clothes as he whispered, 'Roger, Roger, if I had served my God as well as I have served my King, he would not leave me to die like this!'
Now, old Wolsey fell when he failed to secure Bluff Hal's divorce from Catherine of Aragon and place him between the sheets with the hot-limbed, long-legged Anne Boleyn. I never told Benjamin this (indeed very few people knew it) but the Lord Cardinal did not die by natural causes – he was murdered by a subtle, deadly poison. However, that's another story for the future. In 1516, by subtle fetches, Wolsey had crept into the ear of the King. A brilliant scholar, Wolsey had gone to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he became fellow and bursar until his hand was found dipping in the money bags. Anyway, with his crafty mind he soon became chaplain to long-faced Henry VII, buying a house in St Bride's parish in Fleet Street. When Henry VII went mad and died, our new young King, the golden boy, Bluff Hal, saw the craftiness in Wolsey and raised him high. He bought a house near London Stone in the Walbrook, becoming Almoner, Chancellor and Archbishop until all power rested in his great fat hands. Some people said Wolsey was the King's bawd, others his pimp, alleging he kept young ladies in a tower built in a pleasaunce near Sheen for the King's entertainment. Others claimed Wolsey practised the Black Arts and communed with Satan who appeared to him in the form of a monstrous cat. A great man, Wolsey! He built Hampton Court, his servants went round in liveries of scarlet and gold with the escutcheon T. C on their back and front – 'Thomas Cardinalis'. And, all the time, the Lord Cardinal never forgot his favourite kinsman, young Benjamin.
My Lord Cardinal did not give Benjamin actual honours but rather money, as well as opening the occasional door to preferment and advancement. At least that was the Cardinal's plan though it came to involve treason, conspiracy, murder and executions… but that was for the future. If I had known the end of the business at the beginning, I would have run like the fleetest hare. There, I speak as lucidly and clearly as any honest man!
Benjamin was twenty when I met him again as Clerk to the Justices. I was two years younger and quickly learnt to play the role of the clever, astute servant, ever ready to help his guileless master. Well, at least I thought him guileless but there was a deeper, darker side to Benjamin. I did hear a few rumours about his past but dismissed them as scurrilous (I never really did decide whether he was an innocent, or subtle and wise). Do you know, I once met him in a tavern where he sat clutching a small wooden horse to his chest, gazing at it raptly, his eyes full of religious fervour. Now the toy was nothing much, any child would play with it. This particular one looked rather old and battered.
'Master, what is it?' I asked.
Benjamin smiled like the silly saint he was.
'It's a relic, Roger,' he whispered.
Oh, God, I thought, and could have hit him over the head with a tankard.
'A relic of what, Master?'
Benjamin swallowed, trying hard to hide his pleasure.
'I had it from a man from Outremer, a holy pilgrim who has visited Palestine and the house Mary kept in Nazareth. This,' he lifted it up, eyes glowing as if he was Arthur holding the Holy Grail, 'was once touched and played with by the infant Christ and his cousin, John the Baptist.'
Well, what can you say to that? If I'd had my way, I'd have smashed the toy over the silly pedlar's head but my master was one of those childlike men: he always spoke the truth and so he believed that everyone else did. After that I decided to take him in hand and help him make full use of the Lord Cardinal's favours. In the spring of 1517, Wolsey granted Benjamin a farm, a smallholding in Norfolk on which to raise sheep, and my master gave me gold to buy the stock. In an attempt to save money I bought the sheep from a worried-looking farmer who pocketed my silver at Smithfield, handed over the entire flock and ran like the wind. No sooner had I returned these animals to my master's holding than they all died of murrain which explained the farmer's sudden departure. Of course, I did not tell my master about their former owner or how I had kept the difference between what he gave me and what I had spent. I am not a thief, I simply salted the money away with a goldsmith in Holborn in case Benjamin made further mistakes.
