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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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Not even Benjamin's dearest uncle. Henry was like an enraged bull: smashing furniture, issuing threats, cursing and kicking anyone who came near him.'
Oh yes, I thought, that's the Great Beast! He's all sweetness and smiles when he is getting his own way. Yet, once he's threatened and thwarted, he's more dangerous than a madman out of Bedlam. (When he grew older, and the ulcer on his leg began to weep pus, and his great fat, gout-ridden body was wracked by pain, you could find yourself in the shadow of the axe just by sneezing in his presence.) 'But the King didn't believe it?' I asked.
'Oh yes, he did,' Benjamin replied. 'Remember, Roger, Edward and his brother Richard may have disappeared, but no one truly knows what happened to them. Even a hint, a faint suspicion that they might still be alive would send Henry into a paroxysm of rage. Moreover, the writer touched a raw nerve. The King is as superstitious as any country yokel. He really does believe that he has no son because of Divine displeasure.' ‘But the people wouldn't believe it,' I retorted. Wouldn't they?' Agrippa asked.
He was about to continue, but the oarsmen shouted as they lifted the oars. We were now approaching London Bridge, being swept through the narrow arches by the gushing water. A chilling but exciting experience. I have made that journey many a time. Once the oars go up and the boat is left to the fury of the water, your heart drops and your stomach lurches.
Once we were into calmer waters, Agrippa continued. 'Can you imagine what would happen if such a proclamation was posted in a London now plagued by the sweating sickness? People would begin to wonder and gossip. And the whisper would turn to chatter and, as it does, fable would become fact: the King must be cursed.'
I leaned against the side of the boat and stared into the water. Agrippa spoke the truth. I had seen the sickness in London. I had experienced all the pain and the horror. I'd witnessed the hysteria and knew the anger bubbling beneath the surface. The people would want an answer, and Henry VIII would become their scapegoat. 'Did he send the gold?' I asked.
'Of course not,' Agrippa replied. 'Instead he ringed St Paul's with troops and had the great cross in the churchyard heavily guarded by archers and men-at-arms.' 'And?' I asked.
'Oh, no proclamation was posted there. The villain behind this was too astute. Instead the proclamation appeared on the door of St Mary Le Bow, another on the cross outside Westminster Abbey. Both carried the seal of Edward V. Both proclaimed Henry to be a usurper, deriding his lack of a son and the sickness raging in London as a sign of God's displeasure. The proclamations were torn down but the whispering has begun.' Agrippa hawked and spat into the river. 'And now another letter has arrived. This time the demand is for two thousand in gold as a punishment. The money is to be delivered in six days' time, on the feast of St Augustine, the twenty-eighth of August: two leather bags in a steel coffer are to be placed near St Paul's Cross as the cathedral bells toll for the midday Angelus.' 'And the letter was dispatched from the Tower?' ‘Yes,' Benjamin replied. 'It's almost as if, for the last forty years, this forgotten prince has been sheltering in some secret room in the Tower-' 'But you say arrived?' I interrupted. 'Arrived where?'
The first one was delivered to the constable of the Tower, Sir Edward Kemble. The second was left in the Abbot's stall in Westminster Abbey.'
'Which explains why we are going to the Tower now?' I asked.
'Ah.' Agrippa pulled his black cloak around him as if the river breeze was cold.
(That's one thing I noticed about Agrippa. He never liked the sunlight. Like some dark spider, he preferred the shadows. I never saw him eat or drink. Oh, he'd raise a cup to his lips, as he did in the garden at Charterhouse, but nothing ever seemed to pass his lips. He always seemed cold, too.) Agrippa pointed to a sandbank in the river
Oh yes, I thought, that's the Great Beast! He's all sweetness and smiles when he is getting his own way. Yet, once he's threatened and thwarted, he's more dangerous than a madman out of Bedlam. (When he grew older, and the ulcer on his leg began to weep pus, and his great fat, gout-ridden body was wracked by pain, you could find yourself in the shadow of the axe just by sneezing in his presence.) 'But the King didn't believe it?' I asked.
'Oh yes, he did,' Benjamin replied. 'Remember, Roger, Edward and his brother Richard may have disappeared, but no one truly knows what happened to them. Even a hint, a faint suspicion that they might still be alive would send Henry into a paroxysm of rage. Moreover, the writer touched a raw nerve. The King is as superstitious as any country yokel. He really does believe that he has no son because of Divine displeasure.' ‘But the people wouldn't believe it,' I retorted. Wouldn't they?' Agrippa asked.
He was about to continue, but the oarsmen shouted as they lifted the oars. We were now approaching London Bridge, being swept through the narrow arches by the gushing water. A chilling but exciting experience. I have made that journey many a time. Once the oars go up and the boat is left to the fury of the water, your heart drops and your stomach lurches.
Once we were into calmer waters, Agrippa continued. 'Can you imagine what would happen if such a proclamation was posted in a London now plagued by the sweating sickness? People would begin to wonder and gossip. And the whisper would turn to chatter and, as it does, fable would become fact: the King must be cursed.'
I leaned against the side of the boat and stared into the water. Agrippa spoke the truth. I had seen the sickness in London. I had experienced all the pain and the horror. I'd witnessed the hysteria and knew the anger bubbling beneath the surface. The people would want an answer, and Henry VIII would become their scapegoat. 'Did he send the gold?' I asked.
'Of course not,' Agrippa replied. 'Instead he ringed St Paul's with troops and had the great cross in the churchyard heavily guarded by archers and men-at-arms.' 'And?' I asked.
'Oh, no proclamation was posted there. The villain behind this was too astute. Instead the proclamation appeared on the door of St Mary Le Bow, another on the cross outside Westminster Abbey. Both carried the seal of Edward V. Both proclaimed Henry to be a usurper, deriding his lack of a son and the sickness raging in London as a sign of God's displeasure. The proclamations were torn down but the whispering has begun.' Agrippa hawked and spat into the river. 'And now another letter has arrived. This time the demand is for two thousand in gold as a punishment. The money is to be delivered in six days' time, on the feast of St Augustine, the twenty-eighth of August: two leather bags in a steel coffer are to be placed near St Paul's Cross as the cathedral bells toll for the midday Angelus.' 'And the letter was dispatched from the Tower?' ‘Yes,' Benjamin replied. 'It's almost as if, for the last forty years, this forgotten prince has been sheltering in some secret room in the Tower-' 'But you say arrived?' I interrupted. 'Arrived where?'
The first one was delivered to the constable of the Tower, Sir Edward Kemble. The second was left in the Abbot's stall in Westminster Abbey.'
'Which explains why we are going to the Tower now?' I asked.
'Ah.' Agrippa pulled his black cloak around him as if the river breeze was cold.
(That's one thing I noticed about Agrippa. He never liked the sunlight. Like some dark spider, he preferred the shadows. I never saw him eat or drink. Oh, he'd raise a cup to his lips, as he did in the garden at Charterhouse, but nothing ever seemed to pass his lips. He always seemed cold, too.) Agrippa pointed to a sandbank in the river
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