Paul Doherty: A Brood of Vipers

We travelled all that day. The countryside was beautiful, ripening like a grape under the sun. The hedgerows were shiny green, the corn pushing its way through. The meadow grass was long and lush for the fat-bellied cattle that grazed it. Yet now and again we saw derelict farms, dying villages and fields no longer ploughed but turned into arable for the fat, short-tailed sheep to grace. Early on our second morning out of Ipswich, Benjamin reined in on the brow of a hill. He stared down at the fields spread out before us.

'Forty years ago,' he explained, 'this land was all ploughed.'

He pointed further down the track to where a gang of landless men were making their way up from a village.

'Such sights are becoming common,' he continued. 'The rich throw the poor off the land and bring in sheep, so they can sell the wool abroad.' He grasped the reins of his horse. 'Roger, as we go past them, distribute some alms. This will all end in tears.*

'It will end in blood.' Agrippa murmured. 'There've already been armed revolts in the West Country! The storm clouds are beginning to gather.'

'Hasn't the king read his history?' Benjamin asked, moving his horse forward.

Agrippa's black-gauntleted hand shot out and grasped Benjamin's arm.

'Don't mention the past,' he whispered. 'When you meet the king, don't talk about his father or his youth. His Grace wishes to forget.'

And on that enigmatic note Agrippa led us on. I stayed behind to give pennies to the grey-faced, rag-tattered, motley collection of men. Their horny fingers, dirty and calloused, grasped the coins, but they spat at me as I rode on.

At first we thought we'd take the main road into London but, at a crossroads, Agrippa turned slightly west, going through the village of Epping to the small hamlet of Wodeforde, a tiny, sleepy place dominated by the great parish church of St Mary's. Agrippa explained that, once a bustling village, Wodeforde had never recovered from the great pestilence two hundred years previously.

'Why are we here?' I asked, staring curiously at the small tenements and thatched cottages we passed. 'We have come to collect someone.' 'Who?' 'Edward Throckle,' Agrippa replied. 'Who?'

'He was once physician to the old king and, for the first years of his reign, to King Henry himself. The king wants Throckle in London.'

Benjamin reined his horse in. 'But you said the king didn't want to be reminded of the past?' Agrippa pulled his own mount back and smiled.

'No, no, this is different. Henry has, how can I say, delicate ailments.' He smiled. 'The veins on his leg have broken and turned into an ulcerating sore.' 'Aren't there doctors in London?' 1 asked. 'Well, there are other matters. A little bit more delicate.' 'You mean he's got the clap?' I asked.

Agrippa scowled at me, indicating with his hand that I lower my voice. No one really cared – Wolsey's retainers had espied a comely milkmaid and were busy whistling and making obscene gestures at her.

'More than the clap,' Agrippa said. 'You have heard of the French disease?'

I glanced quickly at Benjamin. Henry VIII’s Nemesis had struck! Years earlier the king had taken the wife of one of his courtiers. This nobleman had even played pander for the king, allowing Henry access to his wife's silken sheets. However, what Henry didn't know (but the courtier did) was that this beautiful woman had the French contagion, a dreadful disease which first appeared amongst French troops marauding in southern Italy. This pestilence revealed itself in open sores on the genitals, turning them blue then black until they rotted off. A more subtle kind entered the blood, vilified the humours and turned the brain soft with madness. 'And Henry thinks Throckle can cure this?'

Agrippa shrugged. 'He trusts Throckle. On my way here I called in and left him YVolsey's invitation. The old man had better be ready!'

We passed through Wodeforde, following the track which wound through the dense forest of Epping. As we came to a crossroads Agrippa stopped before the gate leading up to a spacious, three-storeyed, black and white, red-tiled house. This mansion was built in a truly ornate style, with black shining beams, gleaming white plaster and a most fantastical chimney stack erected on one side of the house. Agrippa, Benjamin and I dismounted and walked up the garden path. On either side flowers grew in glorious profusion, turning the air heavy with their scent; there were marigolds, primroses, columbines, violets, roses, carnations and gilly-flowers.

Agrippa rapped on the door, but the house was silent. He knocked again. 'Aren't there any servants?' Benjamin asked.

'He was like his master, the old king.' Agrippa grinned. 'If Throckle can save a penny, he will!'

This time he pounded on the door but, again, no answer. Agrippa pulled down the latch and pushed the door open. Inside the stone-flagged passageway the smell was not so sweet. It was stale and rather fetid, and there was something else – not wood smoke but as if a bonfire had been lit and all sorts of rubbish burnt. We went through the downstairs rooms – a small solar, scullery and kitchen – but these were deserted. I went up the stairs along the gallery. I saw a door off the latch. I pushed this open and went into Throckle's bedchamber. The smell of burning was stronger here. The great canopied fireplace was full of feathery ash. The windows were shuttered. I took my tinder, fumbled and lit a candle. I went across, opened the shutters, turned round and almost dropped the candle with fright. Near the bed stood a huge bath and in it sprawled an old man, both hands under the red-stained water. Above him buzzed a cluster of flies. Now I have seen many a corpse in my day but that one was truly ghastly. The shaven dome, the sunken cheeks, the bloody, red-gummed mouth and half-open eyes and that body… dirty white, just lying in the water.

I put the candle down on a table and called for Benjamin. He and Agrippa came pounding up the stairs and stared in horror at the disgusting sight. 'Come on!' Benjamin urged. 'Let's get him out!'

He went behind the bath and gripped the man under his arms. I closed my eyes, dipped my hands into that horrid water and pulled the man up by his scrawny ankles. We laid him on the carpet. I remember it was thick, soft and splattered with blood. I got to my feet and walked away, hand to my mouth, trying to control the urge to retch and vomit. 'Murdered?' I asked over my shoulder. 'I doubt it,' Benjamin replied. 'Look, Roger.'

I reluctantly went back and stared down. The palms of the old man's hands were now turned upwards. Great gashes severed the veins on each wrist. 'He died the Roman way,' Agrippa muttered. 'What do you mean?' I asked.

Agrippa walked back to the bath. He dipped his hand into the blood-caked water and, not flinching, fished around and brought out a long, thin Italian stiletto. He tossed this on to the carpet.

'The Roman method,' he continued. 'Fill a bath with boiling hot water, lie in it and open your veins. They say death comes like sleep.' I stared down at the corpse. 'But why should he commit suicide? A revered physician?' I gestured around. 'Look at this chamber. Woollen carpets on the floor, not rushes. Costly bed hangings, beeswax candles and those drapes on the wall.'

I pointed to an arras, a huge tapestry depicting scenes from the lives of the saints – a golden St George thrusting a fiery lance into the dragon of darkness, a saintly King Edmund being shot to death with arrows by fierce-looking Danes. Benjamin went to crouch before the grate.

'He committed suicide,' he murmured. 'But not before he burned certain papers. Why that, eh?' He got to his feet. 'Why should the revered physician Edward Throckle commit suicide in his bath after being sent a friendly invitation to rejoin the court?'