Cardinal Wolsey's rage can be better imagined than described. He angrily despatched his nephew to serve Sir Thomas Boleyn, a great landowner in Kent. You have heard of the Boleyns? Yes, the same family which produced the dark-eyed enchantress, Anne. Now she may have been a bitch, but once you met her father, you knew the reason why! Lord Thomas was a really wicked man who would do anything to advance his own favour with the King – and I mean anything. Of course, like all the arrogant lords of the soil, he hated Cardinal Wolsey and plotted with the other great ones to bring the proud prelate low. Although a powerful landowner, Lord Thomas had still married above himself, one of the Howards, the kin of my old general the Earl of Surrey who slaughtered the Scots at Flodden Field. Now Boleyn's wife, Lady Frances Howard, was the proverbial drawbridge, going down for anyone who asked her. Bluff King Hal's hands had been under her skirts and well above her garter many a time. The same is true of her eldest daughter, Mary, who had the morals of an alley cat. She bore Bluff Hal an illegitimate child but even he had grave doubts about its parentage and locked it away in the convent at Sheen. Mary and her sister Anne were sent as maids of honour to the French court. That's a gauge of Lord Thomas Boleyn's stupidity – it was like putting two plump capons down a fox hole.
King Henry may have been lecherous but King Francis I of France was the devil incarnate when it came to lewdery. Well, he was in his younger days. I met him later on when he had lost all his teeth and suffered from great abscesses in his groin as his whole body rotted away with syphilis. In his youth, Francis brought the best and the worst of Italy to Paris: Italian painters, Italian tapestries and Italian morals.
In his heyday he was tall, sardonic in looks and temperament, high-spirited, a virile devil with a grand air, smiling, insouciant, glittering in his gem-encrusted doublets and shirts dripping with lace. He was surrounded by women, in particular three voluptuous brunettes who formed his little band of favourite bedfellows. He was always most anxious to know about the love affairs of his ladies, being especially intrigued to hear of their actual joustings or any fine airs the ladies might assume when at those frolics, the positions they adopted, the expressions on their faces, the words they used. Frances even had a favourite goblet, the inside of which was engraved with copulating animals but, as the drinker drained it, he or she saw in its depths a man and woman making love. Francis used to give this cup to his female guests and watch them blush.
Now Anne Boleyn kept to herself but Mary took to this lechery like a duck to water, even acquiring the nickname of the English Mare, so many men had ridden her! Nothing abashed her, not even when Francis's fiery young courtiers played evil jokes by placing the corpses of hanged men in her bed.
Now, I told all this to my master, giving him a detailed description of the morals and habits of the Boleyn women, and what does he do? One night at supper he innocently turns and asks Lord Thomas if my tales had any truth in them? An hour later we left Hever Castle, and the world-weary Lord Cardinal, hearing of the incident, decided his nephew needed further education. We were despatched to the halls of Cambridge. However, a year later, when my master came to give his dissertation in the Schools, a parchment was found in his wallet containing quotations from the Scriptures, St Cyprian as well as the other fathers of the Eastern church. Benjamin was accused of cheating and promptly sent down. I never confessed that I put it there in an attempt to help him. The Lord Cardinal, so Benjamin reported later, informed him, in language more suitable to a butcher in a shambles than to a man of God, exactly what he thought of him, and we were dismissed to our own devices at Ipswich. Suffice to relate, many was the occasion when my master would grasp me by the hand.
'Roger,' he would declare proudly, 'God is my witness. I don't know what I would do without you!'
In a way I am sure he was right and I constantly prayed for an upturn in our fortunes. My step-father died but his house and possessions went to others and I became rather worried because Benjamin had given up his place as Clerk to the Justices and Scawsby would scarcely hand it back. Moreover, he must have listened to the tittle-tattle of the court and realised Uncle Wolsey was now not so sweet on his blessed nephew. Nevertheless, in the late summer of 1517 my prayers in the Chantry chapel of St Mary the Elms were answered. The great Cardinal, in one of his many pilgrimages to Our Lady's shrine at Walsingham, decided to stop at the Guildhall in Ipswich on his way home. He arrived in the town in an aura of splendid pomp, flaunting his purple cardinal's robes, his tall, silver crosses and heavy gold pillars carried aloft before him. A vast army of gentlemen and yeoman tenants arrayed themselves on either side of him. His arrival was heralded by criers wearing splendid livery who parted the crowds in the streets shouting, 'Make way! Make way for Thomas – Cardinal, Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England!'
