The Gallows Murders

one, Othello, about the blackamoor general hired by Venice.) Everything is colour and light. Beautiful people sweeping backwards and forwards, glorious speeches about fame, honour, glory and love. Nonetheless, the audience holds its breath and waits for black-hearted Iago to slip amongst them and bring it all crashing down with rape and horrible murder.
    Henry's Iago had yet to appear: Anne Boleyn, more bewitching than beautiful; petite Anne with her long dark hair and fiery eyes. Trained at the court of France, a consummate lover, she would ensnare Henry's heart. Of course, poor Anne did not survive long. One daughter (the great Elizabeth), three miscarriages, and one stillborn son and she was finished. They accused her of having three teats (and she did have). Men cursed Anne but I found her dark, fiery eyes irresistible. Do you know, when Anne was executed she refused to be blindfolded? The executioner found her eyes so disarming that he got someone to distract her whilst he took off his shoes and stole up behind her to cut off her head. I was there. He did a good job! Anne asked me to be present to make sure he did. She had hired an executioner specially from Calais and, on her last night in the Tower, asked me one favour. 'Roger, make sure the sword is sharp!'
    Oh yes, the Tower. I will come to that by and by, and the horrid scenes enacted there, long before Anne Boleyn took her final morning walk to the execution block.
    Now, as I said, old Tom Wolsey, Cardinal Archbishop and Chancellor of England, ruled the kingdom. Everything in the garden was still rosy. Henry played Robin Hood, or King Arthur of the Round Table, whilst the real power lay in Wolsey's hands. The Cardinal's cronies whispered how Wolsey controlled the King through a witch Mathilda Brigge: they claimed Wolsey had hired her and, in return for gold, Brigge fasted from all food and drink for three days a week and summoned up demons to do her will.
    Now there was little in life Wolsey really loved, except for his beloved nephew Benjamin Daunbey. However, in the summer of 1523, the Cardinal left us alone to enjoy our golden youth in the manor he had given us at Ipswich. Our youth might have been golden; we were not. Benjamin was tall, rather swarthy, a good-looking young man with a wise face and the heart of a lamb. And old Shallot? Well, I suppose I was comely enough: black, tousled hair, sunburnt skin, generous-mouthed (or so the ladies told me). Oh and a slight squint in one eye. You have probably seen my portrait. I am quite proud of it. I've heard others whisper they've seen better faces in the death-cart going to Tyburn. But who gives a toss about them? They have all gone and I am now Sir Roger Shallot, Lord of Burpham Manor, Knight of the Garter, Knight of the Bath, Lord of the Golden Fleece, etc, etc.
    Well, nonny no, back in the summer of 1523, we had just returned from Florence, where Benjamin and I had trapped the cruellest of murderers. Richly rewarded by the Cardinal, we had gone home to Ipswich. Benjamin once more became involved in his good works, particularly his school at our manor for those little imps of hell from the village. Now Benjamin, God bless his kind heart, tried to persuade me to participate in this.
    'Roger, you have a gift for words,' he declared. 'A sense of the dramatic. The children love you, you make them laugh.'
    I wouldn't be flattered. They laugh at me, Master,' I replied. 'And a teacher should be serious. After five minutes with their horn books, I'd have them out in the fields and meadows.' ‘Yes, yes.' Benjamin glanced away.
    He was tactful enough not to refer to the time I'd taken the children out to re-enact the fall of Troy. Well, how was I to know that, when I told them how the Greek soldiers massacred the men and raped the women of Troy, poltroon Simpkins Threebottle would take my words literally and launch himself upon poor Maude Rossingham! 'I don't want to be a teacher,' I answered defiantly.
    'Well, you should,' Benjamin replied, but chose not to pursue the matter any further.
    So I was left to my own devices, wandering hither and thither pursuing one wench after another. My wits grew idle and, of course, I turned to mischief. Now, as you know from my former journals, I have always cursed doctors. I don't call them liars. I only wish I had their money. Have you noticed how everyone is deeply interested in their own health? My last wife was a good example. She called in a physician, when all she