were sent as maids of honour to the French court. That's a gauge of Lord Thomas Boleyn's stupidity – it was like putting two plump capons down a fox hole.
King Henry may have been lecherous but King Francis I of France was the devil incarnate when it came to lewdery. Well, he was in his younger days. I met him later on when he had lost all his teeth and suffered from great abscesses in his groin as his whole body rotted away with syphilis. In his youth, Francis brought the best and the worst of Italy to Paris: Italian painters, Italian tapestries and Italian morals.
In his heyday he was tall, sardonic in looks and temperament, high-spirited, a virile devil with a grand air, smiling, insouciant, glittering in his gem-encrusted doublets and shirts dripping with lace. He was surrounded by women, in particular three voluptuous brunettes who formed his little band of favourite bedfellows. He was always most anxious to know about the love affairs of his ladies, being especially intrigued to hear of their actual joustings or any fine airs the ladies might assume when at those frolics, the positions they adopted, the expressions on their faces, the words they used. Frances even had a favourite goblet, the inside of which was engraved with copulating animals but, as the drinker drained it, he or she saw in its depths a man and woman making love. Francis used to give this cup to his female guests and watch them blush.
Now Anne Boleyn kept to herself but Mary took to this lechery like a duck to water, even acquiring the nickname of the English Mare, so many men had ridden her! Nothing abashed her, not even when Francis's fiery young courtiers played evil jokes by placing the corpses of hanged men in her bed.
Now, I told all this to my master, giving him a detailed description of the morals and habits of the Boleyn women, and what does he do? One night at supper he innocently turns and asks Lord Thomas if my tales had any truth in them? An hour later we left Hever Castle, and the world-weary Lord Cardinal, hearing of the incident, decided his nephew needed further education. We were despatched to the halls of Cambridge. However, a year later, when my master came to give his dissertation in the Schools, a parchment was found in his wallet containing quotations from the Scriptures, St Cyprian as well as the other fathers of the Eastern church. Benjamin was accused of cheating and promptly sent down. I never confessed that I put it there in an attempt to help him. The Lord Cardinal, so Benjamin reported later, informed him, in language more suitable to a butcher in a shambles than to a man of God, exactly what he thought of him, and we were dismissed to our own devices at Ipswich. Suffice to relate, many was the occasion when my master would grasp me by the hand.
'Roger,' he would declare proudly, 'God is my witness. I don't know what I would do without you!'
In a way I am sure he was right and I constantly prayed for an upturn in our fortunes. My step-father died but his house and possessions went to others and I became rather worried because Benjamin had given up his place as Clerk to the Justices and Scawsby would scarcely hand it back. Moreover, he must have listened to the tittle-tattle of the court and realised Uncle Wolsey was now not so sweet on his blessed nephew. Nevertheless, in the late summer of 1517 my prayers in the Chantry chapel of St Mary the Elms were answered. The great Cardinal, in one of his many pilgrimages to Our Lady's shrine at Walsingham, decided to stop at the Guildhall in Ipswich on his way home. He arrived in the town in an aura of splendid pomp, flaunting his purple cardinal's robes, his tall, silver crosses and heavy gold pillars carried aloft before him. A vast army of gentlemen and yeoman tenants arrayed themselves on either side of him. His arrival was heralded by criers wearing splendid livery who parted the crowds in the streets shouting, 'Make way! Make way for Thomas – Cardinal, Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England!'
After these came heavy carts and carriages, loaded high with his baggage. Young boys scattered rose water to lay the dust, then came the Cardinal himself, tall and massive, mounted on a mule. By tradition this is a humble beast but My Lord Cardinal's was carefully groomed, caparisoned in crimson and velvet and carried stirrups of gilded copper. His attendants took over the main chambers of the Guildhall. Benjamin and I watched them arrive but my master did not expect the personal summons he received from the Cardinal later in the day.
We changed into our best doublets, slops and hose and hurried to the Guildhall where yeomen wearing the Lord Cardinal's livery took us along to the audience chamber. I tell you now, it was like entering Paradise. The floors were strewn with carpets, the most modest being of pure lambswool, the richest of silk imported by Venetian merchants from Damascus. Rich jewels and ornaments, images of saints, fine cloth of gold, damask copes and other vestments lay scattered round the chamber. There were chairs upholstered in crimson velvet, others in black silk, all embroidered with the Wolsey coat of arms. Tables of cypress and chairs of pine were covered with a great number of cushions, appropriately decorated with cardinals' hats, dragons, lions, roses and gold balls. Oh, how my fingers itched to filch something!