After these came heavy carts and carriages, loaded high with his baggage. Young boys scattered rose water to lay the dust, then came the Cardinal himself, tall and massive, mounted on a mule. By tradition this is a humble beast but My Lord Cardinal's was carefully groomed, caparisoned in crimson and velvet and carried stirrups of gilded copper. His attendants took over the main chambers of the Guildhall. Benjamin and I watched them arrive but my master did not expect the personal summons he received from the Cardinal later in the day.
We changed into our best doublets, slops and hose and hurried to the Guildhall where yeomen wearing the Lord Cardinal's livery took us along to the audience chamber. I tell you now, it was like entering Paradise. The floors were strewn with carpets, the most modest being of pure lambswool, the richest of silk imported by Venetian merchants from Damascus. Rich jewels and ornaments, images of saints, fine cloth of gold, damask copes and other vestments lay scattered round the chamber. There were chairs upholstered in crimson velvet, others in black silk, all embroidered with the Wolsey coat of arms. Tables of cypress and chairs of pine were covered with a great number of cushions, appropriately decorated with cardinals' hats, dragons, lions, roses and gold balls. Oh, how my fingers itched to filch something!
The prelate himself sat in robes of state on a high episcopal chair stolen from the nearby cathedral. He was dressed from head to toe in pure purple silk, a small skull cap of the same colour on his head, and even his cushioned slippers bore a coat of arms. He was as proud as he looked with his square-jawed, heavy face, skin white as snow, lips full and sensuous but eyes half-closed black pools of arrogance.
On the Cardinal's right, like a spider, sat a black-garbed figure, cowl thrust back to reveal a cherubic face and shining bald pate. This was Doctor Agrippa, envoy and spy for the greatest in the land. I studied him curiously.
'A strange man, Doctor Agrippa,' Benjamin had once remarked. 'He has personal acquaintance with the Lord of the Cemeteries, a man steeped in magic who dabbles in the Black Arts.'
On closer inspection, I could hardly believe that: Agrippa's face was smooth and kindly, the eyes steadfast and sure in their gaze, though I did glimpse the silver pentangle hanging round his neck. People said he was Wolsey's familiar, his link with the demons of the underworld. On the other side of the Lord Cardinal was a bland young man with sandy hair, sea green eyes and a boyish, freckled face. He smiled at us in a gap-toothed way. I asked Benjamin who he was but my master hoarsely told me to keep quiet. Wolsey waved one purple-gloved hand and Benjamin hurried forward, kneeling at the footstool to kiss the heavy gold ring slipped over the Cardinal's silken glove. Wolsey ignored me, flicking his fingers at us to sit down on two quilted stools. I kept bobbing my head vigorously to placate the Lord Cardinal who sat studying us pensively.
'Benjamin, Benjamin, my dearest nephew.'
My master squirmed uneasily.
'My favourite nephew Benjamin,' Wolsey continued in a silky voice, 'and, of course, Shallot, his faithful amanuensis.'
(To those who don't know Greek, that means secretary.)
Wolsey abruptly leaned forward in his chair. Oh, Lord, I was so frightened, my heart as well as my bowels seemed to turn to liquid. Had the Lord Cardinal found out about the sheep? I wondered.
'What am I going to do with you?' the Cardinal snapped. 'Failed farmer! Failed merchant!' (That was another undertaking which went wrong.) 'Failed scholar! Failed spy!' (I'll tell you about that presently.) Wolsey brought his hand crashing down on the arm of his chair. I glanced sideways at Benjamin. His face was pale but he was not frightened; those curiously innocent eyes gazed steadily back at his uncle. I detected no smell of fear. (Believe me, I know that perfume well!) No, my master was serene, undoubtedly drawing strength from my presence. I quietly preened myself.
'When,' the Lord Cardinal barked, 'are you going to rid yourself of that?'
I heard Agrippa giggle. I thought Wolsey was pointing at my master's cloak for, as I've remarked, I have a slight cast in one eye, then I realised the Cardinal meant me. Doctor Agrippa giggled again whilst the young man on Wolsey's left looked embarrassed.
'Dearest Uncle,' my master replied, 'Roger is both my secretary and my friend. He is shrewd, learned in the arts, of prodigious character and a strong protector. I will always value his companionship.'
'Master Shallot,' Doctor Agrippa intervened smoothly, 'is a lying, base-born rogue who disgraced himself at Flodden and, by all rights, should be drying out in the sun on the town's scaffold!'
