Paul Doherty: The Gallows Murders

'Roger, you have a gift for words,' he declared. 'A sense of the dramatic. The children love you, you make them laugh.'

I wouldn't be flattered. They laugh at me, Master,' I replied. 'And a teacher should be serious. After five minutes with their horn books, I'd have them out in the fields and meadows.' ‘Yes, yes.' Benjamin glanced away.

He was tactful enough not to refer to the time I'd taken the children out to re-enact the fall of Troy. Well, how was I to know that, when I told them how the Greek soldiers massacred the men and raped the women of Troy, poltroon Simpkins Threebottle would take my words literally and launch himself upon poor Maude Rossingham! 'I don't want to be a teacher,' I answered defiantly.

'Well, you should,' Benjamin replied, but chose not to pursue the matter any further.

So I was left to my own devices, wandering hither and thither pursuing one wench after another. My wits grew idle and, of course, I turned to mischief. Now, as you know from my former journals, I have always cursed doctors. I don't call them liars. I only wish I had their money. Have you noticed how everyone is deeply interested in their own health? My last wife was a good example. She called in a physician, when all she really wanted was an audience. My dear little chaplain not only complains of diseases for which there are no cures, but of some for which there are no names. At the same time, you can't heap all the blame on physicians. They come with their zodiac charts and urine bottles, boxes of pills and powders. They scratch their heads and know they won't be able to leave, or charge their patients, until they have pronounced sentence and produced a cure. Anything, be it the balls of boiled dogs or the juice of the acorn. So you can appreciate my deep interest in medicine. Why should I be a teacher? (What I didn't tell Benjamin is that I never forgot the ruffian who taught me when I was a boy. On a winter morning, the bastard would whip us for no other reason but to warm himself up. On another occasion he would beat us for swearing and, as he did so, swore the most horrible oaths.)

Benjamin however, knew of my interest in physic and tried to advise me. 'Remember Vicar Doggerel!? You gave him a cow-pat to cure his baldness.'

'Yes, but I didn't tell the silly bastard to smear it on his head on Sunday morning and stink the church out,' I retorted. Benjamin smiled and shook his head.

My ambition to make a fortune in the world of medicine received further encouragement when I received a letter from my old friend Dr Quicksilver: a true charlatan who pretended to be the greatest physician on earth but who lived his life in the slums around Whitefriars. He wanted more elixirs, and who was I to refuse him? So I went back to my games. Oh no, nothing dangerous: the mixing of thyme, camomile and hyssop as an aid to rheumatism. (It actually worked!) Or the skull of a hare and the grease of a fox, crushed and warmed, to be rubbed in the ear to cure deafness. I loved distilling these concoctions. One day Benjamin called me into his private chamber. He sat behind his desk which was piled high with horn books. ‘Roger, my dear friend.' ‘Yes, Master?' I asked innocently.

'If you must involve yourself in physic…' Benjamin hitched his furred gown further up his shoulders. The lattice window was open and the morning breeze rather chilling.'… If you must have your physic then, I beseech you, do not work in your chamber and make the house stink like a stableyard. I shall provide a special room for your experiments’

Well, I took to it like a duck to water and, for the next few weeks, locked myself in a secret room high in the manor house, shrouding myself in a cloud of strange smells. I filled jars with the dried corpses of frogs and newts. I even managed to buy the skin of a donkey and concocted a sneezing powder to clear the head. I sent some to Quicksilver. Then, heigh nonny no, I packed all my medicines on a sumpter pony and trotted off to Ipswich market. I put the donkey in a stable and became a huckster. I bought a tray and created my own stall. Of course, I had to move, and did so briskly, when officials of the pie-and-powder court, those tyrants who man the tribunal which governs market affairs, came looking for me. Oh, but I enjoyed it: the shouting, the bargaining, the bartering, the recitation of the most incredible stories whilst keeping my face straight. No, I wasn't a trickster but a trader. None of my potions were dangerous, indeed many of them were quite helpful. No bailiff ever came looking for me with a warrant in his hand. However, as they teach in geometry, like is attracted to like, and I was soon on first-name terms with every rogue in Suffolk.

Once the day's business was done, ‘I’d head straight for some boozing den, my bun full of money, rubbing shoulders with the priggers, the prancers, the dummerers, the riflers and rufflers, the foists, the naps, the morts, strumpets and whores. All lovely people! Most of them would have sold their mother's knuckle-bones for dice. They lived on a knife-edge, fearful of the chatts, their slang term for the gallows, yet ever ready for a free peck or meal, their fingers itching to cut a purse or rob a shop. I laughed, drank and gambled with the best of them. They conned me, I conned them. One little foist, who cheated me at cards, I treated free, giving him live spiders to eat, covered in butter to help his cough. Another who boasted about ill-treating a poor widow, was told to mix blood from a black cat's tail with cream from a slaughtered cow and drink it to cure the pox. (The stupid bugger did, but still scratched his private parts.) To honest folk I tried to be honest. The taverner who gave me a free drink was told that, to gather the fleas of a chamber into one place, he should put a staff on the floor covered with the grease of a fox or hedgehog, and all the fleas would gather on it. And, if that didn't work, to fill a dish with goat's blood, put it by the bed, and every flea in the tavern would drink and drown itself there. (By the way, this worked, you should try it!)

When the day's work and enjoyment were done, I travelled back to the manor and supped with Benjamin in our dark oak-panelled hall, decorated with banners and tapestries, and with large wooden shields bearing the devices of Daunbey and Shallot which had been devised and painted by me. Of course, I’d always return a little fearful. After all, here we were enjoying the idylls of life, but London was not very far away and Wolsey never forgot us. When the Cardinal turned and snapped his fingers for us to come running, he'd always send that strange creature, black-garbed, sinister Dr Agrippa -to collect us.

I have mentioned Agrippa before. He was Wolsey's familiar. A magus, a warlock, a man who never grew old or died. No, no, my wits aren't wandering. Agrippa, with his cherubic face and soulless eyes, lived and lurked in the shadow of Wolsey; yet I have met those who will swear on oath that Agrippa was with Richard III at Bosworth Field. According to these old men, Agrippa advised that cruel prince to make the dreadful charge which ensnared him in a marsh, and so Richard lost his life, his crown and the kingdom. And there are others, even as I am now past my ninetieth year, who have made their way to Burpham Manor to tell me how they met Agrippa in the dark green woods of Virginia outside Jamestown, in the sun-scorched streets of Constantinople, or even in the snowy, icy wastes outside Moscow. They always tell the same tale: dressed in black, Agrippa hadn't grown a day older than when I knew him in those blood-drenched days of Henry VIII.

Agrippa would come, but on those evenings when I found the stables empty and my master waiting alone for me in the hall, ‘I’d heave a sigh of relief. Tonight, at least, ‘I’d sleep the sleep of the just. We would sup and I would listen to Benjamin chatter about his school, though keeping one eye on a young, buxom chambermaid who, when she served my meal, dipped her generous bosom to show both her glories.