Paul Doherty: The Gallows Murders

Satan, however, didn't reign supreme in London. The Carthusians at the Charterhouse, God bless them, fulfilled their job as priests. They came out to bless the corpses and, three times a week, I erected an altar, at which a priest in black or purple vestments sang the Mass for the dead. One man in particular impressed me. John Houghton, the Carthusian priest, a thick-set, stubby-featured man. He would stand by the burial pit, keeping an eagle eye as we emptied the corpse carts, even as he chanted the psalms for the dead. He would allow no plundering, no mockery and was not above using a thick ash cudgel to enforce his orders amongst the rabble I worked with.

One morning, when the smoke was thick and curling, Houghton came too close to the edge of the ditch. He slipped, going down on the mud, into the common grave. The corpse collectors leaned on their shovels and laughed as the Prior, restricted by his grey robes, tried to climb back: the side of the bank was drenched with rainwater, so the more he scrambled, the worse it became. I ran across, leaned down and stretched out my hand. Take it, Father!' I ordered. Houghton's light-blue eyes held mine. Take it!' I repeated. ‘I will not let you go.'

The poor man was suspicious. He thought I was going to push him further down into the pit or, even worse, pull him up and crack his head with the spade. After all, he was in the company of those who feared neither God nor man.

'By the sacrament,' I whispered hoarsely, ‘I mean you no harm!' He grasped my hand. I pulled him out and helped him brush the dirt from his robes. ‘What's your name?' he asked. 'Roger Shallot, Father' Thank you, Master Shallot. I shall pray for you.'

And, shaking my hand, he walked round the pit to give my companions the rough edge of his tongue.

Ah well, the days passed. No jests or jokes here. One morning, I woke in old Quicksilver's house. I felt heavy-headed, my limbs sore to move: every step I took seemed to drench me in sweat. I staggered downstairs. I took a stoup of water and went out to join the gang where they gathered near the lych-gate of St Paul's. God knows how I worked that morning. By noon I was vomiting, my belly taut with pain. When I felt beneath my armpit, I touched the swelling buboes. Of course, the others knew: if I hadn't drawn a dirk which I had taken from one of them in a fight, they would have knocked me on the head and tossed me into the pit. They drove me off with curses and blows. I staggered away through the smoke, past the heaps and mounds of lime, and collapsed before the gateway of Charterhouse. I banged with all my might. I remember the door creaking open and Houghton crouching beside me. ‘I have the sickness, Father,' I gasped.

He dabbed my brow with a rag soaked in water. 'But, Roger, we can do nothing for you.'

'I don't want to die like a dog,' I gasped, and then fainted.

After that I can remember little. Brothers, their faces kind and concerned, bending over me. I chattered and screamed, slipping in and out of delirium. Scenes from my past plagued my soul: Mother, who should not have died so early, walking towards me, a basket of flowers in her hand. Benjamin behind his desk, wiping his fingers and shaking his head. Dr Agrippa, his face framed by shadows, smiling down at me with those soulless eyes. I could even smell that strange perfume he wore: sometimes fragrant, but at other times coarse, like an empty skillet left over a fire. And there were other dreams: being hunted by wolves in Paris, or being pursued by those dreadful leopards through the maze at the court of Francis I. Wolsey came, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his saturnine face creased in concern. ‘You should have become a priest, Roger,' he taunted. 'Like you, My Lord Cardinal?' I snapped back.

Wolsey’s face became angry and he swept away. Of course, there was always the Great Beast, the 'mouldwarp', the Prince of Blood, that devil incarnate: Henry VIII with his massive body, tree-trunk legs, hands on hips, his piggy eyes glaring at me, those fat, sensuous lips pursed into a grimace of disapproval.

'Shallot! Shallot!' he taunted. ‘What are you doing here?'

I tossed and turned; then, late one afternoon, the nightmares ceased. I woke up. I felt weak but the fever had gone. John Houghton was staring down at me whilst, behind him, the infirmarians clapped their hands as if they were witnessing a miracle. Houghton sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled as he ran his fingers down my face.

‘You are a most fortunate man, Roger Shallot,' he declared. There are not many who are snatched from the jaws of death.' 'Hell spat me back, Father,' I joked.

He smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me. ‘You have talked,' he murmured. 'Oh, Roger, how you have talked: about His Grace the King, Cardinal Wolsey, and His Eminence's nephew, Benjamin Daunbey. What on earth were you doing working amongst the corpse collectors of London?' ‘You have heard of the prodigal son, Father?'

Houghton smiled and left, after giving strict instructions to the infirmarian to let me rest.

Of course, I have the constitution of an ox, so I rapidly recovered. The good Brothers regarded me as a sign from God and fed me every delicacy their kitchens could provide: succulent chicken, rich strong broths, eggs mixed with milk, as well as potions and powders which would certainly not be found amongst Dr Quicksilver's collection. My strength quickly returned. I was surprised to find that it had been three weeks since that terrible morning I had collapsed outside the priory gate.

‘You are most fortunate,' Houghton declared one morning when he came to visit me. "There are not many who survive the sweating sickness: now you have, you will never suffer again.' 'And the city?' I asked.

The fever's dying: the King's rule is being enforced. My Lord Cardinal has brought in mercenaries from the garrisons at Dover and Sandwich, whilst the executioners are doing a roaring trade.' He took my hand and patted it, those shrewd, saintly eyes full of merriment. It is well you came here, Roger. Yet if half of what you said is true…' Houghton shook his head in mock anger. ‘You are a veritable rogue, born and bred. For the rest, stay here, be our guest.'

And so I did. (I wish my bloody chaplain would stop sniggering! That was one of the holiest parts of my life!) I joined the good Brothers in their refectory and in their choir-stalls. I chanted the divine office at dawn and heard Mass at midday. I helped in the garden whilst the infirmarian and the Brothers were quite astounded by my knowledge of physic. (No, don't scoff, no one died.) I must admit I was curious that I had survived, but Bruno the infirmarian said it was the age of miracles – or something else.

‘Perhaps you didn't want to die?' he grinned. 'Perhaps the will rather than the humours of the body determine one's fate?'

Do you know, I even considered becoming a lay brother! However, one day I was sent out to a small village to the north of Charterhouse to buy some provisions. All the way there I kept my eyes down, chanting a psalm, but on the way back I grew thirsty and called in at a tavern. Well, I met a wench with golden hair and nut-brown skin, lips full and red and eyes full of mischief. Well, you know old Shallot: I can resist anything but temptation. Two cups of canary and I found myself in a hay barn, the young girl giggling beside me. Oh, too true, the spirit is definitely willing but my flesh was extremely weak! I remember that day in particular because, when I arrived back – minus a few items of clothing; I'd left my cowl and hood in the hay barn – Prior Houghton was waiting for me.

'Roger, you have visitors.'

And, grasping me by the arm, he took me out into the garden. Benjamin, flanked by Dr Agrippa, was sitting on a turf seat watching the carp in the stewpond snap at flies. My master fell on my neck, clasped me to him, squeezing me tightly, then he stood back, his eyes full of tears.