I was hurt by Agrippa's words. The Cardinal smiled and stared at his nephew. God be my judge, I saw a look of rare tenderness and gentle irony in the Cardinal's eyes.
'You wrong Shallot,' Benjamin spoke up. 'He has his vices but also has his virtues.'
(A rare perceptive man, my master.)
Wolsey made a rude sound with his tongue and flicked his hand at Agrippa. The magician rose and took three chessmen from a lacquered board on the table beside him.
'You may still redeem yourself,' Wolsey began. 'Explain, Doctor Agrippa.'
The fellow crouched in front of us, his black cloak billowing like a dark cloud around him.
'There are three strands to this tapestry I paint,' he began.
I stared, fascinated by Agrippa's eyes which seemed to change colour from a light blue to a liquid black whilst his voice grew deeper and more soporific.
'This,' Doctor Agrippa remarked, holding up a small white pawn, 'represents the Yorkists driven from power in 1485 when their leader, the Usurper Richard, was killed at Bosworth by the present King's father. This,' the doctor now held up the white king, 'is our noble lord, Henry VIII, by the grace of God our King. And this,' he held up the white queen, 'is our beloved King's sister, Queen Margaret, widow of James IV, who was killed at Flodden, now unjustly driven from her kingdom of Scotland.'
I stared, half listening to Doctor Agrippa, now convinced I was in the presence of a powerful magician. As he spoke Agrippa's voice changed timbre and his eyes constantly shifted in colour, whilst sometimes as he moved I sniffed the rottenness of the kennel, and then at others the most fragrant of perfumes. The magician turned and grinned at Wolsey.
'Shall I continue, My Lord?'
The Cardinal nodded. Agrippa cleared his throat.
'The Yorkists are traitors but they survive in secret covens and conspiracies, calling themselves Les Blancs Sangliers after the White Boar, the personal insignia of Richard III. They were once shown favour by James IV of Scotland, and now they plot and threaten England's security.'
'Tell them about the White Queen,' Wolsey interrupted testily.
Doctor Agrippa licked his lips and smirked. 'Queen Margaret always objected to her late husband's involvement with Les Blancs Sangliers and eventually persuaded him to withdraw his support for them but not his enmity against England. Then came Flodden.' Doctor Agrippa shrugged. 'James was killed. Queen Margaret, desolate, was left alone with her baby son and pregnant with another. She was distressed and vulnerable. She looked for friends and found one in Gavin Douglas, Earl of Angus. The Scottish Council was furious and, led by the Duke of Albany, attacked Margaret who fled into England.'
[God's teeth, looking back it's a wonder the fellow didn't choke on his words! Never have I heard such a farrago of lies!]
'Naturally,' Wolsey intervened, 'King Henry protected his beloved sister, who now repents of her hasty marriage and wishes to be restored to Scotland.' He paused and stared at his nephew.
'Dearest Uncle,' Benjamin began, 'what has that to do with me? How can I help Her Grace the Queen of Scotland?'
Wolsey turned to the young man who had been sitting silently beside him.
'May I introduce Sir Robert Catesby, clerk to Queen Margaret's privy chamber? He, together with the Queen's personal retinue, now resides in the royal apartments in the Tower.' Wolsey stopped and sipped from a goblet.
(Here it comes, I thought.)
'In a different part of the Tower,' Wolsey continued slowly, 'held fast in a prison cell, is Alexander Selkirk, formerly physician to the late King James. The fellow was brought there by my agents in Paris.' Wolsey smiled sourly. 'Yes, dear nephew, the same man I sent you across to find and whom you let slip so easily between your fingers. Anyway, Selkirk is captured. He holds information which could assist Queen Margaret's return to Scotland. We also think he is a member of Les Blancs Sangliers and could give us information about other members of that secret coven.'
' [My chaplain mutters, 'What was Benjamin doing in Dieppe?' I rap him across the knuckles, I'll come to that!] 'Selkirk is not a well man,' Sir Robert continued. His voice was cultured but tinged with a slight accent. 'He is weak in both mind and body. We make no sense of him. He writes doggerel poetry and stares blankly at the walls of his cell, demanding cups of claret and alternating between fits of drunkenness and bouts of weeping.'
'How can I help?' Benjamin replied. 'I am no physician.'
