Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

Ah well, her fate still lay in the future. On that particular evening I drank a lot. There was little more 1 could do except gorge myself on the venison, swan, goose, jugged hare, golden crisp plover, tarts, quinces and jellies which were served with bewildering speed. Never once did Henry or Wolsey grace us with a glance, though, now and again, I caught the Lord Enrico staring speculatively down at us. Benjamin, of course, as is his wont, was taciturn, carefully studying the king and his Florentine guests. At last he turned to where 1 sat at the end of the table, squeezed in like a small pin in a box. 'Roger, have you noticed?'

'What?' I slurred, head on hand. I didn't give a damn. I had long stopped any pretence at social graces. Fat Henry disliked me and Wolsey thought I was a fool. Strange, isn't it, how the wheel of Fortune turns? Henry died of poison, clasping my hand, calling me his only beloved friend! At Wolsey's deathbed I held up a crucifix so old Thomas, who had then fallen from royal favour, could glimpse the Christ he'd served so poorly. 'You should have been a priest, Shallot,' the disgraced and dying cardinal croaked. 'Like you, Thomas," I replied.

It was the last joke Wolsey ever heard this side of heaven. Anyway, that was for the future. On that warm spring evening Benjamin had to shake me to repeat his question.

'Roger, have you noticed?' He shook me again, clicking his tongue in exasperation. 'The king and his courtiers are not dressed in their finery but in serge cloth.'

I glanced blearily around. Benjamin was right, and I soon discovered the reason why. At the end of the meal the Great Beast sprang to his feet.

'Now we shall entertain our guests,' he announced, 'with an old English game!' There were claps of approval from his fawning courtiers. 'The game of Dun in the Mire!' 'Yes! Yes!’ that cohort of cretins chorused.

The king swept from his throne down to the entrance of the summer house. Only then did I notice a quick, sly glance at myself from those chilling, blue eyes. Henry undid the cord of his cloak and tossed it to a retainer. Beneath, he was dressed only in murrey-coloured hose pushed into leather boots and a white cambric shirt open at the neck.

'We have to have eight!' he called. 'Norris, Brandon, Boleyn!' He thought for a moment before pointing to three other courtiers. Then he paused again, fingers to his lips. 'And who shall be our eighth?' He smirked down at me. My heart sank. 'Shallot,' he said. 'You're a burly varlet!' I looked away. 'Shallot!' The tone of Henry's voice was more menacing. 'Get up!' my master hissed.

I staggered to my feet. I stared at the king's fat, evil face and bowed in obedience. Henry clapped his hands. The rest of his companions were taking off their robes. They were all dressed like the king. Even in my cups I realized I'd been cleverly trapped. They were in hose, shirt and proper hunting boots; I was in my best raiment and soft buskins. I was to be the jester in the pack. Led by the king, the guests streamed down the hill towards a small pond. Now, Dun in the Mire was a simple game beloved by thick-headed peasants or someone of Henry's low mentality. Basically, a log was thrown into a pond, the eight players jumped in after it and whoever carried the log out to dry land was the winner. Naturally, the others had an interest in stopping this happening. It was a violent, savage game in which men were sometimes killed. I went to take off my jerkin.

'No, no!' the king shouted. 'As you are, Shallot! As you are!'

Behind him I glimpsed Wolsey. I'll give His Satanic Eminence his due, I caught a look of pity in those hollow, dark eyes. The Florentines thought it was very amusing, though Enrico, short-sighted as usual, smiled kindly at me. The rest were like a baying pack of hounds chorusing the king's commands that I keep every piece of raiment on. They not only wanted to be treated to a game but to the prospect, much beloved of the human heart, of someone being ridiculed, made into a laughing stock.

'For God's sake, go!' Benjamin whispered. 'Don't refuse, Roger!'

I just stared, thick-headed, slightly befuddled, at the muddy pool of water.

'Your Grace, my lords, gentlemen!' The chamberlain grinned maliciously at me. 'And anyone else. Take your places!'

Hot-faced with embarrassment I sidled up to the line. I must have looked pathetic, dressed in my best, slightly drunk, at the end of a line of men all prepared for the game. 'Throw the log!' the king commanded.

A squire tossed the piece of wood up into the air. It fell with a splash. I had my first benediction from the muddy water. 'Go!' the king shouted.

He and his companions rushed in, knocking and jostling each other. I was a little more reluctant, so the laughter grew. Oh well, what can I say? Within minutes I was covered in black ooze from head to toe. I was bumped, kicked, ducked to roars of laughter from the spectators. Now, of course, in all these games, fat Harry, His Grace the Royal Tub of Lard, always had to win. And, sure enough, he was the first to carry the squat, thick, heavy log back to the bank.

Again we lined up, again the log was thrown. As I went forward, the king, next to me, stuck out his foot and I fell face down in the mud. Well, old Shallot might be a coward, but he's got his pride. I picked myself up and ran into the water. I was like a man possessed. After all, I was Shallot the street-fighter, the squire of the alleyways, the lord of the runnels. I knew every dirty trick in such close combat and, believe me, I used them. My elbow went into the princely ear of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, my boot into the crotch of Sir Henry Norris. Then I grasped the log, swinging it round like a hero, I ran back to the bank and triumphantly slung it down. Well, you know the mob – and a mob's a mob whatever it wears, shot silk or rat skins – its mood is fickle, Henry's courtiers cheered me up to the darkening sky. I glared in triumph at Benjamin, but he shook his head warningly. Old Shallot, however, couldn't give a fig.

We lined up and went in again. My fingers went up different orifices. I kicked, bit, nipped and, once again, 1 placed the log on the bank. Old Henry was a sight to see. Puce-faced with anger, he glared at his courtiers. The shouting died down. They had forgotten the first rule – Henry never lost. I was, in any case, beginning to calm down though, on the next throw of the log, I had no choice. Norris and Brandon held me down under the water. Fat Henry, his broad, wet buttocks quivering like a boar's ran to the bank with the log then jumped up and down to the plaudits of the crowd. He reminded me of a fat, overgrown, red-faced baby, full of hot air at both ends.

We toed the line for the fifth time. Whoever took the log in this round would be the victor. I had enough cunning and wit not to win. However, I planned to amuse myself. There was a fair scrimmage, people bending over, pushing, shoving, sweating and cursing. At last I saw my chance. Henry was bending down, legs apart. I squatted behind him, thrust my hand up into his groin and gave his nuts a vice-like squeeze. I ran like a greyhound before the beast could look round. He yelped like a whipped dog but still seized that bloody log and staggered as the victor to the bank. The claque of courtiers applauded him. I, grinning sheepishly from ear to ear, played the role of the valorous vanquished. I stole a look at Henry and my heart leapt with pleasure. He was still puce-faced, grimacing with pain as he clawed surreptitiously at his codpiece.

After that the banquet ended. Benjamin dragged me back to our chamber. I stripped, opened the window and threw my best but now muddy clothes through it. The bastards can have those as well!' I bellowed.

I washed, finished off the wine, clambered into bed and, within a few seconds, was fast asleep. I woke the next morning fresh as a daisy, roused Benjamin and went down to the buttery to break our fast.