The Poisoned Chalice (6 page)

'Roger Shallot,' the magistrate thundered, 'we find you guilty of these terrible murders and so you must pay the full penalty of the law. You are to be taken whence you came and, at a time appointed by this court, hanged by the neck till dead!'

I thought of everything; praying, begging, laughing, entreating, trying to escape, all the things old Shallot tries to do when he's in a tight corner.

'Wait!' a girl's voice shouted from the back of the court. I turned and saw my saviour, the wench with black curly hair from the tavern. Beside her, the half-witted ostler she was dragging by the hand struggled with the guards.

'What is the matter?' the magistrate roared.

'Proof!' I yelled. 'Sir, you must hear her!'

I give the old bastard his due, he was a fair man. I think he knew there was something wrong. Anyway, he ordered the girl forward. She took the oath and swore she had seen me drunk. The ostler, whose accent was almost unintelligible, muttered that on the night the murders had been committed, I had been hustled dead drunk out of the tavern and into the hands of strangers waiting in the yard. The magistrate, staring at the ceiling, asked why the landlord had not remembered this. The girl shrugged and mumbled about him being too busy. Who cared? I was free! Penniless, beaten, starving, wretched, but I was free! The guards threw me out. The wench was waiting for me in the street. She pressed up against me.

'I came back, Master Shallot. You are a rogue but you'd never kill anyone!'

'Did you see anybody?' I asked.

She smiled and shook her head. 'I was busy upstairs with one of my customers.'

'You committed perjury on my behalf?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'You make me laugh.'

'My possessions?' I asked.

'They are all gone. The landlord took them.'

‘I’ll kill the bastard!'

'No, you won't,' she whispered. 'He's dead already. He was found with his throat cut in one of the outhouses.'

'Do you know anything about it?'

'Men who spoke French have been seen near the tavern. You'd best not come back,' she added. 'Here, take this.' She slipped me a cloth containing strips of dried meat. Then she stood on tiptoe, kissed me and was gone.

I never saw her again. Months later I searched London but never found her. She was one of the kindest persons I ever met. She had the gentlest soul, and the finest pair of buttocks I have ever held. Let old Shallot tell you this: when you're in real trouble the women will help; most men are cowards. Oh, they like to show off in their peacock plumery, but it's all shadow and no substance with them.

Well, there I was in London, penniless; like the man in the gospel, I was too proud to go home so I begged and fought with the rest of the dispossessed in the dirty alleyways and streets of Whitechapel, Alsatia, and even across London Bridge amongst the stews of Southwark.

I went back to Ralemberg's house but it was all sealed up like a tomb so I left it alone.

But don't get me wrong. I mourned, I really did, and still do. If you go down to my secret chamber and look in one of the coffers you will find a crushed flower, a faded rose, more black than yellow now, but if I smell it and close my eyes (like I did last night), then I am back again in Ralemberg's garden and my blood runs free and the air is filled with the sweet fragrance of flowers. I wait for Agnes and, if I really pretend, she will come and stand with me. Oh, then I am young again and, for one of the few occasions in my life, deeply in love. I open my eyes and think of my riches. Before God, I'd give them all up just to see her again, just to touch her! Good Christ, will no one cry for poor Shallot?

Oh, I did swear vengeance but, believe me, revenge is a dish best served cold and somehow, deep in my innards, I knew that one day I would settle with the Luciferi. For the moment, however, old Shallot had to survive. I could have returned to Ipswich but I didn't want to go back like a beggar. On my third day of freedom I managed to steal some coins and sent a note to my master in Ipswich. I had a clerk in St Paul's write it out, then stood by Aldgate and bribed a royal messenger, carrying the white wand and wearing the royal gold-and-blue surcoat, who was travelling to King's Lynn, to leave the message with Master Daunbey. I suppose I should have just gone and begged for help but Shallot has his pride. God knows where, but I've got it. A day later I had a stroke of good fortune. I managed to steal some clothes from a butcher fastened in the stocks. Then misfortune once again struck.

I was near St Anthony's Hospital, between Bishopsgate and Bread Street, intent on lifting a purse, when my arm was suddenly seized: it was the goldsmith, Waller, demanding his money. Now, I was dirty and unshaven but he recognised me. Once again I landed back in prison, the debtor's hold in the Fleet; a dirty, ramshackle place with narrow corridors, windows as thin as a miser's lips, stinking with the refuse of the city. I was still there the morning my master came and rescued me.