The prelate himself sat in robes of state on a high episcopal chair stolen from the nearby cathedral. He was dressed from head to toe in pure purple silk, a small skull cap of the same colour on his head, and even his cushioned slippers bore a coat of arms. He was as proud as he looked with his square-jawed, heavy face, skin white as snow, lips full and sensuous but eyes half-closed black pools of arrogance.
On the Cardinal's right, like a spider, sat a black-garbed figure, cowl thrust back to reveal a cherubic face and shining bald pate. This was Doctor Agrippa, envoy and spy for the greatest in the land. I studied him curiously.
'A strange man, Doctor Agrippa,' Benjamin had once remarked. 'He has personal acquaintance with the Lord of the Cemeteries, a man steeped in magic who dabbles in the Black Arts.'
On closer inspection, I could hardly believe that: Agrippa's face was smooth and kindly, the eyes steadfast and sure in their gaze, though I did glimpse the silver pentangle hanging round his neck. People said he was Wolsey's familiar, his link with the demons of the underworld. On the other side of the Lord Cardinal was a bland young man with sandy hair, sea green eyes and a boyish, freckled face. He smiled at us in a gap-toothed way. I asked Benjamin who he was but my master hoarsely told me to keep quiet. Wolsey waved one purple-gloved hand and Benjamin hurried forward, kneeling at the footstool to kiss the heavy gold ring slipped over the Cardinal's silken glove. Wolsey ignored me, flicking his fingers at us to sit down on two quilted stools. I kept bobbing my head vigorously to placate the Lord Cardinal who sat studying us pensively.
'Benjamin, Benjamin, my dearest nephew.'
My master squirmed uneasily.
'My favourite nephew Benjamin,' Wolsey continued in a silky voice, 'and, of course, Shallot, his faithful amanuensis.'
(To those who don't know Greek, that means secretary.)
Wolsey abruptly leaned forward in his chair. Oh, Lord, I was so frightened, my heart as well as my bowels seemed to turn to liquid. Had the Lord Cardinal found out about the sheep? I wondered.
'What am I going to do with you?' the Cardinal snapped. 'Failed farmer! Failed merchant!' (That was another undertaking which went wrong.) 'Failed scholar! Failed spy!' (I'll tell you about that presently.) Wolsey brought his hand crashing down on the arm of his chair. I glanced sideways at Benjamin. His face was pale but he was not frightened; those curiously innocent eyes gazed steadily back at his uncle. I detected no smell of fear. (Believe me, I know that perfume well!) No, my master was serene, undoubtedly drawing strength from my presence. I quietly preened myself.
'When,' the Lord Cardinal barked, 'are you going to rid yourself of that?'
I heard Agrippa giggle. I thought Wolsey was pointing at my master's cloak for, as I've remarked, I have a slight cast in one eye, then I realised the Cardinal meant me. Doctor Agrippa giggled again whilst the young man on Wolsey's left looked embarrassed.
'Dearest Uncle,' my master replied, 'Roger is both my secretary and my friend. He is shrewd, learned in the arts, of prodigious character and a strong protector. I will always value his companionship.'
'Master Shallot,' Doctor Agrippa intervened smoothly, 'is a lying, base-born rogue who disgraced himself at Flodden and, by all rights, should be drying out in the sun on the town's scaffold!'
I was hurt by Agrippa's words. The Cardinal smiled and stared at his nephew. God be my judge, I saw a look of rare tenderness and gentle irony in the Cardinal's eyes.
'You wrong Shallot,' Benjamin spoke up. 'He has his vices but also has his virtues.'
(A rare perceptive man, my master.)
Wolsey made a rude sound with his tongue and flicked his hand at Agrippa. The magician rose and took three chessmen from a lacquered board on the table beside him.
'You may still redeem yourself,' Wolsey began. 'Explain, Doctor Agrippa.'
The fellow crouched in front of us, his black cloak billowing like a dark cloud around him.
'There are three strands to this tapestry I paint,' he began.
I stared, fascinated by Agrippa's eyes which seemed to change colour from a light blue to a liquid black whilst
