'And the King will do nothing?'
'Oh, the King will do everything. The place will be swarming with sheriff's men, all in disguise. Royal archers will guard and seal every gateway at the Tower from ten o'clock in the morning onwards.' Agrippa's face broke into a lopsided smile. The King has great confidence in you, Roger. Herne the Hunter has favoured you and vowed you will bring the King safely through this crisis.'
I groaned and slumped down on a stool. The great bag of wind had closed the trap. If Herne the Hunter had appeared to me, then tomorrow I would be successful. If not, ‘I’d be running for my life again!
Chapter 8
We left by barge the following morning, just as dawn was breaking. Agrippa walked us down to the quayside, humming some little song under his breath. He helped me to the barge, grasped my hand and pulled me towards him.
‘Next time you meet Herne the Hunter,' he whispered, his eyes bright with merriment, 'do give him my regards.'
I sat down, gaping in surprise as the barge pulled away: Agrippa simply lifted his hand, turned and disappeared into the early morning mist. I'll be honest. I have always wondered whether he was Herne the Hunter. Years later, when old Tom Wolsey had fallen into disgrace because he couldn't get the King a divorce and journeyed south to York to stand trial for treason, I accompanied him. I was there in Leicester Abbey when he fell suddenly sick. (Oh, yes, he was poisoned and, no, it wasn't me.) I knelt by Wolsey's bedside as the death rattle began in his throat, and he confessed all his sins. I squeezed his fat, podgy hand.
Tell me, Tom,' I asked. (By then I was on first-name terms with everyone; even the Great Beast let me call him Hal!) Tell me, Tom,' I said. 'As you hope to meet your Saviour, did Agrippa dress as Herne the Hunter?'
Fat Tom shook his head. 'Impossible,' he whispered. ‘He was with me all that day, closeted on the King's business.'
‘Ah well, maybe Agrippa got one of his bully-boys to dress the part. I never have found out.
We reached St Paul's Wharf just as the city church bells tolled for mid-morning Mass. Benjamin had remained quiet during the journey, but now he stirred himself: gripping the bags of gold, he ran up the quayside steps and stared anxiously around.
‘What's wrong, Master?' I asked, following him quickly.
Benjamin hid the gold beneath his cloak and stared round anxiously.
‘Roger, I feel uneasy!'
I pointed to the halberdiers and archers still on the barge.
They'll be with us,' I declared. 'And the King undoubtedly has others hidden around St Paul's Cross.'
But Benjamin would not be comforted. The royal bodyguard quickly formed a screen around us and we went up towards the towering mass of St Paul's. The city had returned to some form of normality. Traders, hucksters and merchants were busy behind their stalls. Dung-collectors were cleaning the public latrines: they dressed like lazars, covered from head to toe in rags against the foulness and the fetid smells which cloyed the air and caught the throat. There were no signs of any death-carts or red crosses daubed on doors. I glimpsed two cunning men, pickpockets, and idly wondered where Quicksilver was. I still harboured a deep desire to shake him warmly — by the throat! However, as the psalmist says: 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and Benjamin and I were busy.
We turned on to Paternoster Row and went up St Paul's Alley which led straight into the cathedral. As we passed, I studied the famous wall paintings of the Dance of Death: grotesque, macabre skeletons leaping and cavorting as they led hundreds into the great dark pit of Hell. I simply mention it because it has gone now. The Duke of Somerset pulled it down. We went into the cathedral along the nave, Paul's Walk, where men of the city strode, showed themselves, gossiped and did a little business. The choirboys were out in force, looking for anyone silly enough to wear spurs, for they had the right to demand 'spur' money as a fee. At the west end of the nave, about two dozen scribes sat at small tables scribbling letters and legal documents. Benjamin made his escort stop and stared at these industrious scribblers.
‘I wonder,' he whispered, 'if our blackmailer uses them?'
‘No, Master.' I pointed round. 'Just look at the rogues and rapscallions gathered here. Servants for hire, ragged-arsed lawyers looking for clients. If the scribe didn't betray their hirer, these would.'
Benjamin agreed. We went up to the sanctuary dominated by the gorgeously carved and decorated tomb of St Erconwald. A busy-looking cleric, hopping from foot to foot, was waiting for us there. He beckoned us quickly into the sacristy where a liveried thug introduced himself as John Ramasden. A captain of the guard of the King's palace at Whitehall, Ramasden was dressed in chainmail, a heavy warbelt slung round his waist. A hard-faced, lean, mean-eyed, fighting man. He ignored our introductions and came swiftly to the point.
