The supper party that night was not one of Henry's great banquets but a small, intimate affair. The King, of course, had his table on a dais, with a large, throne-like chair in the centre, under a white silk canopy adorned with red roses. Wolsey and some of his cronies sat alongside him. Benjamin and I sat at one of the two tables just below this. Nonetheless, Henry liked his feasting and this occasion was as glorious as any. The plate was of heavy gold or silver, the tablecloths white satin. The meats - venison, boar, swan - were all professionally cooked in tasty, rich sauces, and followed by delicious confectionery, cakes, custards and trifles, whilst the wine flowed like water.
I confess I was in a foul mood. I don't like being treated like a dog. I was also still trembling after my escape from that wolf, so I drank deeply. After Henry's interminable banquets, there was always singing, dancing and card-playing. Sometimes the King liked to regale us all with stories. On that particular night he had the past in his mind. He talked tearfully of his mother and even spoke eloquently of his own father. He patted the hand of his dumpy wife Catherine and recalled his elder brother Arthur who had died so young. The fat Beast lolled in his chair, playing with the gold tassels on the arm.
'So long ago,' he crowed self-pityingly. 'So many shadows, so many regrets.'
A chilling silence greeted his words. A few guests looked sly-eyed at poor Catherine of Aragon, who'd failed to produce a living son.
'Fourteen years,' the beast went on. 'Since my glorious father's death and my accession.'
'Yet many more to come,' a brown-nosed flatterer cried out. 'Sire, you are only in your thirty-first year!'
The King's fat face creased into a smile. He nodded imperceptibly, acknowledging the plaudits of his flattering courtiers.
"The sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of your father's reign.' Norris, one of the King's oldest cronies, was shouting, dramatically extolling the date of the Great Beast's birth.
Now the good Lord knows what got into me: wherever the Great Beast was concerned, I always put a foot wrong. Perhaps his treatment of me in the chapel had violated Shallot's one and only virtue: I don't like being bullied.
'Aye,' I cried, my belly full of wine, the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year. Six, six, six; the sign of the Great Beast in the Book of the Apocalypse!'
The banqueting chamber fell so quiet, you could have heard a fly fart. Henry glowered down the hall. My master put his face in his hands; even Wolsey raised his napkin to his mouth and gazed fearfully at me.
The King lifted a hand. "Music, let the dancing begin: tomorrow we hunt!' He glared murderously at me: the Great Beast was about to strike.
Chapter 7
I went to bed as drunk as a bishop. All I could recall was Benjamin taking me upstairs, laying me down on the bed and looking nervously at me.
‘Roger!' he hissed. 'What on earth made you say that?'
'Devil's bollocks!' I muttered back. 'It's the truth.' And, crossing my arms. I slipped into a wine-drenched sleep.
My awakening was not so graceful. The sun had not yet risen when royal huntsmen, cowled and hooded and carrying torches, burst into our chamber. Benjamin sprang from his bed, but one of them pressed a dagger against his cheek.
'Stay where you are, Master Daunbey,' he warned. ‘Your beloved Uncle sends a message. If it were not for you -' he pointed to where I hung, half-dazed, between the arms of two burly verderers - 'Master Shallot would swing from the highest gallows in the castle for his crime of lese-majesty.'
Do you know the bastard was right? I had committed misprision of treason by casting a public slur on the King's date of birth. However, in doing so (and the good Lord moves in mysterious ways his wonders to behold), my jest was to unlock the dreadful bloody puzzle which confronted Benjamin and myself.
However, at five o'clock in the morning, when I was cold, terrified, and my head still thick with wine fumes, I really didn't give a damn. I still believed I was going to hang. I thought of pleading. I opened my mouth as they thrust me out of the chamber, locking the door behind me, but one of the huntsmen smacked me in the teeth. I could see he was not open to reason, so I hung listless as they carted me downstairs, along empty galleries and into one of the castle's great stableyards. Nearby were the royal kennels, and the blood-curdling howls of the hunting dogs awoke strange fears in my soul. It was that eerie time between night and day. The sky was clear, but only a light-reddish hue indicated where the sun was about to rise. The huntsmen gathered round me like a group of leather-garbed devils. A few of them were grinning. One or two looked sadly at me, the rest worked like professional mercenaries: they had a task to do and they would do it. I was stripped of every article of clothing: that's the last I saw of my Italian silk shirt, fine Flemish hose and expensive linen undergarments. (Take Shallot's advice. Never sleep in your clothes. So, when the bastards come to collect you in the early hours, they can't steal your under-garments.)