The first I knew about it was a massive gaoler dragging me from the Common side up to the turnkey's lodge. Master Benjamin was waiting, sitting on a stool. He took one look at me, smiled and slipped some coins to the turnkey for food and wine. I sat there for an hour stuffing my stomach and telling him exactly what had happened. Benjamin listened - and that's what I liked about my master, he never judged, he never condemned.

'I received your letter,' he said. 'I came up to visit Johanna in Syon and made enquiries. All our gold?'

'Gone, master.'

Benjamin smiled. 'Never mind. I have horses ready. Uncle wishes to see us at Hampton Court.'

Then I did get frightened. Whenever 'Uncle', the great Lord Wolsey, intervened in our affairs, it always meant trouble. I wasn't frightened of Wolsey. He was just a butcher's son from Ipswich who had risen to be Lord Chancellor and leading churchman of England. Indeed, I always had a sneaking admiration for him and I think he liked me for, as you know, it takes one rogue to recognise another. In time I became Wolsey's friend, the only man to stand by him when he fell from power and lay in bed gasping out his life and cursing the king who had turned against him. Nor was I frightened of Wolsey's familiar, Doctor Agrippa, the black magician with his cherubic face and that strange perfumed smell which always accompanied him.

No, what really frightened old Shallot and turned my innards to water was the thought of the beast Wolsey served, Henry VIII by the grace of God, King of England, Ireland and France. A fat, bombastic, pig-eyed, treacherous son of a turd who destroyed the best of men because he wanted to get between Anne Boleyn's legs and, when he did, couldn't do much about it. The Great Slayer really frightened me. Some men kill because they have to but Henry genuinely thought he was God, with the power of life and death.

Let me give you an example. When he destroyed the monasteries and the north of the country rose in rebellion under Robert Aske (I'll tell you about that later, a real killing time!), the rebel leader sent envoys to Henry to treat over their grievances. Henry despatched his royal herald, Rouge Croix, in return. This poor bastard made the error of bowing before the rebel leader so, when he returned to London, Henry had him drawn, quartered, disembowelled and his balls cut off. Just because the poor sod made a mistake! Now you can see why old Shallot was frightened. No, I lie, not frightened - just terrified witless.

Chapter 3

My master and I left London. I changed and bathed at the tavern where my master was staying in Great Mary Axe Street near Bishopsgate. (Oh, by the way, I didn't forget Waller. I'd bought a special bottle of wine. I half-emptied it, filled the rest with horse piss and re-sealed it. Then I sent it to him. I hope the bastard enjoyed every drop!) Two days later we reached Kingston and, leaving our horses at the Robin Hood tavern, went by barge to Hampton Court.

The poet Cavendish described the new palace as a paradise on earth and so I thought when we first glimpsed its towers and golden cupolas above the trees. Wolsey had bought the manor of Hampton from the Knights Hospitallers, levelled it to the ground and, bringing in craftsmen from every part of Europe, built a palace breath-taking in its opulent beauty.

We were given lodgings in the gatehouse and were virtually kept prisoner as the king and the court, as well as the great cardinal, moved into residence. This palace swarmed with retainers either wearing the golden '‘I.C of Thomas Cardinalis or the scarlet of Henricus Rex. Carts full of precious belongings were being unloaded in the courtyards; ostlers, grooms and farriers shouted and yelled. Chamberlains with white wands of office rapped out orders and, until the king and the lord cardinal were settled in their respective rooms, the common people were banished from the corridors and the galleries.

Wolsey never liked the common man. The Earl of Shrewsbury once told me that when he walked in the park, Wolsey would suffer no one to come within bowshot of him. Benjamin, his favourite nephew, was an exception and on the evening following our arrival Wolsey summoned us to his private apartments. We were led down black-and-white-tiled corridors, through a series of presence chambers, all huge and hung with tapestries which Wolsey had brought from abroad. Not just little square hangings. Some of these were five or six yards long and eight yards high, depicting scenes from the Bible or themes from Petrarch's love poetry.

