Paul Doherty - The Gallows Murders

Naturally I protested at our quarters, but Benjamin shrugged, murmuring that this was not Uncle's doing; he doubted anyway that we'd stay in Windsor for long. It I had known what the Great Beast had planned, I would have opened the window and dived straight into the moat. It always surprised me that, busy and frenetic though the Court was, Henry always knew when I had arrived. He told me when he grew old, when no one would go near him except old Will Somers, his jester, and myself, that he always longed to see my face. The great turd of a liar! But that's Fortune's fickle wheel, isn't it? In my youth Henry despised me. He baited me and taunted me. The fat bugger even tried to kill me; but when Henry grew old and became imprisoned in his mobile chair, it was Old Shallot who had to push him about. I'd sit with him in the sun-washed tilt-yard at Whitehall. He'd grab my jerkin, those piggy eyes blazing with madness, and push his slobbering lips next to my ear.

‘We are so alike, Roger,' he whispered. 'Rogues, but good men underneath.'

(Oh, the gift of self-deception! He'd then go on and list all those he'd once loved who'd failed him: Wolsey, Cromwell, Boleyn, Norris, Howard. Good Lord, my stomach would clench at the long list of men and women he'd used and discarded. Well, Henry's at Windsor for good now. The fat slob is buried there. I personally helped stuff his bloated corpse into the coffin. And it's true, like Pope Alexander VI’s, the corpse later blew up and exploded, though by then I was gone, riding for my life from black-garbed assassins. However, that's for the future because, though many don't know it, Henry VIII did not die in his sleep; he was murdered!)

However, on that summer evening so many years ago, my master and I were locked in our little garret, thinking we would have to wait for days before the King summoned us, when a messenger arrived. A royal huntsman, dressed in green velvet with a cap upon his head, adorned with a pheasant plume. (Oh yes, when Henry went hunting he dressed like Robin Hood, silly bugger!) This huntsman, a surly brown-faced fellow, said the King was in his chapel attending a Mass for his dogs. I thought I had misheard him, but as the fellow took us down the stairs and along the gallery, Benjamin grasped my sleeve and whispered that, whatever happened, I was not to laugh. The huntsman took us into the chapel of St George, a beautiful miniature jewel of a church. Its walls and richly decorated stalls were brightly caparisoned with the banners and pennants of the Knights of the Garter. The sanctuary was bathed in light. A priest stood on the altar, ready to say Mass. I glimpsed the back of the King where he sprawled in his throne-like chair, on his right the great Cardinal himself However, what caught my attention and took my breath away was that the stalls on either side of the sanctuary – two rows, about twenty-eight seats in all -were full, not with chaplains or the King's royal choir, but with bloody great mastiffs and hunting dogs. I just stopped and gaped! The buggers sat there more devout than many a priest, legs together, heads up, ears cocked. You think I joke? I tell you, I half-expected them to burst into the Te Deum.

The chief huntsman turned and glared at me. Benjamin grasped me by the arm and pushed me forward. We went to kneel on the steps before the sanctuary. The King turned to his right, glimpsed me kneeling behind him, snapped his fingers and the Mass began.

It was the strangest ceremony I have ever attended! A simple Low Mass, the priest from the chapel royal devoutly reciting it. The King sat as if he was God himself, whilst Wolsey… well, only the good Lord knows where his subtle mind was wandering. Nevertheless, it was those dogs which fascinated me. I couldn't take my eyes off them. They sat watching the priest as intently as if he were a rabbit hole. Naturally, during the epistle, a couple of them got down to wander off. The King stretched out his hand, clicked his fingers, and back they went. Now the Great Beast loved his dogs. Mind you, I have noticed that about bloodthirsty tyrants. Catherine de Medici was no different. She'd kill people in batches, only to sit on the floor and weep because her pet lap-dog's paw had been injured.

At last the Mass ended and the priest, before the final benediction, picked up an asperges rod and bucket and blessed each of the animals. I looked at the leader, a great mastiff, almost as big as the lion I had glimpsed in the royal menagerie. I am sure he almost bowed his head. The priest left the sanctuary. The Great Beast rose to his feet and walked along the stalls, patting each dog on its head. 'Lovely boys!' he whispered. 'Lovely, lovely lads!'

The dogs whimpered with pleasure. The King clapped his hands: they all climbed down and followed the huntsman out of the church as devoutly as a line of novices. The King turned his attention on us, indicating that we should come and kneel on the cushions in the sanctuary before him.

I glanced quickly at the Cardinal. He sat sprawled in the throne-like chair, a small purple silk skull-cap pushed on to the back of his black, oily hair. He looked the powerful prince; his features smooth and swarthy like an Italian: red sensuous lips, a slightly beaked nose and dark, lustrous eyes. He was dressed in scarlet trimmed with gold. He caught my eye, winked, and stared piously up at the crucifix in the apse of the church. He would not dare address us until the King had.

The Great Beast proved to be in fine fettle. He was dressed in a lincoln-green jerkin brocaded with silver, matching hose, soft leather boots with an ermine-lined cloak draped over his shoulders. Because he was in church, his head was bare; the only place Henry did not wear those bejewelled bonnets he was so fond of. Oh, but it was his face! Do you know, I have seen Holbein's painting, fat and square with those piggy, slanted eyes. Henry always reminded me more of a Tartar than an Englishman, yet you have to give the devil his due: he had a presence. If Henry had been married to the right woman; if he'd listened to honest men like Tom More instead of the crawlies which swarmed round his court, he could have been a great prince. If you ignored the eyes, his face had a nobility all of its own. A broad brow, powerful jaw, and those lips always clenched; when they opened to speak, everyone's heart skipped a beat. He glanced down at Benjamin and proffered his hand, his fingers shimmered with light from the precious jewels clustered there. Benjamin edged forward and kissed them, then Henry turned to me. I came forward. He patted me on the head as if I was one of his dogs, and Great Wolsey tittered at the joke.

We will talk in here.' The King spoke in a hoarse whisper. He glanced sideways at Wolsey. This is the one place I know there are no peepholes in the walls.' His eyes slid to Benjamin. 'Master Daunbey, our good Doctor Agrippa has told you everything?'

We have seen the letter, Your Grace. We also know about the proclamations the traitor has posted against you.'

Henry shuffled his feet, the fury blazed in his eyes. Traitor it is!' he rasped. 'And, as God be my witness, I want him seized, taken to Tower Hill, half-hanged, cut down, his body ripped open, his innards plucked out and burnt before his eyes.' Henry leaned back in his chair, breathing noisily.

What have you discovered, beloved Nephew?’ Wolsey tactfully intervened.

'Beloved Uncle,' Benjamin replied, kneeling back on his heels, 'nothing but a riddle. The first letter was delivered when the Tower was sealed. Moreover, that same place was locked, and everyone confined within, when the gold was supposed to have been collected from St Paul's and those two other proclamations appeared.' ‘I know that,' Henry snarled.

We think,' Benjamin continued hurriedly, 'that there are two, not one traitor involved. One inside the Tower, one without.' Who?' Henry rasped. ‘Your Grace, we do not know'