'My orders are simple,' he barked. ‘When the cathedral bell tolls the Angelus, you are to go into St Paul's churchyard, carrying the gold. You are to place the gold on the steps of St Paul's Cross.'
'And then what?' I asked.
Ramasden pushed his face close; his blood-filled eyes reminded me of the King's.
‘I don't give a rat's turd what happens!' he replied: then he grinned. (He had one good tooth in his mouth and his breath was foul.) 'Some villain will try to pick up the sacks. I and my men will seize him and any accomplices, then it's heigh ho down to the Tower. Until then,' he pulled a face, 'we wait!'
And wait we did: the minutes seemed to last for hours. Benjamin, lost in his own thoughts, crouched on a stool, cradling the gold. Every so often he would look at me, shake his head and mutter.
‘But how could it be done? How on earth, Roger, could it be done?’
To be truthful, even my sharp wits were dulled. I jumped as the bells began to toll. Ramasden hustled us out by a side door into the vast expanse of St Paul's churchyard. Now, those of you who have been there, know the area is a small town in itself It stopped being used as a cemetery years ago, and became a shabby market where all the thieves congregated to share their ill-gotten gains. They're protected by some stupid city ordinance which stipulates no lawman or sheriff's officer can enter there in pursuit.
On that particular day, business was brisk. The air stank with a variety of smells: sweaty bodies, stale food being cooked over open fires, perfumes from the whores, whilst our ears were dinned by the clack of tongues and shouts of traders. A few people looked askance at Ramasden. However, he was wearing the royal livery, so no one dared accost him as we threaded our way past the battered stalls to where St Paul's Cross soared high above the graveyard. Now the cross was where heralds came to report news of great victories; the birth of a prince; to announce the sentencing of some great noble, or to give a lurid description of his death by disembowelling on Tower Hill. Around the cross were the bookstalls and pamphleteers whose clerks would sit and listen to such information and, within hours, be writing some broadsheet to sell in the streets outside. Above us the bell kept tolling as I anxiously searched the crowd, seeking a face I could recognise. At last, the chimes began. Benjamin and I counted aloud.
Ten, eleven!'
And then, like the knell of death, the final one. Benjamin quickly moved forward and placed the gold on the steps of the cross. I was wondering how long it would stay: with every rogue in London milling about, any sack left unattended would disappear in a twinkling of an eye. I watched one sharp-eyed caitiff come from behind a stall and edge towards the sack. I started as a woman screamed.
The sweating sickness! The sweating sickness!'
Her screams were drowned by a deafening explosion, as if someone had fired a cannon. Everyone scattered. Benjamin and I dropped our guard and, when we looked back, the bags were gone. I ran to the cross, up the steps and gazed over the crowd. Of course, everybody was running: either terrified that an infected person was near, eager to get away from the explosion, or determined either to guard their possessions or plunder someone else's. The scene was total chaos. Men and women fighting each other, stalls knocked over, knives being drawn, bottles hurled, children crying, women screaming, men cursing and shoving at each other. I glimpsed Ramasden, his sword drawn, beating people away from the cross.
The sacks have gone, Roger!' Benjamin shouted. And God knows who took them!'
"But how?' I screamed back.
Benjamin sat on the bottom step, head in hands. It seemed to be the only thing to do, so I joined him.
‘I never thought of that.' Benjamin raised his head, staring at the chaos around him. 'What are all Londoners frightened of, Roger? The sweating sickness and fire.' He got to his feet. ‘We are wasting our time here!'
He went across and spoke to Ramasden, then beckoned to me to follow him back into the cathedral which was also deserted.
‘I am not a prophet,' my master remarked, squatting at the base of the pillar. "But I wager a tun of wine, Roger, that Ramasden comes and tells us there is no one ill of the sweating sickness, whilst the explosion came from a trail of gunpowder carefully laid in some enclosed space.'
Benjamin was correct. Ramasden followed us into the cathedral, swearing and cursing fit to burst.
The bastards!' he screamed, walking up and down in front of us. The misbegotten turds!'
'Are you talking about your men?' I asked. 'Who allowed the villain to escape?’
Ramasden ceased his pacing. He came over and kicked me on the sole of my boot.
'No, sir, I am not. I'm talking of the stupid drunk, sweating like a pig, who fell into a swoon just inside the churchyard. A silly woman believed a beggar who examined the man and said he was infected.'