I tried to object. A huntsman smacked me across the mouth with his leather gauntlet, so I shut up. I was doused under a pump; the cold water sent my heart fluttering and my wits racing. After that they brought a tub of grease, rancid and foul-smelling. I was daubed with this from head to toe. A pair of roughly fashioned sandals were thrust on my feet and I was covered from head to toe with deer-skin. I tried to make a run for it but they caught and held me fast, tying my ankles and wrists together. At last they were finished and stood back, admiring their handiwork.
'One of the strangest beasts I have ever seen,' a huntsman remarked.
'I wonder,' one of them commented, ‘how long it will be able to run for? Mind you-' he came closer and dabbed some more grease on my face — We can always mount his head beside a boar's!'
The joking stopped as a massive figure swept through a doorway and strode across the cobbles. It was the Great Beast himself) dressed in his Robin Hood garb, lincoln green, with a silly bonnet which had a white swan's feather clasped to it on his head. He came closer and peered at me.
'Master Shallot, you should hang for what you said!'
'Some of us hang, some of us don't,' I replied cheerfully.
The King spread his lips in a grimace but the fury boiled in bis eyes.
Today we hunt: not the deer or the boar, but those who should know their place and keep a still tongue in their head. Open your mouth, Master Shallot.'
I did so and the King poked his gloved fingers in and seized my tongue. He dragged it out and pulled me closer.
‘When a deer is brought down,' he hissed, 'it's the prince's privilege to cut the tongue. Remember that, Shallot.'
I did what I always do when the fat Beast threatened me. I farted, loud and clear, like a bell tolling across the square, a long, fruitful blast of protest. The huntsmen sniggered. Henry snapped his fingers.
'Bring out the dogs!'
Two verderers went behind the high palings and brought out two of the great beasts I had seen in the chapel the night before. I thought they might recognise me, so I forced a smile, but the evil-looking bastards just growled, their forelips coming back to display white, snarling teeth.
'Let me introduce Death and Pestilence,' Henry taunted. They are also figures in the Apocalypse, Master Shallot. They are German hunting dogs, the best in the field.' He crouched down and stroked both of them. 'Once they sniff you and have your scent, they'll pursue you to the rim of the world. When the hunt begins you will start running. You can run for your life and these dogs will pursue you! Climb a tree and they'll sit at the bottom! Take off those deer-skins and the’ll still follow the grease on your body. Jump into a river and try washing it off: impossible. By the time you do, they will have caught you and pulled you down!' ‘What chance do I have?'
'Very little,' the Beast replied. "But if you can come back here to this stable, dressed within those skins, you will win your life and a purse of gold.' The cruel bastard wagged a finger in front of my face. 'You are not to take those skins off nor seize a horse, nor attempt to ride in any cart.'
My heart sank. Of course, as the Great Beast had been talking, I had been pondering all the possibilities. The easiest would have been to lurk by some trackway and steal a mount. Henry's words dashed these hopes, as did his warning that I could not remove the skins. After all, it would have been pleasant to put them on some wandering friar and scuttle back to Windsor whilst some fat priest raced for his life. Instead I had to stand and shiver as the sun began to rise. Henry and his select band of courtiers, the usual gang of sycophants, saddled and horsed, drinking their cups of hot posset. They looked me up and down as if I was some prize buck or barnyard fox.
At last the bastards were ready. Two mounted huntsmen put a cloth sack over my head and, holding me between then, left the castle, skirted the small town and took me into a wide, sweeping meadow still wet with the morning dew. At the far end of this stood the edged of the great forest where Henry loved to hunt.
'Run for your life, Master Shallot.' One of the verderers pulled the sacking from my head and pointed towards it. The King has agreed to give you an hour's start. You'll hear the horn and the baying of the dogs.'
I looked at the man's companion: he was one of those evil, narrow-eyed caitiffs. I glanced up at the huntsman and saw kindness in the rugged, sunburnt face.
"What can I do?' I whispered. This is against the law and all usages.' .