'You are, Benjamin,' Wolsey answered, his voice warm with genuine kindness, 'a singular young man. You have a natural charm, a skill in unlocking the hearts of others.' The cardinal suddenly grinned. 'Moreover, Selkirk has fond memories of you, even though his wits do wander. He said you treated him most courteously in Dieppe and regrets any inconvenience he may have caused.'
Oh, I thought, that was rich, but I let it pass. The hairs pricking on the nape of my neck were alerting me to danger. There was something else, a subtle, cloying menace beneath the Cardinal's banal remarks. Why was "Selkirk so important? He apparently knew something which the Cardinal and his bluff royal master wanted to share. Benjamin and I were on the edge of a calm, clear pool but, no doubt, its depths were deep, murky and tangled with dangerous weeds. I would have run like a hare from that chamber but, of course, dear Benjamin, as was his wont, took his uncle at face value.
'I will do all I can to assist,' he answered.
The Cardinal smiled whilst his two companions visibly relaxed. Oh, yes, I thought, here we go again, head first into the mire. Wolsey waved a hand.
'Sir Robert, inform my nephew.'
'Queen Margaret and her retinue, as the Lord Cardinal has already stated, are now in residence in the Tower. Queen Margaret wishes to be close to Selkirk, who holds information valuable to her. Her household is as follows: I am her secretary and chamberlain; Sir William Carey is her treasurer; Simon Moodie is her almoner and chaplain; John Ruthven is her steward; Matthew Melford is sergeant-at-arms and her personal bodyguard, whilst Lady Eleanor Carey is her lady-in-waiting. The rest are servitors.'
'All of these,' Doctor Agrippa interrupted, 'including
Sir Robert, served Queen Margaret when she was in Scotland. I will also join her household. Now, Sir Robert's loyalty can be guaranteed though it is possible – and Sir Robert must take no offence at this – that any of the exiled Queen's household could be allies to her opponents in Scotland and any one of them could be a member of Les Blancs Sangliers.' Agrippa frowned and looked at me. 'There is one further person whom I believe, Master Shallot, you know well. His Majesty has been pleased to appoint a new physician to his sister's retinue – a Hugh Scawsby, burgess of this good town.'
Wolsey smirked, Catesby looked puzzled, whilst my master rubbed his jaw.
'I am sure,' Doctor Agrippa continued, 'Master Scawsby will be delighted to renew his acquaintance with you.'
I looked away. I don't like sarcastic bastards and I didn't relish the prospect of having old Scawsby peering over my shoulder. None the less, I nodded wisely like the merry fellow I pretended to be.
'Nephew,' Wolsey extended his hand as a sign that the meeting was over, 'prepare yourself – and you too, Master Shallot. On the day after Michaelmas, Sir Robert and Doctor Agrippa will meet you here at noon and escort you to the Tower.'
Wolsey straightened up, a silver bell tinkled and behind us the door was flung open. Both Benjamin and I backed out, heads bobbing, although Wolsey had already forgotten us and was now talking to Catesby in deep hushed tones. Outside the chamber, I noticed Benjamin's face was flushed, his eyes glittering. He spoke never a word until we cleared the Guildhall and entered the musty darkness of a nearby tavern.
'So, Roger, we are to be gone from here in two days.' He looked anxiously at me. 'I know there's more to my uncle's business than meets the eye.'
He sighed. 'Yet it's the best I can do. We are finished here, there's nothing for us in Ipswich.'
'What was this business about Dieppe?' I asked.
Benjamin drained his cup. 'Before your appearance at the Sessions House, Uncle sent me on a mission to arrest Selkirk. I captured him just outside Paris and took him to Dieppe. The seas were rough so we sheltered in a tavern.' He sighed. 'To cut a long story short, the fellow's a half-wit. I became sorry for him and released him from his chains. One morning I rose late, Selkirk was gone, and all I had to show were a set of rusty manacles.' He smiled at me. 'Now Uncle wishes me to finish the task. We have no choice, Roger, we have to go.'
I stared around the tavern, now full of farmers and stall holders making merry and drinking the profits of their day. Yes, we were finished here. Still, I shivered as if some invisible terror, a cold hand from the grave, had rubbed its clawlike fingers down my back. The real terrors were about to begin. The ghosts of Flodden had finally caught up with me.