'And the explosion?' Benjamin asked.
'A trail of powder,' Ramasden replied. ‘I.aid in a gulley which ran into one of the derelict tombs.' He shook his head. 'Nothing but a magnificent fart.' He hawked and spat on the church floor. "Didn't you see him?' Ramasden stared accusingly at us. He squatted down and poked me in the chest. ‘How do I know you didn't take it yourself?'
If you poke me again...!' I shouted.
'If you poke me again,' Benjamin repeated, ‘I’ll see you in the Tower, sir!' My master got to his feet, dragging me with him, and stared coolly at Ramasden. The gold has been taken by a subtle device and the rogue will be long gone. I shall report as much to my uncle the Cardinal.'
Ramasden stepped back, muttering apologies. Benjamin ignored him. He plucked at my sleeve and almost hurried me out of the cathedral, down past Paternoster Row to a small tavern built alongside Blackfriars Wall.
"Now's not the time for eating and drinking!' I moaned.
There is little more we can do’ Benjamin replied.
‘We could search for that beggar who raised the alarm, or make inquiries about who laid the gunpowder.'
Benjamin smiled. Hoger, do you think anyone in St Paul's churchyard saw what happened and, if they did, would any of those wolvesheads tell us the truth? We could spend hours making fools of ourselves.'
"But it must be someone from the Tower,' I said. 'Gunpowder is stored there.'
'Aye,' Benjamin sighed. "But it can also be bought, stolen, or even made. What we have to do, Roger, is discover whether Kemble, Vetch, Spurge, Mallow, or any one of those hangmen, were absent from the Tower this morning.'
'And if they are not?’
Then, dear Roger, we are truly in a pig's mess. Uncle will be furious. The King's rage ...'
He paused as a servant brought us a tankard of ale and a platter of stew and vegetables.
The King's rage can only be imagined!'
I dropped my horn spoon and gripped my belly. Once the news reached Windsor, the Great Beast would be bellowing. Herne the Hunter had publicly promised that I would bring the King safely through his present troubles. Now he was two thousand pounds poorer and the rumours of this blackmail were spreading further. I picked up my horn spoon again. Then it's back to the Tower, Master.'
'Oh no. We first have to check on Mistress Under-shaft's new-found wealth.'
I ate morosely. After we had finished, I followed Benjamin along the busy, crowded streets, up through the dirt and mess of Newgate and down into Cheapside. An apprentice boy pointed out Thurgood the goldsmith's shop. We found him in his counting-house; a thick-necked, fleshy-faced man, with eyes which could assess your wealth in a few seconds. He took one look at us and returned to his ledger, so Benjamin whispered in his ear and Thurgood sprang up like a jack-in-a-box, all servile and eager to please.
'Oh, yes, yes.' The words came out in a hiss of pleasure. "Mistress Undershaft.' He moved the manuscripts from his table, pulled out a calf-bound ledger and opened it. 'Just after her husband's sad demise.' The goldsmith's eyelids fluttered in what he thought was a look of condolence. 'A beneficiary deposited a hundred pounds in gold in her name.'
Benjamin whistled under his breath. 'But that's a fortune!'
The goldsmith spread his hands. 'Such bequests are not unknown.' 'When was it made?' I asked.
Thurgood leafed through the ledger and pointed to an entry; the date was about a week after her husband's death. It showed the amount deposited under Thurgood's seal.
'And before you ask, good masters, the person wished to hide his identity. He was cloaked, cowled and masked. The transaction was very swift: the gold was in good coin.'
'Didn't it concern you who he was?' Benjamin asked. 'And wasn't a receipt sought?'
'Master Daunbey, Master Daunbey.' The fellow smiled like a schoolmaster facing a thick-headed pupil. ‘I am a goldsmith; such transactions are common.'
'How would the beneficiary know you passed the gold on?' I asked crossly.
'Because I issued a tally receipt,' Thurgood snarled. All it gave was the date, the amount received, and who was to receive it. I then informed Mistress Undershaft.' He drew his head back as if I stank. 'If I'd failed to carry out the request,' he snapped, 'I'd be no more than a felon - and that, sir, I am not!' He threw the ledger back on the table. 'I can tell you no more.'