The fellow shook his head. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last to take part in a death hunt.'
"What can I do?' I begged.
The man leaned down from his saddle. This is the royal forest,' he whispered, 'only the King's law rules here. The last poor creature hanged himself. Whatever you do, don't let the hounds catch you. They'll tear you to pieces.' He squeezed my shoulder. 'Run!' he added. 'Run like the wind! Don't try and hide. Those hounds have your scent and they'll never forget!'
He turned his horse and, followed by his companion, galloped away. There was I, poor old Shallot, dressed in deer-skin, frightened as a fawn, trembling from head to foot. I stared up, the sky was a deep blue and the sun was beginning to strengthen. A beautiful summer's morning. I could hear the wood pigeons cooing and the chatter of grasshoppers. It was the sort of day you'd take a lovely lass out for a walk in the meadow, with a jug of white wine, two cups, and sit on the bank of some stream and tickle the lazy trout. But not for Shallot! Oh no, I was about to die! I did what I always do in such straitened circumstances. I collapsed to my knees and blubbered. I prayed earnestly to God's own mother, reminding her that, though I was a sinner, I was more sinned against than sinning. (Another phrase I have given to Will Shakespeare.)
And then I was off, running like a hare through the grass, aiming true as an arrow towards that dark fringe of trees. The wine fumes cleared from my brain and my sharp wits began to assert themselves. (Oh, just a minute, I can see my little clerk begin to snigger. There's nothing the little bumsqueak likes to hear about better than his old master having to run for his life. 111 just give the little mouse-dropping a rap across his knuckles with my cane. Good, that will teach him to respect his betters.)
I reached the trees, stopped, and looked along the trackway which snaked through the forest. I was tempted to plunge into the undergrowth, but that would have been foolish. The brambles and weeds would ensnare my ankles, lash my legs, impede my progress and the dogs would be on me. I ran on, cursing and muttering, deeper and deeper into the dark forest. I splashed across streams, through dark quiet glades, desperately seeking some place to hide, anything to escape the death which would soon be pursuing me. Yet this was a royal forest, Henry's hunting preserve: there would be no villages, no lonely farms, or occasional woodcutter's hovel, or charcoal-burner's hut. I was alone. On and on I ran, my heart beating fast, my legs beginning to grow weak. I reached one glade and was half-way across when the horseman emerged from the trees. I looked at him and fell to my knees. I thought I'd died and gone to Hell. The rider was dressed completely in black. His warhorse was of the same dark hue, eyeballs rolling, sharpened hooves scraping at the moss-covered ground. The rider was a vision from Hell. A black mask covered his face. On his head, the long horns of a great stag rose up on either side like branches curling towards the sky.
'Go no further!' he shouted.
1 didn't intend to,' I whimpered back, staring up at this macabre vision.
‘I am Herne the Hunter,' the figure went on, his voice low and hollow. What are you doing running in my forest?'
'I am going to bloody die!' I screamed back. That Great Beast of a King is hunting me!'
I measured the distance between him and myself. I fleetingly wondered if I could try and unhorse him: spectre or no spectre, that horse was real enough. I
could be at the nearest port before Henry found out. The huntsman seemed to read my mind; a crossbow appeared beneath the cloak and an arrow whistled over my head. ‘No further!'
I sat back on my heels. ‘Help me!' I whimpered.
The rider threw a sack down on the ground and, turning his horse's head, galloped back along the forest track. I let him go then, half crying, half laughing, crawling towards the sack. I undid the cord. As I did so, something scratched my arm. I plunged my hand in and drew out a long bow, the wood of polished yew with a strong handgrip and a quiver carrying six goose-feathered arrows. I also drew out a mask and, fastened to the boiled leather on either side, antler horns. There was also some biscuits coated with sugar and a small flask of wine. Now you know old Shallot: never look a gift horse in the mouth! My prayers had been answered, even if my benefactor was Herne the Hunter.
For a while I just stared at what the sack contained. I then wolfed down the biscuits, emptied the wine flask and wondered what I should do. Help had arrived, but why like this? Why Herne the Hunter? I recalled the legends about this mythical figure, supposedly the ghost of a huntsman unjustly hanged from a great oak in Windsor Forest hundreds of years before. He was supposed to still haunt there, with demon hounds and devil riders.