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Authors: Paul Doherty
Tags: Historical Novel
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ever loaded an arquebus? Or had anything to do with any handgun?'
'No, they frighten me. All that powder and priming. I'd always be frightened that they might blow up in my face. Do you think then,' I asked, 'that Roderigo might have used one of those handguns he bought?'
Benjamin shook his head. 'No, Agrippa told me they had been checked.'
'So how did this assassin strike?'
'Well,' Benjamin replied. 'We have seen where Lord Francesco died. He was shot in the head facing the alleyway where his assassin lurked. Now an arquebus, whether a matchlock or the more sophisticated wheel-lock type from Italy, is heavy and cumbersome. It stands at least as high as your chest. How could anyone carry such a weapon through the middle of London and not be seen? And I find it difficult to accept that the assassin stood in an alleyway and coolly loaded his gun. It takes time to ready an arquebus for firing. Think what the assassin would have to do. He must carry a powder flask or horn. Keeping the gun upright, the butt firmly against the ground, he pours the powder down the barrel, covers it with a wad of paper and rams it firmly home. Then he rams the ball on top of the powder and wad. Now he must prime the gun - add a little powder to the pan. To fire it, he must ignite the powder in the pan with a slow match. He must raise the gun, load it and fire.’ Benjamin shook his head. 'I can't believe no one saw that. And, even if they didn't, how could an assassin run away carrying such a heavy weapon and not be seen?'
'But the bang was heard,' I reminded him. 'And the ball hit Lord Francesco's head." 'So?'
'So, perhaps the assassin wasn't in the alleyway. Perhaps he was somewhere else?'
'Impossible,' Benjamin replied. 'I stood where Agrippa said Lord Francesco's body fell, directly facing the alleyway. On either side of this stand shops and houses. No assassin could hide in one of these and go unnoticed. Moreover, if Agrippa is to be believed, the bang was heard from the alleyway.' Benjamin clambered to his feet, it's a mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. But come on, Roger, "dearest uncle" is awaiting us!'
Now I can't exactly describe what happened next - the details are vague. Benjamin clasped my hand to help me up. I half-rose, my boots slipped on the mud. I fell back, pulling Benjamin towards me. Thank God I did. I saved his life. I heard a bang and the whistle of the ball flying through the air where Benjamin's head had been.
'What?' my master shouted.
I pulled him down. 'Master!' I hissed, 'someone is trying to kill us!'
(God bless him, Benjamin Daunbey could be the most innocent of men!)
We lay sprawled on the grass. My stomach was churning and I just thanked God my breeches were brown.
'Roger, are you crying?' my master whispered.
'No, that's just sweat.'
I pressed my face against the cool grass and remembered how long it took to load a handgun. This prompted my heroism. I sprang to my feet, drew my dagger and, ignoring my master's protests, ran across that paddock like one of Arthur’s knights, shouting and screaming. The few sheep grazing there, being fattened for the kitchens, lifted their heads, gazed glassy-eyed and went back to their browsing. At last I reached the fence. The assassin must have stood here to fire his weapon, yet I found nothing - no footprints, no powder marks, not even the whiff of gunshot in the clear spring air. A smell of burning perhaps, but nothing else.
'Come on, Master!' I shouted, now standing legs apart like a Hector. 'I've driven the varlet off!'
Benjamin crossed the field in his long-strided walk. He, too, had unsheathed his dagger. My fear returned when I saw how pale his face was.
'Master,' I assured him-and myself, 'the bastard has gone.'
He may have just changed position,' Benjamin said nervously.
I immediately flung myself down. Benjamin went through the gates and stared at the row of trees on either side of the track leading back to the stables and the main palace buildings.
'I think we
'No, they frighten me. All that powder and priming. I'd always be frightened that they might blow up in my face. Do you think then,' I asked, 'that Roderigo might have used one of those handguns he bought?'
Benjamin shook his head. 'No, Agrippa told me they had been checked.'
'So how did this assassin strike?'
'Well,' Benjamin replied. 'We have seen where Lord Francesco died. He was shot in the head facing the alleyway where his assassin lurked. Now an arquebus, whether a matchlock or the more sophisticated wheel-lock type from Italy, is heavy and cumbersome. It stands at least as high as your chest. How could anyone carry such a weapon through the middle of London and not be seen? And I find it difficult to accept that the assassin stood in an alleyway and coolly loaded his gun. It takes time to ready an arquebus for firing. Think what the assassin would have to do. He must carry a powder flask or horn. Keeping the gun upright, the butt firmly against the ground, he pours the powder down the barrel, covers it with a wad of paper and rams it firmly home. Then he rams the ball on top of the powder and wad. Now he must prime the gun - add a little powder to the pan. To fire it, he must ignite the powder in the pan with a slow match. He must raise the gun, load it and fire.’ Benjamin shook his head. 'I can't believe no one saw that. And, even if they didn't, how could an assassin run away carrying such a heavy weapon and not be seen?'
'But the bang was heard,' I reminded him. 'And the ball hit Lord Francesco's head." 'So?'
'So, perhaps the assassin wasn't in the alleyway. Perhaps he was somewhere else?'
'Impossible,' Benjamin replied. 'I stood where Agrippa said Lord Francesco's body fell, directly facing the alleyway. On either side of this stand shops and houses. No assassin could hide in one of these and go unnoticed. Moreover, if Agrippa is to be believed, the bang was heard from the alleyway.' Benjamin clambered to his feet, it's a mystery, a puzzle, an enigma. But come on, Roger, "dearest uncle" is awaiting us!'
Now I can't exactly describe what happened next - the details are vague. Benjamin clasped my hand to help me up. I half-rose, my boots slipped on the mud. I fell back, pulling Benjamin towards me. Thank God I did. I saved his life. I heard a bang and the whistle of the ball flying through the air where Benjamin's head had been.
'What?' my master shouted.
I pulled him down. 'Master!' I hissed, 'someone is trying to kill us!'
(God bless him, Benjamin Daunbey could be the most innocent of men!)
We lay sprawled on the grass. My stomach was churning and I just thanked God my breeches were brown.
'Roger, are you crying?' my master whispered.
'No, that's just sweat.'
I pressed my face against the cool grass and remembered how long it took to load a handgun. This prompted my heroism. I sprang to my feet, drew my dagger and, ignoring my master's protests, ran across that paddock like one of Arthur’s knights, shouting and screaming. The few sheep grazing there, being fattened for the kitchens, lifted their heads, gazed glassy-eyed and went back to their browsing. At last I reached the fence. The assassin must have stood here to fire his weapon, yet I found nothing - no footprints, no powder marks, not even the whiff of gunshot in the clear spring air. A smell of burning perhaps, but nothing else.
'Come on, Master!' I shouted, now standing legs apart like a Hector. 'I've driven the varlet off!'
Benjamin crossed the field in his long-strided walk. He, too, had unsheathed his dagger. My fear returned when I saw how pale his face was.
'Master,' I assured him-and myself, 'the bastard has gone.'
He may have just changed position,' Benjamin said nervously.
I immediately flung myself down. Benjamin went through the gates and stared at the row of trees on either side of the track leading back to the stables and the main palace buildings.
'I think we
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