Benjamin and I left his shop and walked into Cheapside. A young girl ran up, dressed shabbily, her face blackened with dirt. A little boy, probably her brother, grasped one hand; her other hand held a small inflated bladder. She stopped in front of Benjamin, put the bladder down, and pushed a scrap of parchment into my master's palm. Then, before he could stop her, she grabbed her young companion and the inflated bladder and disappeared into the crowd. The parchment was screwed up tightly. My master unfolded it and we both stared at the message inscribed in elegant pen strokes:
'On behalf of my noble master, Edward King of England, Scotland, France, etc. I accept, as his due, the two thousand pounds returned to its rightful owner, signed Francis Lovell, Viscount Titchmarsh. Given at the Tower this twenty-eighth day of August'.
"Who, in heaven's name, is Lovell?' I asked.
Benjamin stared down at the message.
'Haven't you heard the doggerel rhyme, Roger? "The cat, the rat and Lovell the dog rule all England under the hog". The hog or boar was Richard the Third's emblem. He had three henchmen: Ratcliffe, Catesby and Sir Francis Lovell. The first two died at Bosworth in 1485, but Lovell escaped the battle and supported later Yorkist plots against Henry the Seventh. He invaded England in 1487 and fought at the battle of East Stoke in Nottinghamshire: afterwards he disappeared.' Benjamin shook his head. It can't be him, surely? If he was still alive, Lovell would be ancient.'
They are mocking us,' I exclaimed. "Master, they are mocking us.'
Benjamin just shook his head and walked off into the crowds. Muttering and cursing under my breath, I followed. Now and again I turned round to see if anyone was watching us. If I had caught the bastard who had sent that message, I would have dirked him on the spot, but there was no one. We hurried down to Queenshithe and hired a wherry to take us up-river to the Tower. We found the fortress heavily guarded, drawbridge up, portcullis down. It took a great deal of screaming and shouting at a guard who peered out at us from the Lion Gatehouse before Kemble appeared and gave us permission to enter.
The drawbridge fell in a rumble of chains, the portcullis creaked up like the jagged teeth of some dragon. Benjamin became even more disconcerted.
‘It cannot be anyone in the Tower, Roger,' he muttered. 'Beloved Uncle gave orders that, on this particular day, no officer or member of the Tower garrison should enter the city.'
'So, the villain who collected that money and sent that impudent message ...?'
Benjamin shrugged. ‘We have to accept it, Roger: whoever he or she is, they do not live in the Tower.'
Kemble was waiting for us beyond the gateway. He took one look at Benjamin's face and shook his head mournfully.
'The gold was taken!'
‘Yes, it was stolen!' Benjamin snapped.
Sighing heavily, Kemble took us up into his chamber in the royal quarters where Vetch and Spurge were also waiting. They had apparently been spending their time feasting; the ragged remains of a pheasant lay on a platter. Kemble was sobersided, but Vetch and Spurge looked flushed and bright-eyed.
'So they can't arrest us,' Vetch muttered, once we'd announced what had happened. He got up and shakily filled two goblets, brought them back to the table and pushed them towards us.
'Someone will hang for all this,' Spurge squeaked. He looked slyly at me. 'And it won't be us.'
‘What happened?' Kemble asked.
Benjamin told him in quick, clipped tones. The constable leaned back in his chair, whispering under his breath and shaking his head. 'And you have no suspicions?' he asked.
Two villains are at work here,' Benjamin explained. 'One in the Tower and another outside. However, I have not any evidence to point the finger of accusation.'
‘Did anyone leave the Tower?' I asked.
Kemble shook his head. ‘You saw for yourself Master Shallot, all doorways were barred and bolted. Men patrol the ramparts and towers, two soldiers guard each postern-gate.'
'And the hangmen?' I asked.
They are in their quarters. Every hour, on the hour, at least until noon, Vetch went round and checked.'
My master sipped at the wine cup.
‘What do you think, Master Daunbey?' Vetch asked.
'I am wondering where the rogue is who took the two thousand pounds' worth of gold,' Benjamin replied. 'And will he be satisfied with that or strike again?' He put his cup down on the table. 'Sir Edward, how long have you been constable of the Tower?'
'About two years this Michaelmas,' Kemble replied.
'And you have heard no legends or stories about the Princes?'
The constable shook his head. ‘I have told you, as I have told others, their fate is a complete mystery.'
‘But you know the story of Tyrrell?' Benjamin insisted.
Aye, he was alleged to have been involved in smothering the Princes, but the King's father made a careful search. No remains were ever found.'