We were ushered into a small chamber ostentatiously furnished. I noticed with amusement that the tapestries hanging there illustrated the seven deadly sins. Of course, I was fascinated by Lust, a young girl with long, golden hair, breasts like ripe melons, and long, white, slender legs. (I wager Wolsey kept an eye on that, too, being most interested in the sins of the flesh. He had a mistress, you know, a fat, dumpy, little thing, though Wolsey adored both her and the illegitimate children he had by her.) He was awaiting us, a small skull cap pushed to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince, his face dark and swarthy like an Italian's, thick, sensuous lips, a beaked nose and lustrous dark eyes. He was dressed in purple silk and satin trimmed with gold. On his feet were purple woollen buskins. Beside him, on a table, the flat tasselled hat of a cardinal.

Naturally, my master bowed and I had to follow suit, reminding myself with a secret smile that Wolsey was only a commoner and no better than me. The floor was of polished cedar wood and I glanced round enviously at the stools covered with red satin and silver tassels: '‘I.C, Wolsey's personal monogram, was everywhere, sometimes a foot high in carved gold. The air smelt faintly of incense and, of course, that strange smell of faded flowers which emanated from the figure dressed in black who squatted beside Wolsey: Doctor Agrippa, supreme practitioner of the black arts though he looked like a mummer's version of Friar Tuck in some masque about Robin Hood.

Agrippa's face was round, cherubic, his features small and neat like those of a child, except for the hooded eyes and the look of sardonic amusement with which he watched everything about him. A strange man, I thought. Some people said Wolsey hired him as a defence against other wizards and warlocks. No one knew where he came from. I was wary of him though he was always pleasant to me. He once told me not to be afraid as my death was many years off and would come in a way I least expected.

(I see my chaplain sniggering at me so I'll voice my fear. I know that secret agents and societies still hunt me. I have given strict orders to my henchmen that if I die in suspicious circumstances, they are to hang my chaplain immediately. Ah, good, that's wiped the smile off the bugger's smug face!)

Anyway, back to Wolsey. He was eating sweetmeats from a silver dish and, whilst Benjamin and I knelt before him, he kept popping them into his mouth, watching us impassively. I glanced up under my eyebrows and caught Agrippa's eye. He grinned and winked, then studied the ring on his right hand, a stone of indeterminate colour.

Agrippa claimed he used it to make sure wine was free of poison, though I don't think it was possible for Agrippa to die. I believe he was the Wandering Jew, doomed to live forever.

Wolsey finished the plate of sweetmeats and told us to sit. Strangely enough, he first addressed me.

'Well, Shallot, you've met the Luciferi? You'd call them bastards, yes?'

'You could have protected me!' I replied bitterly.

'Oh, but we did. Don't you remember, in the alleyway?'

'What about my trial?'

'You would not have been hanged. A reprieve would have come through. That tavern wench was a stroke of good fortune - but then you go and get yourself lost!'

'It was all arranged, wasn't it?' I accused. 'You gave Ralemberg licence to trade. You put the handbill in my room. The Luciferi kept away other sponsors, and so did you-till I arrived.'

Wolsey smiled and pulled out a gold-edged handkerchief to wipe his nose. He was in good fettle, otherwise he would never have traded words with me.

'You could have saved the Ralembergs,' I added.

His face hardened. 'We tried to. Ralemberg was very useful. But the Luciferi sent their decoys.'

'And de Macon's ship?' I asked.

Wolsey shrugged. 'The fortunes of war, Master Shallot. If Ralemberg had been more open, such misfortunes would never have happened.' He saw my angry glance at Benjamin. 'My nephew had nothing to do with it, I assure you.'

'But now that road's closed,' Agrippa intervened. 'What road?' I queried.

'Oh, come, Roger. To the Luciferi, Vauban, the five archangels, Raphael!'

He must have seen from my face that I knew what he was talking about. Wolsey played with the gold pendant around his neck and smirked patronisingly at Agrippa as if he was a favourite son. A black cat, wearing a jewelled studded collar, crept from beneath a curtain, padded towards Agrippa and, lithe as a dancer, sprang into his lap. Agrippa stroked it carefully. (You know, he always wore black leather gloves. I saw his left hand ungloved once. The palm bore the inverted cross and the Eye of Osiris and on the back a blood red pentangle. Those of you who know about black magic will know what all that means, Agrippa was one of the high-ranking Dark Lords.) Anyway, enough of that. On that sunny evening at Hampton Court, Agrippa sat and chattered like some benevolent uncle.