Paul Doherty - The poisoned chalice

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.

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.