Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

'What now?' I grumbled between mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

I was also making obscene gestures at the cook, who had refused me some of the pork, coated with mustard and spices, that was roasting slowly over a spit. It smelled delicious.

'We'll wait and see what "dear uncle" wants,' Benjamin replied.

'Dear uncle' soon made his presence felt. A chamberlain ponced in, shouting our names, and, without further ado, led us up into the royal apartments and through into Wolsey's privy chamber. The cardinal and his king were ensconced in quilted chairs before the fire, murmuring, heads together, as Wolsey sifted through documents. The chamberlain announced us and withdrew. The precious pair ignored us. We, of course, were kneeling as protocol demanded. The two bastards kept on talking. I looked at Benjamin but he shook his head, warning me with his eyes to be patient. Well, I was still furious after the escapade of the night before. I had a special liking for my murrey jacket with its silver piping and gold buttons and I don't like to be insulted. So I did the only thing a man could do and not be blamed. I felt my tummy grumble and I farted like a dray horse. Benjamin's head went down, shoulders shaking. Henry turned slightly, one blue eye gleaming like a piece of ice. Wolsey looked so horrified, I felt like asking whether cardinals farted or whether there was a difference between their stomachs and those of other human beings. 'What!' the king exclaimed.

Well, you know old Shallot, in for a penny in for a pound. I farted again, loud and braying like a trumpet blast.

'You varlet!" The king sprang to his feet, glaring furiously down at me.

He reminded me of that horror of a schoolmaster who used to teach me. Wolsey kept staring into the fire. Years later he told me that if he had got to his feet he would have burst out laughing. I rolled my eyes heavenwards.

'Your Majesty,' I flattered. 'My belly is clutched with fear whenever I enter your august presence.' (I was always a smooth-tongued knave.)

'Your Majesty,' I wheedled on. 'You rule my brains and my heart but my bowels are another matter.' 'I'll have them decorating a gibbet!' Henry growled.

He rose, strode across the opulent chamber and sat down, sprawling in the great throne-like chair. Wolsey, in a flutter of purple silk and fragrant perfume, took a seat next to him.

The cardinal picked up a silver bell and rang it whilst smiling endearingly at his nephew. A door concealed in one of the wall panellings opened, making me jump. Agrippa came through, soft and silent as the shadow of death. He bowed at the king, who chose to ignore him, for he was still glaring at me. Agrippa took up position behind his master.

'Dearest nephew!' Wolsey leaned forward, his jewelled fingers twisting together. 'Dearest nephew,' he repeated, 'it gladdens my heart to see you again.'

He shoved his chair back and got up. He came round the desk, brought Benjamin to his feet and kissed him warmly on both cheeks. He glanced down at me, winked mischievously and went back behind the desk.

'Oh, for God's sake, sit down!' The king clicked his fingers at us and pointed to two stools in front of the desk.

Benjamin took his gratefully. I, bobbing like a leaf on water, squatted next to him, wondering whether, for good measure I should fart just once more. Then Henry stirred wincingly in his seat. This warmed the cockles of my heart – my little leaving present to the king the previous evening had still not worn off. Henry, I suspect, knew it was me; his piggy, blue eyes had narrowed, his red lips pursed full and soft like those of a petulant girl. Ah well, that was the way with old Harry! He always wanted to be one of the boys as long as he won, and he hated to be seen moaning in public. A man full of arrogance! Do you know, once he condemned a nobleman's son to death. The day before the execution he stopped the father at court.

'Why don't you ask for your son's life?' the royal bastard bellowed. 'I am too ashamed,' the poor man mumbled.

'Then, if you are too ashamed to beg!' the beast roared, 'we are too ashamed to grant clemency!'

Can you believe it? Sending a young man to his death, refusing a pardon, just because the old father was too frightened to beg for mercy! I have a copy of Holbein's painting of Henry. I keep it in my secret chamber. Every so often, when I am in a bad humour, I practise my knife-throwing skills, an art I learnt from a member of Sulemain's harem.

Now, in that chamber at Eltham, another painting caught my attention. It hung on the wall to the left of the king. Beneath it, on a cedarwood table, an eight-branched silver candelabra burnt like a votive offering before a shrine. Whilst the king and Wolsey made commonplace pleasantries with my master I kept staring at it. It was a huge painting, at least two yards high and about four feet across. It caught my attention because of the resplendent colours and the life-like brush strokes of the artist. (You young people must realize that in 1523 England had yet to see the full glories of the great Italian artists.) Now this painting depicted Henry VIII, much younger, slimmer and better-looking. He was kneeling at a prie-dieu, a flower in his hand, before his father's tomb in Westminster Abbey. Above this hung a canvas depicting a saint in armour who, I presumed, was St George. A small monkey, looking in the opposite direction, crouched at the young king's feet. Henry's other hand was on a book and, narrowing my eyes, I could see it was the Bible opened at the Book of Deuteronomy. Beside the tomb was a simple altar surmounted by a silver crucifix. A vase of flowers stood at either end. Beneath the altar was a small triptych depicting the death of Henry VIII's father, his burial and the coronation of the new king. On the steps of the altar, to the left of where the young king knelt, was what appeared to be a small bucket with an Asperges rod used for sprinkling holy water, which was ringed by more flowers. Wolsey noticed my wandering glance. 'Master Shallot, you like the painting?'

'Yes, Your Eminence, the colour and life.' I bowed towards the beast. 'It does His Majesty great credit.' The king pulled a face.

'A gift,' he murmured, 'from the late Lord Francesco Albrizzi. That and this.'

Henry plucked from beneath his cambric shirt a gold chain with the most brilliant emerald gleaming there. Cut in the shape of a heart, and set in a pure gold clasp, the jewel blazed like fire in the candlelight.

'Gifts from the Albrizzi family and the city of Florence,' Wolsey said. He smirked. 'Though nothing more than His Majesty deserves. Florence needs our alliance, our wool and our support.' He paused as Henry leaned across the desk and slopped a goblet full of wine. 'Now, our good friend Doctor Agrippa,' Wolsey continued, 'has informed you about the dreadful assassination of Lord Francesco?' Benjamin nodded. 'And can you help, dearest nephew?'

Benjamin spread his hands. 'Dearest uncle, it is a conundrum, a puzzle. How can a man be shot in public yet no one glimpse the assassin? Especially one carrying an unwieldy handgun which he had to load and prime?' Wolsey shook one gloved hand. 'I realize the problem, dearest nephew.' Again the smirk. 'But I have every confidence in your ability and skill.'

'Who would assassinate the Lord Francesco?' Benjamin asked bluntly. Wolsey shrugged. 'A powerful man always has enemies.' 'But in England, dearest uncle?'

'Perhaps not. Nevertheless,' Wolsey continued, 'I have no doubt that the assassin is someone in Lord Francesco's household, though how and why the murder was committed is for you to resolve.' Wolsey licked his red, sensuous lips. 'We cannot be accused of being dilatory in protecting our guests and accredited envoys. What better response than to appoint my own dearest nephew to hunt the murderer down.'