Undershaft or his accomplice get their hands on them?' He looked up at the sky. ‘We must go,' he murmured. The King has gone hunting today, as he will tomorrow' He smiled grimly. 'But he expects to see you at supper tonight, Roger. Moreover, we still have business to do with Snakeroot, Wormwood and the rest.'
We walked back into Petty Wales. Agrippa led us directly to the Gallows tavern which, despite its grisly sign, was a clean, spacious ale-house. The taproom inside was high-vaulted. Bunches of herbs hung in baskets from the rafters, shedding the fragrance of a summer day through the ale fumes and rather greasy odours from the kitchen. The landlord apparently took the sign of his tavern very seriously: the place was decorated with blocks of wood from this gibbet or that. On one wall hung a rope which was supposedly used to kill the great imposter Perkin Warbeck. Above the fireplace a wooden box held - so the notice scrawled below proclaimed - part of the skin flayed from Richard Puddlicott who had tried to raid the King's treasury at Westminster Abbey. A cheerful though gruesome place: skulls had been painted on the floorboards, whilst the wooden pillar in the centre of the room was decorated with knives and daubed with red paint so it looked like a whipping post.
Do you know, over the years I have grown fascinated by human nature. Why do people find the most gruesome things in society so interesting? If I stood up in Cheapside and said I owned the skull of a dog, people would just pass by. However, if I said I was the proud owner of the skull of some bloody-handed murderer, who was also a chaplain in this or that church, everyone would gather round to stare: that's one thing I learnt from my relic-selling days. I sold more skulls, reputedly those of Barabbas or Pontius Pilate, than I did anything else!
Ah well, that's human nature and, little did I know it, my arrival at the Gallows tavern was an introduction to the deep, murderous passions which lurk in the human heart. The Guild of Hangmen were there, seated in a corner beneath a crudely drawn painting of a scaffold. I took one look and thought, oh aye nonny no, here goes Old Shallot again! They were all dressed in black, white shirts peeping beneath the leather jerkins and doublets. (I am always wary of people who dress in the most sombre colours, as if they are in love with death.) John Mallow, the chief hangman, was a grisly-looking soul: small and fat with wizened features, a scrawny beard, smiling mouth, with yellow-gapped teeth and eyes like two piss-holes in the snow. He was the most handsome of them all! Mallow, in turn, introduced his four so-called apprentices: Snakeroot, tall and thin with shift eyes and a slack mouth, a man who'd lurk behind the arras or in the shadows and listen to what you said. Horehound was a tippler; he had a fat, greasy face, greasy spiked hair, a body like a ball of fat with no neck or waist. His chin seemed to rest on his chest. Like me, he had a cast in one eye: not the sort of face to wish you well as you were turned off the ladder at Tyburn or Smithfield! Toadflax was different. He was tall, clean-shaven, bronze-faced. His dyed yellow hair framed his face like that of a girl; his eyes were strange. When he looked at you his mind was elsewhere, as if he lived in a dark world all of his own. Wormwood - well, if I had to choose one of them to go on a journey with, I would have selected him. He at least looked human, with sharp-etched features and cool grey eyes. A man who took meticulous care with his appearance. I wondered why such a man was working as a hangman. One thing I did notice (and I nudged Benjamin) was that Wormwood was writing what he claimed to be a sonnet. Although I couldn't make out the words, I could tell from the script that Wormwood was an educated man who could have secured a benefice in any great nobleman's Chancery.
They all made us welcome enough. Benjamin ordered fresh stoups of ale. Agrippa sat as if he
We walked back into Petty Wales. Agrippa led us directly to the Gallows tavern which, despite its grisly sign, was a clean, spacious ale-house. The taproom inside was high-vaulted. Bunches of herbs hung in baskets from the rafters, shedding the fragrance of a summer day through the ale fumes and rather greasy odours from the kitchen. The landlord apparently took the sign of his tavern very seriously: the place was decorated with blocks of wood from this gibbet or that. On one wall hung a rope which was supposedly used to kill the great imposter Perkin Warbeck. Above the fireplace a wooden box held - so the notice scrawled below proclaimed - part of the skin flayed from Richard Puddlicott who had tried to raid the King's treasury at Westminster Abbey. A cheerful though gruesome place: skulls had been painted on the floorboards, whilst the wooden pillar in the centre of the room was decorated with knives and daubed with red paint so it looked like a whipping post.
Do you know, over the years I have grown fascinated by human nature. Why do people find the most gruesome things in society so interesting? If I stood up in Cheapside and said I owned the skull of a dog, people would just pass by. However, if I said I was the proud owner of the skull of some bloody-handed murderer, who was also a chaplain in this or that church, everyone would gather round to stare: that's one thing I learnt from my relic-selling days. I sold more skulls, reputedly those of Barabbas or Pontius Pilate, than I did anything else!
Ah well, that's human nature and, little did I know it, my arrival at the Gallows tavern was an introduction to the deep, murderous passions which lurk in the human heart. The Guild of Hangmen were there, seated in a corner beneath a crudely drawn painting of a scaffold. I took one look and thought, oh aye nonny no, here goes Old Shallot again! They were all dressed in black, white shirts peeping beneath the leather jerkins and doublets. (I am always wary of people who dress in the most sombre colours, as if they are in love with death.) John Mallow, the chief hangman, was a grisly-looking soul: small and fat with wizened features, a scrawny beard, smiling mouth, with yellow-gapped teeth and eyes like two piss-holes in the snow. He was the most handsome of them all! Mallow, in turn, introduced his four so-called apprentices: Snakeroot, tall and thin with shift eyes and a slack mouth, a man who'd lurk behind the arras or in the shadows and listen to what you said. Horehound was a tippler; he had a fat, greasy face, greasy spiked hair, a body like a ball of fat with no neck or waist. His chin seemed to rest on his chest. Like me, he had a cast in one eye: not the sort of face to wish you well as you were turned off the ladder at Tyburn or Smithfield! Toadflax was different. He was tall, clean-shaven, bronze-faced. His dyed yellow hair framed his face like that of a girl; his eyes were strange. When he looked at you his mind was elsewhere, as if he lived in a dark world all of his own. Wormwood - well, if I had to choose one of them to go on a journey with, I would have selected him. He at least looked human, with sharp-etched features and cool grey eyes. A man who took meticulous care with his appearance. I wondered why such a man was working as a hangman. One thing I did notice (and I nudged Benjamin) was that Wormwood was writing what he claimed to be a sonnet. Although I couldn't make out the words, I could tell from the script that Wormwood was an educated man who could have secured a benefice in any great nobleman's Chancery.
They all made us welcome enough. Benjamin ordered fresh stoups of ale. Agrippa sat as if he
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