collapsed before the gateway of Charterhouse. I banged with all my might. I remember the door creaking open and Houghton crouching beside me.
‘I have the sickness, Father,' I gasped.
He dabbed my brow with a rag soaked in water. 'But, Roger, we can do nothing for you.'
'I don't want to die like a dog,' I gasped, and then fainted.
After that I can remember little. Brothers, their faces kind and concerned, bending over me. I chattered and screamed, slipping in and out of delirium. Scenes from my past plagued my soul: Mother, who should not have died so early, walking towards me, a basket of flowers in her hand. Benjamin behind his desk, wiping his fingers and shaking his head. Dr Agrippa, his face framed by shadows, smiling down at me with those soulless eyes. I could even smell that strange perfume he wore: sometimes fragrant, but at other times coarse, like an empty skillet left over a fire. And there were other dreams: being hunted by wolves in Paris, or being pursued by those dreadful leopards through the maze at the court of Francis I. Wolsey came, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his saturnine face creased in concern.
‘You should have become a priest, Roger,' he taunted.
'Like you, My Lord Cardinal?' I snapped back.
Wolsey’s face became angry and he swept away. Of course, there was always the Great Beast, the 'mouldwarp', the Prince of Blood, that devil incarnate: Henry VIIIwith his massive body, tree-trunk legs, hands on hips, his piggy eyes glaring at me, those fat, sensuous lips pursed into a grimace of disapproval.
'Shallot! Shallot!' he taunted. ‘What are you doing here?'
I tossed and turned; then, late one afternoon, the nightmares ceased. I woke up. I felt weak but the fever had gone. John Houghton was staring down at me whilst, behind him, the infirmarians clapped their hands as if they were witnessing a miracle. Houghton sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled as he ran his fingers down my face.
‘You are a most fortunate man, Roger Shallot,' he declared. There are not many who are snatched from the jaws of death.'
'Hell spat me back, Father,' I joked.
He smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me. ‘You have talked,' he murmured. 'Oh, Roger, how you have talked: about His Grace the King, Cardinal Wolsey, and His Eminence's nephew, Benjamin Daunbey. What on earth were you doing working amongst the corpse collectors of London?'
‘You have heard of the prodigal son, Father?'
Houghton smiled and left, after giving strict instructions to the infirmarian to let me rest.
Of course, I have the constitution of an ox, so I rapidly recovered. The good Brothers regarded me as a sign from God and fed me every delicacy their kitchens could provide: succulent chicken, rich strong broths, eggs mixed with milk, as well as potions and powders which would certainly not be found amongst Dr Quicksilver's collection. My strength quickly returned. I was surprised to find that it had been three weeks since that terrible morning I had collapsed outside the priory gate.
‘You are most fortunate,' Houghton declared one morning when he came to visit me. "There are not many who survive the sweating sickness: now you have, you will never suffer again.'
'And the city?' I asked.
The fever's dying: the King's rule is being enforced. My Lord Cardinal has brought in mercenaries from the garrisons at Dover and Sandwich, whilst the executioners are doing a roaring trade.' He took my hand and patted it, those shrewd, saintly eyes full of merriment. It is well you came here, Roger. Yet if half of what you said is true ...' Houghton shook his head in mock anger. ‘You are a veritable rogue, born and bred. For the rest, stay here, be our guest.'
And so I did. (I wish my bloody chaplain would stop sniggering! That was one of the holiest parts of my life!) I joined the good Brothers in their refectory and in their choir-stalls. I chanted the divine office at dawn and heard Mass at midday. I helped in the garden
‘I have the sickness, Father,' I gasped.
He dabbed my brow with a rag soaked in water. 'But, Roger, we can do nothing for you.'
'I don't want to die like a dog,' I gasped, and then fainted.
After that I can remember little. Brothers, their faces kind and concerned, bending over me. I chattered and screamed, slipping in and out of delirium. Scenes from my past plagued my soul: Mother, who should not have died so early, walking towards me, a basket of flowers in her hand. Benjamin behind his desk, wiping his fingers and shaking his head. Dr Agrippa, his face framed by shadows, smiling down at me with those soulless eyes. I could even smell that strange perfume he wore: sometimes fragrant, but at other times coarse, like an empty skillet left over a fire. And there were other dreams: being hunted by wolves in Paris, or being pursued by those dreadful leopards through the maze at the court of Francis I. Wolsey came, dressed from head to toe in purple silk, his saturnine face creased in concern.
‘You should have become a priest, Roger,' he taunted.
'Like you, My Lord Cardinal?' I snapped back.
Wolsey’s face became angry and he swept away. Of course, there was always the Great Beast, the 'mouldwarp', the Prince of Blood, that devil incarnate: Henry VIIIwith his massive body, tree-trunk legs, hands on hips, his piggy eyes glaring at me, those fat, sensuous lips pursed into a grimace of disapproval.
'Shallot! Shallot!' he taunted. ‘What are you doing here?'
I tossed and turned; then, late one afternoon, the nightmares ceased. I woke up. I felt weak but the fever had gone. John Houghton was staring down at me whilst, behind him, the infirmarians clapped their hands as if they were witnessing a miracle. Houghton sat down on the edge of the bed. He smiled as he ran his fingers down my face.
‘You are a most fortunate man, Roger Shallot,' he declared. There are not many who are snatched from the jaws of death.'
'Hell spat me back, Father,' I joked.
He smiled and pulled the blankets closer around me. ‘You have talked,' he murmured. 'Oh, Roger, how you have talked: about His Grace the King, Cardinal Wolsey, and His Eminence's nephew, Benjamin Daunbey. What on earth were you doing working amongst the corpse collectors of London?'
‘You have heard of the prodigal son, Father?'
Houghton smiled and left, after giving strict instructions to the infirmarian to let me rest.
Of course, I have the constitution of an ox, so I rapidly recovered. The good Brothers regarded me as a sign from God and fed me every delicacy their kitchens could provide: succulent chicken, rich strong broths, eggs mixed with milk, as well as potions and powders which would certainly not be found amongst Dr Quicksilver's collection. My strength quickly returned. I was surprised to find that it had been three weeks since that terrible morning I had collapsed outside the priory gate.
‘You are most fortunate,' Houghton declared one morning when he came to visit me. "There are not many who survive the sweating sickness: now you have, you will never suffer again.'
'And the city?' I asked.
The fever's dying: the King's rule is being enforced. My Lord Cardinal has brought in mercenaries from the garrisons at Dover and Sandwich, whilst the executioners are doing a roaring trade.' He took my hand and patted it, those shrewd, saintly eyes full of merriment. It is well you came here, Roger. Yet if half of what you said is true ...' Houghton shook his head in mock anger. ‘You are a veritable rogue, born and bred. For the rest, stay here, be our guest.'
And so I did. (I wish my bloody chaplain would stop sniggering! That was one of the holiest parts of my life!) I joined the good Brothers in their refectory and in their choir-stalls. I chanted the divine office at dawn and heard Mass at midday. I helped in the garden
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